Honduras -- A Mixed Bag

Getting there was no small thing. I had bought a ticket for a single bus ride from Santa Ana, Guatemala to San Pedro Sula, Honduras, and that sounded easy enough, even if it were a six-hour ride. Well, the first bus broke down and the second one decided that it wasn't going or couldn't go to San Pedro Sula, as the bridge was out. Someone associated with the bus company gave me a portion of my money back and told me that there I needed to take two more buses to San Pedro Sula. I asked a couple times a couple different ways to make sure that I understood him correctly and was assured that it was in fact only two buses.

I took one bus to a fork in the road, where a taxi driver offered to take me to the border. I told him that I was taking a bus to San Pedro Sula and wouldn't need a taxi. He told me that the bus didn't go to San Pedro Sula. Another man asked me to take the taxi, too, and it occurred to me that they wanted me to pay for the two of us. A group of women at the "bus stop" seemed to keep their eye on me and put me one the right bus ... which took me to another bus, from which my passport was stamped. I took that to mean we'd crossed the border, but I was wrong. That bus took me to a truck that drove a bunch of us standing up in the back of it over a flooded road to the bridge that was out and to a boat that would take us across the river.

Once across the river, there was the ever-present offer to exchange money. I asked if we were in fact in Honduras and was told we were. I told the man that I wanted to be sure because I didn't want to exchange money if I were going to need more Guatemalan money (quetzales). He told me again that we were in Honduras and wouldn't need more quetzales. He quoted me an exchange rate, and I told him that I had no idea if that were a fair rate, that I had to trust him, and we made the exchange. I climbed the bank and found another bus whose driver quoted me a price in quetzales. I told the driver of the conversation I just had and that I only had Honduran money (lempiras). He again quoted me a price in quetzales. I asked him what I should do as all I had was lempiras, and he agreed to let me pay in lempiras. I told him, also, that I didn't know if he were quoting a fair price and had to trust him.

This bus took me to the border, where I met Juanita (more about her in a bit), who put me on a bus in Cortez, which finally took me to San Pedro Sula. When I got on this bus, my bag was put in one seat, and I was put in another. There were four young Irish women on the bus, too, and their bags were stacked in the corner. When it came time to pay, I was told I would be paying for two seats. I asked, "Because you don't have room for my bag, I'm paying for two seats?" He money collected confirmed that. I climbed on top of my bag and paid for the single seat. The four young women sat with their bags on their laps. I told them that it felt good to do that, that it felt like the first stand I'd taken in quite a while. I was dropped off downtown and took a cab to my hotel ... and I'd finally arrived in San Pedro Sula.

Back to Juanita: She greeted me at the migration office and offered to take me to the bus station in Masca, where she lived. Given my experiences in Belize, I'm not sure what prompted me to accept the offer, except that maybe I believed that I was either going to be taken advantage of by this woman or by the man driving the next bus. Juanita spoke English, said she worked for immigration, and offered to let me stay at her house if I wanted. I declined and said that I just wanted to get to San Pedro Sula. As she drove to Masca, she told me a little about the area and offered to show me some sights, which I agreed to and enjoyed. She offered again to let me stay with her, and I declined again. She continued to show me some sights, and as we were getting something to eat, I asked if I could please change my mind and accept her offer. I stayed with her four two days. Juanita and her daughter took very good care of me, and I relaxed some in their care and company. While I was eager to get to San Pedro Sula, from where I would be able to fly home, I was reluctant to leave the safety and security of Juanita's home.

The hotel at which I stayed in San Pedro Sula was quite nice. It was secure, and the staff there really understood customer service. I'd commented to the front desk clerks that I hoped their employers treated them as well as they were treating me, and I was informed that staff and services were being cut. The taxi companies the hotel worked with were wonderful, too. They picked me up when and where they said they would, and they talked with me slowly in Spanish. They reminded me of Enrique, the bus driver in Panamá with the kind and ready smile.

The Church in Honduras ... I don't quite know what to say about that. It's a part of the Province of the U.S., unlike the other countries in Central America. The bishop had e-mailed with a wonderful invitation, but when I'd arrived in Honduras, I learned that the bishop was having knee surgery and wouldn't be available. I visited the church in San Pedro Sula, Catedral El Buen Pastor (The Good Shepherd Cathedral), and no one initiated contact with me there and few greeted me at the peace. There was a group from North Carolina who has had a long-standing relationship with the Diocese of Honduras and the Episcopal School there, and I learned a little about that. I asked to speak to someone who may have answered the bishop's phone a couple weeks earlier, as I wanted to apologize for being rude to someone I had spoken to when I tried to call the bishop to make further plans. I spoke with the bishop's wife, who happened to be the priest-in-charge at El Buen Pastor. She hadn't answered the phone and didn't know who would have. I had explained who I was, how I'd been in conversation with the bishop about this trip, and how I wanted to talk with someone about the Church in Honduras. The priest-in-charge reiterated that the bishop was not available; she did not extend an invitation.

San Pedro Sula is one more dangerous city I was encouraged not to explore. I did walk around near the church and that seemed fine. As I was sitting on a step waiting for my taxi, a boy (maybe 10 or 11 yrs old) asked me for money, in Spanish. I asked "why?" and he said "please?" It was an amount that meant nothing to me, nothing at all, and I said "no." The day before I left, I took the hotel shuttle downtown and was deposited at the National Palace. I walked around the small square and took a few pictures. A woman approached me and spoke to me softly and rapidly in Spanish. That's never a good combination for me, and it took me a moment to realize she was asking for money. I was going to give her what I had on my person, except for what I would need for a taxi back to my hotel. Alfonso, a Mexican man in my parish, had given me money to give to someone who needed it, and I was going to give this woman that money as well. As I began to open my purse, a man called to me in English, "Hey, lady." I immediately walked away from him and the woman. The man said, "Hey, lady. I'm from New York. Why so scared." I found a taxi and retreated back to my hotel.

I took a walk later near my hotel and found a group of boys playing soccer. I spoke with their coach and learned that it was a soccer school. I explained to the coach about the money Alfonso wanted to share, and adding what remained of my funds, gave it to him. He in turn shared that news with his players. They thanked me in English and went off to play. I watched for a short time and was grateful that my final experiences in Central America were of healthy, active, smiling children and of volunteers giving of themselves to ensure those children have a chance at something more than the poverty and desperation in which they are growing up.

Guatemala ... one more time

Independent of my experiences in Belize, I don't know that I would have gone there had I known that I'd have to return to Guatemala in order to go to Honduras. At the very least, I may have gone later. It was expensive, relatively speaking, to cross the Belize - Guatemala border. I didn't enjoy border crossings as a rule, and to have to make the same one did nothing for me.

One issue that bugs me at the border is the money exchange. When my friend wired me money, it came as Belize dollars, so that is what I had to exchange, but I understood that people at the border are trying to make money, too, so you're just not going to get the best rate there. I understood, too, that the only trust-worthy option for exchanging money is a bank, but when I returned to Santa Ana, I learned that banks won't exchange anything other than US dollars, so I had to go in search of US dollars. That search included the bus station, the airport two miles out of town, and some man in Flores who did that sort of thing. I finally exchanged the Belize dollars to US Dollars at a rate not nearly as good as I could have gotten at the border but better than I would have gotten at the bus station.

I went to the bank, then. I told the man at the counter what I wanted to do and that my Spanish was not great. That's true just in general, and it gets worse as I get nervous, tired, overwhelmed. He started to speak to me rapidly in Spanish, and when I asked him to speak more slowly, he continued with no change in his tone or rate of speech. I snapped at him that I needed him to speak more slowly. I had running thoughts about the ignorance of people who can't / won't / don't accommodate the tourists who are probably the best hope they have for raising money and improving things. This man completed his part of my transaction and then sent me to another teller to actually get the cash. I was equally impatient with this second man, somehow making it his fault that I had to wait because he didn't have enough money in his draw to complete my transaction. I apologized for my mad mood and left the bank feeling ... well, like an ugly American.

My hotel room with private bath was not great. The bedspread had on it little black hairs that transferred to my pale skin. There were no sheets on the bed, and when I asked for some, I was given another blanket. I know the word for sheets. I specifically learned it when I asked for different sheets at the hostel that had bedbugs. However, I gave up tying to make that clear to the girl to whom I was speaking. A bunch of kids were playing pool or Foosball or something that made a racket, and they didn't stop doing it after I asked them to and reminded them that people were trying to sleep. The bathroom was private, but the shower was just a pipe with cold water, and no water was available in the morning. I heard four gunshots outside the hotel, and that was the note on which I willed myself to sleep and thanked God that I was getting to leave Guatemala in the morning.

Belize City

After seeing the Tikal Ruins, which did not disappoint, I left Guatemala for Belize. I had an idea to go snorkeling on the island of Caye Cualker and to stay only a couple day and nights touring the Belize City before venturing on to Honduras.

When I arrived in Belize City late Monday morning, I asked a women, Bridget, if she knew where Regent Street was, as that's where my hotel was. She cheerfully said she did, in fact it was the same street she lived on, and she'd be happy to walk me there. She talked along the way about a number of things, but what sticks out for me is the information about herself. I learned about her children, her work and sometimes lack of it, her boyfriend being out of work, and how hard it is for them to make a living.

We found my hotel, and after depositing my belongings, we went in search of something to drink. I told Bridget, then, what I wanted to do with my time in Belize and my needing to make arrangements to get to Honduras. She said it was my lucky day because she was a tour guide and would be happy to help me with all of that. On the way to the pier, where she said all my plans could be made, we stopped at her home to see her boyfriend and son. We made it to the pier, and I gathered information about boats and buses and was dismayed to learn that I'd either have to return to Guatemala on Wednesday or stay in Belize two more days to take the boat. Just what I'd seen of Belize City and the expense of it helped me decide to leave on Wednesday.

After gathering the information, I had to get money from the ATM. Now, I know better than to let anyone into that little vestibule when I'm using my debit card. I know that. And yet ... I stepped into the vestibule, and Bridget said, "I'm just gonna come in and enjoy the air conditioning. I won't look while you're getting money. I'll turn around. You can trust me." I felt my heart drop and didn't say a word. I withdrew some cash and then realized it wasn't enough. I inserted my card again and withdrew more cash. I remember putting the money in my travel pack and Bridget saying, "Take your time. We're in no hurry."

Writing this just now, it occurs to me that she had been watching that second transaction or she wouldn't have known what I was doing. Anyway, I don't recall removing the card the second time (I've made that mistake here in the states, too), I didn't realize I didn't have it until later in the day.

We returned to the pier, where I bought boat tickets to the island and my bus tickets back to Flores, Guatemala, and San Pedro Sula, Honduras. As I'm paying for the bus tickets, Bridget asked me how I thought she was as a tour guide, that some people really like her personality. She also said that sometimes she gets really lucky and wealthy Americans will hire her to show them the island and then take her out to a really nice lunch. I told her she didn't get lucky with this American. I asked her what she generally charges for her services, and she said that she leaves that up to people and that she wasn't going to charge me because I was her friend. I gave her the equivalent of ten US dollars and told her that I just wanted to be by myself and walk around. She said okay, that she was going to go to the store right then and buy her son some milk, and that she would stop by the hotel in the early evening.

"You can trust me." "You're my friend." They're statements you wouldn't expect to bring you a sense of dread, and yet that's just what they brought me. I work with high-risk sex offenders who score high in psychopathy. I know "glib and superficial charm" when I experience it, and my radar went off about this woman, and I didn't pay attention to it.

I don't know what made me think of it, but I discovered that I didn't have my debit card. I checked my hotel, all my pockets, and the ATM machine. I called home (for free, thanks to the manager of the hotel!), and a friend helped me cancel the card. I ran into Bridget a short while later and asked her if she knew where my card was. I mentioned that I couldn't recall removing the card after the second transaction, and she told in great detail exactly what must have happened. I told her it was no big deal as I'd cancelled the card already and no one could use it.

I didn't see any more of Bridget. I made arrangements to have my laundry done and then walked around town, crying much of the way. I found a bit of sanctuary in a church that had to be unlocked as it was after visiting hours, and I'm grateful for the man who did that for me. Then I saw a sign for American Airlines at a travel agency! I was told that changes to international flights had to be made at the main office and was told where to find that. I trekked all the way there, reluctant to use the little cash I had for something as non-essential as a cab ride. I found the main office and made arrangements to return home nine days early.

My friend was wiring money to me Tuesday morning, and Monday night, I needed to find a restaurant that took credit cards. I found one, had a $22.00 dinner, and tried really hard not to think of the homeless people I passed on the way to the restaurant or the fact that it would be dark as I returned to the hotel. The next night, I had money and could have eaten anywhere, but there were only two restaurants open within walking distance, the one I'd been to the night before and one that would have given me my meal in Styrofoam. I passed a number of people eating on the street, in the same place I was certainly they'd sleep that night, as I searched for something to eat. I ended up buying a single bottle of milk and returning to my hotel to drink it with some cereal I'd bought a few days earlier for munchies ... all the while knowing it is still so much more than millions of people would have that night.

Tuesday morning, I went to church. I'd missed communion on Sunday, and while I truly enjoyed the Mayan ruins at Tikal (a spiritual experience of its own!), I don't enjoy missing Eucharist. Mass was held in a small chapel off the main sanctuary, and I cried through much of it. I didn't circulate during the peace and few people greeted me. At the end of the service, one woman asked me if I was visiting, and when I said I was, she talked about herself and the two women for whom she provides home health care and brought with her to church. Neither of the two clergy approached me after the service.

Tuesday afternoon, I went to Caye Caulker. It turned out that no one went out snorkeling in the afternoon, which is information no one shared with me and I didn't know to ask. I walked around the island, drank a bottle of grape soda, took lots of pictures, and reflected on the events of recent days.

Here are a few of those reflections:

• When you're looking for a refuge, as I was going to Belize, it's more than disappointment or frustration when you discover it's no refuge at all ... only more of the same that sent you in search of refuge in the first place.
• I was identifying with my patients' victims -- always feeling a mark just because you look a certain way and people are making assumptions about you.
• I was identifying with my patients, too -- suspicious, paranoid, believing the world is an unsafe place where everyone has to look out for themselves because no one else will.
• I want to go home before I don't recognize myself and don't like at all who it is I see.
• What does a lifetime of deprivation and desperation do to the spirit of man ... if my spirit was this ... compromised ... in such a short while, especially given that I could buy my way home ... and had done just that?
• What does it say about me that I couldn't make it twelve weeks and/or that I bought my way home out of a situation that millions of others are consigned to?

The next morning, I boarded a bus to return to Guatemala, and I remember thinking, as I waited for the bus that was late, that people probably lied to me and the bus didn't leave from there at all, that I would miss it, and be stuck there for another two days.

It really was time for me to leave, if I was going to categorically dismiss all the people of Belize City as liars and con-artists.

I Came Home Early -- Here's Why.

I came home nine days early. That's a hard thing for me to say. Not being able to follow through on something? It's hard for me not to call that a failure. On the other hand, risking that feeling and sitting with it has been a success I would never have known had I not come home early.

I came home early because I love my life. Not just the ease of it, although after the last two weeks, I was certainly grateful for the ease. I love the totality of my life. I love my faith and the prayer, study, and work to which it calls me. I love my friends and family, those who make me laugh and let me cry and are perfectly okay sitting with me and saying nothing at all. I love working. I'm not crazy about so much of what's happening at Sand Ridge currently, but I am honored to do the job my gifts allow me to do. I love Wisconsin! I love seasons and all the changes that come with them. I love being able to walk. I love my liberty!

When I was talking with a friend about my trip and my struggles with it, she named my most significant struggle as "loss of liberty." The accuracy of that naming is reflected in my stance that I was on house arrest every night after six p.m. I couldn't go out by my self after dark, and it was dark every night at six. There were nights, of course, when I was with people and was therefore able to stay out late ... you know, until eight or nine ... and I really enjoyed those. But, they were the rare exception to the rule. The accuracy of the naming was apparent, too, in the immense, almost out-of-proportion joy I experienced any time I was able to walk and take pictures. It was almost like holding your breath underwater and then suddenly coming to the surface where you can take that essential life-giving breath.

I came home early because I love my life, the people and beauty in it, and the freedom with which I get to live it. I came home early for one more reason. I didn't like what I was seeing was me. It's easier to say that I didn't like who I was becoming or what the place was turning me into. Easier but not accurate. The difficult truth is that each of us has darkness and the only difference is how willing we are to look at and how able we are to sit with it without self-loathing. I don't like what I saw ... and I'm grateful for whatever allowed me to look at it. I'm grateful for the more complete picture of me, even if more of the picture is shadows. And I'm grateful for grace and mercy with which I've held it.

I feel better able now to tell the story of the end of things, I think, for a couple reasons. First, I'm recovering slowly from the experience; time, rest, and love can do that. Second, and more importantly for me, I just participated in the Rite of Reconciliation (i.e. confession). I sorted out what was mine to confess and what was just ugly and uncomfortable. I received absolution for the former and courage to continue to sit with the latter. I told the stories of leaving Guatemala, my time in Belize, and my final day in Honduras. They're the stories of vulnerability stripping away layers of civility and revealing my ... well, humanity, I guess. And rather than making me less than I am, they're the stories that flesh out who I am and make me whole.

I'll tell those stories in three more entries. As you read each of them, please remember that they're episodes in a bigger story.