Some years after his visit, Stephen had read in the British papers of the devastation of the village by Hurricane Mitch, and of a teacher from the little school in the village who had been picked up by a British vessel some 20 miles off the coast. Stephen was keen to visit the village, and see if we could perhaps help in the school. So we took the bus five kilometres up the coast to Triunfo de la Cruz, and asked for the school. When we arrived, it was no little shack but a large modern comprehensive. We were taken aback and somewhat embarrassed, as no one seemed to understand my explanation in limited Spanish of why we were there. finally, a more senior teacher arrived and we were able to make ourselves understood.
“Oh,” said he, “that’s quite another village, fifty miles up the coast.” In our ignorance, we had not realised that there are many Garifuna villages, dotted along the coasts of Honduras, Belize, Nicaragua and Guatemala.
But we were so taken with the place that we decided to stay anyway. The last bus had left at 4.30 p.m. – it seemed that the Garifuna, many of whom commuted to work in Tela, had no way out after that hour – so we were lucky to get a taxi. We had to wait a while for it, and noticed a decided antipathy from some of the locals standing around at the corner where we were waiting. Stephen was all for walking the mile or so to the main road to hitch a lift but, for once, I didn’t feel altogether safe. Once in Tela, we left our rucksacks with Alma, taking only a bag each, and the next day went back to Triunfo and installed ourselves in a grass hut on the beach for a week.
What a difference five kilometres makes. For Triunfo was lovely. Just how I imagined the Caribbean – clear warm sea, pale sand, rush shelters to protect us from the sun, few tourists, local people who were on the whole friendly, and grilled fish on the beach (though the cook had to take it out of the freezer – nothing’s perfect). We made friends with some of the children, who were already well aware of financial realities. One, a delightful little girl of about 4 whose pretend food I pretended to sample and pay for, gave me my pretend change with great seriousness. Also serious was an older girl who asked if I would like to have my hair plaited, like her sister’s. Pointing at my extremely short white hair, I asked if she thought it worth it, but she did. It was apparent that this was a business transaction, so I asked her much she wanted. After a grave conversation in Garifuna with her younger sister she named a pretty outrageous sum. I suggested a lesser amount, and she seemed to agree. After the work, she showed me the result in the mirror; I expressed pleasure at the rather odd result, and paid her. She seemed crestfallen, and I realised that what she had said was that I could have a partial job, and if I liked it I could pay more for the rest.
Garifuna children
A pair of Stephen’s trousers were stolen off the bush on which he had put them to dry overnight – very tiresome, as they were the only pair of long trousers he had brought with him. Our landlord was concerned and tried to help, but there was nothing to be done. We built up a good relationship with him: he put a hammock up for me and tried to curb the high decibel music issuing from the barn-like structure near by. We also got on well with the very dignified cook a bit further down the beach, whose husband had gone on a fishing-trip for three days; she unbent as we returned to sample her fare on several occasions. When we were hungry, we would wander barefoot along the sand with our torches, give our order and return an hour later to sit at a wooden table outside her hut in the dark, often with her daughter who did not speak to us, but concentrated on her homework.
The Garifuna are poor. Not only, in practice, does the lack of transport subject them to a curfew, but they also lack most of the amenities available in the predominantly Latin town of Tela. We shopped at the local stalls but had to go into town to use the phone.
We learnt more about the Garifuna from the local museum, where we saw something of their craft work, and learnt of their closeness to the land, which like Native Americans they believe may not be bought or sold, their tight-knit family relationships and their belief in the unity of all creation. They had brought much of their culture and religious ceremonies from the West Indies, including a precursor of rock and roll and a special kind of dancing for Christmas. But we simply weren’t there long enough to penetrate their society for ourselves.
Living simply was at the heart of my vision for the journey. Quakers have a testimony to simplicity: we believe it is important to remove the clutter that distances us from our relationship with God. More relevantly, perhaps, we also have a testimony to equality: the belief that all people are equal, that we do not treat anyone differently, so travelling on local transport, in touch with local conditions, was for me a crucial factor.
On the whole we have managed to escape the affluence of our usual environment. We travel on local buses, eat in small local cafes, stay in backpackers’ hotels. We are – at 54 and 64 – invariably the oldest travellers: a source of curiosity, I think, to our companions in their gap year or taking a break before “settling down”. It has not in any sense felt a duty. Travelling for a year, funded by the rent from our flat, we have to watch our expenditure, but more importantly travelling in this way is what we enjoy. I don’t feel we are roughing it. Places are basic but clean; food is at the very least “interesting”. Buses, if cramped, are a hive of activity and bustling with local culture.
The one occasion when we were forced to go on a luxury bus at three times the ordinary fare, we were surrounded by tourists, deafened by an a violent American video, and made sick by the over-soft suspension and the smell of the non-functioning chemical lavatory.
This was written after nearly three months in Latin America – the first three months of our trip. It was basic living that I had enjoyed hugely. At the end of that three months we left Honduras to go to Guatemala for a family reunion at the house of my Guatemalan cousin, Christy – and everything changed.
Paradise!
Our journey from Honduras to Guatemala was one of the few bad journeys of our entire year. The previous day we had been told that there was a train three times a week from Tela to Puerto Cortes. After travelling over a continent without trains we were delighted at the prospect, and had set off to catch it, only to find that we had been misinformed. After crossing into Guatemala by a series of exorbitant collectivos, and charged an entry fee that we later realised was illegal, we were advised that we could catch our bus to Guatemala City at the cross roads. We stood with others in the baking heat, thirst quenched by produce from the stall piled high with pineapples, skilfully peeled with a few deft chops of a knife and cut in half, with the stalk left on as a handle.
At noon I phoned Christy to say that we were on our way. As I phoned, the first of several buses sped past without stopping and, finally, a passer by told us that no buses would stop there; we needed to go into town to book seats on these very popular buses. There we discovered the next bus to Guatemala City was not for another two hours. Having just crossed the border, we had only the small amount of Guatemalan money that we had received for our Honduran notes until we could get to a bank the next day. Saving enough money for the bus from Guatemala City to our destination, Antigua, we bought a little food and settled down to wait. In the meantime we got chatting to a young man who turned out to be a born again Christian. A delightful man, he shared with us some aspects of his bible-centred faith.
When we finally boarded the bus and got a few miles past where we had been waiting earlier, it burst a tyre, twice. On the first occasion the tyre was changed; on the second we had to wait for three hours, sitting on the roadside, until a replacement arrived. By this time we had got to know our fellow-passengers pretty well. Just as well, as we finally arrived in Guatemala City at 10 p.m., after the last bus to Antigua had left, and with no money for a taxi.
Guatemala City is not a place to be in, or rather, out in, at night. I have never been in a city so deserted at 10 p.m. Not a person on the dark streets, as we sped along one after another. Alighting, we saw one sinister-looking hotel, and thought with sinking hearts th
at that would be our only possibility. But our new-found friends came to our aid. One had a mobile phone which I borrowed to phone Christy, who of course said she would lend us the money for our taxi; the other haggled with the taxi driver; and we were able to give a free lift to our young companions. On the way I thoroughly enjoyed the theological discussion between our young Christian friend and the taxi driver, though my Spanish was not good enough to join in.
All this time we had been, of course, travelling rough, mucking in, the only foreigners on the trip. We had spent the previous night in hammocks hung over an open-sided platform, were strapped for cash, and marooned in Guatemala City without enough money to get by. When our taxi driver finally found Christy’s house, and the door opened to reveal a palatial establishment, our young companions were dumbfounded, their astonishment writ large on their faces. What on earth, we could imagine them saying, as they turned to go, were those people doing? Middle aged people with such rich relations. Why did they make us believe they had nothing?
Almost impossible to answer, and it made me feel a fraud. All my ideals of simple travelling were dashed at a stroke; my pretence of living alongside poor people revealed as an idealistic mirage.
Can we truly live with the poor?… Some say that to be a priest to the poor you should be no different from them, others say that is not realistic or even authentic. (Nouwen)
My discomfort continued for much of the time that we were in Guatemala.
Of course it was wonderful to be welcomed, enfolded in soft beds and – oh, luxury – the first bath for three months! And lovely to see Christy and my mother and daughter who had flown over to be with us. The house, in Christy’s family for several generations, takes up a block of the city, and is very beautiful. Essentially L-shaped, it has an outdoors corridor with hanging baskets full of orchids – Christy is a collector. Each room is exquisitely furnished; all the rooms with bathroom en suite, and the grounds extensive and beautifully landscaped. Together with her French husband (my mother’s cousin), they lived in Paris for many years, and came back to Guatemala on retirement to spend time with Christy’s children. So much of the taste is French; the books a mixture of English, French and Spanish.
Antigua is an elegant eighteenth century town; its low pastel-painted houses have escaped the earthquake desolation of other cities in the area. My time there in many ways passed very pleasantly, in walking, sightseeing, catching up with emails, shopping and spending time with my family. We ate extraordinarily well and were looked after. Christy and I went visiting and went to a trio recital in an elegantly restored old building. She introduced us to her friends and held a delightful bridge evening at which I sang the Seguidilla and Habenera from Carmen – my favourite role in the mezzo repertoire.
Stephen and I were invited to tea by a retired American diplomat whom Stephen had met in the bank queue, an ex-pat of considerable standing. He lived in the same road as Christy, in a house that abutted on to the ruins of a seventeenth-century church – a highly original residence that he had inhabited for forty-five years He said he expected an earthquake soon, but seemed quite phlegmatic about it. He and a friend who dropped in were full of horror stories about violence and robberies. On my previous visit to Christy, her friends told me of the kidnapping of other friends’ children; most had armed guards around their properties. Not surprising in a country with a repressive right-wing regime; a country with so many “disappeareds”, oppression, violence and fear: the hallmarks of a divided country. fifteen years on, though the political situation seemed to have improved, the poverty was still extreme.
Our time in Antigua was very pleasant – the kind of middle-class lifestyle that is familiar to many of my friends in England. But I felt the need to shrink the social, expand the spiritual. It was a strong force in me now. Being in an ashram for a few days, which was Stephen’s dream, was for me an artificial break. I wanted more silence and solitude in my normal life.
At the service at the Friends church in Guatemala City unusually the three people on the platform were women. We spoke to one of them afterwards as she gave us a lift to the bus station. She explained that she was training to be a pastor, but with three children it was a slow job. Her father is a pastor, and he has educated her in Quaker history – he has attended a Quaker conference in Britain. Unusually, she knew all about our tradition of worship, and confided that she would prefer it – “We have no time to listen to God”. She hoped that they might soon include some silence in their Meetings. Unusually, the sermon referred to social issues such as racism, and to mentions of “the Light” and “the Spirit”, differentiating the Quaker faith from that of other denominations. Of all the evangelical services we attended, this came closest to our own way of looking at things. There is, apparently, a group of unprogrammed Friends in Antigua but it meets only fortnightly, and we missed it.
To be in a house with servants, food served, any item of clothing dropped on the floor arriving the next morning, washed and ironed, was so different from what we had grown used to in the rest of Latin America: our meals of a big bowl of soup for thirty pence; cold water to wash in, and lavatories of the most basic kind. It does show a measure of adaptability that we could so easily inhabit different parts of the planet but I could not forget my unease at being so removed from the life of the country.
It was a time for reflection, writing and reading that we badly needed, but I felt a dis-comfort, an un-ease. In my emails to friends I struggled to explain my response but it was not a rationalised or willed feeling that this way of life was inappropriate but just where I seemed – rather to my surprise – to be. I felt that I was again allowing my life to become disjointed, that I was in the wrong place. When we got on a bus to go to a Friends church in Guatemala City, squashed up against breastfeeding mothers and market traders, the radio seemingly stuck on the same tune we had heard in buses all over Latin America, I felt again at ease, content, at unity with those around me. I had forgotten what I had written on the eve of departure about trying to get away from “the spoilt affluence of this part of the world” but it was obviously a feeling that ran deep.
It had become clear that for me the driving force behind the trip was a need to live a life more in touch with how others live. Having left the “glamorous” profession of publishing after thirty years because I felt increasingly out of kilter with the prevailing mores, I seemed in the previous three years to have moved into a different place. I no longer felt I belonged in the world of publishing, or even in the world of some my own relations. We had started this trip with a two-week “holiday” in the luxurious seaside home of a publishing friend in Brazil – completely idyllic, but we had felt an impatience to get on with the trip proper. And now with three months of that “trip proper” behind us, it was all the more difficult to fit in with a life that seemed to belong to my past.
A slight intimation of the poverty that had been surrounding us in Guatemala came from the week I spent as a volunteer in the children’s ward of a charity hospital. Walking one day into what I thought was part of a church, I found the notice: “There are 500 patients in this hospital: 175 have been abandoned.” On the spur of the moment I asked if any would like to be visited, thinking my Spanish would be up to holding someone’s hand for an hour or so. They asked if I would like to volunteer, and to my surprise, after my family had left, I found myself working for the Obras Sociales del Hermano Pedro.
Obras Sociales del Hermano Pedro: children’s ward
I hadn’t had much to do with small children since my own were that age, but I found myself increasingly involved: feeding the little premature baby from a bottle, cuddling little two year olds, playing with older ones, and the ones in wheel chairs, some very badly disabled. Apart from other medical problems, all the children were severely malnourished, with a result in some cases that they had not the strength to cough hard enough to clear their congestion. Many were running temperatures, and had to be thumped and their noses drained every day. To put up wit
h so much when so little; no wonder they needed cuddling. I found it hard to remember the names of the children, but I soon realised it was because no one used them. Apparently, names are not really given to children under the age of five, so that the evil spirits have less to get hold of.
There were several other foreign volunteers, including an American physiotherapist who gave the wheelchair-bound children a lot of pleasure; indeed the ward seemed quite well served. But the children needed our care. The staff were overworked, and many of the children barely saw their parents, who lived in distant villages without the money to visit. Several cried piteously for their mothers. One, to whom I paid a lot of attention, cried every time I put her down, and it tore at my heart. But they were not the only needy ones. Downstairs there was a ward of adolescents: mainly severely disabled. They truly seemed abandoned, all in identical clothing, sitting staring for long hours, or waving their arms and uttering guttural sounds of frustration. No volunteers seemed to be working there, but I did not feel up to the task. To my shame I chickened out, but when I left the hospital after the week, glad that I had not stayed long enough for the children to get attached to me, it was I who found myself in tears.
Chapter 5
Travelling Hopefully
This we know. The earth does not belong to man; man belongs to the earth. This we know. All things are connected like the blood that unites one family. All things are connected… Our God is the same God. The earth is precious to him. Even the white man cannot be exempt from the common destiny. We may be brothers after all. We shall see.
Call of the Bell Bird Page 6
