The Invisible Glass Wall

Continued from Succumbing to Cravings…

“Ricardo told how his life on the streets led to one of drugs, oppression and corruption. Eventually, it even led him to murder two Guatemalan police officers.”

It wasn’t until afternoon the next day that Alfredo, Daniela, Jose and I were ready to head to the bus station for our trip to Copan Ruinas. It was fun sharing that familiar route with three sets of “fresh” eyes. They reminded me of my own thrill of passing through such a beautiful countryside for the first time. A stop provoked by the roadside police revealed interesting behavior. Such stops are quite common as, logically, Honduras lies within the route of drug trafficking from South America to North America. A brief flash of my U.S. passport left me in peace. Alfredo’s EU passport earned him the same “you’re free to pass go. Thanks for playing.” But Daniela and Jose’s nationality provoked more questioning and raised eyebrows. It was the same racial profiling that exists in the U.S., just spun a little differently. The Honduran authority that questioned my Colombian friends quickly softened though and Daniela and I joked that we wanted to see the officer’s passport for proof of his nationality. “No lo tengo… pero soy Hondureno!” He reported with a smile.

The four of us checked in at Iguana Azul – my favorite hostel in Copan. The friendly familiarity, super clean beds and shared bathrooms, colorful and sprightly décor and its tranquil location just on the fringe of town are what faithfully lure me back to lodge there each time I visit Copan. After freshening up, the four of us went out in search of dinner. We quickly found a roadside baleada stand where we could buy egg and avocado filled baleadas for about fifty cents a pop. My three travel buddies agreed that baleadas from any locale are good enough, but authentic ones made fresh on the street – like that of Rena’s which we were eating that night – are particularly tasty. “QUE RICO!!” we all exclaimed.

After the savory baleadas, I took the others to one of the cheapest bars in town, El Bohio. That’s the bar where the Davidian had left me so safe and secure with drunk locales from a Copan visit past. But, I liked the place nonetheless because it was authentically local. You weren’t going to find hoards of tourists and backpackers here. Daniela and I amicably befriended a middle-aged local named Julio. After we all danced a bit of Brazilian Punta, my eagerness for futbol earned all us an invitation to play fubolito (five on five soccer) with Julio and other locales the next evening. Sweet!

El Bohio was pretty low key that night so after the punta dancing we opted to head toward a backpackers favorite – Café Via Via. The sound of bongos reached us first. Just outside of the hangout a few travelers from around Central America were tapping out easy rhythmic beats right there en la calle. We settled among them, listening to their music and relaxing in the cool, tropical night breeze. Eventually, the bongos were put away and everyone began chatting, sharing their stories. “El Gato” is the owner of the new souvenir shop next to Café Via Via and the bongos were his. Unfortunately, it’s escaping me where he said he is from, but he is a Rasta man complete with dreads. I believe he hails from South America. The souvenirs he sells are all pieces of beautiful art and nothing less. He and his partner craft delicate jewelry made from locally found materials and stones. His wife paints and decorates notepads, notebooks, journals, frames and more – again with locally found materials. The shop also features other local artisans who craft jewelry, figurines, pendants, decorative boxes and more from wood, bone, glass and more.

There was also a local Hondureno from the capital, Tegucigalpa, who was traveling around Central America and selling a smaller collection of his own handmade jewelry. Ricardo was yet another artist selling his bracelets, earrings and necklaces. Living the life of a kind of fugitive, Ricardo was staying out of his home country – Guatemala. He was a gentle soul with an easy smile and a hard past. He explained how he was forced to start living on the rough streets of Guatemala City since the age of eight. As a reminder, there are zones in the city that even the police won’t dare to enter. Ricardo told how his life on the streets led to one of drugs, oppression and corruption. Eventually, it even led him to murder two Guatemalan police officers.

Ricardo said he spent just three years in jail . Though he admitted responsibility for the crimes to us, he said the prosecutors couldn’t prove it was him. At the time we met Ricardo, it had been a matter of weeks since he had been released from jail. He can’t go back to Guatemala and face continued trouble over what has been done… nor does he want to. It’s an incredible story to hear and it’s a reality that I still can’t seem to grasp. Even though I have spent much time and become close friends with others of extremely similar backgrounds I can’t really know what it’s like. Because of my passion for discovering realities that lie beyond my own realm of comfort, my life manages to run parallel to some harsh existences. I hear of them. I see and observe parts of them. But, that’s it. I don’t live them. It’s all a parallel reality – none of it really intersecting. Thus far, I haven’t set one foot on their road. I feel as if two worlds exist, separated by glass. I can get right up to the divider, pressing my nose against the glass, and see much of what’s happening on the other side. I can hear much of what’s happening. I can talk to the people on the other side… but I’m not on that side.

There is this invisible wall of glass that’s keeping me from entering the other world and truly experiencing, feeling, and being confronted with the realities of that world. It’s not as if I want to face the possibility of being further corrupted by a yet harsher world than I already know. Yet, I can’t help but wonder if I would be able to survive such realities. Honestly, I marvel at knowing someone who can admit to murder, yet who can still possess a gentle soul. Someone who could let the guilt of doing something horrible defeat them, harden them or even kill their own soul, yet instead finds reasons to flash me big smiles and wrap me in warm hugs. These are the very realities that I yearn to discover and learn more about. When you watch the evening news it is so easy to classify the people involved into one of two camps: the bad guys or the good guys, the perpetrators or the victims. But, anyone who stops lying to himself for one second knows it’s just not that simple. Victims can be perpetrators and perpetrators can be victims. The “good guys” can go bad and the “bad guy” can actually be a good person who faced a reality that we simply haven’t.

The next day I awoke to discover bad news: I had left my purse… somewhere. I didn’t know where. My hunch was that I had left it in the street across from Café Via Via. I think I remember leaving it behind as I went to photograph, feed and pet the starving, skeleton dogs, which abound in Central America. When we all finally left, I had my backpack and my camera and… so I thought… everything. I had forgotten about my purse. The rare, good news was that at some point in the evening I had put my wallet with my credit card, bank card, license, cash and more in my backpack. That was lucky because up until that night I was always keeping it in my purse. My purse did have all the prints of my photos of Honduras and Guatemala that I had prepared before coming back to Central America though. I had dozens of 4×6, 5×7 and 8×10 prints with me. I was hoping to be able to enclose them in some mats I had lugged along and begin selling them, either to shops and hotels or on the street as souvenirs. My purse also had my passport in it. I know. I know. I don’t usually take my passport out with me, but the girl working at the hostel used it to record my data and handed it back to me just as we were leaving… so I stuck it in my purse on the way out.

Thus, while my travel companions went to the ancient Mayan ruins located a short walk from town, I spent the next day asking all over town for the big red purse. Yes, I was in Central America and the odds of recovering it weren’t in my favor. But, I was hoping whoever found it, realized there was no cash and thus nothing valuable in it. I did have some contacts in town and the village is small enough for word to get around. I figured I might have a friend in the right place who could put the right pressure on whoever had it… if they hadn’t dumped it and still had it, that is. The owner of Iguana Azul also suggested I try putting an ad on the local T.V. station. People had done it before he said and sometimes it worked. Worth a shot I figured. I had spent a ton of time preparing the photos and getting them printed before returning to Central America, so I was quite bummed at having lost them. I was planning to give several as gifts as well. Because of all the confusion with the purse none of us made it to go play soccer as planned. But Julio was understanding and said the offer still stood for tomorrow. Yay!

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This entry was posted on Saturday, June 27th, 2009 at 2:04 pm. It is filed under alive, Honduras, Latin America, Travel. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.