I've taken to writing more about fewer things, so let me know if you like the format. It doesn't give the day to day playback, but I think it lends for richer stories. Tell me what you think.
Gifiti
La Ceiba, Honduras -- The Hotel Rotterdam is a clean enough $5 hostel close to the water. We've just pulled in after a long haul through most of Honduras, and our host, BangBang (although he pronounces it "BongBong" with a think Honduran accent), is all too happy to see us. He's a hip, young guy of 20 working at the front desk. He says "It's like WOW!" a lot and likes giving everybody five until our hands sting. I don't bother asking where he got his name.
After dinner we ask BangBang where to go for a little nightlife. He points us across the street to the local gringo hangout. Overpriced beers, "where are you from?" conversation, and no music -- not what we're in the mood for. We ask where the locals hang, and his eyes brighten. Obviously, no one ever asks this question. He sends us down the road to "the place after the parking lot with the bamboo on the outside." These are better directions than we've gotten in a month, so we're off.
Sure enough about half a mile down the road, as we start hearing the thump of drums, loud chants, and a crooning horn sound, we notice the bamboo wall. We step inside, and all eyes are on us, but we don't feel unwelcome.
We're in a local Garifuna club. The Garifuna are a people decended from escaped slaves from the 17th Century. Communities of African decendants like this line the Central American carribean coast. In Honduras they calls themselves Garifuna (Gar-EE-funa). In other parts they are creole.
The tables, scattered around a concrete dance floor, sport what look like fifths of liquor and some cut limes. BangBang told us they have a special drink we should be sure to order, Gifiti. I presume that's what everyone has on the table, and order one bottle for us to share. "Just one?" asks the bartender.
In the center, the entertainment is well underway. Two shirtless men beat out African rhythms on homemade cowskin drums, another stands with a shaker, and two women in very plain clothes sing and dance. This is no made for tourists show that you'll get in Hawaii.
They perform in call and response. The leader, a young, beautiful man with deep black skin sings in a high tenor and plays the main drum. The women dancing to the side sing their responses and sway to the beat. They take turns dancing a jig in the middle. They shake their hips ferociously, almost like hula dancers, and glide about the floor. Their torsos remain completely still. Every so often one of the women blows into a conch, filling the room with a loud bellow, as if calling the sailors back from the sea.
Watching the performance, I sip at the Gifiti. It is a pungent red liqour made with herbs and rum. It is steeped in old wine bottles out back and served with sliced lime and sea salt, sea brine and all. The littles bottle are just what they serve it in. We find out later it originated as a medicinal tincture used to cleanse the blood and maintain general wellness. Now, it's mainly used for getting looped.
Throughout the night, other women get up from their tables and enter the dance floor to shake their thing. It seems like every woman except one has taken her turn. After twenty minutes, a young man takes Zelie's hand leading her to the dance floor. She is timid at first, not having such well endowed hips as her African counterparts, but after a few minutes she finds her groove. I think the Gifiti is doing its job. As she sits back down, the ladies around the bar give her the "not too bad for a white girl" smile.
Suddenly, BangBang storms in a sits down with us. He's just off work and needs to unwind. Within five minutes, he's pounded three ponies of Gifiti, literally chugging them straight from the bottle. He makes his rounds with the locals and comes back to say goodbye. He has to get home to the wife and kids it seems.
On the way back home, we pass by the gringo hangout again. On many another night that's us in there. But not tonight. Not with Gifiti, drums, and dancing to be had.
Motorcycle Missionary
La Esperanza, Honduras -- I've been on the road for close to nine hours. Do two hours on a ferry count as road time? I awoke this morning to my Navajo alarm clock, 12 ounces of water at midnight. By seven the bike is loaded and I'm escaping the land of perpetual rain that is "Sunny Roatán." Now, it's 3 o'clock I'm on the other side of Honduras in La Esperanza stopping for my first brake since breakfast at nine.
Over an 80 cent plate of chicken, rice, and beans, I ask how long until Gracias, the next town. It's always to start out the conversation this way. It takes the attention off my story, and onto theirs. It's amazing how happy people are to talk about their hometown.
"Hmmm... about 4 hours," says the daughter. She's also the waitress in this "mom's kitchen" place. I choke on my chicken, "FOUR HOURS?!" My US issue AAA Cental America map clearly indicates the next town is but 60 km. away -- not more than 40 minutes by my clock.
"Well, with all the washouts, landslides, curves, and steep slopes, it's a pretty ugly road." AH! Dirt. Didn't count on the main road that connects western Honduras to it's capital city would be an unmaintained dirt track. The bike's up for it, but not me. I pulled a little something in my (ahem..) groin this morning, and negotiating hardcore terrain for four hours doesn't sound like fun. "Know a nice, cheap hotel?" I ask next.
After checking in for the night, I set out for dinner across town. As I enter the restuarant, I'm recognized by a guy who was in the Hotel when I came in. Somehow in the one hour since I saw him, he's managed to get himself piss drunk. His stagger is playbook perfect, and he suddenly has two days growth on his face that I didn't notice before. I'm quite impressed.
He's with three friends in a similar and they insist I join them. No, I couldn't. What don't you want to make friends with us, asks the guy, in that wryly smiling but actually pissed off that I'm disrespecting him in front of his friends sort of way.
I smile and sit.
I tell them I'll have to make my leave when the food arrives. It's always good to have an out with a table full of drunks. The conversation wavers from effuse declarations of brotherhood to awkward questions across the table about what the hell am I doing here anyway. Maybe not many gringoes pass through La Esperanza, I think. Their maps must be better than mine, damn AAA.
"Waiter, get this man a drink," proclaims the fellow to my right. No, thanks really, my food should be ready soon. They glare in astonishment as if I just spat on their statue of the Virgen Mary on the hill. They break out in laughter at my obvious joke, and insist. They know I'm just playing hard to get and call again to the waiter. I know better than to go there with these guys at this point. Another night, another town, with other drunks, maybe, but not tonight.
"But it's against my religion!" I yell above their shouts. Silence.
Think quick, Sullivan, the follow up to that is sure to be... "What religion?" asks the guy to my left. I swallow hard and say the first thing that comes to mind.
"I'm Mormon."
I glance around the table looking for some recognition of the fact that I've just converted myself to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Days Saints. "Ok," resigns my right hand man, and suddenly the cloud of tension that had been building disperses. In fact, they treat me like a reverend. They didn't know a missionary was in their midst. I gambled that Mormons have as much of a bible thumping reputation around here as they do in the states. With all the daily flights leaving Salt Lake City filled with 20 year old soon to be "elder" boys setting out to convert all of Central America, these men have certainly run into the old white shirt sleeve, dark tie uniform once in a while. I think I hit the jackpot.
Just as they start really biting on the line and I start getting nervous I'm going to have to field questions about the great Temple and polygamy, the waitress comes to my aid. "The food is ready, sir." I sigh, and look to my friends sheepishly, my hands folded in my lap.
"Go with God, my friends," I say as I stand up. I act as if I don't even realize that my black leather pants and combat boots stare at them as I walk across the restuarant to my table. That's right fellas, I think to myself, I'm part of an experimental devision of the Mormon Church, the Motorcycle Missionaries.
The Lord works in mysterious ways.
Spoked Out
Tegucigalpa, Honduras -- I've got a fourteen year old kid on the back of the bike screaming in my ear as we merge into morning traffic in downtown Tegucigalpas. It's bad enough he's charging me a buck for the ride, but does he have to yell?
Yesterday, while lubing my chain I found a broken sprocket on the back wheel. Not that the wheel will fall apart if I ride on it like this, but if I can fix it here in town, it's better than waiting. The wheel has so many spokes on it for a reason, I figure.
I asked a few taxi drivers this morning where I could find a mtorcycle shop and after ten minutes of them trying to explain directions and me not understanding a word, this kid volunteered to show me -- for a dollar, of course.
So we're heading east away from downtown and he's yelling at me to pull over at the next gas station. I can't beleive it, he's asking directions. Shit, I could have done that.
We bang at left at the next corner then a quick right. We're speeding down a one lane two way road and I see it ahead turns quickly to the left and gets very steep. He indicates to speed up to make it up the hill, and I gun it. As we head into the corner, the road gets even steeper. Any more juice and I might lift the front tire off the ground. Just at the sharpest point in the turn, I straighten up and slam on the brakes. Steps.
Just short of my first attempt at a two-person cobblestone stairway climb we screech to a halt. The road is so steep the front tire has no traction and we start sliding back. We're sliding down and the kid's yelling, Stop! Wait! Just as we're about to tip over he jumps off giving me enough traction to pull the bike under control.
Turned around, we head back down the hill and find the shop. I guess we flew right by it before. Unfortunately, it's closed, but now that I know where to find it, I take Evil-Kinevil back to the corner where I picked him up.
Back at the shop, it's still closed. Another biker pulls up and says the shop will be closed all day, but he can show me another place. Follow me, he says with a smile. Sure, I say neively.
Driving in third world cities is crazy enough. Following a local motorcyle courier through town is some magnitudes more so, or so I learned. In a flash we're speeding to the other side of town. Rolling stops, white-lining, the wrong way through the traffic circles, we go. But somehow like a school of fish swimming through a reef, we just glide through. We're in the zone.
After ten minutes of breakneck driving we arrive at the shop. No spokes for sale here, but one of the mechanics offers to show me another place. He jumps on the back of the bike and I feel us sag to the ground. At at least 170 lbs, he's just a cry heavier than my co-pilot of 6 weeks, but with a much more comfortable lumbar support gut, I must say.
Off we go, again back across town. This time we take the "short cuts." Back alleys, dirt roads, around the stadium, and through the market. We arrive at the shop and there are two kids working away on a tricycle out front. I'm not optimistic.
An old man comes out already shaking his head. He takes one look at the wheel and says he doesn't have the right spoke. The two men chatter back and forth thinking I'm included in the conversation somehow. I talk real good and all, but technical wheel/spoke terminology is a little outside my vocabulary. They tell me we'll have to thread a shorter spoke in and weld it to the stub of my old one. Ok, I say.
Wait, did I just agree to allowing these guys to WELD my spokes together. Surely the bus fumes have gotten to me. While the lumbar man runs to find a torch, I ask the old man to dig through his treasure chest of old parts one more time. The inside of his shop is like a bicycle and motocycle wheel museum. Rims and tires hang from the wood slat walls, and bearings, hubs, and axles adorn every flat surface. He scours buckets of parts strewn about the floor.
Finally, he surfaces and hands me a spoke. It's old, partly rusted, and looks too short, but I'll try anything before pyro-man gets back with the flamethrower. I try it out and smile in astonishment. Although a centimeter too short, it threads just enough to establish the right tension.
As I leave the old man and drop off the my riding partner, they both refuse any payment. Consider it a favor, they say. Nice to know people will still help out a fellow in need. I think taking a joy-ride through town on the back of some gringo's bike must have been payment enough.
(Extra Credit: The following is a story that sat in draft form from Mexico until today.)
Don Javier Moguel Gonzales
Catalima, Mexico -- The Mexican taco stand is a symbol of national pride. Every town has at least one -- most tout five or more. Steak and spicy sausage are almost always served, but occasionally you'll find tongue, tripe, chicken and fish. Tonight in Catalima, as in many Meicans towns we've been through, it hits the spot.
Sitting down I ask for a beer. Having none, the boy offers coke and other soft drinks. Two cokes and seven tacos to start, please -- three beef, three sausage, and one tongue -- just to show we're not afraid of a little variety.
The man behind us makes some chatty conversation and offers me a swill of his bottle of Bacardi. It's not the cheap stuff either. I take some in my cup and chat it up. His name is Javier Moguel Gonzales, a local campesino . He raises cattle and corn, and maybe more, but we can't be sure. His face is scoured deep by years in the sun and his attire is sharp. He wears a fine, dark flannel, smart slacks, and a white straw cowboy hat, and draws deeply on Marlboro reds. By his appearance and manner, it's clear he is a gentleman. He's had seven tacos so far, and is working on his eighth. The cook looks up from his smokey cart smiling, watching the gringos getting charmed by Don Javier ("Don" in Spanish means Sir).
Don Javier is in town to take care of family matters. His wife's sister and her husband were killed three days before on New Year's Eve in an auto accicent. It seems the old man fell asleep at the wheel and drove them off a bridge. The deseased couple's daughter is in critical condition at the hospital in Oaxaca. She still does not know her parents are dead.
"That's the way it is, life," he says, looking into the glow of his cigarette. By this time his is sitting with us and pouring me another rum. We ask him about his story, which he gladly shares.
He lived in the U.S. once. When he was 23 he went to Chicago and found work in an RCA television factory. "For three years I was never late once," he brags. Through American media and cartoons (Speedy Gonzales), Mexicans have been characterized as lazy and shiftless. Anyone who has hired a Mexican to work in their yard or on their roof (as is common in New Mexico) knows different. Don Javier is no lay-about. He is a landowner. Not of the upper class per se, but successful by Mexican standards.
And he has worked for it too. His large, calloused hands and furrowed brow are testament to years of back breaking work. Although a month on the road has left my hands pocked with scabs and chain grease, still I self-consciously put them under the table.
The difference in the standard of living between the US and Mexico is not subtle. Our motorcycle and long vacation are obvious reminders of that to everyone we meet. Rather than pretend, throughout our time in Mexico we've shed light on the obvious and asked people in the street, people like Don Javier, why the US and Mexico are so different, since Mexico has so many resources. We have our own answers of course, but prefer to find out what others think. Almost every Mexican has pointed to the corruption of the government, US foreign policy, and the laziness of people. Don Javier points to more.
"The government maintains the ignorance of the poor people," he states plainly. "The commoners have more fear of the government than confidence in it." He speaks of widespread corruption and purposeful underfunding of schools -- a grand conspiracy to keep the people illiterate, ignorant, and unable to ask the right questions. "The government doesn't care about the hunger of the people," he laments. "We see (the corruption), but we don't speak up" for fear of retribution.
He goes on to say that free trade has also played a role in widening the gap between in the US and Mexico. Although it was sold to everyone, including Mexicans, as the rising tide that will float all boats, NAFTA (North American Free Trade Agreement) has left Mexican campesinos far worse off. For close to two hours, we continue a political discourse with Javier. He lucid understanding of the odds working against him and all Mexican campesinos is striking.
Finally, as the stand owner patiently waits for us to clear out, his wares already cleaned and shutdown for the night, Don Javier turns to him and says something quickly, too quick for us to catch. As I go to pay, the owner says, "Ya," meaning, too late, it's already done. I look at him puzzled and he motions to Don Javier. I sudenly get the picture. After two hours of telling his how tough life is for average folks in Mexico, Don Javier has bought us dinner. We protest, feeling that if anyone should be buying anyone dinner, it should be us for him, but Ya. Proudly, Don Javier extends his hand, and I shake is warmly, looking into his knowing eyes. To protest anymore would be of great disrespect, so we merely say, "Thank you for everything."
Still in awe of the nobility and generosity of such an unassuming man, we walk home slowly through the misty rain in silence.
Posted by Sully at February 2, 2003 06:30 PM