Honduras: Day 4

From March 25th to April 3rd of 2019, I was part of Witness for Peace Solidarity Collective's delegation to Honduras. The theme of the delegation was "Migration and Social Movements."

I woke up early, per usual, but there was no early wake-up call. This was just gonna be a leisurely day, which I think we all needed.

My cabin at La Finca

Daylight revealed La Finca to be pretty much what I’d thought the night before: a revolutionary summer camp. There was a mess hall along with the cabins, a pool and a pavilion for outdoor meetings. But, like I said before, the accommodations were spartan. It was the nature that made it nice.

Martín in the mess hall

We had a breakfast of pineapple, papayas and store-bought muffins individually wrapped in cellophane. Someone mentioned that papayas can cause miscarriage. I had no idea they were so dangerous. I really liked the chocolate muffins with chocolate chips, despite my knee-jerk guilt about eating processed food.

Betty at the river

I went down to the river with Raúl. We watched the hundreds of little fish in the water. They swam around in schools, instantly changing direction in near-perfect synchronicity. We talked a little, but the beauty of the place was humbling and the serenity intoxicating after the emotional intensity of the last few days.

It was a long, languid day. We were just chillin’ for the morning. I think somebody took a dip in the river. There were 2 concrete pools painted blue slowly filling with water. It was hot, so I was looking forward to a swim. Lunch was served by Martín, his wife and sister(?).

As we ate, I told Ellen that the place reminded me of Jonestown, the jungle settlement in South America where Jim Jones got all those people to drink the poisoned Kool-Aid. I was half-joking, but I was also concerned about my fellow delegates’ seeming fascination with Martín.

Betty and Emily by the pool

I worried that they were being swept off their feet by his charisma and the romance of his cause. It would’ve been easy to get carried away in this place. It felt like we were staying at a rebel camp with the Che Guevara of Honduras (minus the militancy).

I knew the allure of such crusades. I’d drunk the Kool-Aid on Peak Oil in my late 20’s and nearly made some drastic, ill-advised, life-changing decisions as a result.

Meg and Ellen

But I was in no danger of falling under Martín’s spell. My heart kept everyone at arm’s length, even when I opened up to them verbally. I didn’t wanna get swept up in another quixotic quest, so I kept up my defenses.

Luckily, I guess, I hadn’t the guts to make those sweeping changes at the time I fell under the sway of Peak Oil. But, if I had, I might’ve fallen down some scary rabbit-holes IRL, rather than just online. I might’ve been led down the primrose path by some unstable and/or unscrupulous characters.

Martín, Emily, Ellen, Diana, me and Raúl

Ellen told me about her time touring with Up with People. I broke out in a big grin and chuckled. Up with People was a common punchline in the 80’s and early 90’s. The Simpsons parodied them a few times with a group called “Hooray for Everything.”

My amusement didn’t seem to bother her. She must be used to it. Some have compared it to a cult, she said, but she had fond memories of the group: busing around the country, making friends, doing service and performing songs. She even demonstrated the “swing clap” for which Up with People was known. (I don’t remember that part; I must’ve been too young to soak up that much of the lore.)

Carlos, our bus driver

We finally reconvened in the afternoon on the pavilion to discuss US foreign policy, the COBRAS, the police and other state security forces. We reflected, and I confessed my crankiness from the night before. They said they hadn’t noticed. “Because I’m an actor!” I said with a theatrical flourish.

The only projects for that day were 2 lengthy interviews of Martín: 1 video, 1 audio. We brainstormed questions for him. Ellen, Meredith and Diana prepared the audiovisual equipment. In the afternoon, they followed him around the camp with a camera. He explained MADJ’s plans for La Finca, parts of which were still under construction. He told them about the flora they’d planted there.

I hung back and kicked a little deflated soccer ball around a little field with little goals. Late in the afternoon, I retired to my cabin and attempted to write a poem. I’d been inspired by the one Emily shared with the group the day before.

Meg and Betty poolside

I went to a dark place. It felt like death was stalking Martín. Ale had said as much on a previous day. People were telling him to leave the country. The situation was especially worrisome with a baby on the way. (And what’s more romantic than someone dancing with Death?)

It was kinda hard just being by myself with the shadows lengthening, but I really wanted to write some poetry. (Talk about First World Problems. I’m lamenting the fact that I chose to be alone for an hour or so right after saying that Martín was in mortal danger. Well, some things never change. The Poor get more precarious while the Rich get more fragile.)

When I was done, I joined everyone in the mess hall. Diana and Emily were sitting nearest the door. They smiled at me and asked what I’d been up to.

If I weren’t so emotionally blocked, I probably would’ve dissolved in tears right then and there. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had looked so happy to see me, especially people I’d just met. But I didn’t cry, no matter how much I wanted to. (Because I’m a Guy, and we don’t do that.)

I told them I’d been writing poetry after being inspired by Emily's poem. She was flattered, and they asked if I’d be sharing it. I said, “Sure,” but I didn’t think it was a good idea. It seemed too dark for sharing while we were still in-country, in the midst of all the sadness and fear. I didn’t wanna break the psychic barrier I’d erected to protect me from this especially gritty Reality.

After dinner, back in my cabin, I tried to read an article in the delegation binder and failed miserably. The rest of the evening was spent by the pool interviewing Martín with just audio recording equipment.

Despite the coolness of the night, Meredith, Ellen and I went for a dip. We’d missed our chances in the heat of the day. It took me a while to submerge fully in the cold water, but after that I warmed up.

I thought of the R.E.M. song, “Nightswimming,” which made me think of “Nightmowing,” the parody that I’d come up with when I lived with my cousin in Uptown Mpls. It seemed like every week in the summer we’d hear someone mowing after dark, at which point I’d start singing, and Andrew would join in: “Nightmowing deserves a quiet night…”

Everyone else was gathered around Martín poolside, listening intently. I hung back in the pool for a while before getting out and sitting on the concrete. Raúl was translating, but I couldn’t really follow.

I was more mesmerized by the scene: the contrast between the bright white outdoor lights and the black shadows, the sounds of insects in the forest, the water lapping the sides of the pool and the silence of all of us listening to Martín.

Why must we worship individuals? Martín fits the part. He’s ruggedly handsome and charismatic, serious but not too serious, and funny. But why should he be asked to sacrifice? Why can’t someone else pick up the gauntlet and give him a break?

Let him have a kid and start a family in peace. Hasn’t he done enough? Hasn’t he done his bit? We need to find another hero, another leader, another Che Guevara. The powers that be in Honduras have already taken out Berta Cáceres, but could the movement survive the loss of Martín too?

Martyrs can be inspiring, but adding another to the pantheon isn't the goal. Hondurans would probably rather believe that their heroes can escape the clutches of the government, big business and the gangs. They would probably rather believe that there is some justice in their country.

Ellen lent me some earplugs (which I’d forgotten to pack). Carlos’s snoring had kept Raúl up the night before, but it hadn’t bothered me. The earplugs were still helpful though, because I’m usually sensitive to noise when trying to fall asleep.

I was up late, writing. We had horchata after dinner. Maybe there’s caffeine in that. I’m never sure if it’s caffeine or psychological issues keeping me up.

I turned off the room light after it seemed to bother Carlos and kept writing in the patch of light the window left on my mattress. But there was no solace in it. It was just something to do while I waited for sleep to come and free me from my misery.