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Some Days Just Don’t Go Right
Stubbornly I headed up into the high country east of the Comayagua Valley. After a frustrating day of seeking outcrops in the cloud forest I headed back down to the Jeep. Local people were always interested in and somewhat baffled by what we were doing, so it was not surprising as I went along that people fell in with me on the downhill journey—the number was surprising.. By the time we got to the village closest to the jeep there were maybe 20 or 30 men in the group and more in the square.
When we got to the square a man began yelling, accusing me of murdering children, spying for Castro, rape, and various other indiscretions. At this point I noticed that out of the 40 or so men at the party I was the only guy without a machete (oops). I tried to explain that I was working with the Government of Honduras (a gringo?!). My escorts cut my canteen belt and pack off and examined the contents. The compass, sheath knife, and air photos and maps in my pack seemed to fit better with the Castro spy story than government worker. That my interrogation team examined the credentials and letters of introduction from the Minister of Mines and Hydrocarbons, the Director of the Cuerpo Especial de Seguridad, and Local Tax Collector randomly sideways and up-side-down didn’t give me a lot of confidence in the power of written communication.
About the time it seemed I’d end up as the Honduran equivalent of chopped liver, a lean dapper man came down the path from the road whistling cheerfully. My interrogation team called him over and showed him the credentials. He scanned them emitting occasional whistles of surprise or amazement. He then read selected portions of the letters of introduction (“….render all available assistance”, “…full force and protection of the Government..”, etc.) to the crowd which were greeted with ooh’s and aah’s. I have always appreciated teachers but never so much as the one who had taught “Whistler” to read.
Several of the leaders (not the man who had been yelling) apologized and insisted I return the next day and meet with the Alcalde (Mayor) which I did. As it turned out “Yeller” was very poor, had eight children with no wife, and two of the children had recently died (been killed?). My presence was an opportunity to blame a tragedy on an outsider.
The experience re-enforced several lessons: if you are a foreigner always have a local person with you, check with local leaders—it takes time but is worth it (I’d skirted the village going in to avoid spending the time explaining my presence), always revere teachers (they may save your life), and be thankful for angels (even ones that whistle off key).
- John Everett
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The day started badly forty years ago while field mapping in Honduras. My field assistant informed me that he couldn’t go to the field for the fourth day hand running because it was the “Day of the Driver” or the “Day of the Worker” etc. After a brief discussion he returned to Tegucigalpa to seek other employment.
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