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{ June 18, '98 }
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Highland trip.
An idyllic landscape surrounds me as I fly through the countryside in a new Mercedes (a Mercedes bus). An opal lake is set, not in silver, as a semi-precious stone, but in forested hills and mountains. Dark pines dance in the reflections, with green hills, blue mountains and skies, and bright clouds. Gentle waves flirt with the tall reeds at the water's edge.
Golden pineapples dot the hillsides, interrupted by an occasional banana plant. A Koch snowflake of pine trees fractalizes the gentle hills, forming an intricate silhouette against the distant mountains. Lush vegetation reveals a hidden waterfall rushing beneath it. A whispering breeze flows through the taller boughs of pine. Scattered along the road, small shacks provide makeshift shelter for farmers selling pineapples, bananas, and vegetables. Children and adults alike risk their lives stretching dark arms into the road; they hold curious round objects, batidos, to sell. A local sweet, batidos are made from solidified sugarcane syrup wrapped in woven dry leaves.
The passengers and I are aliens in this land. Instants after bus motors announce our presence at the roadside, we are less than a memory. Even someone who could have caught a glance of me at my window thinks no more of me ever; I am just a passing face, with no meaning attached to it. I look out at the beautiful scene like an animal in a glass cage. Framed by curtains, steel and glass, I am a passing exhibit.
Outside my cage, all I see seems frozen in endless sequences of still shots. Our strenuous motion frames landscapes, portraits, still lives, and many masterpieces outside my window. Not only am I an exhibit to those outside, they are an exhibit to me. Both of us are framed in the window, caught in an instant, soon to be blurred with our other memories.
We leave the lake basin and begin to climb into the lonelier highlands. Crisp, dry air explodes through the now open window, and into my face. We climb long slopes, turn sinuous curves, and more than once escape death only by accident. Valleys, hills, mountains and plateaus sing color and space into my soul. No tropical vegetation grows here; rather, an endless pine forest, scorched by fire in some places, lush and new in others. From violet to blue, blue to green, green to yellow, and yellow to brown, a kaleidoscope of tones dazzles my imagination. Never had I noticed so many colors in an evergreen forest.
After an indefinite time, and a short nap, the man sitting beside me and I chat. He is a Christian. We talk about college in the States (his children live there), his radio station, and a little about computers. We then begin to speak about Christianity; we both express a desire for Christianity without human barriers, and our quest for Truth. People around us occasionally glance nervously at us, but we speak leisurely, oblivious to them. He invites me to attend a meeting of a Christian society of businessmen, and our conversation goes on for a long time. We are now friends.
I
awake after another nap and find myself descending into a plateau. Blaring billboards entice us to buy everything from cigarettes to Alka Seltzer, and block the subtler forest scenery. We are nearing the capital city, Tegucigalpa, and its twin Comayaguela. Soon we turn a curve and see them, a cubist anthill, their white houses and rectangular buildings forming a multifaceted composition in the noonday sun.
After a few minutes we reach the city, and are surrounded by motion and sound. Countless people randomly walk, run, limp, and drive about. Of all ages, dressed from rags to expensive clothes, all are busy; all are doing something, going somewhere. Frazzled drivers exasperate each other, honking their horns, and trying to wreak every cubic centimeter of space from the street. Children and youths play soccer, basketball, or simply run; older people sit in doorways, watching or talking, hiding from the relentless sun and its heat.
We turn impossibly cramped street corners, drive up and down hills and traverse narrow streets. Occasionally we stop to let someone leave the bus. My friend is the first to go, after saying good-bye and giving me his card. As we continue, the houses begin to look older and smaller; their roofs are Mediterranean tile, their walls adobe and stucco. We have arrived at the old city; our stop is very near. We are there, the cities where magically, the old and the new coexist: Tegucigalpa and Comayaguela.
Return to the Green Room, or to
Day by Day.
email me at aeortiz@iname.com.