Honduras Time - Guest Author Eric Barnes

We needed concrete.  Our plans for doing carpentry had been met with dismal defeat despite the fact that we had purchased two sets of cordless power tools to perform the tasks we were told would be ours to complete.  The lack of wood was a terrible blow to preconceived plans.  By the second day, we had finished all the projects we could with the resources we had and we were struggling to identify further ones. By the third day, we needed to come up with a plan. The falling water tower at the man cave in the orchard was the ticket.  After deliberating over different plans of attack, it was felt that using some block and concrete we could construct a proper tower platform and utility room to load the huge plastic water tank on.  It would be high enough to provide enough water pressure for the plumbing needs of the house.  So, we needed concrete to start.

In Columbia this would simply be a matter of a five minute ride to the Lowes or Home Depot using one of the several cars our growing family has acquired over the years.  But we were on Honduras time there and projects are placed on hold for months because of little things we take for granted.  The only chain saw had gone down on the first day with a bad chain and getting the right size at the closest hardware store turned out to be a failed mission that took an entire day.  The only set of tree pruners broke halfway through the pruning of the orchard project.  The fence project was on hold because the money that we sent had not yet arrived.  We were lucky that the spare part had come in for the tractor the week prior, for it had been down for months.  Without the tractor, so many things would not have been accomplished.

All of the drivers were elsewhere.  Ron and Jim were hours away trying to get the shipping container out of customs.  Lawrence was driving the prayer walkers into town.  Georgia was not feeling well.  Thank goodness the locals were not as particular about little things like driver’s licenses.  So Jerry and I loaded up in the small truck and headed out with our passports and a pocketful of limperas (Honduran money) to purchase some concrete at the local hardware store 18 miles away up the mountain road.

On the way out we commandeered Ozman, the bright and inquisitive 13 year old teenager.  Our spanglish was not going to do us any good if we ran into trouble from bad guys or the police.  Ozman’s was a nice linchpin between our two worlds.  He had proven himself capable of providing insight into big tasks around the orphanage and loved hanging out in the tool shed with the men.  So our quest had begun and Jerry and I were eager to get started.

Before we could get a few hundred yards out of the driveway, we were instructed by Ozman to pull over and give two local high school girls a ride up to their bus stop 4 ½ miles up to the top of the mountain.  Ozman is no dummy and he seemed to take special pride in giving these young, pretty girls a ride.  We had to smile with nodding approval and knew that it was a great coup for him. 

The ride out was rather humbling as we saw in a closer light the perilous roadway that we were to travel.  Deep ravines, huge pot holes, washed ruts on winding curves were enough to strain any road work budget of an American town with adequate infrastructure. It was hard to fathom how these rudimentary roads were maintained.  We caught sight of our answer as we passed a pick up truck loaded with big rocks and several men unloading them into the various potholes.

 

Our passengers were let out at the top of our valley.  They were left to wait for their bus to the school; which was still a significant distance away.  With no set time period for when a student gets to the top of the mountain to the bus stop, it is hard to imagine how school is conducted with any significant continuity.  Lawrence had already mentioned his trek to pick up the orphanage high schoolers every night when they get dropped off at the same bus stop, and we had no reason to believe these two girls would not be in for a similar long day just to go to school.

Now the black top highway that we found ourselves on was not marked with the tell tell lines that marked the various lanes of traffic in the United States.  No, the primary rule was make sure you give way to the bigger or faster vehicle coming towards you from either direction.  Naturally our four cylinder, diesel pickup was not one to cause fear in too many roadway competitors blowing past us.  Ozman was wide-eyed with youthful excitement and ignorance because he was going to town!  Jerry and I were wide-eyed and white-knuckled as we pulled into the city limits.

Talanga had about three main roads that gave the impression of the letter H if seen from the air.  Ozman was sure that our destination was on the first corner we came to.  That actually was looking pretty good considering a huge dump truck was trying to dump his load of gravel in the middle of the roadway that would be the cross mark of the H connecting the other two roads.  A traffic conundrum had occurred as people would drive around the dump truck to the consternation of the driver.  There were none of the traffic control workers on walkie talkies with big “stop signs” or “drive slow signs” like we have in the States.   It was, like the black top, every man for himself.  We thought ourselves very fortunate until Ozman said that what he thought was the place we needed was, in fact, a closed store.  We had to go through the construction to find our destination in our 4 cylinder rumble truck of doom. 

What to do?  The police station was right across the road.  Would Georgia’s assurances about our license situation hold true or would we find ourselves “Locked up Abroad?”  Do I push past the dump truck and over the gravel that was piled up in the roadway like everyone else or do we wait for the construction to end? The thought of waiting was not a pleasant option knowing our experience with “Honduras time” already.  Punch it!  Past the dump truck and close on the heels of a taxi we made it over the pile and well into the cross bar of the H, deeper into the unknown with the police station to look forward to on the way back out. 

Ozman was thrilled.  Jerry and I…well….onward ho!

We found the hardware store on the third road.  Ozman jumped out and ran up to the counter; as we instructed him, to order ten bags of concrete and get the proper price.  Now truly I felt this was going to be our Waterloo; but as it turned out, Ozman was a hit.  He came across as a normal, eager kid to the manager of the store and whatever mistakes were made in translation were quickly overcome because they saw in Ozman a mirror of themselves when they were that young.  It was cool to see and the same expressions of approval that happen every day in small towns across the USA were happening right there with Ozman.  In many ways I was so concerned about all of my own disadvantages in the situation that I failed to notice; until that moment, that this was a small rite of passage into manhood for Ozman.  It was an epiphany.  It was not about my task of the moment.  This was the orphan’s time.  His growing moment!

But now, back through town and past the police station where I had obviously; as a gringo, disregarded who knows how many traffic laws to get past the dump truck.  As we approached we saw; to our dismay, the two police officers now assisting the dump truck driver and directing traffic.  Oh, man!  Ozman was terrified.  He claimed that a friend of his had been stopped by these guys and shaken down for money for no reason.  What?!  I looked over at this Honduran man on the street and he directed me down an alley way. He actually whistled and kinda jerked his head toward the alley way (You know, like someone trying to let you in on a secret that is probably not really the kinda secret that ends up good.) What?!  Jerry, what do you think?  OK, let’s do it.

Now at this point I admit it could have gotten into one of those moments where the police officer is asking the victim, “What were you thinking going down an alley way just because someone told you to?”  I have asked the same question of different victims over the years and have seen my share of those who did not live after making those bad choices.  But any questions we might have had at first were laid to rest. We quickly realized that the alley way was actually a secondary road that came out by the local fire department with a vintage 1950s fuel truck-turned water pumper in the back yard.  Whew!  Yet another catastrophe averted!

Ozman was thrilled!  Jerry and I….well….onward ho!

We had been instructed to get some gas in the truck on the way back. OK, no problem.  How much is gas and who are these guys hanging out at the pumps?  Why is that guy carrying a shotgun?  Ozman, what do I do?  Here I am, a retired Detective Sergeant and no stranger to the worst of the worst of life; but it is an eerie feeling seeing all of that and not really knowing who to trust.  I pushed down the fear and got my game face on.  I gave the guy whatever Ozman told me to.  (We figured it up later and realized it was over $5 per gallon!)  When I turned around, Ozman and Jerry had gone in the store and bought some Pepsi Colas. They had left me outside trying not to stare down the guy with the shotgun, but still keeping an eye on him just in case. (Now really I am a Coca Cola guy, but trust me when I tell you that I don’t think I was on my “A” game here and to protest would have been fool hardy. I was happy to get what I got and to get out. This is probably a good time, too, to say that the man with the shotgun at the gas station was an armed guard. We saw them all over Honduras and they are there to protect the valuables. Honduras is a third-world country and very poor. So, shop owners, in order to protect their valuables, would hire guards.)

We got away and back home without further incident except letting some locals hitch a ride on the truck back down the mountain and into the valley.  After our two-plus hour round trip, the concrete was finally delivered. I think the round trip was about 36 miles. (If we had been at home we could have driven the 75 miles to Charlotte, ate a burger, picked up some supplies and driven back in the same amount of time.) We pulled up to the main house and grabbed some lunch before starting to work on the footings.

Jerry and I were thrilled.  Ozman?...well…onward ho!

During this whole week there were times where I would doubt my usefulness to the mission.  The frustrations of completing some tasks because the tools were broken or the supplies were not on site were surreal in many respects.  The concrete run was just another reminder of what we have come to call “Honduras time.”  But what I realize is what God has taught me here: that His timing is not my timing and my understanding is not necessarily His reality. This is, of course, a children’s home in a third world country.  God built the home just as he has created the flowers of the fields.  God has been the caretaker all along and He is in control.  Perhaps the story here is that Ozman and the other orphans are growing up and learning to take leadership roles in their home. A home that is enriched daily with God’s love.  I have been blessed by God to be a small part of that maturing process and have been humbled by the experience. 

(Photos courtesy of Maria Owens)