Dirt to Uncover

"You should tuck in your shirt," he said. "People might think that you are hiding something." Juan Turcios had a slow way of talking, and knew that he had my attention and will slowly roast me before giving me what I wanted.

I had already learned to wear my shirts tucked, but I did not expect to follow this nuisance on a school bus. In Honduras, every important store, bank, or business is well guarded. If a guy has his shirt sticking out he is searched and followed inside the building. Talk about high pressure shopping!

"Ramon Manzanarez was my grandfather," I said after verifying it through a series of questions that revealed this relationship. "Tell me more about him."

"He lived in Coclan for almost 40 years," he said. "He gave me jobs in his milpa where I helped grow corn, and when we were done with corn we planted beans and followed this cycle throughout the year."

Don Turcios was easily in his sixties. A man that probably worked the fields from a very young age. His face was wrinkled and cracked by years of sun exposure and his long sleeve shirt stained through and through by sweat and dirt.
"He was a good boss and paid reasonably," he continued. "He made his living through his crops which we took to Otoro on Tuesdays to sell at the weekly market."

"Did he have any family?" I probed.

"No," he said. "Not what I would call a real family," he explained.

"As far as I know he always had company at home."
"What kind?" I asked.
"Look," he said. "I'm Christian, and I always see the best in people. There is more to your grandfather but you will not hear it from me."

"All I can say is that there was always someone in his life."

He was being reluctant to say more and so I focused the conversation on my side of the family. "Did he ever mentioned that he had family in the States?" I continued.

"Never." he replied. The feeling was mutual on the other end I thought.
"But then again, I was not that close to him, " he said.

"The closest to a son he had was Pucho who was left under your grandfather's care by his mom. The understanding was that she was to come back for him, but never did. So he cared for him like a son."

He then proceeded to tell me about my grandad's later years. He told me that as my grandfather grew older they could not keep up with the crop cycle and so had decided to sell his milpa.
"He must have made a lot of money from it," he said. "There was probably no need for him to work after he sold the eight manzanas of milpa. But he was not the kind to remain idle and so acquired an easy job with Otoro's municipality and was the central park's caretaker until the day he died."

"I was told that he died quietly in his sleep from a heart attack. The lawyer that rented out a room to him found him lying on his bed. Someone had come from the municipality asking for him after he had not reported to work that morning."
"Considering the size of Otoro and Coclan, his funeral was well attended . Almost three hundred people came. He had become a money lender in his last years and was probably owed by many, but was always forgiving and never really behind anybody for owing him. Everybody loved him and knew him by Moncho or Monchito."

After a long pause he said the following, "There is more to your grandfather, but I will not get into details. Search for other people that knew him better. Ask for Monchito and not Ramon, I don't think anyone remembers him by that name."

I would have been disappointed if all that was needed to know about my grandfather was what Juan Turcios had offered. But I had not expected to uncover too much dirt about him.
We had arrive at a crossroads before Otoro which was Juan Turcio's stop. We said goodbye.

(I have been to Otoro's two burying grounds twice, and have yet to find my grandfather's tomb. So I still do not know the precise date of his death.)

30 minutes to Otoro

I met Juan Turcios on one of my trips to Otoro. I was traveling on a chicken bus (I don't know why they are called that, I'm yet to see a chicken in one of these buses) from Siguatepeque. On my previous rides, I'd noticed that people that did not want to share a seat, sat at the aisle end of the seats sending the message that the whole seat was taken. I always sit next to the window on these seats to look at the view as we move from central Honduras through green pine mountains and then down the humid valley where Otoro lies. So I did not notice when he sat next to me at one of the stops in between. He had gotten on in Coclan which lies just at the top of the mountain range that we have to go through.

On my very first ride to Otoro, I remember thinking while we were going through Coclan that we had arrived to Otoro. My misconception had its root from an early childhood memory where my family had visited my grandfather. We stayed somewhere similar to Coclan and so when I heard of Otoro, I had always imagined it on mountain tops somewhere in Honduras. I was extremely disappointed that Otoro was not at the top of these mountains - the view is magnificent! Panic took over my disappointment as we went down the mountain to Otoro. I had to ask the conductor twice to let me know when we were arriving to Otoro.
Juan Turcios had slid next to me quietly. By his gear, machete and water bottle in hand, I knew that he had been working in a milpa somewhere . His nervous dirty hand tap on his right knee of indicated willingness to speak. I made eye contact which he eagerly awaited. I was not surprised by what he said next: " You are not from around here are you?" "No" I replied. He was not satisfied by my short answer. My leaving an empty space next to my seat only indicated that I had wanted company and conversation down the mountain, so I was confusing him. "To La Esperanza?" he pushed ahead. "No, to Otoro" was my short answer again trying to dismiss him to watch the valley below that had suddenly appeared through the window. My last answer only fueled his curiosity. No one goes to Otoro unless they have family members I thought to myself, so I was prepared for the next line of questioning. "Who are you going to visit?" he asked. " The Tosta family" I replied offhandedly. "Oh, yes I know them very well," he noted and then said "But you don't look like a Tosta." I regretfully had to give up the view watching here, he had me cornered. "No, I'm a Manzanarez" I said. "Ah, yes. That's who you look like," he said in a very slow thoughtful manner. "I was a very good friend to a Manzanarez, his name was Ramon." He did not only had me cornered now but had completely captivated my attention. Forget the wonderful view I thought, he had just said that he knew my grandfather.

There are places in Honduras that feel forgotten. Otoro is one of them. It is a bustling town within itself but far away slower than any other town or city. It sits alone in a valley one hour away south from Siguatepeque (far enough in Honduras) and another hour away north of La Esperanza. To many it's only a middle point from here or there, and not worth the time. A mere inconvenience if your bus has to go through it. Streets are of dirt (except around central park) and adobe houses still abound. Modern houses, those made up of cement blocks, have been built behind old adobe fronts which still stand in testament of heritage. Some of these old adobe houses are caving in and crumbling, eaten away by seasonal weather which perennially works to erase the town's history. On my arrival to Honduras, I had many options of where to stay. I was attracted to Otoro because that was where my father was from and I had every intent on learning about my paternal side of the family. A history that I felt was never really explained to me. I knew that my grandfather had died two years ago, and when I learned this I could only shrug my shoulder and go "Okay, so?" It was someone who I did not know much about, and who not much was said about. It was like a stranger had died, and I did not care about him. This had not bothered me then, but had continually bugged me after. I knew that my reaction should be different and if not then explained. And so my unresolved emotion had driven me to Otoro.

Juan Turcios had my attention, and there were only about thirty minutes left to Otoro....

Finally settling down

I've moved from my location near school. I'm now situated in central Siguatepeque. I decided to move after a few complications and considerations, and in the end opted for a central busy location. Most things are a walking distance from here. There is a very popular grocery store nearby that closes until nine PM, it offers breakfast, lunch and dinner. I use to eat these three courses there once but no longer need to. I have added a small electric stove to my growing collection of necessary items. I cook beans on a weekly basis (these only need daily boiling to keep them going). I don't have a refrigerator, so everything I buy is in small doses. A quarter pound of sour cream, quarter pound of bathtub cheese, small packages of condiments (for beans cooking), one apple or other fruit a day, small packages of tortillas, an unhealthy snack, and five-gallons containers of drinking water every now and then.
Refrigeration was an issue. Whenever I had extra cheese or sourcream, I'll put these in small plastic bags and sink them to the bottom of my clothes washing water tank. Most residences here come equipped with cement water tanks where washing is done (see pic). Siguatepeque is known for its cool weather. The whole country of Honduras might be at 120 degree swealtering humid heat on a given day, while we enjoy very cool 70 degrees weather here. So if there is one thing that's cold - it's water. My water thank made for a great coolant, but things began getting into my sourcream and bathtub cheese. So I bought a small cooler and now buy small bags of ice to keep things cold when necessary. I don't have to compete with mosquito larvae anymore.
I will never get use to cold showers. I tried. In the end I bought a bucket which I fill every morning before going to work and leave it in the sun to warm. Problem solved. Ahhhh...warm showers at night. Warm water is a luxury here, so are washing machines and dryers. Internet connection is another luxury, one which I now have. So I will be writing more often.
September was a patriotic month. We were asked to sing Hondura's national anthem every morning before beginning our 7AM classes. I did not know my country's national anthem and so had to learn it on the go. I now know two of the eight verses, good enough for most patriotic ocassions. We marched on independence day (9/15) through Siguatepeque's main streets. It was a personal moment of pride for me. I always wondered what it would be to live among one's fellow countryfolk and here I am, learning the national symbols, anthem, heroes and marching on Independence Day.
Teaching was challengin at first, but I have adapted to the schedule and expectations. We mostly use US based books and have found myself reading about Pasadena's Rose Parade in my reading classes. Of course, this only makes me think of home and how I long to get back. At the same time, as I become attached to these kids, I can only wonder if I'm defrauding them since I might just leave before the school year is over. I will have to deal with that when the time comes.