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.
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....
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