swallowflight

it can’t be anything but act of post-vacation nostalgia to write the story of the last day a week after it happened, and publish it even later. an act of willful denial.. or just a long savoring of a beautiful moment.

either way, las mangas was a good choice for the kiss goodbye to honduras. it’s a tiny town up the mountain from la ceiba, known on the tourism circuit as a jumping off point for whitewater rafting. my lovely sister has a work connection there, which was what put it on my map during the initial stay in ceiba. thanks to a fellow traveller’s glowing (and, as it turned out, well-deserved) recommendation, i finally made it there.

i set off to the bus station fairly early, where i was lucky to find a bus to my destination already half full. i asked when it was leaving. “ahorita” was the reply. linguistically, a diminutive of “ahora,” the word for “now;” practically, a variant of “later.” i boarded the bus and prepared myself to wait.

in the meantime, a constant stream of vendors came up and down the center aisle of the bus. the impressions flowed lazily past in the growing, silent heat. quiet-eyed boys with tubs of cold drinks balanced on their shoulders. feeling the tantalizing chill of near-touch as they passed close to my cheek. a glimpse of the mournful, blue-lined face of a woman, tattooed into the soft span of skin between a thumb and forefinger. semicircles of watermelon. saran-wrapped plates of chicken. caramel popcorn balls. incredulous looks from three old men in cowboy hats, who seemed to wonder why i, the only foreigner on the bus, was travelling their way.

a departure less than half an hour later was a pleasant surprise. just at the edge of town, we turned onto a dirt and gravel road winding up into the mountains. we passed only a few vehicles or pedestrians as the mountains loomed closer and closer, green-black and ever taller against the sky. i watched the road carefully for landmarks, but as usual, confirmed with fellow passengers.

i am easily able to navigate these simple conversations. yet i can still see how in this tongue, words and my use of them take a different shape. the effort required to communicate burns through layers of natural or learned reserve and nicety. i find myself becoming more direct, guileless. i hear my listeners’ responses in a different way. i sense that they want to help me. there is some protectiveness, a degree of concern that is unfamiliar. it is comical, at times. at other times, i feel in it a momentary sense of relief from deeply ingrained independence.

i landed in the middle of a town loosely strung along both sides of the road. i knew i was supposed to look for a church and a bridge, but saw no evidence of either. there weren’t many people around, but i found a bodega whose proprietress recognized the name of my sister’s connection and pointed me back down the hill. after a series of similar inquiries, i arrived at a modest mission complex of house, library, and dormitory. there i found a shy, smiling boy who told me the people i was looking for were away, and a beautiful honduran lady who stopped doing laundry for a few moments and told me about the work they are doing there.

after some conversation, i asked the way to the river and picked my way down a steep hillside to its edge. i found my way up the bank, climbing over and around jumbled stones and huge boulders. the river crashed along its rocky path, swirling jade and foamy white. after the sleepy magic of trujillo’s shore, the sound and motion were bracing, astonishing. though i am undoubtedly made for the sea, i found myself in awe of the river’s rough beauty.

an hour or two passed in the brilliance of the day. i didn’t so much reflect as feel the passing of time, the closing of chapters, the opening of other doors. the contours of experience shifting into memory. loss. gratitude. hope. reluctance. expectancy. wonder. longing.

there wasn’t much left after that… seeing friends in ceiba that night and the next day, re-packing my bag one last time (remarkably, it seemed to have shrunk, actually taking up less space, though i’d added a few small things along the way), getting to the airport. the long trip home, including a 7-hour layover. freezing on the platform, waiting for the train. walking in the door at 6am, back into that other world. seeing dear faces after a long time.

a good end. mixed, like all the best things.