Domingo was always on that corner. He would greet me from his stool while chewing tobacco and with a toothless smile, “como estamos Santiago?” Every day I would sit on the stool next to him and he’d tell me his life’s story. Domingo told me everything, from his proudest moments to his lowest. He’s an alcoholic and goes to AA meetings every week. He was an engineer in Puerto Cortez where he worked alongside several American engineers who were veterans of World War II. It wasn’t long before I exchanged some of my own stories, even if they didn’t compare in meaning. I could only talk to him for a few minutes at a time, and before long I had to interrupt him and ask him to tell me the rest the next day.
Walking through the streets of ‘El Progreso’ can be a jarring experience. The most popular reggeaton, bachata, and merengue songs ring through the streets. Taxi cab drivers tell their dirtiest jokes as they stand idle by their cars. Vendors yell about their newest bargain from store fronts. The crowded streets, the festive melodies, and the colorful characters project a feeling of excitement rather than a place of business.
Walking about the city center, I was always bound to run into a few people I knew. It was common to run into a client and her children, “Hola Santiago, como esta? Vaya pues, que Dios le bendiga!” We’d stop, greet, chat, and wish each other goodbye. Always a few minutes at a time.
There are a few “spots” I frequented. Chepe’s Restaurant, which was more of an open air cafeteria, served my favorite chicken soup. Even on a hot sunny day, chicken soup always hit the spot. Steamed carrots, broccoli, potatoes, cabbage, and juicy chicken all served together with a delicious broth… my mouth waters even now every time I think of it. I had it so often that Chepe knew my order by heart. “Vistes el Atletico?” he’d ask me. Chepe loves Atletico Madrid. While I slurped my soup he would tell me about their latest win.
On the opposite corner from Domingo is a small shoe repair shop. Gerson is its owner. It has one large window without a glass pane. On any day of the week you can find Gerson behind the counter, with his glasses on, a sewing needle and special tools at hand, hard at work on a shoe. The first time I went to his shop we shook hands and I was taken aback. His hands are huge. They are as big as a basketball player’s, his fingers are thick as cigars and rough like sand paper. “Y su familia como esta?” Gerson is a man of few words, but he always asked about my family.
It’s been a year and a half since I left Honduras. Except for a brief visit, I haven’t kept in touch with clients and neighbors. I don’t know if they think about me. I don’t know if my presence left an impression. The longer removed from Honduras, the less I remember about Domingo, my neighbors, and my clients.
Honduras is one of the most violent countries on earth and one of the poorest countries in the western hemisphere. It’s a Spanish speaking country, it’s soccer crazed, and it’s in the Caribbean, and thus very hot. If this is all you knew of Honduras, you could be forgiven for misunderstanding so much of what makes the country and its people unique.
Despite the fear and caution that the news can inspire, my experience endeared me to El Progreso. I found meaning in the serendipity of running into someone you know on the street and the satisfaction of dropping what you’re doing to catch up with a familiar face. There is a strong sense of community in that town.
Community is a collective attitude. What every one of those relationships, from Domingo to clients, had in common was mutual affection. By affection, I don’t mean of everlasting friendship, I mean of a level of curiosity and friendliness that comes with knowing someone well enough to be vulnerable with them. I mean the type of relationship that isn’t defined by status, competition, or transactions. I mean the connection you feel with someone with whom you share a space with and interact with on a daily basis over and over again. Essentially, community is defined by geography, but it’s also defined by some level of love.
When I left Honduras, I lost that community. Living in DC, I feel a different attitude in the collective conscience. There is more distrust, more isolation, more individual expectation and less collective culture. I worry that I’m losing perspective. I’m more distracted by technology and in constant need of stimulation from anything that will suppress my angst.
While in Honduras I felt a strong connection to the place and people. But, I’m mindful of the fact that I could never fully be a part of that community; my identity and privilege will always provide a certain degree of separation. Nonetheless, I still took part in this collective attitude of acceptance, free from judgment, driven by love, and defined by a common thread: the unspoken understanding of community.