A la Ruta a Copan

It is 12:00pm on a Sunday afternoon, I am on the road to Copan, not unlike that first Sunday I arrived and traveled in Honduras. I think about the things I was thinking about then and how much they stuck. How the defeats and triumphs, messes and well-architectured creations followed me, as they often always do, to the new distant place I was choosing to reside.

On my trip back to where I started, it all seems to come full circle.

A child yells “Adios” to passersby, to gift a greater recognition of his and the bus’s presence. It is nearing Christmas time in Honduras and the ones on the empty billfold side seem little to notice or to mind. Presents and abundant food less missed when the lack of is not brought to light by T.V shows and advertisements all too commonly watched in my parts. Allowing immediate escapes to trump long term investments is a tendency too often turned to here. However, having similar natural instincts, to a degree, I understand.

A vendor or three jump on to sell icecream, chips and other frozen treats. Each a different product for a prospective different person. I make small talk with a child sitting on a stool next to me. He is admirably confident and knowledgable of the area and my guessed destination. The once heavily laborious execution of the language flies effortlessly off my tongue now.

I was on my way to dreaming about flying over the mountains we were speeding around when the anticipated but undesired necessity of giving up my seat came. A water logged single mother with a four month old baby, an also swimming four year old and six year old child mount the bus. She said they all walked two hours from her parent’s house up in the mountains. Baby still beautifully wrapped and intact, cooing and giggling at any attempt at interaction.

The driver attacks the curve and aces it every time. Bags flying and children crying are its battle wounds. One with a fuller billfold or a larger loan holds her bag of perfectly bowed presents.

The winding doesn’t bother me like it used to, but I notice our new busmates are having a bit of a tougher time. The four year old and six year old take turns throwing up as me and my friends take turns comforting them and searching for solutions to motion sickness.

Me and a friend get pushed to the back by the possiblility of more passengers. We are the ones sitting on stools now. During Christmas there seem to be higher volumes of travelers forcing higher regulations on the bus drivers, hence our need to appear somehow and somewhat seated, regardless how safe.

My mind doesn’t stick anymore like it did before, now maybe just a calm gentle swirl of past stuck items. I am more than grateful. Messages breeze past me in unattached clumps; aware now and once again that something greater than myself is at work amidst and around me. I am appreciative for such a conflicting yet conscience altaring bundle.

The gifts of one with fall on the ground. I am reminded I can help as well as watch.