Arriving at Cofradia
Trip Start Aug 01, 2006
18Trip End ??? ??, 2007
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Thursday, August 3, 2006
It had been quite a long day, leaving Indianapolis at 8:27 a.m. on a flight to Miami, and then on to San Pedro Sula. Other than being tarmaced for twenty or thirty minutes before takeoff, the American Airlines' flight out of Miami was uneventful, as flights go.
I was seated beside a young Honduran girl who introduced herself as "Sindi," during our delay. It was obvious that Sindi's English was much better than my Spanish as we chatted during the wait and occasionally during the flight. She told me she was fourteen years old and attended a bilingual school in a small town about a two hour drive east of San Pedro Sula. I'm not sure if I remember correctly, but I believe she said the name of her town was "Ceiba." She was returning to Honduras after a two month visit with her cousins in North Carolina and Florida
Finally, Honduran Soil... and Heat and Humidity
We approached our destination, about thirty minutes behind schedule, dropping in over the vibrant green, steep mountains to the northwest of San Pedro Sula. Evidently it had rained recently as the small river in the flatlands just a few minutes before landing was swollen and ran with a milky brown color. Life moved about on the edge, small homes and footpaths, as though the next swell might wash them away.
Upon exiting immigration and customs, and stepping into the repressive Honduran heat, I was met by a party of three: Wilfredo Fajardo, and his daughter, Fabiola, and Jon Powers, the Volunteer Administrator for this year's teachers at the San Jeronimo Bilingual School. Jon, the only other white guy in the entire airport that I could see, was holding a hand-written sign with "Jon" scrawled across it. I was so glad to see them (I had strained my back lifting a box of books just the day before in Indy and it had not really bothered me, not even a little, until I stood up in that bent-over because-of-the-luggage-rack-above-my-head stance we do when disembarking - and wham
A Little Side Story: Wilfredo and His Truck
A couple days later, the same three went back to the airport to pick up Anna, another teacher volunteer. The gas pedal in Wilfredo's truck somehow became disconnected. That's a problem in most cases. Ah, but Wilfredo can make anything out of anything! According to Anna, Wilfredo disappeared beneath hood of the truck for a short time, and then pulled a long wire up through the floor board. Wallah, a new accelerator pedal, or puller in this case!
On to Cofradia
My own trip to Cofradia was not so eventful. We did stop, just at the edge of the airport, while Wilfredo honked and then waved a woman in to join us for a ride into town. He didn't know the woman, but knew she wanted a ride. She climbed into the extended cab back seat with Jon and Fabiola, along with her plastic grocery bags. It was a bit crowded, but very normal. She didn't ride with us all that far, letting Wilfredo know, at a not too distant intersection, that she was ready to exit. So is the informal and friendly transportation system in parts of San Pedro Sula where buses don't go. In fact, I have learned that this is common even in the bussed sections of town.
An Indy friend, Steve, who had visited his daughter in Cofradia in the spring, had explained the entrance to Cofradia as a beautiful tree-lined boulevard that went for three-hundred yards, or so. I found this to be true and soaked up the shade provided by the trees that stood on both sides of the road and in the median, as well. It is like a fairyland entrance that belies what is up the last hill. As we glided along that smooth, dark pavement, an arm resting on the Toyota's window sill, warm air chasing other warm air about the cabin, and brilliant specks of sunlight creating the contrast in the foliage overhead, I wondered, and knew, just how long it would last.
And then there was Cofradia.