Tegucigalpa, Honduras: Gringa
By Mary Beth LaRue

“Just come back safe,” said my father as he placed his red rosary in the palm of my hand–a symbol of protection for his all too curious daughter.  I was standing at the Departures gate, a small black backpack over one shoulder and 250 rolls of film bagged in my left hand.

I stood on my tiptoes and gave my father a kiss on the cheek as I headed for the gate—a gate leading me to another dimension.

I hadn’t seen Nic in four months.  My mind had raced for weeks.  Daydreams about eating coconut on the beach, letting my curls become tangled with saltwater and sun, spending the mornings making love hidden from the harsh Honduran sun.  And four months hadn’t changed that.  Four months – and a very naïve heart - got me on an airplane headed for Central America with only a swimsuit, a couple pairs of cutoffs and a hell of a lot of black and white film.

The scent of spicy seafood wafted across the wooden deck of the restaurant where Nic and I were drinking Bahia and listening to the waves lap against the shoreline.  It was the day after I had arrived in Honduras, and we had made the trek by school bus through the lush mountainside and into beachfront Tela. 

Tables of Hondurans surrounded us, laughing and drinking and speaking in a tongue I could hardly decipher.  It was clear that we were the strangers here.   We ordered a couple more beers and listened as someone played a guitar in the back of the room.  It was eventually accompanied by a deep voice, first singing in Spanish and then in English.

You used to laugh about everybody that was hanging out, and now you don’t talk so loud.  Now you don’t seem so proud about having to be scrounging your next meal.  How does it feel?  To be without a home? 

Nic turned quickly and looked towards the makeshift stage.  A young man with shaggy blonde hair and a crooked nose stood in the back of the restaurant strumming his guitar as the young Honduran women surrounded him swaying their hips to the words of Bob Dylan. 

***

Spanish pop music reverberated through large speakers in each corner of the discotheque.  Lights flashed across the dance floor highlighting the sea of dark faces and dark hair.  I’d tried to hide my own blonde curls under a black bandana but it was obvious I was an American. “You should’ve dyed your hair,” he’d said, a few minutes after I’d gotten off the plane. 

I simply shrugged.

Nic held my hand tightly as we made our way to the bar.  “Dos Bahias,” He said to the bartender, ordering us two Honduran beers.  He spotted the signer from the restaurant on the other side of the bar, standing next to a six-foot Honduran man. 

“No, cuatro Bahias.”

We carried the beers to the other side of the bar where the American and Honduran were standing.

“Hey man,” said the blonde guy.  “You were at the Sherwood earlier.”

“Yeah,” said Nic, handing him a beer. “Where are you from?”

The small talk continued; and I was introduced to Chris, a surfer-like businessman from Florida who spent his free time crooning in Tela, and Fernando, a thirty year-old Honduran whose main mission seemed to be to protect Chris.

“You look like Sharon Stone,” said Fernando, looking at me out of the corner of his eye as Nic and Chris talked about Honduran life.

“I really do not,” I said laughing.  “But yes, I am blonde and so is she.”

A couple of beers later Fernando suggested going to the only other club in Tela.

“It’s across town but much better,” he said. 

“Well, how are we going to get there?” I asked.  “Walk?”

“No, that wouldn’t be safe,” he said.  “I have a car.”

I pulled Nic aside.  “Do you think this is a good idea?”   

             

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