Tegucigalpa, Honduras: Gringa (cont.)

“They seem like decent guys, and he hasn’t been drinking much—but if you don’t want to go, we definitely don't have to.

“I’m always up for an adventure.”

We piled into Fernando’s maroon Ford: Chris in the front seat,:and we in the back.  The night sky was a rich blue, and the air had turned cold.

“Hey, I think you should slow down,” I said to Fernando, as he hit fifty miles per hour.  We were approaching several lights at the end of a bridge, but I could not make out what they were.  As we got closer I could see the shapes of several men.

“Shit!” yelled Fernando.  “Policia!”

My blood turned cold and the hair stood up on my arms.

“Well stop then!” Nic shouted, but despite the shouts in the car and from the police Fernando picked up more speed.

I turned around and saw the police raising their guns and shouting as they chased our car down the road.  For a moment I thought that we might have gotten away.

“Turn somewhere,” said Chris.  “Seriously man.  What the fuck?”

“I have a gun,” said Fernando.  “They will take me to jail.”

I was still watching the road intently for any sign of the police.  Out of the darkness appeared a small red light the size of a cherry.

“Here they come,” said Chris.  “You better fucking get away man.”

Fernando tried to escape; the police’s persistence won out; and we finally pulled to a stop.

“What’s going to happen?” I whispered, before letting out a shriek as a gun was thrown onto my lap.

“Hide this,” Fernando pleaded, his brown eyes clouded by fear.

Trembling I took my bandana off and wrapped it around the gun jamming it under the front seat. 

“Gringa!” taunted one of the Honduran police officers as he held us at gunpoint outside of the car.  The four of us were lined up as twelve officers surrounded us, questioning us in rapid-fire Spanish; and all I could think of was my dad, that rosary he’d placed in my hand, that faith he’d had in me that I would return safely.  And here I was getting into a car with two strangers for the sake of what?  For the sake of adventure?  For a love affair?  Could my father’s faith keep me safe across an ocean, across a culture?

The smallest of the police officers walked back to his car and came back carrying a huge flashlight – nearly the size of his head.  He opened the front door and began to examine the car.  I held my breath and prayed to a god I’d not spoken to in a long time to please keep us safe.  Shockingly he stepped away from the car with nothing in hand.  No gun.

He raised his arms in question to the officers.

“Nada,” he said.

But still, Fernando had run from the police and they weren't pleased about that.  I didn’t understand everything they were saying, but was able to make out that they wanted to take us all to jail.

In Spanish, Nic pleaded with the officers.  “Just let her go,” he’d said.  “I’ll go.” 

One of the officers asked if I was his wife.

“Si, mi esposa,” he answered.  I looked down and saw I was wearing one of my silver rings on my left hand, something I did when we’d entered the dance club to ward off unwanted attention.

With palpitations in my chest and sweat trickling down the crevice of my back, I reached into the back pocket of my Levis and attempted to bribe the officers with a few crumpled twenty-dollar bills.  The officers hunched together, eyeing the money.  Nic saw that this was working and found a couple of twenties in his own wallet.

“You go, but you write down your name,” said an officer, thrusting a worn notebook into our hands.

Mr. and Mrs. Jack Smith, I wrote.
We handed the notebook back to the officers and began to back away.  We headed back over the bridge towards our cinderblock hotel.

“I think we should get the hell out of Tela,” I said.

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