When Fear Died In Honduras

alone in a shed
Honduras night en el campo
the countryside, half a mile from
others, people, mestizo
Spanish-speaking

the sound of my cot terrifies me
squeaking silence, my lockless shed
man after man, I imagine them
one bearded, one drunk, one twice my size
each coming through the door to kill me

fear, as my knees push into the cot
10pm, How long will I be afraid? I wonder
Will I stay up all night pondering my demise?
Will anyone hear me struggle, hear me die?
20 years old, not ready to go

but this goes on for forty minutes, maybe an hour
until finally
He’s not coming in, this fear
and if he does
I will kill him, or he will kill me.
simple
then fell sound asleep

Paraguay

20 years since slogging through the reddish mud country roads of Guaira, Caazapa, and Caaguazu. Guarani names that I practiced saying over and over before the flight to Asunción. A language that survived because of coitus, six women to every Spanish soldier.

Sitting shotgun in a truck, 3 of us squeezed in the front (Cayo, Ernesto, Me), no seat belts, sipping yerba mate. I’m speaking Spanish, asking questions about recycling plastic and filtering water with chlorine. Cayo drives, points his finger up at the windshield, motioning to each vehicle we pass on the two lane highway. Yvaga, he says, cielo, heaven. That’s where you will go when you die, his finger silently communicates. Watching this ritual I see the other drivers smiling at us, their fingers also pointing upward, telling us the same thing.

Cayo asks me about California. The Paraguayan campo has no cable TV, no CNN, no movie theaters. He doesn’t question me about celebrities or our president, he asks about the land, trees, animals, what the air smells like, feels like. I tell him about non-native eucalyptus trees, how they suck water out of the earth, take nourishment away from other plants. He understands. The conversation is easy, like the cumulus clouds that float like cotton above us. Ernesto speaks and at first I think I understand, the cadence sounds the same, but then I’m lost in a time before Spanish, before South American roads. I close my eyes for a few seconds, a lightness takes over. I’m hearing a language not of an evangelizing church or of plundering capitalism, but of a people, a community. A few minutes later we slow down, pick up a hitchhiker, normal in this part of Paraguay. I see the guy sitting in the truck bed, a large heavy sack between his legs. A man on a journey, we both watch the road, I look out the front, he looks out the back.