It is one of those trees that is perfect for climbing. The sturdy branches curve upwards gradually to allow you to climb up at the perfect gradual incline. The sun is setting, and the tree gives us a perfect view of the lagoon behind us and the sea ahead. The clouds turn to dark shades of purple and grey, shades barely distinguishable from the darkness of the coming night. There is lightning in the distance, but it seems to be headed away and it looks like it will be a clear night as the first stars become visible and the full moon slowly begins to rise.
The bottom of the tree begins to come alive as big and little crabs leave their little holes in the trunk. They love this time of night, and when we leave the tree and walk back to town the whole beach will seem to move as hundreds of crabs scurry out of our way.
“Do you think we could jump into the water from here?”
Spencer hesitates. “Yes, but we have to be very careful. My brother got hurt this way.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes, taking it all in with no need to say anything. Taking in the cool evening breeze and the sound of the waves on the shore. This is a beautiful tree, with a very unique curve to it that makes it look like it shouldn’t even stand upright. Even in the fading light the trees green and yellow leaves are bright and vivid, and the contrast of the bright leaves against the clear blue water is hypnotizing.
Spencer suddenly gets excited. “Look down there! Look!”
I squint but don’t see anything. Experience the inevitable delay between when a native spots an animal and the tourist does. Then I move to a different branch and it becomes clear. The shape of two giant stingrays just below us. Right where we were planning on jumping down.
This is traveling in Central America. You can be in absolute heaven, as far away from your problems as you ever have been. Yet if you let your guard down for one second, heaven can turn to hell. So enter a state of deep, deep relaxation, but while you do, remember what happened to the crocodile hunter. Relax, but also be paranoid and constantly on guard. Master the art of alert relaxation.
My bicycle got stolen the other day on the island that everyone brags is so safe that you can leave your bike unlocked. I was eating at Will’s Tacos with the owner and some of his friends, and Will asked if one of them could borrow the bike. It turned out Will had only met him that day, and he was a thief who rode up and down the island stealing from unlocked hotel rooms.
It was a rental bike, and I wasn’t too upset that it was gone. It just meant losing a $20 deposit and the ability to ride around the island for a few days. But local friends insisted I go to the police to report it, and a couple days later I did, even though I knew these things never work out.
The police station was in the middle of the jungle far out of town, and 10 officers sat doing nothing as we approached. We described the man who took the bike, primarily by talking about his dreadlocks which went down to his hips, a pretty distinguishable feature. The officers laughed and told us to go look around the side of the building. We walked around and saw a dark room with bars on it, and as we approached we saw the thief sitting in the cell! He began screaming at us, and my Honduran friends screamed back that he represented everything that was wrong with their country. He continued screaming and the biggest, scariest cop came over and banged on the bars menacingly, shutting him up instantly.
The thief said he had ditched the bike before getting arrested and didn’t know where it was, but the cop didn’t seem happy with that answer and said he would get an answer out of him. I wondered if I was about to know for sure whether or not Jack Bauer style interrogations actually work. Is torture acceptable when a bicycle is at stake? This is one of the great moral questions of our time.
He didn’t torture the guy right then and there at least, and had me answer some questions. My Honduran friend said something the officer laughed at for almost a minute. When I asked what it was he said that he had suggested that the cop use the money they found on the thief to pay for the bike.
“Its a joke because everyone knows that the police pocket all the money.”
Obviously.
We thanked the police and left, with me still being pessimistic. Within a couple of hours, however, they called and said they had my bike back! I have no idea how it was recovered but was in absolute disbelief, how could corrupt developing world police recover a bike? As far as I know no American cop in history has ever recovered a stolen bike. It must be because its an island and there’s only limited places to hide. Everyone knows everyone, and word had got around quickly that a guy with dreadlocks was stealing from people. The island is not safe because no one steals, but because they get caught quickly.
So losing the bike turned out to be a free lesson in awareness. I’m supposed to be in Honduras to be part of the community and develop close relationships with people. But how can you develop close relationships with people when one of the first people you trusted with anything turned out to be a thief? Be constantly relaxed but on guard, and somehow get close to people without really trusting them. These are two paradoxes I somehow have to get used to for my time volunteering here.
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