Volume i, #1

Alright all you people out there who complain that I never write: get set for the new system. You are now holding in your very hands my latest attempt at mass communication. And don't you dare let me hear a single "Oh I hate it when people send out those mimeographed letters!" Because this is not a mimeographed LETTER. No, folks, this is a mimeographed NEWSletter, and that's something completely different. Don't you suddenly feel completely different about the whole thing, just knowing that? (The only persons who have a right to complain at this point are those of you who have written me and whom I have not written back. Ah! how deadening that sudden chorus of silence!)

This being vol. #1, we shall dedicate it to catching up on a bit of background. First of all, get out your maps. If you have some vague idea of where Honduras is, find it. (If you don't have even a vague idea, find New Orleans -- that shouldn't be too tough -- and go directly south across the Gulf of México until you bump into the Yucatán peninsula. Continue south and you hit Guatemala -- the country of, that is. Keep on south in Guatemala until you are at about the level of Guatemala City. Make a sharp turn to the east and you have arrived. (I wouldn't recommend that route if you're planning a visit, but for the moment we are simply trying to get you here on the map.)

As you should be able to see clearly on the map, we border Guatemala and El Salvador on the west, Nicaragua on the south, with a short chunk of Pacific coast and a long northern Caribbean coastline. (I might mention in passing that this latter feature of the geo-political accidents of history has given us a string of Caribbean beaches on which, it is reported on good authority, God hangs out for his vacations. Trust the word of a priest on that one.) Aside from this coastal strip on the north and the three major river valleys, the country is mountains ("the most mountains country in Central America"; I think we have the highest mountains in CA, although you geographers can correct me on that). And they are really beautiful mountains, rising right up from sea level: lush vegetation all the way to the top, beautiful pine forests, incredible mountain streams that make me stop and pinch myself every once in a while to make sure I'm not in a movie -- I'm ready at any moment for Juanita Hall to step out and start singing "Happy Talk".

But enough of these romantic digressions. Returning to the map: in the northwest corner of the country, at about equal distances from the coast and the Guatemalan border, you should find San Pedro Sula, the #2 city in terms of population. About twenty miles east of that, across the Rio Ulúa (that's a good one to remember for crossword puzzles), is El Progreso (the river is there on most maps, Progreso on many). Progreso used to be one of the headquarters of United Fruit Company (now United Brands -- Chiquita -- who own most of the land in the Ulúa valley), serving the plantations on this side of the river before there was a bridge over the Ulúa. When a bridge was built a few years ago, La Compañía consolidated its offices in La Lima, about half-way between here and San Pedro (and not to be confused with Lima, Perú, as happened to me the first time I came here: I couldn't figure out why in the world La Compañía would have its offices way down there).

Progreso is a weird place that is really just an overgrown banana camp: it has a population somewhere on the line of 35,000, but a population that is basically transient (psychologically even more so than physically). It's sort of a crossroads that isn't quite city and isn't quite country, but at the same time has a little bit of both (mainly the disadvantages of both) and serves as something of a communication link between the two. The first time I was here, in the summer of '77, I remember writing back that Progreso reminded me a lot of what the Old West must have been -- but that was before I got to know the interior of Honduras (and I must point out too, that in the interval between that summer stay and my return last year, a miracle transpired in Progreso: there is now a sewer system and something like four or five paved streets).

Now that I know something of the interior, I realize that coming to Progreso is like coming to New York City: there is electricity 24 hours a day (most of the time), running water (some of the time), telephones of a sort (I actually HAVE talked to the US by telephone -- twice, to be exact -- although it normally takes about as long to get through as it would take to fly to the US: "You dial until your finger drops off" was one of the useful hints given me the first time I tried it: and that's to get the local long-distance operator), the aforementioned paved streets, and other such luxuries of the 20th century.

But, to return to our geography lesson, go back to the map. Take the paved road north north-east until you arrive at the port city of Tela (the port of United Fruit, whose corporate title within Honduras is Tela Railroad Company), and head east along the coast. If you are on foot you can walk this along the beaches; or you can go by vehicle along the more-or-less paved road until you reach La Ceiba, a bit more than a third of the way along from the border. (The Ceiba, by the by, is a tree -- an utterly magnificent tree that was sacred to the ancient Maya Indians of the region: sacred because it serves no practical function, it is simply the incarnation of beauty.)

La Ceiba is the port city of the Standard Fruit Company (the owner of the valley of the Río Aguán, to which we shall arrive in a moment), and is really a lovely little town. Or perhaps I just feel that way because, being strictly a Company town, it is unquestionably the most gringo-ized city in Honduras. I do know that every time I arrive in Ceiba from the interior, I feel a strong physical and psychological sensation of relief and relaxation.

Now, if you go inland (south) from La Ceiba about the same distance (on the map) as you would go from the coast to San Pedro Sula, you should find the Río Aguán and/or the town of Olanchito (you might well not find either marked on smaller maps, but take my word for it: both really do exist). Looks like the proverbial hop, skin, and jump, doesn't it? There is, however, a slight complication: between the coast and the valley of the Aguán, there is a spur of mountains, and to get over this spur you have to go via a dirt (well, dirt when it's in good shape) road that's euphemistically called "La Culebra" -- The Snake. I remember a few years ago, when my brother Mike and Jonathan Fuller and I took a month vacation doing the major Maya ruins, I was absolutely certain, after a day of bumping along the road from Belize City to Tikal (Guatemala), that surely that was the worst road in the whole world. Ah, how naïve I was in my fast-fading youth! I mean, that one's an expressway. (The first time I took La Culebra, after what seemed an eternity of bouncing along in the back of a truck, I was quite sure that we must be just about there. When I foolishly asked someone if that was the case, I learned to my chagrin -- oh, these stupid gringos! -- that we hadn't even begun to climb yet.)

Needless to say, the trip has its compensations: tropical vegetation all around, tumbling mountain streams, an incredibly beautiful waterfall that in itself is worth the trip ("What is that strange shiny band going down that mountain over there? Could it be a -- no, I'm not going to ask any more stupid gringo questions; it couldn't possibly be. My God! It IS a waterfall"). And the first view of the Aguán valley opening up beneath you is absolutely indescribable -- as is your reaction when you see the stretch of road by which you are going to descend into the valley and which gives the road its name ("What is that....a road?....you're not really serious, are you?....oh come on, we're not REALLY going to go down THAT!?!?"). At that point you forget about the beautiful view of the valley, close your eyes, try to keep tight control of your sphincter muscle, and pray. (Although for all of you who complain about finding beer cans in the most "unspoiled wilderness" areas: one of the first times I made this trip, as we were going along one stretch that I was sure must be as remote from "civilization" as one can find anywhere on this planet, along comes a teen-age campesino leading his burro loaded with firewood -- and wearing a John Travolta t-shirt! The sun never sets on the Empire.)

But finally you arrive at Olanchito, which is a sleepy old colonial town of about 5,000. As I mentioned, the Aguán valley is owned by Standard Fruit Company (Dole), but their headquarters are in Coyoles Central, about half an hour away; so Olanchito itself has managed to retain an air that is more town than banana camp. It is not untouched by the 20th century -- there is electricity a few hours a day, a few cars, many bicycles, radios, a few blaring juke boxes, and of course Coca-Cola -- but in spite of these incursions one can sense what a town was in the pretechnological age. We have a very simple but quite beautiful white-washed colonial church on the main plaza (built by the Franciscans in the 17th century, one of a series at intervals of one day's ride on the then-main road from Trujillo to Comayagua; they're all almost unadorned, but of very beautiful, soft colonial lines). And the plaza itself retains its character of main meeting-place, especially for the young people of the town.

Olanchito is where teatro la fragua really got started, and remains (and I think will remain) our chief source of personnel and inspiration, although its inaccessability is a serious drawback, as I learned the hard way last November when the rains hit. After infinite trials and tribulations, I had a show all ready which we even had already sold here in Progreso -- and for more then three weeks we couldn't get out to save our souls. But we shall save that particular adventure for a future edition of "The Saga of teatro la fragua."

So much, then, for our geography lesson: move over, Richard Hallis Burton, for there's more to come. I know perfectly well there's not a one of you who would read more than four pages, anyway -- if there is anyone who has gotten this far. Just keep your eye on the mail-box, and one of these days it will contain still more goodies. And shut up all that griping about how I never write.

Peace,

Jack Warner sj

P.S.: If you happen to have any rich friends who are desperately looking for tax deductions, you might let them know that we can be of great mutual benefit, since I am desperately looking for money to carry on. All they have to do is send a check to the Jesuit Mission Bureau (4511 West Pine Blvd., St. Louis 63108), specifying that they want the dough to go to me -- and we both come out happy and with our problems solved.