tlf news Vol. i #2 December, 1980


Volume 1, #2






I hope that by this moment, all of you who were sure that you would never see a second one of these have recovered from your fainting spells. And let me start out with special thank you to those of you who've helped us out economically in the last few months; without that support we would all be out cutting bananas right now. As it is, you might notice that I've beend able to buy a new typewriter ribbon to type this with. (Actually, this is a borrowed typewriter, but I thought that was a good line). And a welcome to our "small cirle of friends" to those of you whose addresses I've recently been able to dig up or correct. Sorry I can't provide you with a copy of the now-classic first issue of this newsletter, but if you're really interested I hear it's being included next month in a lot at Sotheby's. But on to the pressing question which some of you actually have asked: How did teatro la fragua get started?

I'm sure I'm not communicating an earthshakingly original insight if I tell you that getting started is always the most difficult part of any venture. I arrived in Honduras in Junuary of '79 (the same day the Pope arrived in México, but my reception was not quite as enthusiastic as his), laden with all these brilliant ideas about this tremendous theatre I was going to start. And I realized at once that I had absolutely no practical idea of how I was going to proceed. "Tell every cat and dog you run into," was the suggestion of one of the Jesuits. That approach led to a similar response in most quarters: "Hi, I'm here to start a theatre." "Oh, that's nice. Looks like it's going rain today." I fished around for well over a month, following various false leads trying to find the right entry. One that looked hopeful for a while came out of some conversations with some union leaders in San Pedro Sula, who latched on to the idea of getting a labor theatre going. But then suddenly there was a big labor blow-up: a fire broke out in a factory where the workers were on strike, the army moved in and murdered a few strikers and threw a bunch of labor leaders in jail (including those with whom I was in contact), the government closed our radio station for playing "subversive music"; and I decided that "discretion was the best part of filibusterin'". (Come on, who can get that arcane reference? I'll give you a hint: O. Henry.), and that, confirmed coward that I am, it really didn't seem either the time or the place to start a labor theatre.

At about the same time, Gustavo Villada, a Colombian Jesuit who studied philosophy with me in St. Louis, suggested I go to Olanchito to see what I could do with a group of students he had organized in the parish there. Since I was getting absolutely nowhere in Progreso, it seemed at least worth a try. I was something of a celebrity for about the first week I was in Olanchito -- "famous artist arrives from Estados Unidos" -- which happened to be the week when all the high schools were having elimination rounds for the grand national high-school song festival. And they were all after the visiting celebrity to serve on the panel of judges. It was a difficult post, because almost all the kids were so bad that it was almost impossible to figure out who was "best": all in all, one of the more dubious honors that have been bestowed on me in my time.

The most important event for the subsequent development of the teatro transpired one afternoon during siesta time, when this guy -- but let me let Rolando tell it from his point of view:

I remember that at that time I was going every day from here, from Olanchito, to work in the banana camps by voucher. There were times when I got work -- sometimes even an entire week -- and times when I couldn't get anything. One day I ran into a friend of mine who asked me if I had heard that there was this priest who was giving classes in theatre. I told him I hadn't, and he gave me the address and all. But because I had very little time free, I didn't do anything about it. But then one week when I couldn't get work, I decided to go looking for him. I went to the parish and asked for him; they told me he wasn't right there at the moment, that he was out in back. They went to call him, and he came out and greeted me very courteously, very friendly, and he told me he was conducting classes in the evenings. I told him I wasn't able to come in the evenings because I had classes. So he told me to come in the afternoons, that he could give me classes in the afternoons. And that if I could get a couple of friends to come with me, let them come too.

We went, some days some, some days others, and we followed that routine for a while, doing exercises: voice exercises, physical exercises. It turned out that most of the others were quite impunctual, and would show up one day but not the next. And thus we passed a certain time. Then one day he asked me if I was interested in working with him as his partner. Without thinking, I accepted, and we set to work together.

José Rolando Paguada, now 25, married to Berta Pérez, a schoolteacher, with two sons, Darwin Rolando, born in January '79, and Jack Fernando, born in February '80, and one of the finest actors I have ever encountered anywhere.

So there in Olanchito we had our afternoon group of workers, centered around Rolando; an evening group of students, centered around Gustavo's parish group; and on Saturdays Rolando and I were going to a little village called Teguajinal, which is not too far from Olanchito as the crow flies, but which is separated from it by the Aguán River. When we started in late April, this wasn't any problem -- the river is almost dry at that time of the year and is easily forded, and we went either on foot or on motorcycle: a very pleasant walk or ride through the banana plantations. It was on these trips that Rolando and I really got to know each other personally, and still being a novice in the realities of tropical life, I presumed that this pleasant arrangement would just keep on forever.

But then in late May the rains started and the river rose. And rose. And rose. OK, still no great problem, because there was a canoe at the ford to ferry people across for $.25 apiece. But then one Saturday on our return we arrived at the river after 5:00 pm, the hour the cayuqueros knocked off for the day. At this point there were two possibilities: we could return to one of the banana camps with the hope of hitching a ride on a truck to the railroad bridge about 30 miles upstream; or we could just jump in and swim across.

Naturally, I had to keep up my macho image, and I couldn't admit to Rolando that I was in reality such a city slicker that I had not the slightest idea of what one did to cross a river in flood stage, nor any adequate appreciation of the dangers involved therein. And after all, this was that innocent river we had waded across just a couple of weeks ago . . . .

So I watched Rolando closely out of the corner of my eye to see how I should bundle up my clothes, making sure I didn't ask any direct stupid-gringo questions, and trying to exude a "Yes, of course, I've done this all my life" air. (Hint: You put everything into your pants, knot the legs together to close up that end, tie the waist with a shoelace, and the whole then fits like a tight shoulder-bag). Rolando studied how we should go ("Yeah, you're right, that looks like the best way to me, too."), and as soon as we were about knee-deep, I realized that I might be in for a bit more than I had bargained. Rolando keep shouting instructions back at me, but by this time it was not my James Dean stance but sheer terror that kept me from understanding that I should fight to stay on me feet as long as possible -- and suddenly I found myself flailing wildly as this incredible current dragged me downstream. I saw Rolando climb out on the other bank, and tried to get a foothold; but every time I managed to touch bottom the current would throw me off balance and drag me along some more. Rolando was shouting more instructions at me from the bank, which I couldn't hear over the roar of the current and the ever-widening distance between us. Suddenly he was running towards me along the bank, plunged in with his arm outstretched, and somehow or other reached me and pulled me out. I won't tell you about how my clothes were soaked and Rolando's completely dry (and our cigarettes were in mine), or about the old guy who had been watching us from the bank and who explained how he had been sure that "el señor" was going to drown because he was headed straight for an underwater snag (just what I needed to hear at that point!). I will only say that I have not swum across any rivers in flood stage since then.

Out of all this, though -- and an infinity of other adventures -- came the first opening night of teatro la fragua, on July 19, 1979 (coincidentally, the day of the triumphal entry of the Sandinistas into Managua) in Olanchito. We converted a small adobe building that is part of the parish complex into a very intimate theatre with a capacity of about 80. We called the show II juegos X, a compendium of words from the titles of its three works: "El Asesinato de X", a piece from Argentina which won a prize from the Casa de las Américas in 1972; "Juegos Peligrosos", an adaptation of a short story from El Salvador; and "Las 2 Caras del Patroncito", a translation/adaptation of a piece from El Teatro Campesino in California, which since has become the real bread-and-butter piece of our repertory. We played this for three weeks in Olanchito, and then a triumphant week-end in Progreso, and I thought we were really on our way at last. And then the whole thing fell apart.

But I shall leave that story for another time; I have to include a Christmas story before the page runs out, one that happened early in November of last year (a few months after the above) as we were trying to get up a show for children for the Christmas season. One of my theology professors (who loved to build every class up to a big curtain line) once concluded a lecture on the problem of world poverty with the declaration that, outside of the Judaeo-Christmas tradition, there was only one logical solution: to bring large groups of the poor together, give them some sort of peak experience -- and kill them. After one day of rehearsals when absolutely everything had gone wrong and I was convinced that we would never get anywhere, I was ruminating on tactics to bring about this purification of the world: it was quite clear to me that, Judeao-Christian tradition notwithstanding, he had hit upon the only reasonable solution. As I was weighing the advantages of various practical means to bring this about, I ran out of cigarettes and went out to buy some. It was a brightly moonlit night (and the moonlight does something magical to the plaza in Olanchito) and I walked across the plaza to a little stand that was being tended by a little kid about 10 years old. We went through the amenities of buying a pack, and then he asked me, "Padre, is it really true that the teatro is going to do a 'movie' that's just for us kids?" All his friends who worked in the streets were talking about it and were really excited, he said, because nobody had ever done anything like that for them before. I reluctantly said yes, and we talked for a while, discussing possible admission prices that the kids could afford. And I walked back across the plaza in the moonlight and decided that maybe we ought to put off the mass slaughter for the moment. (And, yes, about three weeks later we finally did get the show up and played it all through December).

"The Lord has anointed me to preach the good news to the poor, to proclaim release to the captives, and to set at liberty those who are oppressed."

Merry Christmas to all.

Peace,

Jack Warner, SJ


P.S.: A practical hint for what to do with all that cash left over in this year's budget that you're trying to get rid of before the tax man gets it: a check to the Jesuit bureau, Inc. (4511 West Pine, St Louis 63108), accompanied by a note specifying that it goes to me. After all, Ronnie's not going to be able to reduce taxes retroactively.







 

 

   

 





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