tlf news Vol. ii #1 June, 1981


Volume ii, #1






Here we are, ladies and gentlemen, with another exciting issue of your tlf news; I know you've all been waiting with bated breath for the arrival of this in your mailbox. And as usual, I want to be sure and start out with a special "Thank you" to all who have helped us out economically in the past few months. With your help, we've managed to be existing a little less "on the edge" than before -- at least in the economic sphere. But on to the next exciting chapter in the ongoing saga of teatro la fragua.

The most recent issue of Theatre Crafts magazine to arrive here carries a series of articles on touring and the various and multiple problems encountered on the road. Says one tour manager:

The key to making all of this happen smoothly. . .is no surprises. No surprises is a wonderful way to operate on the road. Everything must be anticipated.

I couldn't agree more with the sentiment (how many times did Mrs. Warg drill that into us in Stage Management 101?), but I wonder if he's ever dreamed of having to anticipate some of the problems we've encountered on the road. To all of you who delight in telling disaster stories of tours, I dedicate the following. And I offer you a challenge: if anybody can beat the story of our first tour, he wins the prize of being offered the post of tour manager of teatro la fragua (as if anyone in his right mind would want that!).

First, composition of place (as befits a loyal son of St. Ignatius): We start from Olanchito, on the Río Aguán, and go downriver (northeast) about 100 kilometers to the small town of Tocoa on the opposite bank. The problem: the only bridge in service is a railroad bridge about 80 kilometers further downstream. The show: three one-act pieces. Two performances are planned: one in the schoolhouse in town on Saturday night, the other Sunday morning for a meeting of campesinos in the village of Salamá, a few kilometers away.

Cast of Characters: in addition to yours truly, the major parts are played by Rolando Paguada (to whom I introduced you in the previous issue of this publication), principal actor and factotum; and Edy Barahona, whose leading role in this adventure was his debut with the teatro and who has since become one of its mainstays. The plan: Edy and I were to go a day early on the motorcycle of the parish of Olanchito to act as advance men; Rolando would leave with the pick-up bearing equipment and personnel early Saturday morning, to arrive in Tocoa sometime around noon.

At this point I shall hand over the narrative to Edy (reserving the translator's right to clarify certain inaccuracies that may emerge in his account). He begins:

One day I was at home when Rolando came to ask me if I could go to Tocoa tomorrow with Padre Jack. I told him yes, that what time would we leave, and he told me 8:30, which meant 9:00. So the next day I arrived at 8:45.

Jack came out to receive me and told me to wait a minute. In about three minutes he came out ready for the trip. One of my first surprises was when he took hold of the motorcycle to start it and he couldn't. At that moment I felt obliged to ask him if he knew how to drive a motorcycle, and he answered that he had learned the day before. Of course at that I was scared shitless, but it had to be: I was already mounted on the beast and I couldn't look back now. In a minute Padre Gustavo came and explained to him how to start it.

(Translator's note: A certain party involved in the above narrative feels obliged to clarify certain libelous inaccuracies therein. Said party does not remember the incident of not being able to start the motorcycle, but concedes it may well be true. But he hastens to add that nobody can ever start that monster. He would also like to clarify that although it is true that the day before was the first time he had ever driven a motorcycle in his life, he had spent a couple of hours the day before practicing under the watchful eye of a good instructor on the Olanchito landing strip. He concedes that practicing on a landing strip is not quite the same thing as a cross-country jaunt, but retorts that Edy uses a mixed metaphor. And Mother, this is a scholarly translation; the translator is not responsible for the language of the original text.)

We left Olanchito at about 9:15, and arrived at the Río Uchapa. We crossed the river without any problems. On the other side of the river was a hill, and Jack accelerated hard. Of course the motorcycle reared up and we both fell. I bruised a leg, but I didn't want to say anything to Jack when he asked me if I was hurt.

(TN: The Uchapa River is about two city blocks from the Olanchito parish house. Rarely does anyone have trouble fording it. The aforementioned interested party attests in his defense that "After all, it was the first time I ever tried to go uphill".)

After that the damned motorcycle wouldn't start and I was pushing it for about fifteen minutes before it finally started.

(TN: It will be noted that the author of this narrative has a propensity for self-pity at the expense of the integrity of the reputation of the aforementioned interested party.)

About an hour later we almost went over a cliff; if we had fallen they might have been able to identify us by our teeth. The road was terrible --

(TN: Students of literature should note the use of extreme understatement.)

-- the motorcycle died about eight times, and of course every time I had to push.

(TN: Note the recurrence of the theme of self-pity.)

The last problem we had with the road was when the lovely motorcycle got stuck in a huge mudhole.

(TN: Recurring use of understatement.)

Luckily this time nothing happened to me because I jumped off in time. Jack only got his pants covered with mud. And finally we arrived at the good road -- that is to say, the less bad one. The only problem now was getting the motorcycle across the river. Jack turned out to be of no help at all getting it down the bank and into the canoe; the ferryman and I had to do it all, and of course in the process I got all wet. And because the large canoe had sunk the day before, we had to take the motorcycle out at an island in the middle and load it again into another to cross the slough to the bank. And of course then it would not start and I had to push.

(TN: The aforementioned interested party alleges in his defense that it really hadn't helped his composure one bit to have been told repeatedly by everyone on the road about the large raft that had sunk the day before drowning 20 -- no, 40 -- no, some of them managed to swim ashore and it was only 18 -- no, nobody was sure because nobody was sure how many people had been on the raft.)

About two hours later into the trip, just about to arrive at Tocoa, I got a cramp in my right leg and we stopped for about ten minutes. And when we finally arrived at Tocoa the cops stopped us. By bad luck, Jack didn't have a motorcycle license and they took us to the station, where there were some agents of the DIN who began to search us, us and our backpacks.

(TN: DIN, Departamento de Investigaciòn Nacional, the secret police.)

And what other thing could I do but blurt out, "But he is a padre, he is a cura, he is a priest." That of course only made them more suspicious. I think they were looking for two things, arms and marijuana. Since they didn't find anything they let us go after we gave them ten lempiras. Finally we arrived at the parish and I felt myself owner of my body again.

That was Friday. Saturday dawned rosy-fingered over the wine-dark savanna (and don't be a literalist: the sea isn't winedark either). Edy and I made some attempts at publicity as we waited for Rolando to show up with the pick-up bearing equipment and cast. We toured the town on the motorcycle, Edy mounted behind with a megaphone. We talked to groups of people wherever we found them on the streets. And we waited. And waited. And waited.

I was just about to shift into basic panic gear (Edy and I could do nothing to set up nothing to set up since all the stuff was in the truck) when, about three in the PM, we espied a ball of dust rolling into town, enveloping some indiscernible object. We watched the object. Then watching the object, it stopped near us and we saw a man figure detach itself from it. (That's not-so-arcane literary allusion for this issue, in case some of you are marveling at the profound influence of Hemingway on my terse prose style). Other man figures detached themselves from the object. "Buenas tardes," said the voice of Rolando from inside the first figure.

I shan't go into lugubrious detail over the disaster that continued to unfold that day, but shall simply list a few of the bare facts. Those of you angling for that job of tour manager (is the job market really that bad up there these days?) be advised: I can pull out more detail on demand, and reserve the right to do so to meet your challenge.

Rolando was in the midst of a malaria relapse. He had started late in the morning because he had taken his infant son to the clinic because he had come down with malaria. Our lone actress did not come because her mother was in the clinic for some sort of operation and despite pleas from all sides would not give her daughter permission to leave her bedside. (One more proof of the Dr. Bella Itkin Rule: If you have a part covered, you will never need the understudy; but the minute you have a part that isn't covered, disaster is sure to strike). The railroad bridge we had been counting on to cross the river was out, and they had to detour still further downstream to another. We started to set up, and found that the gadgets we had built for a backdrop were too tall for the roof beams of the schoolhouse. Dusk came (dusky-fingered?) and I sent for the maintenance man to turn on the generator -- only to discover that someone had sent the generator out that morning to be repaired. One of the night-school students had a motor he could lend us, we were told --if we could find him. After a desperate search, we discovered that his motor was in the shop too, but fortunately had not been disassembled yet. We loaded it on the truck, went searching for gasoline to run it, hooked it up, and discovered why it had been in the shop: it was giving out enough voltage to give us little more than a dim glow. Somehow we managed to get up about forty-five minutes of show, after starting about forty- five minutes late (although in Tocoa that's not quite the mortal sin it would be in some other places). And to top off an already glorious day, we loaded everything in the truck and took off for the village of Salamá, where we were to sleep and do the show in the morning.

We got lost.

But Sunday morning dawned a new day. In the parish center in Salamá was gathered a group of campesinos from various parts of the country, most of them the poorest of the poor. We set up opposite the village chapel in a grove of African palm trees, whose branches arching overhead produced a space with a feel like that of a Gothic cathedral. Rays of sunlight filtered through in patterns of light and shadow to rival any rose window. This was our first open-air performance, and our first time before a purely campesino audience.

Mass was over, and people began to gather. The people in the meeting and the people from the village. Old people, young people, mothers nursing babies, little kids; cane cutters and banana pickers and subsistence farmers and drifters. We started the show.

I can't even attempt to describe or explain what happened from there on. It is akin to what happened the first time I ever saw a full production of Shakespeare (Othello, when I was a sophomore in high school), or the first time I heard a live performance of the Bach St. Matthew Passion. Perhaps by that analogy some of you will understand what it was. Whenever I think of that morning, I fall back on the words of King Lear:

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,
How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these? O! I have ta'en
Too little care of this! Take physick, pomp;
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,
That thou may'st shake the superflux to them,
And show the heavens more just.

Peace,

Jack Warner sj


P.S.: teatro la fragua has no hope of ever being self-financing; we depend completely on contributions. Please help with whatever you can. You can send a check directly to me, or to the Jesuit Mission Bureau, 4511 West Pine, St. Louis 63108, accompanied by a note that it is for the work of teatro la fragua. Either way it's tax-deductible.








 

 



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