"The Freedom Fighters have been employed in an effort to interdict arms smuggling to the communist guerrillas in El Salvador, as well as to halt any destabilization efforts against the democratically elected governments of Central America and the Caribbean. We favor a toughening of U.S. policy in the region, including, but not limited to, an escalation of military pressure of all kinds, using overflights, various naval interdictions, and lots of military exercises."
-Ronald Wilson Reagan, 40th President of the United States of America
Alex Ferraro wanted to breathe. Inhaling the fragrance of jungle swept in by the Caribbean trade winds, the healing oxygen soothed him. Picking sea grapes from the trees, he sat in the sand eating the purple sweetness wrapped around an inedible pit, spitting the pits at the sand crabs, feeling like a kid again. Foamy waves splashed against sand, the sweltering sun made him languid and sleepy -- how could he get anything done in this (sort-of) paradise? They all had told him not to come, that after a decade of counter-revolutionary chaos this coast was too wild to build a resort. Let them think what they wanted. In Alex's paradise, fear of failure was forgotten, at least for today.
Seeking a native cargo boat to travel down the coast to explore the isolated wilderness of La Moskitia, Alex had stopped every local to ask. No one knew about the mysterious region and its Miskitu Indians, a culture disconnected from the rest of the Republic, unreachable by road. "Gonna get killed," was the most common response. No reason to mention his plan -- talkative gringos got in trouble around here.
Alex Ferraro scanned the coastal ridge of mountains. Did the guanacaste trees resemble wild beasts ready to attack? And the black clouds on the horizon -- did they look like evil spirits dancing over the Bay of Triunfo? Nah. A flock of black birds that colonized the beach coconut palms kept him on edge with their squawking and screaming. The palms stood over the thatched champa huts where fried fish and beer were peddled to the tourists. He entered a North American-owned champa to ask about transport, he had a moment with a pelican perched on a palm stump. It flew away, strafing the blue-gray water, and soared through the air, free from evil spirits. Feeling the thumping beat of reggaeton blasting from a boom box, he thought of last night -- wow. Wild anarchy and beautiful girls; he loved Honduras.
A dark-skinned old fisherman with the look of a malnourished coyote in a sun-bleached baseball cap entered the fringe of the champa. Alex had met him a few nights back, name was Ramon; he reeked of cheap aguardiente rum, already had hit the bottle before noon. Okay, a drunk, but Ramon, who had fished for years along the Moskitia coast, had become his tour guide. At the beach dancehall he had introduced Alex to every girl in the place; he then brought him into a discussion with the local mayor and several prominent landowners looking to capitalize on the growth in tourism now six years after the conclusion of the Contra War. Like a magic touchstone, Ramon opened the doors to this isolated town called Triunfo at the end of the road. Time for an update about boats leaving the port.
Alex said, "Ahoy, hombre, Ramon! ¿Que onda, amigo? ¿Que me cuenta de un bote por La Moskitia?" Spanish tapes in the car the month before flying into San Pedro Sula had revived his high school language facility.
"No boat leavin', man," the fisherman answered in his Caribbean English learned working boats in Jamaica. "You buy me cerveza?"
"Boat be leavin' wit' you 'board, my friend. You gon' like the Indian people."
"Right on, amigo," he said. Should he be taking life advice from a local drunk? The other night Ramon had diagnosed him with a severe case of the "urban dread." Leave the past behind -- he had bid farewell to the life-debacle back home, good-bye to suit-wearing, train-riding, clack-a clack-a clack. Alex had lost his job at a land development firm, and his now-ex-girlfriend deemed him a financial risk -- so what?
"Alejandro!" Ramon exclaimed. He pointed to the sky, reminding Alex that the Creator was watching over him.
Sunshine blazed over the champas, the humid air drugging the unwitting inhabitants, slowing synaptic response to time and space. The proprietor, a gringo retiree named Chuck, had the eyes of a bird of prey that had lounged too long under protective bamboo. He stuck his head out of the kitchen; "Keep moving out of my bar, old man. I got no time for you bothering my customers. Adios, amigo."
Seeming to feel the breeze blowing in from the jungle, Ramon ignored the proprietor and stepped up to Alex. "Meet me down da beach where my friend has cantina? Right, brudder?"
"Later, amigo." Alex needed to find a boat, not get wasted with the locals -- again.
"When you get to de jungle, you heal youself," said Ramon. "You busy man. Got work to do!" Then he stumbled on his way, smiling. Ramon waved to Chuck, giving him a reverent salute. Had better places to drink his rum, yessir, brother-man.