I discussed this with the other side in Honduras. In this case the Right Wing Army, who wanted to know what I was up to. Not much, mostly drinking beer, and I heard some stories.
Land owners who tried to remain non political, who grew 900 acres of corn which was non profit, as American corn sells for less than production costs, and rice, making our allies dependant on us, and exporting their food money.
His reward for supporting his country, keep the money home, creating local jobs, was a bullet in the back from 600 yards. I got the story from his son, who was still growing corn. The head of the local Military joined me for breakfast, and confirmed it the next day, and he told me of moderate officers who got a bomb in their car, paid for by an American, with a briefcase of cash. The deal was, take the cash, bomb, and do it, or you do not leave here alive. Take the cash and don't do it, your whole family dies. And he had pictures.
This was on the southern border of Honduras, during the Contra wars.
Later, with his troops, which he called my sons, I saw young men getting fed, educated, made strong, and raised as good citizens. Hunger and poverty are common, the boot camp mostly about being fed, kept clean, health care, dental, things poor boys had never had. The first year was spent teaching them to read, get strong, and it showed.
The second year was teaching them a trade. After their two years of service, they were much better men. It was all job training for government work.
Rural kids did not get much, food, health care school, there were no jobs. The Army was the only way to raise and train enough to run the country, their country.
They did not want to be like Guatamala, where School of the Americas trained Death Squads who killed the Mayans for their land. They did not want a Banana Republic like Samosa, El Salvador, and expressed the goal of the Army of Honduras as Revolution, for in 160 years they had 161 governments, and one army. They policed the police, and the government, and would still be in uniform long after others were out of elected office.
They were only supported by The People, staffed by The People, who they fed, trained, armed, protected. They were Tribal Warriors.
I had studied Latin American Studies, and more, knew the history, tribes, art styles, cultures, and respected the past. I traveled in places that did not speak Spanish. Some spoke Aztec, I know a few words, they were Pupil, The Children, living just north of the Sacred Tobacco Fields.
I was following old trade routes. When I stopped in Paradiseo, the army knew everywhere I had been, who I spoke to, and clearly told me that some Americans were a danger, told me why, and asked what I was up to, for they could not figure me out.
I told them of my studies, wanting to see the reality behind books, and I was looking for Zero. The empty conch of Mayan math, which first shows up in the world with Numidian sea going traders, who also brought Tobacco, Jade, and Cocain back to Europe.
Zero is not in the Indian numbers brought by Arab traders, it starts in Bougie, Algeria, which was Nimidia. The only source predating that is Mayan. I was welcomed, helped, and got access to government and museum records. I know my art, and I was dealing with Mayans, Toltecs, Pupil, and when I returned, it was with every National Geographic of their art, going back fifty years and more, pictures of things they had never seen.
I had made friends in high places, the educated, land owners, the army, but I brought the National Geographics to the market in Yuscaran, a town of artists, wood carvers, fine crafts in the old style, between Paradiso and Tegucigalpa.
They still had the same art style, sense of color, but had never seen the work of their ancestors.
Artists are a strange lot everywhere, Honduras kept this place as a National Park where artists ran wild, and I donated the books to everybody.
There is an everybody, I lived in it where word of what I did traveled hundreds of miles. There is a unity of culture we have lost. Everyone I spoke with was everyone. People gathered and spoke several languages, they agreed on how to use the books. Painters knew from looking what pigments were used, some colors got a lot of attention. That shade carried messages from their ancestors to their DNA.
Freeing them from being hosts, I wandered the market, went and ate, back to my hotel and slept, and the next day it was like I had always lived there. I had become accepted in everyone.
I had delivered a message. I am not an artist, but I saw something, and delivered it 1500 miles away. I did not own it, it was bought for them, it was a gift. It was a very important suitcase filled with $30 of used magazines.
To them it was a gift from their ancestors, brought to them by their Spirits, who made me the messenger who could not read the message, which they all could from the pictures.
I stayed a few days, walked around town, a town of friends, seeing the condition of all for the Spirit that guided me, and continued the Messenger's Path.
During the Contra Wars, snipers killing good people, money planting bombs, harbors mined, I walked alone seeking Zero, and returned to bring a gift from their Spirits, their ancestors, that they were a great people, that had developed Corn, Zero, Tobacco, many other things, and they were not forgotten.
The Fifth Sun is ending, it will take it's troubles with it. The Sixth Sun we will still have what is in our hearts. Pick a path with heart, for you will walk it to the spirit world.
On my way home I stopped in San Pedro/Sula. San Pedro is Spanish, when dirt was invented they built Sula on it. A railroad runs between them. Do not cross the tracks they all say, never at night. Never never during their festivals. So a friend said, one night, we are having a festival come with me. It was the day after Christmas, when the Sun stands still in the southern sky, for five days.
Crossing the tracks there are no Spanish faces, no street lamps, the only light coming from open doors, many people in the streets, all who come up to my shoulder. Block after block we walked, a mile into Sula, and there in a small house I was fed Tamales wrapped in banana leaves.
Sharing food, being together, is one meaning of The Dead Days, another is killing those who might offend the Sun. Everyone must come to terms with their place in everybody. We must be worthy of the Sun returning.
Walking back after midnight, the street were still full. My friend asked if I liked it. I did, food, friends, and it was so peaceful. No street lights, no cars, no police. What do you see, he asked. Just people. What people? Indio.
He laughed, Yes he said, just a bunch of Indio.
The next day he took me to a bodaga where we drank beer and listened to Sinatra, who is very popular. The other people asked me about the night before, I reported having a good time. They laughed.
For them there is a very clear line between those who are everyone, and those who live only for themselves. I had passed some test. I had trusted my friend. I had walked in the dark among the people. I trusted the people.
Everyone exists everywhere. So do those with a private interest.
I would agree with,
"That which is not good for the beehive, is not good for the bees."
Our common interests must lead, and we have common interests with all.
29 Sep 2012, 2:55 pm
