Through Dust and Smoke

San Jorge de Ocotepeque, 10 km from the Guatemalen border. 2 and 1/2 hours from Santa Rosa de Copan. 1 1/2 hours from the main highway, up a winding steep road of dirt and gravel, along side mountains - only one bus passes through this town, because it is so far off the beaten track. We are traveling in a pickup - a volunteer in municipal development that has been living in santa rosa for a year and her counterparte - are off to do a workshop for a group of women in this village about "the importance of making decisions." I accompany them in their travel, this would be my second trip. we make a sharp right at the highway where a group of people sit on the side of the road hoping for passers by with a truck. they call it "jalon," we call it "hitchhiking." this is a very common mode of transportation for hondurans second to the school bus (American school buses, out of commision, sent here for their second go around - decorated with tweety birds and mickey mouse, religious sayings, and my last bus in particular with a carpet mounted on the ceiling with a picture of a tiger mouth opened wide with tassles, frightening yet intriqueing). They all pile in the back, kids, men, even little old ladys - hike up there dress - and get in. we drive up the mountain, over dried up streams, little boys herding cattle, naked babies playing, through thick clouds of smoke - from the massive deforestation-, passing beautiful brightly colored trees and flowers,. we stop every so often so people can hop out or get on. without fail, everyone jumps out and asks "cuanto le debo?" "how much do i owe you?" and of course there - is no charge. in return - a "gracias" and "Que Dios les bendige" "May god bless you all" from a tiny little old lady, she must have been about 70 i´d say but not quite sure , the sun and years of tolling in the sun tending to her family made her wrinkled and probably made her appear older than her actual age. This form of travel is sweet and refreshing. it makes me remember of the times when i was a child and my father would pick up hithchikers, complete strangers, on the streets to carry them to their next destination. in his rusty maroon El Camino, the stranger and my father would chit chat, exchange pleasantries, and then the stranger would be off to his next stop. i´d always ask "who was that? do we know them?" "No, we don´t know them, just giving a friend a lift." not until now do i CLEARLY understand what my father meant, why he always picked up "that stranger" why he always said "hello" to people, never knowing who in the world they were. Why? Because he could, without worry of robbery or getting hurt - the pure simple satisfaction of helping your fellow man, up that winding, steep, dirt, rocky, road - to aid them in their travel. We can only hope that in our travels, through the dust and smoke, we may find a friendly face (and a sturdy pick up) to help us along to our next destination.