Testimonies From Tela
Tela, Honduras, is a relatively large and fascinating enclave – a sort of a world of its own, resting across a wide bay on the north coast of the nation, within the Caribbean sector. During its heyday, the old port (before most of the local pier burned down) was a key location for US fruit companies and their transportation process when exporting bananas and pineapples from Central America to the USA. Great ships would arrive here, load up with tropical fruits and then set off for New Orleans.
Much of the local culture and architecture was influenced by the presence of North Americans throughout the most part of the 20th century. There was also a notable presence of buccaneers who used certain tactical spots such as the Jeanette Kawas national park region – riddled with mangroves, tropical forest, small bays and inlets etc to launch surprise attacks on Spanish vessels during the Golden Age of Piracy here in the Americas.
The Garifuna people have also thrived along the bay of Tela; a people of mixed Nigerian (trafficked slaves) and native ‘Carib’ ancestry, who possess six separate, traditional communities plotted across La Bahia de Tela.
The local population is decidedly mixed, with people of all ethnicities and skin tones living in peace and harmony. Tela is, indeed, regarded as the safest city in Honduras.
With La Semana Santa (Holy Week) having just finished, there were two distinct ambiences to be found within Tela (if not, the country’s entire Caribbean zone) – one of fiesta, fiesta, and another of religious congregation. Day and night, chalk and cheese – the two. Complete opposites.
Unfortunately, the former environment, did not do any real favours for the old port; drunken antics, debauchery, vice, street fighting and all such unnecessary absurdities that could be witnessed in any tourism destination during such periods in the year (somewhat like Miami in Spring Break or Ibiza in June or July) all took place whereas those of the Christian faith performed their activities, processions and congregations in a perfectly respectful and orderly fashion.
‘God’ has been a topic and a thought in one’s mind for a good few months here in Tela. I have still not quite decided on what exactly my notion or image is of ‘God.’ He is discussed very often here and it dawned on me recently that after having heard so many intriguing testimonies from the locals of Tela, that it would be worth sharing a few of these tales.
This is a place in which faith must be kept, by all means, for in this prismatic and mystical region of the Caribbean, and from what I’ve experienced personally here in Tela, anything might occur at any given moment and we’ve never the slightest idea what the trials and tribulations of life might bring.
Thus, I shall share these testimonies, which I hope might cause some pondering on the subject of ‘God’ and the spiritual realms…
Omar
He sat bolt upright, upon the barber’s seat, whilst our friend Luis Miguel, shaved the back of the fella’s head as I, myself, listened attentively to Omar’s story.
“I did ten years in prison, Benjamin.”
“Wow… I can’t imagine doing ten years in prison…”
“Nor could I, when I first got there. I wouldn’t wish the experience on anybody. Nothing will break a man like prison. Ten years… I saw it all. I remember you saying that you weren’t sure if you believed in God a while ago, Benjamin… he exists, and I’ll tell you why. I was there when one of the gangs organized a massacre of their rivals. They’d paid the guards to let a hit squad come into the prison from the outside. Heavily-armed. Automatic rifles, pistols, grenades – everything.
You know what the worst thing about a gunfight is? The noise… you feel as if the noise will kill you more so than the bullets. It’s horrible. I was walking down a corridor when I first heard the commotion and the outburst of gunfire. Men screamed, howled, bullets flew everywhere – chaos. They went from cell to cell wiping everyone out. Because of the grenades, some roofing fell down causing a pile of rubble in our cell. I threw myself behind all of the mess and tucked myself up into a fetal position with aluminium sheets and things all over me.
They bust into the cell. My cellmates were blown away in seconds. I’ll never forget the terrible sounds of pain and gunfire… It was right then and there, that I prayed as I’d never prayed before and I begged God under my breath, please, God, please, I’ve been a bad man, I’m sorry, please don’t let them see me, please God, please help me, I want to see my children again, I’m sorry, please, send them away.
I’ll do anything to change… Well you wouldn’t believe it Benjamin… those killers shouted at each other – where’s the fifth one? Where’s the fifth? They knew it was five to each cell. I’ve no idea how they didn’t see me or why they didn’t think to clear the rubble away. After two minutes, I’d say – and the longest two minutes of my life, they took off in frustration and continued on their rampage. I stayed in that position until the authorities arrived… God saved me on that day.”
Omar has overcome life’s adversities and is now deeply connected with his family. Surrounded by caring friends throughout Tela, he enjoys a fulfilling life.
Esmeralda
We had just finished dinner, at a neighbour’s house, whereupon a conversation on scary experiences began to take place. Esmeralda, a lady in her early thirties, took her turn.
“I was kidnapped in Mexico City at a bus station. Most of you know that I was trying to get to the States illegally. I believe that my coyote (smuggler/human trafficker) set me up. They do that sometimes with women. They take our money from us and then realise that they can make more on top by selling us to La eMe (Mexican Mafia) who kidnap migrant women to force them into prostitution or hold them for ransom. Two men grabbed me whilst I was waiting for the coyote at the bus station and forced me into a vehicle. Once inside I was blindfolded. They took me to a large house – filled with women and girls.
I was petrified. The men placed me in a room all by myself, which also alarmed me. Why didn’t they put me with some other women? Why was I alone? I feared the worst. There was only a bed in that room and a boarded up window. I prayed to God that he wouldn’t allow these barbarians to force me into sexual slavery. After a few hours, two men came into the room. I was too scared to move. They pulled out a phone and demanded a phone number from one of my close family members. I gave them my brother’s number – back in Honduras.
They called him via WhatsApp and explained that they wanted $US10,000 to set me free. They allowed me to speak with my brother for about thirty seconds. He began to cry and begged them not to harm me. They said they wouldn’t if he sent the money in a week. My brother said he’d do all he could before they hung up on him. That night, a strange, young man entered my room and told me that he thought I was beautiful. I became frightened again. Do you know what that boy would do every night? He’d enter the room, lock the door and crawl into bed next to me.
He’d sleep by my side yet he never touched me… In the morning, he’d get up and leave without saying a word. I had no idea what was going on… Then one night, he came into the room once again, locked the door, placed his finger upon his lips to make the gesture of silence and beckoned me towards him as he stood by the boarded up window. I complied.
The boy then took a screwdriver out of his back pocket and began to skillfully dismantle the wooden boards. He took them all down as I remained silent and watched – bemused. Eventually, they were all gone. The windows themselves had no lock. He opened them wide. He then pulled me towards him. I could see that there was a drainpipe going down to an empty car park and also that the gates were wide open. He informed me that his partners were out clubbing and that he and another man had been entrusted to watch over the place. He also informed me that he couldn’t carry on in that life anymore. What he had seen done to women was killing him on the inside.
I don’t know how, but we both climbed down the drainpipe and ran straight out of the complex, before making our way into a nearby neighborhood, to which he stopped a taxi – that he paid for. We went to a police station where he basically handed himself in, informed the authorities of the house and asked them to help me. I was deported back to Honduras eventually… but what I want to emphasize is, God exists, and this young man was the savior that he sent me. I now believe that he slept by my side so as to protect me at night. I hope he is not suffering too much for his crimes.”
Esmeralda is happily married now, with two children, and busy with her successful business, which she runs alongside her husband. They live comfortably and she enjoys going to the beach for a swim.
Don Rene
Don Rene sits bare-chested on his stool, his grouchy, little dog keeping him company as he performs another night shift at his job as a watchman for a local university. My friend Miguel and I like to go and listen to his stories.
“I was a hideous drunk. Terrible. I suffered a lot as a boy and a young man. My family and I were very deprived in rural Santa Barbara. I joined the military. I suffered… believe me. It turned me to drink, which I couldn’t control. God knows that I used to roam these streets here in Tela, I sort of just ended up here – I was a drifter. I drifted with the only friend I had back then, whom I met in the army, Santos. Santos and I became two drunks. You should have seen us. We worked on plantations and haciendas on the outskirts of Tela – our pay went on the rent and booze. That was it! My brother Santos died in an accident… He appeared on the road in front of a car blind drunk. I suppose they didn’t have time to slow down. The death of my one true friend sent me even further into drinking. I lost everything.
My mind, my job, my dignity. I slept with the other drunks in the park. I was finished. Somehow, a drunk always gets alcohol, don’t ask me how. The Devil, perhaps. After a year of existing in this misery, one day I broke down on the side of the street – a quiet, empty street and I started to whimper and moan. I clasped my hands together and looked upwards. I cried, please Dear God, oh, please take me out of his misery! Please help me God, I don’t want to continue like this. Please God! Please! My young brothers, you’ll never believe it… About twenty minutes later, one of the overseers from the plantation encountered me on the street. He was surprisingly pleased to see me.
He rushed over and gave me a great hug, to which I couldn’t help but cry. He told me that all would be okay and asked if I wanted to work. I said, yes, yes of course I do. The man told me that he always thought I was a decent and polite individual. He also informed me that he was working with the local government at that point. They’d tasked him with finding a night watchman for a university. He told me that the job came with many benefits as it was with the state; they’d allocate me a place to stay, I’d be paid every fifteen days and all sorts. My young brothers, I’ve been here ever since – for over twenty years. God exists! You cannot tell me otherwise!”
Don Rene is a homeowner, married with two sons, and holds much respect within the local community. He frequently assists people and enjoys a successful profession.
Tela, is an old port filled with such personalities, who all share a beauty between them; these are individuals who more often than not, have seen much pain and suffering at certain points in their lives, yet refused to give up and kept the faith. The people of Tela, and Honduras, are a people who (on account of life lessons learned from their personal experiences) practice love, respect, acceptance, kindness, compassion, empathy and forgiveness. It is what the Honduran carries on the inside that makes them special, unforgettable individuals. Latin America and the Caribbean, holds countless places such as Tela, in which the spirit and the soul is sure to grow, elevate and ascend.
*The names provided in this article are fictitious and are used to protect the identities of individuals who shared their testimonies.
Ben Anson | Journalist, HondurasBen is a freelance writer, journalist and translator whose career has taken place primarily within the Hispanic and Latin American realm despite his headstart at the age of seventeen when he was first published with an outdoor wilderness survival magazine for – given his rural setting at the time (in Southeast England), he began his writing career by covering such topics. Bilingual in English and Spanish, he has enjoyed gainful positions of employment with some of the largest online English language titles in Latin America and the Caribbean such as the once regionally renowned newspaper ‘Caribbean News Now’ where he operated as an associate editor based in Central America, often participating in international assignments from as far as wide as the US Virgin Islands to Taiwan. His endeavors attracted the attention of other regional titles such as ‘The Havana Times,’ ‘The Santiago Times’ and ‘The Latin American Post,’ whereupon he was employed as a professional translator, contributing writer and managing editor. He still assists certain publications on a voluntary basis, whilst maintaining his sights on personal goals within the mentioned arenas. Ben has appeared on Central American television and radio for his exploits.
