Most people hope to die of old age, to have a long and healthy life. For the average Honduran winning the lottery sometimes seems more probable. Many poor Hondurans do make it, but for everyone that makes it there seem to be two or three or four who are cut down in their prime by the difficult lifestyle that they live. One day, during my first week living in Honduras, I was witness two an example of both cases: the somber funeral to recognize the unfortunate death of a child killed by the forces of nature and her families own poverty; and the wake of and elderly man which devolved into a large farm party to celebrate someone who won the lottery and had been rewarded with many years of life.
Wilfredo was a traveling vegetable salesman. He would have to travel long distances to find cheap produce to be able to smake any money. He had recently reunited with his family after having spent a few years away from them, having illegally immigrated to the United States to work. With the money he had brought back from the United States, Wilfredo bought the cheapest pickup truck he could find and started selling fruit out of the back of the truck in various neighborhoods. His family had been living in a poor squatters community close to the mountains. With hopes that his fortunes where changing, Wilfredo moved his family out of their patchwork hut and moved into the city so that he could be closer to his work and to hopefully be able to see more of his family.
The family was now living in a cinder block one roomed apartment in town instead of the wooden hut that Wilfredo had built for his family close to the mountains. The apartment was in older part of town, where many low income families rented cheaply made apartment complexes. Cracks showed along many of the walls where the cinder blocks had long ago separated from the mortar that had originally held the walls in place. The important thing though was that the rent was actually affordable. Wilfredo went to work on May 27th feeling that things were finally looking up for him and his family. In the early morning hours of May 28th his three daughters; Sara, Cindi and Alexa, slept in their small one room apartment with their mother. At 2:30 AM, a 7.3 earthquake struck offshore. 100 miles from where Wilfredo's family slept. One would have to drive an hour to find the nearest beach, where the earthquake was felt the strongest. Thousands and thousands of buildings where much closer to the earthquake epicenter than their own apartment building.
Instead the earthquake shook their one roomed apartment. The old building had been made with no internal supports, no reinforcing rebar. It was meant to be low income housing, so little luxury in style or safety had been provided for. The cracks between the old cinder blocks widened and then the entire wall caved in onto Wilfredo's family. His wife managed to remove herself from the rubble. She then struggled in the dark to remove the heavy blocks that trapped her three daughters. She was able to easily remove Sara, her three year old, who managed to escape with just a small cut on her arm. Cindi and Alicia were not as fortunate. Alicia, the oldest, was severely injured. Cindi, just five years old, would not survive. She would be one of just seven victims of the quake.
Cindi, much like many of the Victims of the earthquake in Haiti, was a victim to poor construction techniques. There are few building codes and even fewer building inspectors. While Honduras does have engineers that build strong buildings, apartments like Wilfredo's family were renting and most houses for the poor are built as cheaply as possible. Most of the construction workers only have a 3rd grade education, perhaps 7th grade if they are lucky, which means that these professionals learn how to lay blocks quickly but not necessarily how to build the strongest and safest building. Even if they did know how to build a strong building, the supplies necessary would be too expensive. Wilfredo's daughter was a victim of the earthquake, but more still of her family's poverty. If it were not for the cheaply constructed apartment building that her family could barely afford, Cindi might be alive today.
Instead, Wilfredo had to bury his child. He had worked years in the United States to provide for his family. He had returned to Honduras with hopes of getting his family out of poverty. He just needed a break. He thought that a new truck and a new home would be just the right start. Within just a few short months of his return one of his daughter's had died and another was badly injured in the hospital. He could not even use his own pickup truck to take his Cindi's body to the cemetery, as it had broken down. There is a ray of hope for Wildfredo's family. Their old neighbors came out and helped the family. People who had little money for their own families opened their pockets to help cover the cost of the casket and cemetery plot. A truck was borrowed to act as the hearse and a bus was filled with mourners to travel to the graveside to honor Cindi.
Poor Hondurans understand that their lives could over at any moment, or that of their own families. A wake or a funeral is a place where real Hondurans show their solidarity with the family. Most have been in a similar situation or hope that their neighbors will support them when the time comes. Unfortunately that time comes too quickly in some cases. Some times though it is not such and unexpected death. For one of Wilfredo's old neighbors the time for assistance came within the hour of burying Cindi.
Henri received the call saying that his father-in-law had passed away. He was not surprised. His father-in-law had lived a long life, but had recently had a string of health problems. Normally his wife would have been the one called and asked to travel at once to attend the funeral. His wife, however was far away, in Los Angeles working illegally in a restaurant. She could not, as was customary, attend to her family in its time in need. Her husband would have to suffice. Henri was not necessarily saddened by the loss of his wife's father. Instead he saw the death an opportunity to celebrate. He sought out the use of a pick up truck, invited along 13 or so of his closest friends and neighbors, and set out for the long trek into the mountains to his father-in-law's farm house. Along the way he spent the little money that he had on food, drinks and alcohol. All part of his plan that he needed to celebrate this death.
Henri and his father-in-law had no bad blood between them. They might not have always seen eye to eye on some things. His father-in-law had even suggested that he should have been the one to make the dangerous trip to United States to help provide for his family. The reality was that the man had lived a good life. By most standards he had been a poor man, but he had lived a long life and had been blessed with a large family. That made him wealthy in Henri's eyes.
After nearly two hours of driving up and down winding mountain roads, Henri and his friends finally neared the house. Turning up a final mountain road they began to encounter people who had been walking 5 miles to make it to the wake in time. They piled on a many people as the truck would take and continued up a nearly vertical road. Horses were passing them as their owners gracefully trudged up the mountain on their way to the wake. The sound of music and laughter was the first clue to Henri's group that they had arrived.
10 other pick up trucks lined a tiny soccer field on top of a small mountain. Nearly 150 people had showed up to pay their respects to an elderly man. They all seemed to think that it should be a part as well. Food, Music and Alcohol flowed freely as family and friends gathered. Few tears were shed that night, the most common reaction to the event was joy and laughter. The party was so packed into the small two roomed home that some quests even turned the old man's casket into a drink coaster as the talked about the weather or the year's crop yield. The glass panel showing the elderly man's face was the only space that seemed to be deemed sacred territory. Even then, many guests would come forward to pay their respects, mostly by toasting the man's long life with a swig from whatever beverage they had on hand.
As is customary in preparations for funerals for anyone that cannot afford a private cemetery, the family is responsible for digging the grave of their loved one. When Henri's group had consumed all that they had brought, they went to join the large group of men who where at the family cemetery. At 12:30 at night, a group of twenty some odd men were crowded around as they watched two men who were trying to pickaxe nearly solid rock. Six feet down, seven feet long and three feet wide. The men spent all night toiling in the rocky soil to finish preparing the old man's final resting space. Everyone paid tribute to the old man who had eeked out a living for his family in that same rocky soil.
Unfortunately in Honduras it seems that too often that one hears of a case like the first and too few like that of the old man. Old age seems to be a luxury for the rich and the lucky. The norm seems to be that one learns of a friend or relative's death followed by some truly sad or gruesome way that that person died. Speaking of death is not something that one likes to do, however sometimes death can shed light on realities in a way that nothing else could come close to.
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