The Heart of Honduras II

It's impossible to describe and difficult to comprehend how quickly the group of strangers becomes like family. Most are from Ontario, two from Calgary and I am upholding the dignity of Edmonton - until people say "oh yeah, you guys have that big mall." When you board a minibus every morning at 8:30 to toss bricks around and chop at the Honduran soil to make someone else's life better, it bonds you immediately.

The days are sweat-soaked and I quickly find my niche in the construction world. There are towers of rebar that will reinforce the block structure at corners. That rebar is held in a rough triangle or rectangle shape by more malleable metal bent by yours truly. The tools I use are a board with strategically placed nails and a metal thingamabob that looks like someone took it from the trunk of a car that hopefully will never have a flat tire. It works. As does the hacksaw with the broken handle and dull blade and the hand drill that predates Columbus. I find myself wondering how much easier and quicker it would be with a couple hundred dollars worth of decent tools that can be very difficult to transport from Canada. Like wheelbarrows whose axles haven't been stripped by hard labour and no lubrication.
No one complains, and Max the head mason wears a smile most of the day. His second-in-command, Salvadore, is a hoot. He's always making faces into the cameras the gringos are toting and practices his meagre English. "Happy lunch" is his usual refrain when we drop tools for our midday meal. Two helpers, Richardo and Omar, are more reserved at first. Then Ricardo challenges me to a competition lifting the blocks over our heads like weights. I win. He is impressed - I think. They are very tough workers, slogging it out even when the afternoon rains force the gringos to lounge about in the hotel rather than return to work. It sometimes feels like gnomes have been working in our absence, because there is no other explanation for how much gets done during the time we are away.

At the end of the first week, we slip off to Copan for R&R. It's a collection of Mayan ruins a couple hours entertaining drive from Santa Rosa. I say entertaining because where else would you encounter a flock of vultures atop a rusting car or the back half of a dead cow occupying one lane for both the trip to Copan and the return six hours later?

Copan is a marvel. It's a spiritual city for the Mayans whose history spans from about 400 BC to 800 AD. The buildings are not as tall as those in Tikal in neighbouring Guatemala, but as a religious site, rather than a capital, the carvings and stellae are detailed and give you a far better feeling for the people who once lived and worshipped there. Oscar, our guide, has the right mix of information and humour and describes the ancient game the Mayans played inside the now-grassy playing field. The balls they used weighed four kilograms and were knocked about by shoulders and hips in a game where first prize was a one-way ticket to visit the gods. Glad I'm not the competitive type.