Out to Lunch

I was walking to the Supermercardo to meet Matt. It had been raining during the night, and the start of the morning, so I skipped over puddles as I made my way. I regretted not taking a taxi.

As I moved past a street corner, a man called out to me. He asked if I was the guy from Belgium as he crossed the street. The question sounded odd as I repeated it to myself, “is there someone in La Ceiba from Belgium that everyone knows?” He approached me quickly, obviously interested in catching my attention. He was dressed like a United States Postal worker. His collared long sleeve shirt was rolled up to his elbows, a washed out blue against the darker shade of his skin. He was a Garifuna from the North coast of Honduras. A canvas satchel hung from his side, a jacket over the top. He seemed genuinely excited as I stopped to regard him.

I told him I was from the States, not the Belgium guy from town infamy.

“Which state?” He replied.

I answered, also naming Philadelphia as the city I grew up in, a bit of a lie I have gotten a habit of. Not only do I enjoy thinking of myself as growing up in the city, but also I do it in hope to create some recognition in the Honduran’s eyes. I am quite sure that “Spring City!” the place I call my hometown, will not evoke instant acknowledgment.

But to my amazement, he rushed, “that is where I lived for two years!” He spoke wonderful English as he described places and parts of Philadelphia, the restaurants he visited, South Street, the pride he felt as being part of the city. He recounted feelings of acceptance during his life as an undocumented immigrant coming to Philadelphia and being welcomed to the city of Brotherly Love by his employer who supplied him with place to stay. He was boldly grateful to his employer; someone that genuinely and respectfully treated him like a human being. He told me of his life with a smile spread among his patchy beard.

He asked how my Spanish was, and I replied truthfully, “It’s not terrible, but it isn’t too good either.” He told me while he was in the States, he continually asked God to help him with learning the Language. As evidence of his success, he told me in clear common day English, to do the same.

I did not get much of a chance to say anything in response, his recollection and advice dominated the conversation, I was able however to mention that I had a friend awaiting my company. His attitude dropped. No longer was he overly buoyant. Instead he became reserved, mumbling in hushed English that dwindled as his sentences ended. I had trouble hearing, and became aware that he either really enjoyed this conversation, not wanting it to end, or wanted something off me. His repeating, “Well Conrado, you know I’m…” suddenly sounded much guilty.

I tried to remember what I was taught about Homelessness and responding to begging. I remembered it is usually better to bless them with food than the loose change and few bills in your pocket, if you can’t do that, give them human recognition. However I really couldn’t catch what he was grasping for. He continually mentioned his age, reminding me that it was my duty to know. But I really liked the man, so I invited him to lunch.

He followed me to the mall, accepting my offer. His manner from before had mostly disappeared, but he still held to some hesitance. And as we came off the elevator, Matt ahead of me with several of the youth from the dump, he remarked that “he didn’t want to be offensive, but he very much wanted to get going, that the food here is too expensive, simply the money for the bus ride home is enough.” He talked leaning in to me, and I envisioned if Matt were to glance back, that it would have looked like we were exchanging sensitive information. I sensed that he was insecure. And I genuinely trusted his request, but I was, for some reason, confident that all he really needed was a Burger King meal off of the wall – Number 2, con queso y Sprite. I told him this meal is what I could do.

We were standing in line though, behind several girls between the ages of 14 to 26 (I am terrible at ages with Honduran women) when he told me about his past couple weeks. He was coming back from Mexico and needed 200 Lempira to get home, an isolated fishing village where the men work with nets. He promised that after this was all over, and he successfully made it home, with the community’s one phone he’d give me a call, inviting me to eat some “real Garifuna food.” I believed, and still do, that he was sincere. I told him that I’d pay for his meal and handed him enough to get home.

Upon hearing my commitment, he latched onto my arm, displaying the most basic sign of gratitude, a smile. He deeply thanked me, mentioning my name several times. His demeanor changed after I affirmed that he could get home. He helped me with the order, making sure I said the Spanish words correctly, pointing out when the youth behind the counter was making fun of me. He told me that there was something special about me. My Christianity and my service had created an aura, and he could sense it. When he returned to his village, he was going to use this encounter as another testimony of God’s Love and Grace among people.

But for some reason, as we walked away from the food court, I got too caught up in my original intent and I only gave him 100 Lempira. The food cost 100 Lempira, and I gave him another 100, when all he frankly wanted was to get home.

I sat down next to Matt after I had given my friend the money and food, when I realized my failure. I laid my head on the food court table and felt terrible, guilty, inadequate, failing miserably. Why didn’t I just truly listen to him and give him what he wanted? He had blessed me and I had given him a superficial fast food meal and enough to get half way home.

I still don’t understand why I failed to do as I promised and give him the 200 Lempira. Why I didn’t think at the time when I was handing over the money, after he said, “Well this will get me halfway there.” to simply just hand him the other 100 bill, and reply, “oh well here’s the other half.” He had invited me to his house, called me his brother in the spiritual world, and I aborted his hope for a quick trip home.

In perfect reflection to my dragging mood, we walked out of the mall into rain.

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