The Trip Up North

La Impalizada, Olancho, Honduras

Mid 1990’s

Once again, the temperature was in the high eighties. It had rained all night. The dirt roads of the little village were flooded with mud. A few people pushed the old yellow bus headed for the city fifteen kilometers away. The bus was a remnant from life up north, a country of riches to which everyone aspired. Having led a full life transporting kids dressed in Michael Jordan sneakers and Arizona shirts and pants between home and school, it now transported villagers back and forth between their huts and the city for a few lempiras each way.

The villagers were used to pushing the bus. The first run began at 5:30 a.m. Because it had sat idle for the last twelve hours, the bus often refused to start. Fortunately, it had a manual transmission. The owner lived on a hill and always parked the bus facing downhill. In this manner, depressing the clutch was enough to get it rolling. Once rolling, a pop of the clutch always got it started. Today, it started right away and immediately got stuck in the mud. In the mud, it was not so easy. The seventeen men trying to help were not enough to get it moving. The bus would have to wait for the tow truck. People who need the bus to get to work will be late today. Someone had to first drive into the city to tell the tow truck driver that the village required his services.

That was too bad for the workers. They earned about fifty lempiras a day, the equivalent of two dollars and sixty-five cents in American money. However, on days they missed work, they earned nothing. If they missed work too often, someone else quickly replaced them. One of the problems, or advantages depending on your perspective, in a country with an unemployment rate over thirty percent was that there was always someone willing, ready, and able to take another person's place.

At sixteen, Dulcinea already had a one-year-old boy. The boy had never met his father. As soon as Dulcinea found out she was pregnant, he left for the paradise up north in hopes of finding a job that paid enough for him to provide for her and the baby, and maybe one day, send for them.

According to rumors, he had managed to cross the great border. On the other side of the border, a contingent of the border police had spotted his group and had rounded them up. In an effort to hide, he had separated from his group. No one ever saw him or heard from him again. He probably died alone in the desert from exposure to the heat, the cold, or the wild animals that prey on everything that moves in the vast, open, and empty expanse of the area. Perhaps he succumbed to all three. He was twenty-two years old and would never count his twenty-third birthday.

Dulcinea could ride her bicycle to work, located on the main road in the city. Usually, it took a little over an hour, not that much longer than the trip on the bus. On a day when the road surface was soft, like today, it would be a three-hour trip. She would probably have to walk the bicycle a good part of the way. Besides, at 5:30 AM, it was still too dark to see the road. It was a perilous proposition. If she managed to make the trip, the earliest she would arrive would be one and a half hours after her start time of 7:00 AM. She would probably arrive sweaty and dirty from the effort and covered in mud from the spray from the front tire of the bicycle.

The neighbor driving into the city to get the tow truck had a small car. By the time he reached Dulcinea's home, eight people were crammed into a vehicle designed for four. There was no room for Dulcinea. Today, she would have to stay home again, at least until they got the bus rolling.

By 8:45 AM, the tow truck had pulled the bus out of the mud. The process of picking up passengers took much longer than usual. The bus was picking up a double load; the passengers who were usually on the 5:30 A.M. run and the ones who were usually on the 8:30 A.M. run. It was also moving much more slowly than usual, as the driver made a tremendous effort to ensure that the rear wheels of the bus stopped only on hard, dry dirt. If he stopped in the soft mud, the bus would become stuck yet again.

At 10:30 a.m., Dulcinea walked into the small restaurant where she worked as a waitress. The morning rush, if you can call eighteen regulars plus an occasional walk-in a rush, was long over. A customer was sitting in a corner, drinking a cup of coffee and eating a rosquilla, a cookie-like pastry made from corn and eggs. A stranger walked out from the back and asked Dulcinea, in Spanish, how she might help her.

“No, I work here,” replied Dulcinea.

“Oh, you must be Dulcinea,” replied the stranger. “Wait here. Lupe will be right out.”

Lupe was the short, round woman who owned the restaurant. She did the cooking. She had eight children ranging in age from six to twenty-one. She also had six grandchildren, ranging in age from six months to six years old. Five of her own children lived with her in the back. Two of those had a partner plus three kids between them. Her two oldest grandchildren also lived with her; their parents had long left for the great land of opportunity up north. Thirteen people shared a house built for four. At thirty-five years old, Lupe looked like she was fifty-five and in desperate need of rest.

Lupe came out. “I'm sorry, Dulci,” she said. “I have to let you go.”

“But Lupe,” protested Dulcinea, “I need this job. How am I going to feed my baby?”

“I know, sweetheart,” replied Lupe. “But I need someone here who is reliable, who I can count on. I can't cook and serve.” 

“It wasn't my fault,” pleaded Dulcinea. “The bus got stuck in the mud.”

“I understand,” said Lupe. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you were not here. There is a problem with the bus at least once a week. I can't run a business like that.”

“What am I going to do?” cried Dulcinea.

“I'm sorry, Dulci,” replied Lupe. “Here.” She handed Dulcinea one thousand lempiras, the equivalent of about fifty-three American dollars, a month’s salary. “It's all I can afford. Hopefully, it will help.” She turned and walked back into the kitchen.

Dulcinea sighed as a tear rolled down her face. Then she smiled. “Well,” she thought to herself, “at least I won't have to put up with Mario's constant harassment.” Mario was Lupe's seventeen-year-old son. He slept until eleven every morning and by five in the afternoon was already intoxicated. In between, he spent the time sexually harassing Dulcinea. He would say things to her, rub himself against her, corner her, and explore parts of her body that were not meant to be touched except when one bathed, and brazenly warned her that if she did not voluntarily sleep with him soon, he would take her by force.

Dulcinea turned and walked out of the restaurant. The bus had already gone back to her village. That meant that she would either have to hitch a ride or wait three hours for the bus to return. She sat on the side of the road to think. What would she do now?

There was very little traffic on the road. A military truck passed in front of her. It went one hundred feet, stopped, and then slipped into reverse, starting back. By the time Dulcinea noticed the truck coming, it was too late. She sprang to her feet and ran. Three soldiers ran after her. They were much faster than she was and caught up with her in no time. They lifted her, threw her in the back of the truck, and sped off.

After a few moments, the truck came to a stop. Two of the men took her out of the truck and dragged her into an abandoned hut. She fought hard. Finally, one of the men gagged her. He looked her straight in the eye. “If you cooperate, we might let you live. If you resist, you will die, and we will leave your body so vultures can devour it. By the time someone finds you, no one will recognize that pretty face.”

As they held her, a third man walked in. He had been sitting in the front passenger seat of the truck. He was older than the others were and appeared to be in charge. A fourth man followed him. As the two new men walked in, the two original men pushed Dulcinea onto a makeshift cot. Evidently, this was not a place chosen at random. The men probably came here often.

She continued to fight, but it was no use. One pinned her to the cot while two of the others pulled off her pants and panties and held her legs. Without a word, the man in charge dropped his pants to his knees, climbed on top of her, and raped her. He was done in two to three minutes. He got up, pulled his pants up, and walked out.

The fifth man walked in. He was the youngest of them. One of the other men looked at him and said, “It's your turn. Don't be shy.” The young man hesitated. “This is part of your initiation,” screamed one of the others. “If you don't, they will find you in the woods lying next to her.”

He pulled his pants down. After a few minutes, he still could not get an erection. One of the other men looked at him. “You’re such a sissy. Come here and hold her. I'm going to take my turn.” The other three men took turns raping her. When they finished, one of them whispered in her ear. “We are leaving now. Do not come out for half an hour. If you do, we will kill you. If you tell anyone, we will kill you.”

They walked out and left Dulcinea crying on the floor, wearing no pants.