Tuesday, January 27, 2009

El indio barbaro

The following story is completely true. Names have not been changed to protect the innocent. I am not that creative. At no point during the following story was I ever in any actual danger (except maybe from my own clumsiness). I hope you laugh reading this story at least as half as much as I did experiencing it, re-telling it, and now, writing about it.
One of the many joys of living in a culture different to the one in which I was raised, is learning about new cultural practices. Holidays are jam packed of these learning opportunities. One of the most striking lessons I have had was that of the “indio barbaro”.
Surrounding any holiday, a few men from the Garifuna community put on tribal masks, cover their bodies in oil, and blow a whistle at anyone they meet asking for money. If you don’t offer them money, they mark your clothes with oil (a physical representation of the curse they have placed upon you). The indio barbaro (or barbaric Indian) rarely travels alone and is usually accompanied by another who blows a whistle to announce their arrival. Personally, I think this is a flaw in the system as one almost always has a warning.
For those who have grown up being followed by men covered in oil blowing whistles and motioning for their money, it is completely normal and quite comical. I didn’t, and it scares the hell out of me. Nevertheless, I grit my teeth, pay my lempira and scurry on my way.
On one particular day, the thought of paying this man and parting with my lempira (about 5 cents) was too much for me and I went into fight or flight mode. Yes, I ran. I broke out into a full out sprint down the lazy cobblestone road. I didn’t dare look back to see if he was gaining on me, nor to see if Laura (the volunteer who was with me at the time) had escaped. It was every woman for herself.
Had we been on a busy street, I imagine the on-lookers would have seen quite the sight as two adult women (one in a skirt and high heels, the other in flip-flops) sprinting down the road, followed by a man wearing a tribal mask and smeared in oil.
I punched the air in triumph when I reached the end of the road as our friend had given up and gone after a more complacent target. A nearby woman asked us why we were out of breath. Upon explaining that we were running away from the barbaric indian, she looked at us with confusion and said “but why are you afraid of him? He won’t hurt you, just pay him”.
I have met cultural differences over the past year with enthusiasm and as great learning opportunities. However, on this particular day, when we ran into what appeared to be the barbarian’s 8 year old brother, Laura said with all the attitude and sass of a girl from Jersey, “Nombre!” (the Honduran equivalent of the “Z-snap”) and I shouted “no me toques!” (don’t touch me!) with all the attitude and sass of someone who had just run away from a grown man covered in oil and threatening to curse me and dirty my clothes.
Laura and I laughed the entire drive back to the farm.
I love this country!
I look forward to hearing from you soon!
love,
jenny

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