El indio bárbaro

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 bárbaro”.

The days approaching any holiday in Trujillo, the indio barbaro can often be seen walking the streets. He is a man from the Garifuna community wearing a tribal mask and covered in oil looking for money. If you don’t offer him money, he may mark your clothes with oil (a physical representation of the curse he has placed upon you). The indio bárbaro (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 in a busy city in the states, I imagine the on-lookers would have been quite puzzled to see 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. But in trujillo, the only confusion was as to why we were running.
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 if I didn´t pay him 5 cents.
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