(Cont’d)

I apologize to God briefly for what I had said to the woman and her family, staring at the ground in thought as I walk to the last open, though dimly lit place before a vast stretch of darkness. I shrug off thoughts that this possibly devout woman will be left with thinking that she will actually be cursed for refusing shelter to a pilgrim. This is not what I want, but not unsure how to handle the situation, and too proud to apologize, I continue, preparing what I will say to the men on the other side of the 2-laned Panamerican highway, leaning on a lightly framed fence smoking cigarettes in the dark.

I greet the men, shaking their hands, letting them know who I am, what I am doing, and specifically, what I am doing there, namely, looking for a hammock or place to sleep for the night that is safe and secure. The men are jovial. Three immediately offer to help me for the night, it would be their honor.

A quick glance inside: billiards.

One man leaves the group, telling me that he will fetch his bicycle and take me to his home. Another, waiting for the first to leave, makes his way around the fence before his friend returns. He hurries me away from the scene, back across the highway, down a dirt road to his house, telling me the guy with the bike is a bad person, that here I must take care, and that there are many bad people.

He ushers me in through a stick gate, telling me that this is his house. Dogs bark, but know their master. He hushes them as we take a seat on old planks of wood, piled on the pourch, in the pitch dark. He tells me to remain silent and still as the man on the bike slowly makes his way past the house, calling out for his friend in the night. He tells me to remain still, even after it seems the threat is gone. Sure enough, the creeky bike returns, making passes slowly in the moonlight, squinting towards the darkened area where we sit.

He tells me his name is “Ron”. He says that I can stay for the night, but that I will have to leave early, en la madrugada, around 4 o’clock in the morning. The man on the bicycle returns and calls out, not 10 feet away. Ron nudges me and quiets me with a finger held to his lips. We wait for him pass and then continue. I set my alarm on a $2 watch a friend gave me in El Salvador. The green backlight attracts first an intense interest, followed by questioning, followed by close examination of my wares.

His breath broadcasting is evening drinks, he tells me I will have to pay him to stay there for the night, for protecting me here, and saving me a trip back through a dangerous night to the border where I could find a hotel.

I tell him that I don’t have any money, but that I am not particularly worried, that if it is a problem, I will just return to the border on my own.

Now gripping my arm tight, he whispers forcefully,”You cannot go out there. That man will rob you.”

I get it and tell him, “all the same, I am not concerned.” Hushing me again, the man on the back passes by and stops, call out for Ron one last time before seeming to disappear into the night.

No longer as patient or polite, Ron asks me to give him something that I have in exchange for his kind service.

At first he asks for my shirt.

I had been reading the bible at dinner where Jesus, speaking from the Mount, tells an audience in the gulley below a radical message, that when a thief asks you for your shirt, give him your jacket also. When he asks you to walk with him a mile, to walk with him two.

Still without time to reflect on the passage, I revert to survival instincts. I tell him the truth, that I have no other shirt. He asks next for my pants, then my shoes, then for something in my backpack. Each time I tell him the same thing, that I am a pilgrim, that I have nothing except for the prayers that I collect, my deodorant, toothbrush, toothpaste, and a bible.

He doesn’t believe me.

I stand up and reach for the prayers that I keep in my pocket, the prayers that I read while I walk, pulling them out as evidence of my work. I hear something else fall out of my pocket, but too dark to see, I do not want to bring any extra attention to what else might be there. He turns away for a moment and I comb the dirt with my fingers to see what I dropped, forgetting in now near panic of the situation that my passport was in the same pocket as the prayers.

Making my way back to the gate, I decide to leave. I try to open the gate, but it is locked and without being able to see the wires that latch it shut, I feel trapped. I make a quick scan of the scene for another route of escape.

Ron grabs my arm, pulling me away from the fence and reaching for my watch. I rip my arm away as I try to hop the horizontal sticks that make up the fence, only my right foot catches the top bar and face plant on the other side.

The night flashes white then returns to darkness as my head and side reel with pain. Without time to think, I get up and walk off as fast as I can forgetting all sense of cool and look back only to see if I am being followed.

I make it as far as the Interamericana where he waits for me on his bike…