Today return to the place where a guy my age, 32, Ronaldo, asked for too many gifts, ending in a slight altercation that had me loose my passport and end up face-planted in the dirt.

After breakfast, I find the bus terminal near the market to make my return. I decide the bus is too expensive and that I will easy find a ride if I hitchhike, so I start to make my way out of the city, only a bus picks me up instead. They refuse to let me pay, and ask me only where I am going.

On the bus, I reflect, not so much on the passport, or on what happened with Ronaldo that night, but more on what I said to the woman and her family and how I might now make amends.

In transit, I carefully hide anything of value, my camera in particular, counting of the bills I will need to pay the finders fee for my passport, hoping, praying, this will work.

It seems odd for me to ride in a vehicle, even knowing that I will return to the place where I stopped walking to continue on foot again. The times when I do take rides, buses even more so, are few and far between.

This bus, like most here in Central America, is a school bus from the United States. US school districts have a policy of selling off well-maintained  buses when they reach 200,000 miles, no matter what their condition. Many entrepreneurs from Central American buy these bargains at auctions, turning them into public transportation in their respective countries.

Arriving at my stop, I thank the driver and his assistant, and cross the highway from the billiard hall where it all began.

I think about going straight to the house where the theft occurred, but instead decide to apologize first to the family that I had cursed for not letting me stay in the safety of their yard.

There is a small group of men on her property building a concrete block home, raising beams for the roof. I speak to the men first explaining the situation and why I am here.

They ask if I am the person whose passport was stolen. They say they have heard about the incident, and want to help me. I thank them and tell them that first I must apologize to the family that lives here and why. They understand saying the señora is in the back yard and that it is fine that I go around to make amends.

After a very awkward introduction, I remind the family who I am and tell them why I have returned. I apologize for the things that I said. The mother of the house, plump, wrinkled, in her late 50s, apologized as well and said she felt bad for sending me out that night, especially after she heard what had happened to me. I tell her that it wasn’t her, it was me, that I had arrived too late, and that it wasn’t proper for me to ask for such a favor at such a hour in the evening.

Her face immediately lightens as she gives me a warm, slightly sweaty, hug. The man working on the house in the front comes to the back to see what he can do to help. He tells me that Ronaldo had been arrested over the incident, and that he had talked to Ronaldo, who told him that he had my documents. He heads over to Ron’s house to retrieve the passport and I start to thank God again for miracles in my life, perhaps a bit too soon.

He returns quickly saying Ronaldo isn´t there and that the parents do not know anything about it. He offers to go to the police station after 3PM, when he is finished working on the house to see if they know more.

In the meantime, I get to know the family well. They are very Catholic, and like others here, very poor. The matriarch, Rosa, has a son in Houston, Texas. She shakes her head when she talks about the economic conditions of her country and the poverty of the soil.

I get to know her daughters, 4 and 8, who take to me well. The four year old girl is very funny in particular with a spirit larger than life. She is missing a front tooth and loves to smile.

We play second-hand Barbie games on a pink mock laptop computer in English. Counting games, spelling games, all for words they don’t yet know.

3PM comes around. The man leaves to the town to see if my passport has been retrieved by the police. He returns, saying it has not.

He says that he will go to Ronaldo’s  house at 7PM to see if he still has the passport. 7PM. Ronaldo is still not there. I begin to loose faith, but pray that all will work well, trusting in the mystery of it all…glad at least that I had the chance to repair my word, and to connect with the family I had written off.

It is getting late. The 8 year old daughter brings me a plate of food and a glass of Pepsi. Though difficult for me to convey here, limited for time on a computer in an internet cafe, this is one of the most warm families I have yet to encounter.

The woman who first directed me to this home (see part 1)walks in through the front door, it is her cousin. Then the man on the bike, the man I thought was also a thief, walks in with a big bag of candy for the kids, also a family friend.

They talk about the situation and what we might do to recover my passport. I tell them that I will gladly offer a finder´s fee, and that tomorrow I will go to stay with a friend in the capital, Tegucigalpa, to wait for their call.

They ask me to stay here for the night, in the hammock that they DO have, and leave in the morning at 5 to catch the bus to Tegucigalpa.

A side note: Hammocks are like heaven. I love the way they wrap around my body, hugging my sore legs, letting my legs flop to the side.

Continued …