I can still remember the reaction I got during a conversation with a long-term missionary from the Christian Reformed Church (CRC) shortly after moving to Yocón. It was a Sunday morning, and I was in Tegucigalpa to buy supplies. I spotted the church just around the corner from the Boston Hotel, where I was staying. I had been raised in the CRC. Although they had turned me down for mission work because of my lack of biblical training and inability to communicate in Spanish, I still held on to that identity.
I introduced myself to the American missionary and told him I was from Grand Rapids, Michigan.
“Are you from the Mission Board?” he asked cautiously. I would later learn there was a reason for his concern. The native pastor was trying to take over the congregation, and missionaries were losing control. If donors found out, it could result in a loss of funds or a reassignment.
“No,” I responded. “I am starting my own mission.”
“Here in Tegus?”
“No, I’ve opened a clinic in Olancho.”
“That’s a very needy area, I hear. I’ve been in Honduras for 10 years, but I’ve never had the chance to visit. How often do you go out?”
“I live there,” I said. “I’ve been out there a couple of months.”
“You live there?” He appeared shocked. “That’s a very dangerous place to visit, let alone to live. You’d better be very careful.”
Time would prove him right, although I never really felt that much in danger while I was there. I suppose my ignorance had something to do with that — or stupidity, as I look back on some of it now.
Contra soldiers were living in Olancho. They didn’t make their presence public, but people were well aware of it. One day, a man came to the clinic and invited me to join a team heading to the border to support them — he wanted me to bring medicine and bandages to treat the wounded. I genuinely wanted to go, but I was warned that if I got caught, I’d be thrown out of the country. I decided against it.
I didn’t see the Contras as much of a threat at the time, but later realized even the U.S. military was wary of encountering them. That became clear early one morning when some of the local boys woke me by knocking hard on my bedroom window.
“¡Vamos, Vamos! ¡Hombres con rifles! Pies grandes, nariz roja. Hablan inglés.”
“What?” I called out as I hurriedly got dressed. I could see they were alarmed, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. “James! What do they want?”
He had heard them too and stepped into my room. “They want us to follow them — there are men with rifles nearby. One has very large shoes and a red nose. They only speak English.” He paused. “I will get the truck.”
We drove about a mile out of town to a clearing on the river’s edge, where we found three heavily armed American soldiers and a large man dressed in a clown suit.
“Good morning!” I said, stepping out of the truck.
“God, are we glad to see you!” the clown replied, reaching out to shake my hand. “We’re stranded. They dropped us off here to hand out invitations to local children about a medical team coming tomorrow morning. We were supposed to be picked up by search and rescue after fifteen minutes, but they can’t find us.”
Two of the soldiers were hunched over a map, radioing back and forth with the recovery team in obvious frustration. I glanced at the map and noticed they were holding it upside down. When I pointed it out, they directed my attention to the mountain range in the distance and the marked drop-off point, which they thought was their location. I took the map from them, oriented it north to north, and told them the marked position was on the other side of the mountain. Once they had the correct coordinates, the rescue crew arrived within minutes.
They were deeply grateful. “You live out here by yourself?” the clown asked as they prepared to leave.
“Yes, in the village.”
“Well, our maps show this as a hostile area. Be careful.”
Beyond the Contras, there were gangs and guns for hire. I was told there was a man in the area who would kill anyone for twenty dollars. He had become something of a local legend, rumored to possess supernatural powers drawn from a medallion he wore around his neck. He was wanted for several murders and had reportedly slipped through police ambushes multiple times — always thanks to the medallion. He eventually met his end when someone discovered his secret bathing cove on the river. They tipped off the police for the reward; an ambush was set, and he was shot as he removed the medallion to bathe.
The gangs primarily consisted of family members who believed they deserved more from the world. They carried guns and appeared tough, but their main motive was often money or jewelry, and they rarely killed victims unless provoked. Once, they robbed a Coke truck after its deliveries, and the driver’s guard mistakenly shot at one of the bandits, leading the gang to fire back, killing both him and the driver. Finding replacements took nearly a month, so no cold drinks were sold in the area during that time. Luckily, plenty of Chatamuskas — frozen Kool-Aid in plastic bags — was available to help beat the heat.
Then there were revenge killings. These were the hardest for me to witness, because they so often claimed the most promising people in the community. When there was a gunfight — and there were many — the best outcome, strange as it sounds, was when both men died. If only one survived, it became the solemn duty of the deceased’s family to retaliate — and not against the survivor himself, but against the most prominent member of his family. It was a cycle with no clean ending.
When I first arrived in Yocón, the only school—a modest building behind the Catholic church—offered classes only through third grade. Attendance was limited to children from the more prominent families, and further education seemed unnecessary in a place where life rarely extended beyond the canyon walls. An occasional truck with supplies, a bus that disappeared over the mountain and returned with stories of the city, or a foreigner speaking a different language were the only hints of another world.
With help from friends, I raised enough money to hire a new teacher, extending classes to sixth grade. Suddenly, education became important. Within a few years, children could continue through high school. Among those who saw education as a ticket out was David. He wasn’t wealthy, but he carried himself with quiet confidence. Teachers admired his ability, boys respected his calm, and girls found him charming. Beneath that charm was determination—a desire to rise above the canyon walls. For a time, David embodied the hope that education could change everything.
Not all of life’s lessons are learned in classrooms. One afternoon, the silence of siesta was broken by shouts and a girl’s cries. David had been discovered with the daughter of a wealthy family in an abandoned house. The girl was sent home, but David was dragged to the school, where leaders decided he would no longer be allowed to study. Afterward, he vanished into the mountains with his older brother, who had a defective right eye.
Rumors spread quickly. Some said they had purchased guns from the Contras; others said that David swore revenge. Soon robberies began—cars stopped on the road, travelers describing a young man and an older one with a bad eye. David’s legend grew. He once held up a bus, lining passengers up and demanding their valuables. When an older woman hesitated to surrender her wedding ring, he smiled and let her keep it. But when an off-duty soldier resisted, David stripped him of everything, even his clothes, before vanishing into the forest.
Whispers claimed David had gotten married; a young woman sometimes appeared at my clinic with a malnourished baby, and people would murmur, “That’s David’s wife.”
David had once been a friend and would come over to my house after school. He had a “Fonz”-type personality but also showed a sensitive side. I never formally met his cross-eyed brother, but there was a time, before the killings started, when he and David stopped to talk with us on the road. A few weeks later, the brother killed a man for staring at him. That was the point of no return. After that, they were blamed for every unsolved murder in the area, and they went into hiding. However, the physical condition of his wife and baby indicated they were not making much from their holdups, and I would usually give her money to buy milk.
One evening at sunset, a rifle shot shattered the calm. A man ran breathless onto my patio, whispering urgently to two brothers: “Quick, come with me. David just shot your father.” I followed with my medical bag. Juan, their father, lay bleeding; most of the flesh from his upper arm was gone. His wife held his arm while a belt served as a tourniquet. I fashioned a sling and insisted he be taken to the hospital in Juticalpa, four hours away. Despite fears of an ambush, someone volunteered. Juan survived, though his arm could not be saved.
Weeks later, police surrounded David’s hideout. His brother was killed, and David gave himself up. They brought him to the village, chained in the back of a pickup like a wild animal. His eyes stared into emptiness, refusing to make contact with me or anyone else he once called a friend.
Other gangs would rise and fall, but none matched David’s notoriety. Rumors persisted—some claimed he died escaping prison; others insisted they saw him nearby, waiting to ambush another school official. My favorite story was that he crossed into the United States and, like many other illegal aliens, was able to change his life.
Looking back, I realize some of my actions were careless. I often carried large sums of money, but I was never robbed. Years later, in the United States, I met someone from Honduras who explained why: “Everyone was afraid of your bodyguard.”
Confused, I replied, “Bodyguard? I never had a bodyguard in Honduras.”
He smiled. “Then who was the big man with the gun who followed you every time you exchanged money?”
I never saw the man that they saw, and I don’t believe in Guardian Angels, but then, perhaps they can only be seen by those who would do us harm.