My final day in Yocón came as a complete surprise to the community and to me. I packed my bag for the once-a-month trip to Tegucigalpa to buy medicine. I planned to spend the weekend with the university students I was sponsoring, so I brought two changes of clothes.
As I was preparing to leave the house, I heard a noise in the boys’ room. Everyone was supposed to be in school, but when I opened the door, I found Ricardo sitting on his bed.
“No school today?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“I have a headache.”
“How do you expect to make a living if you don’t go to school?”
“I will go to the Estados Unidos and get a job.”
“That is a fantasy, Ricardo. You don’t have money, and you don’t speak good English. That was the problem with the others who tried. They got all the way across the border, and when the border patrol asked them a question, they responded in Spanish and got sent right back. If you ever did make it across the border, remember that. If someone stops you, answer in English.”
I flipped him a 50-centavo coin, a small token of encouragement, and walked out of the room. “We’ll talk about this when I get back.”
As I walked out of the house, I was surprised to see Noel waiting for me.
“Another one not in school—how come?”
“I want to walk with you to the clinic.” He reached out his hand, and as we walked together out of town toward the clinic, we shared some small talk along the way. As we neared the clinic, he asked with some concern, “Are you coming back?”
“Yes, of course. I will be back on Monday. Why do you ask that?”
“Because you told us last week you want to go to Vietnam.”
My mind flipped back to the conversation I had with some of the boys after seeing an article in “The Banner”, a CRC publication I received because I was still considered a professing member, since I received $100 a month from my home church in Bauer. The article mentioned the CRC opening an office in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, a country like Vietnam that had been closed to foreigners for many years. I remembered saying at the time that I had originally wanted to go to Vietnam, but because it was closed, I went to Honduras instead.
“Ahh, yes. I remember saying that, but I was only thinking out loud, Noel. I am way too old to do it now.”
I gave him 50 centavos to buy himself a snack. “I have to work now—go back to school, and I will see you when I get back.”
Fortunately, there were not many patients to see, and we were finished before noon. I told Christina she could leave early if she wanted. She finished cleaning up some of the instruments we had used and then started for the door, but stopped for just a moment as if she had forgotten something, and then asked with some concern, “Are you coming back?”
“Yes, of course. I will be back on Monday,” I answered, a bit confused about why she would ask the same question as Noel.
It was true that I was feeling a bit burned out, but I had gone through that before, and even though new doctors had moved into the area, we still saw many patients every day. I knew they were upset that I worked for free because it prevented patients from going to them. I wasn’t aware of their resentment, however, until only recently, when the Head of Medical Services in Olancho stopped to warn me that there had been some complaints. He gave me some advice in case I accidentally killed someone:
“Get them buried in the ground before an autopsy can be done. These people are very superstitious and would never dig up a grave.”
I wasn’t sure whether he was joking or if that was just the advice he gave all his doctors.
I finished locking up and headed for the bus stop. There was no one there yet, and as I looked back down on the clinic campus with the coconut grove and the green manicured lawn, I thought about how it was when we came. So much had changed over the years.
I remembered the village before the road connecting us to the other side of the mountain was completed—an isolated village that few people ever had a desire to leave. An alarm clock wasn’t necessary because the rhythm of the morning activities kept the time. At four-thirty a.m., the patting of the tortillas could be heard in every house. At five o’clock, the roosters started their crowing, and at five-thirty, the men left for the fields with their freshly made hot tortillas. Sunset marked the end of the day: a candlelit dinner, and perhaps some stargazing while talking with friends before bedtime.
The new road created an opening in the walls that surrounded Yocón, allowing for opportunities to explore what lay beyond the mountain. We took some of the older boys to see the ocean at La Ceiba. They couldn’t believe their eyes when they saw it stretched across the whole horizon. On the way back, we were lying down in the bed of a pickup truck. One of the boys asked if the moon in the sky was the same one we saw in Yocón. The trip had exposed their ignorance, and for many, education became important; several even went on to university.
The new road brought electricity. Homes filled with light; fans stirred the air; refrigerators hummed; and televisions flickered with distant stories. It was called progress, yet something quiet slipped away. The stars faded behind streetlamps, and evenings once marked by gentle reflection became noisier, less serene. Wives lingered past midnight with Mexican soap operas, while mornings no longer began with the tender rhythm of hands shaping tortillas. Instead, roosters announced the day, and doors closed too sharply as husbands sought the warmth of traditions that had begun to fade. Progress illuminated the houses, but dimmed the stars.
My reminiscing was interrupted by an older woman descending from the mountain trail. I recognized her as one of our regulars, and we exchanged greetings. She then walked over, took my hand, and said concernedly, “We are going to miss you.”
I thanked her and assured her I was not going anywhere, but I don’t think she understood. I watched as she continued down the road, wondering why so many seemed certain I was leaving.
As if on cue, the bus arrived, and I boarded. I paused briefly on the top step, feeling as if I was leaving something behind, and looked back, but saw nothing on the ground. Fortunately, there were empty seats, and I chose one next to the window. When we reached the top of the hill, I looked back at the small village with a river flowing through it. The idea of leaving hadn’t even occurred to me until Noel brought it up.
I was 52, too old for a new beginning, yet the thought kept circling. Over the next five hours, I formulated a plan. When I arrived in Tegucigalpa, I went straight to the travel agency and booked a flight for the following morning. Back at the apartment, I told the university students about my plans. They didn’t believe me until I made a poster explaining my departure from the village. I also transferred ownership of the house in Yocón to them so they could sell it and use the proceeds to pay for their education. The next morning, I left the house with instructions not to follow me to the airport.
“Next!”
The word cracked through the terminal like a rifle shot. My head throbbed, thoughts spinning in a loop:” Are you sure about this?” The guard’s voice rose again, sharper this time, forcing me to make a decision.
“Lo siento mucho, aqui esta mi pasaporte.” I responded as I walked through the departure gate.
My time in Yocón had come to an end. I left silently, with only a small bag, but carrying a heart full of gratitude for the people who welcomed and questioned me, each helping to prepare me for departure in their own way. The same road that brought me to Yocón now took me away, yet the spirit of that village stays with me—a reminder that it is presence, not permanence, that truly defines a meaningful life. Even now, at dawn, if I hear a rooster crow, I think of Yocón and realize that a part of me has never truly left. It remains at the bus stop alongside of the road that goes beyond the mountain.