There are times when you’d think Realist Derek might speak up. For example, when Idealist Derek was getting ramped up to “make a difference,” chatting with his friend from Honduras. They talked about the people needing support, about the truth being exposed, about protests and manifestations. See now, that might have been a decent time to remind Idealist Derek that he didn’t actually speak Spanish. Or to ask him just what he thought he would do to support the people, or for that matter, which people he would support—all decent questions. But instead he just sat there, quietly observing as he loves to do as Idealist Derek rambled on and on about fluffy sunshine and rainbows, and made plans to change the world.
Then there are times when Realist Derek just won’t shut up… like when he’s sitting on the plane headed for San Pedro Sula, Honduras. Just when all the other Dereks are putting their seats back trying to relax, Realist Derek perks up and starts asking questions.
“Wait… so when did you last see your friend from Honduras? Over 10 years ago?!”
“And how well did you know her, I mean like are you even going to be able to recognize her? What happens when you get there, can’t speak Spanish, and can’t get a hold of your friend?”
“Oh yeah and remember that curfew you read about that you just brushed off-how does that work when your plane doesn’t even arrive until after 9 pm? By the way, why did the President get taken out of the country by the military anyway? And just curious, why is this plane so empty…”
You get the picture. Needless to say, none of the Dereks were able to rest much on the flight. We arrived as scheduled shortly after 9pm. I pulled my packs from the strangely vacant overhead compartments and followed the signs of Salida (exit). The air was thick, humid, with the smell of distant burning. I walked casually, and confidently past the airport security all heavily armed, like I knew what I was doing. Outside there was a large gathering of people, some were holding signs, all watched as I walked by.
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I'm off to see the world. Usually I live in Flagstaff, but now I am on a boat with an old friend. We will be doing good deeds a…
I hit the ground instantly. The force of impact nearly knocked me out. Stunned, I tried to gather and prepare myself for more. I didn’t know how or why, the only thing I was sure of was that I was under attack.
I found myself in a hammock, swinging back and forth between exhaustion and the inability to sleep.
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The roads are made of stone. Honduran men stroll casually through the streets. Shielded from the searing sun, their machetes swing step by step, in and out of the circle of shade offered by their cowboy hats.
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