Unexpected Treasure

Two alums reunite in Honduras to depict the impact of tragedy on a community

By Michelle M. Falck ’92

In September, Stephen Katz ’92 and Michelle Falck ’92 traveled to a remote village in Honduras near the southern border with El Salvador to cover a story for the Bangor Daily News. The resulting package included one story by Michelle, one by Stephen and four stories with their shared byline. The newspaper submitted the package for Pulitzer Prize consideration. The following is an account of their trip written exclusively for Dickinson Magazine.

A light rain begins to fall. There are no signs from the main road to tell us where to go—all we know is that our destination lies near the border with El Salvador. We stop to ask for directions, but apparently more than one village in this region is called “Santa Lucia.” After several wrong turns, we feel confident that now we are on the correct road. We pass a pickup truck full of people who confirm they are returning from the vigils.

The village is dark as we enter Santa Lucia—there are no street lamps to illuminate the roads, and most of the 20 or so houses appear to be empty. Our headlights provide the only light as the 4x4 creeps along in search of human activity. It has been a long day already, and I am exhausted, but I know the work is only just beginning. I marvel for a moment at how it is I came to be here. Not 36 hours earlier I was busily working at my office in Washington, D.C.

My office phone rings, and Stephen Katz ’92 is on the other end, anxiously seeking information about Honduras. Stephen is assistant photography editor for a newspaper in Bangor, Maine. He tells me about a tragic vehicle accident that occurred a few days ago. Foreign workers from Honduras and Guatemala were on their way to work in the Allagash region of Maine, where they harvested and replanted the pine forests. In the early morning of Sept. 12 their van went off a bridge and plunged into the river below. All of the 15 passengers died, except one. Ten of these men were from Honduras, and seven lived in or near the small village of Santa Lucia.

The paper was running the local news coverage, but Stephen wants to do a story that looks at the others affected by this accident—the families and loved ones back in Honduras. He recognizes the social and economic impact these deaths will have on their community, and he wants to share that angle with the readers.

For the last seven years, I have been working in the field of international development, mainly in Latin America. Stephen knows I have traveled frequently to Honduras and assumes I have connections on the ground that may help him. We have been friends since our first years at Dickinson, and I am accustomed to him trekking off on adventures to interesting and often far-flung places.

Stephen and I never have gone on adventures together, however, and as he continues to explain his plans to me I realize this might be the perfect opportunity. I have the local contacts in Honduras and am fluent in Spanish but, more important, I want to test my wings as a writer. Although I majored in English (and Spanish) at Dickinson, I have no formal training as a journalist. Nonetheless, I feel I understand his objective and am confident I can write the article. After a little more arm twisting by me, and some convincing of our respective bosses, I am purchasing our airline tickets to depart the next day for the capital of Honduras, Tegucigalpa.

In Santa Lucia, we carefully wind our way through the village and come upon a house teeming with people. On the porch men of all ages are standing together. They look weathered and worn, a testament to the hard labor and difficult living conditions they endure. Many are wearing cowboy hats. They talk quietly to each other and greet new arrivals with a hardy handshake.

We drive slowly past and then turn the vehicle around to park in front. Large, expensive 4x4s like our rental are not common here—most villagers travel by foot or pile in the back of a small pickup truck, so naturally, we attract everyone’s attention. I feel self-conscious as we get out and walk toward the house. We clearly are strangers here, uninvited guests to this mourning. The looks we receive are not hostile but not welcoming, either.

My Honduran friend, Anibal, who has agreed to be our driver this week, soon proves to be an invaluable asset for breaking into the tight community circle. He approaches some of the men, explains who we are and tells them that we have come to share their grief. A relative of the deceased enters the house and returns with Miriam. She is the mother of Delkin Padilla Alvarado, the man, aged 22, lying in the simple galvanized-steel coffin in the middle of the living room.

Miriam is too overcome by grief to say much of anything, but she leads me inside and insists that others make room for me to sit. The women quietly pray, and then someone begins to sing a slow, sad ballad. Others join her. Miriam sobs, overwhelmed by her pain, and those seated nearby try to comfort her. Stephen discretely takes a few photos, but I am unable to begin interviewing. I still feel like an intruder here and so resolve merely to observe for now.

We attend two more vigils after this one. At each home the scene is the same. The coffin is on display in the living room with a photograph and flowers on top. Mostly, the women sit inside with the family; the men remain on the periphery, solemn and stoic. Friends and relatives stream in and out of the house all night, coming from all over the region. Nearly all of the seven men are known by or related to the visitors, so a round robin begins with the mourners moving from one house to the next. The mourners will continue their watch until tomorrow when the coffins are taken to nearby Aramecina for the burial.

By now Stephen and I are familiar faces in the crowd, and gradually people approach us to share their stories. Priscilla, the sister of Dionisio Fuñez, who died at age 56, tells me how she raised her brother and siblings after their mother’s death when they were young. She feels his loss doubly—as both a sister and a mother might. With tears in her eyes and pride in her voice, she describes in Spanish the sort of man Dionisio was: handsome, humble, faithful.

We remain in Santa Lucia for several days to learn more about these men and their lives. Each day is an emotional roller coaster for me—I have not yet mastered the ability to disconnect myself from my subject. All my years working in international development did not prepare me for the poverty that I witnessed firsthand during our stay. I hear accounts of the tragedies and triumphs these men experienced while trying to make a better life for their families. I laugh, and I cry with their loved ones. But mostly, I marvel at the faith, perseverance and ability of these humble people to overcome hardships that I could only imagine having to endure.

Many of them live without electricity, without running water or sewage treatment. They walk miles over unpaved and washed-out roads to reach the nearest town. Men and women alike work long hours in the sun to harvest their crops by hand, often reaping just enough to feed themselves. They sleep on simple hammocks hung from the walls of their homes.

It is little wonder that these men were willing to spend nine months of the year thousands of miles away from their families, in the hope that the additional income would improve their way of life. The tragic accident in Maine severed the primary economic lifeline for many of these families in Santa Lucia. Their futures seem uncertain, but I am confident that their strength of will and the support of their community will help them to overcome this tragedy. They are not rich by traditional measures, but they possess a priceless treasure of emotional and spiritual fortitude. My brief encounter with them has enriched my life in ways I never imagined. I have discovered the courage to pursue my own hopes and dreams for a better life. And I am pleased to have shared this amazing experience with my dear friend Stephen.

As we leave Santa Lucia to return to Tegucigalpa, I reflect further on how fortunate I am. The road back up the mountain reminds me of the path I have traveled in the 11 years since leaving Dickinson. When I graduated, the economic environment was difficult, but eventually my liberal-arts education and subsequent graduate studies led to a promising career in the field of international development. Although often challenging and stressful, the experience provided me with many opportunities to travel to fascinating countries, to meet interesting people, and sometimes to feel I was making a difference—however slight—in developing countries like Honduras. I cannot see where the road leads from here, but I can only assume that it will continue to rise. •

Michelle Falck left her job and life in Washington, D.C., in mid-May to head for Quito, Ecuador, where she plans to spend two months writing fiction. Stephen Katz was Dickinson’s associate alumni director in the early 1990s.

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