The taxi driver from the border to the bus seems to think we are in need of psychiatric help when we tell him that we are going to stay with the Mennonites of Barton Creek. After trying to convince us that what we really want to do is go rafting with his friends tour company he eventually mumbles something about them having no toothpaste and pushes his cell phone number on us incase we have ‘any problems.’ At this point I start to wonder what we are letting ourselves in for.
We tumble off the bus and out onto a long hot road with two options before us. To our left is the road to Spanish Lookout. There we are told that we will find technology embracing Mennonites in nice big houses with electricity and computers and internet. To our right is a seven mile hike toward a community where they actively reject technology and ride around in horse and cart.
About three miles down the track we hear the sound of horses from behind us and along came Jacob Dich in a cart laden with rice and buckets. He slows down and then stops and asks where we were heading. After raising his eyebrows he then proceeds to rearrange everything in his cart to accommodate us. We hop into a small wooden seat at the front of the cart with a great view of the rear ends of two very large horses. It is here that we start our Mennonite adventure.
The pace at which we trotted along in the horse drawn cart was often so slow that I wonder if it might have been quicker to walk. Every time the road changes in gradient Jacob would jump out to ease the load for the horses, leaving us in the front seat feeling a bit guilty and wondering if we should do the same.
The conversation is stunted by Jacob’s lack of confidence in his English. He often starts to say something, stops, stares at his feet for a while, tries again and then just goes silent completely; he rather reminds me of myself the past few months. He is a tall thin man with light brown hair, a Mennonite signature bushy beard and a pair of small bluey grey eyes; a shade like unpolished metal. He wears a grey collarless shirt buttoned right to the top, a pair of navy blue trousers with braces and white and olive green flip flops. Tucked just above his head between the frame of the buggy and the roof there is a straw hat. He untucks it and places it on his head whenever he needs to jump out. When he smiles, which he does mostly out of nerves, he has a perfect set of bright white teeth. On closer inspection they appear to be dentures. This surprises me. I guess I expected them all to have bad rotting teeth. Does a visit to dentist not constitute a use of technology? This in turn got me wondering precisely how the Mennonites define ‘technology.’
I am not sure when he picked us up that he realized we were coming to visit his community. When Jonathan explains -a s only an American can phrase it – that we are coming to “check out” the community as “we heard it was really cool” he replies that it is not any colder than Honduras.
It was in this conversation with Jacob where we first heard what I came to recognize as a typical conversation starter with the Mennonites, “I don’t know if it’s true but we have heard that….” This was usually followed by two reactions from us. Surprise at precisely what they had managed to hear or precisely how little they hadn’t.
Eventually we turn off the main road and down the side of a field onto another smaller dirt road. Jacob says that he will try to find us a place to stay. Bumping down the main road of the village I caught glimpses of barefooted blonde haired girls in floor length dresses running into their houses and returning with barefooted blond brothers in collarless shirts, braces and trousers.
Every house we call at is the same ritual. Jacob calls, waits for somebody to come out to him. They then talk almost as if into a void, neither one looking the other in the eye, in a language only half recognizable as German. We of course understand nothing. After calling to a few houses, no one is willing to host us. Jonathan pulls a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and asks Jacob if he knows the name scribbled on it ‘Henry P Friesen.’ Jacobs face lightens. “I know him yes, but he lives in Upper Barton Creek, this is Lower Barton Creek. Did you want to go and see him?” we reply in the positive.
We pull into another driveway and as we sit in Jacob’s cart I watch a young boy sawing wood in a wooden building at the end of the garden. The saw is mechanized, driven by a horse walking round in a circle pushing a bar in front of it. After a few minutes Peter approaches us and addresses us in the same peculiar way that Jacob had the others. He stands by the side of the cart and speaks without looking at us. “You are welcome to visit with us, however we ask that you dress well, by this I mean showing as little of you body as possible.”
Jonathan and I would laugh about this later as the moment ‘I totally got busted for wearing shorts,’ I immediately volunteer to change into trousers. As soon as I do it seems the formalities are over. We sit on the porch with Peter and introduce ourselves while his numerous children buzz about us. We are shown into a house with huge table laid out with food. “This is our food” he says “we don’t know if it is what you are used to or if you will like it but feel free to take as much as you need and ask for more if you require it.” We can hardly believe what we are sitting down to. Fresh bread, butter, jam, milk, honey and corn tacos filled with meat and vegetables, all of it homemade accompanied by bananas and a huge pot of tea. This is all followed by delicious gloopy syrup with chopped canned fruits. I am not sure what strikes me most, the sheer abundance of amazing quality food, the kindness and hospitality or the abundance of amazing quality food in the absence of technology. If this is the simple life, I am sold.
We chat for some time after our meal. We are shown a pantry filled with shelves of preserved fruit and vegetable in jars and bowls of cottage cheese in the making. As we walk through the house I am struck by how a place can be sparse yet homely. Not one bit of tack or ornamentation. Everything has purpose; a sewing machine, where all the clothes were made, a blackboard where the German is taught, all simply designed, beautiful yet useful.
We once again find ourselves sat out on the porch talking to Peter when almost to soon, a young gentleman arrives with a cart. He offers to take us to Upper Barton Creek to see Henry. I am almost sad to leave so soon. We say goodbye to each blonde, well mannered child and thank them for their hospitality. I hope this won’t be the last time I see them.
We set off in the cart with the boy whose name I don’t remember. Up over a hill and down, the same pattern repeating over green gently undulating countryside, past scenery that could almost be England. Past wooden houses and cows which no doubt produced at least part of my now digesting lunch. At times in the journey I start, as if waking up suddenly and think how preposterous it all seems; riding in a horse and cart like this as if in a time warp. As we ride, the boy asks many questions. How many brothers and sisters do we have? Are the food prices going up in Honduras too? Then, surprisingly, if it was true that we rely on microchip in our society? Had we had heard (as they had) that the governments wanted to use them to track people? I remember thinking that if I had had a mobile phone on me, whether they could pinpoint my exact location out here, in this other universe. We carried on over the hill and up a track before turning off down a long mud driveway where I could spy a little old man bending over the many plants lined up in the garden. We had arrived at Henrys house and we were about to see how this name on a crumpled piece of paper looked, felt and more importantly lived.