Love in a Time of Cholera by Gabriel García Márquez

Dear readers,

This is probably one of the most inappropriate books to read in these times, but it has been sitting on my shelf ever since I bought it while working at Books Etc in Solihull (an area just south east of Birmingham, UK, for those not in the know) between 2001 and 2003. Since then, Books Etc has gone bust, and this book has followed me to Preston (north-west of England) and to Honduras, and now I’ve finally got round to reading it. It’s become a bit dog-earred being a paperback, but I’m getting through it, after putting it off after all these years.

So why did I put it off? Well, to be honest, I am not a huge Gabriel García Márquez fan. My wife glares at me whenever I say it. I have written about this previously on my blog, as well as my thoughts on magic realism, a genre which is said to come from Colombia. I have read a few of his books but they just irritated and bored me, with his long-winding paragraphs that seemed directionless and meaningless. A prime example is One Hundred Years of Solitude, which when I publicly announced my dislike for the book on social media, many women were flabbergasted, shocked and felt my words were blasphemous, claiming “I know nothing about literature” and “I have little or no romance or imagination.” Men, on the other hand, said, “Yeah, it’s not all that.” A novel, it seems, that divides the opinion between the genders. I read an English version, and many native Spanish speakers have since told me that a lot of the poetics and flow of the book could have been lost in translation. But still to this day, I remember the overwhelming feeling when I reached the end that I didn’t give a damn about the Buendía family nor the events in the fictional Colombian town of Macondo. I felt cheated.

For this reason, I kept Love in a Time of Cholera on my shelf collecting dust; I didn’t want to trudge through another 350-page bore. But then, around May last year I picked it up in the middle of a strict COVID quarantine which had demobilized most of Honduras and unable to leave the home at weekends, and I gave Gabo one more chance to prove me wrong. Again, it’s an English version, translated by Edith Grossman. I began reading it in tiny chunks, a couple of paragraphs a week, but I kept pushing it to the back of my reading priorities (I always read three or four books at any one time) so my reading flow became a little disjointed, but I was still kind of enjoying it. Then, after reading something else for a few months, I picked up yet again around two weeks ago. And guess what? ¡Me encanta! And I’ve not even finished reading it.

What is it that I love? There are a fair few things, but I guess the greatest factor is that it meets my expectation of what a tragic love story is supposed to be. It has weaving storylines and details about the pain and emotional longing and suspense that make you actually care for the main male character, Florentino Ariza, and his his life journey. It contains beautiful description of carnal relations and the confusion of life when love doesn’t turn out the way you want, which I think we’ve all experienced at some stage of our lives. But I don’t want to talk too much about the plot, fearing that I shall leave spoilers. There is also a quirky humor that resonates throughout the narrative, sometimes through the social norms and traditions in a conservative era of Colombia, especially the character of Fermina Daza’s father, mixed with the chaos of the plague and sex and morality. It throws a lot at you but in a less of a “magic realism” kind-of-way, and more of a traditional narrative, while being original at the same time.

As stated, I haven’t finished yet. I have read 188 of 348 pages and I have reached the character Leona Cassiani, who I don’t want to talk too much about to create spoilers, but I will say she has a strong, street-wise character, very colorful, which I see in many women in Honduras. I also feel brings much relief to Florentino, for a few pages at least anyway.

In fact, I was so inspired by the book and Leona that I went out today and bought some acrylic paints to try and give my artistic impression of the character. I don’t know why, but I just needed to create something based on this character. I think it was also that I saw an episode of Modern Family where Mitch takes up painting as a way to relax while looking for a new job (in a very loose link to a common theme in this post, that being Colombia, the show also stars Colombian actress Sofia Vergara, if that counts for anything). Painting is hobby I too have taken up during COVID, just to give me stimulus and an escapism from the stresses of work, something just for me. I began with watercolors, but I grew bored of the calm textures and, as stated above, I bought some acrylic paints to give a bit more ompf to the canvas. Yes, I realise, this is not the technical language that professional artists use, and I have the skills and abilities of a 4-year-old child. I’ve never painted with acrylics before, let alone had a class or seen any YouTube videos to get advice. So it was a liberating experience to just try with an innocent mind. However, I have drawing ability of a child below 4-years-old, so my hopes to portray Leona faded very quickly, being a black woman with beautiful, colorful clothes and styles. So, I just decided to start drawing the eyes, then a nose, then the outline of the face, but my choice of colors was poor. I wanted a lighter shade a brown to reflect the skin, but it came out more of a darker yellow. So I decided to lower my ambitions, and draw a bald head rather than paint hair. But by the end, I felt that I had painted a Minion that was on a psychedelic trip; the eyes look a little too diluted to enable it to appear in a Despicable Me movie.

My wife has said she would like it framed, which is nice, but I fear people might come to the house and see it and say, “What a beautiful painting by your child!” Suffice to say, if Gabo wasn’t already rolling in his grave after I wrote my critique of One Hundred Years of Solitude, he shall surely be now – after I turned one of his characters into a Minion!

I know that this post is a little less about Honduras. But I shall try to keep you up-to-date on my progress of Love in a Time of Cholera.

So Why the Name “Catracho”?

Dear readers,

Through all the years of living in Honduras and writing this blog, I don’t think I have ever written about where the name Catracho comes from. Hondurans call themselves and are known as Los Catrachos, but what does it mean? I should know; after all, I am married to a Catracha and it bears in the name of the blog.

I was actually reminded recently of the story by a friend and colleague from Nicaragua, as it seems the Nicaraguans actually coined the name for their dear neighbours.

The term began to be used in the mid-19th century when the Honduran General Florencio Xatruch returned to Nicaragua with his Honduran and El Salvadoran soldiers after defeating a troop of US freebooters led by William Walker, whose grave I saw in Trujillo, which has “fusilado” – meaning “shot” – famously written on the headstone. William Walker had sought to re-establish slavery and take over of Central America, although Nicaraguans, Hondurans and Salvadorans had other ideas.
As Xatruch and his comrades returned, Nicaraguans would yell Aquí vienen los xatruches – roughly translating to “Here come Xatruch’s men!” It seems, rather amusingly I must add, Nicaraguans had great problems pronouncing the Catalan name los xatruches that they altered it to los catruches, and settled on los catrachos.

Florencio Xatruch

So there we have it. Hondurans have the Nicaraguans to thank for bolstering their national pride.

Xatruch eventually died in Managua, Nicaragua, long after bringing an end to Walker’s attempted coup, although he was born and raised in San Antonio de Oriente, an old, picturesque mining town not too far from Tegucigalpa. I have never been, but it’s now on my bucket list.

Return to a Different Kind of Reality

Dear readers,

It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything, especially in a truly open sphere. Of course, emails and editing for work for my job at Nuestros Pequeños Hermanos International, where I am the Communications Manager. I love my job, especially reading and editing the stories of children and adolescents who have come through extremely complex and at-risk situations to arrive at one of our nine homes in Latin America and the Caribbean. Of course, living in Honduras for over 10 years, the same age of this blog, and as you can see from the name of this blog, I am a little more connected to the land of Catrachos.

I don’t call myself an adopted Catracho. I can assure you, Hondurans would raise their eyebrows if I suggest such a thing. I sometimes joke that I am from Santa Barbara on the account of my white skin; apparently this department of the country is known for its “cheles”. As a cheeky joke, I would tell taxi drivers in Tegucigalpa that I am from Santa Barbara when I was haggling fares. Looking like an “innocent gringo” encourages drivers to bump up the cost, and who can blame them. They would look at me confused or just laugh, noting my blond hair, blue eyes and dodgy accent and say “pura paja” – a big, fat lie. Friends and family still joke about it though, often calling me “el primo de Santa Barbara”.

My job has made me fall in love with Latin America again, as these days my job needs me to be aware of different political events, climate crises and social issues across the region. Suffice to say, I don’t love Latin America because of the aforementioned issues/flaws, but more for my curiosity and forever winding journey to comprehend the people and life here, and all the colours, spices and tastes that come with it. I especially love the inconsistencies of the culture, being so open and liberal, but often so conservative and traditional as well; being so macho and valiant, yet so sweet and sensitive. Maybe you can see this every corner of the world, but I feel it more intensely in Latin America.

For the past year, like everyone else I have isolated myself the best I can to help stop this spread of COVID-19. I know people who have lost family members and friends and colleagues, and many more who have lost their jobs, and it pains me to see people suffering. It’s a destructive anguish, almost like survivor’s guilt, that crushes my spirit. And I feel so helpless to support others, while health workers continue to risk their lives as the vaccines slowly roll out. My job is remote work, so even before the quarantine gripped hold of Honduras, I was quite accustomed to meeting people virtually, and despite being relatively friendly, my introverted self adapted fairly well to the situation. The main thing I have missed is feeling less connected to nature, and the inability to travel to other countries for work and leisure. But I can easily sacrifice this to ensure the safety of others.

However, today, it hit me. I had to go to the NPH Honduras home, some 36 km outside Tegucigalpa, a beautiful ranch full of pine trees and wildlife, but more than anything, a united community of children and dedicated staff. Because of my heavy workload and the need to social distance, I couldn’t socialize with colleagues as much as I would have liked. But still, working with staff who are also good friends felt so wonderful and novel, yet so emotional at the same time. After communicating with them virtually for the past year, I enjoyed being close and chatting with them, while also realizing how this virus has taken a year out of our lives, being away from people you care about. The children more or less recognised me. A year is a long time for them; that can’t be understated. They were sweet and asked me how I was, although I could tell the lack of touch and embrace was difficult for them. It was difficult for me too. I know people have lost so much more, but it still left me moved. It has been a long year.

What is strange is that I was almost boasting proudly about how well I was coping to the lockdowns to my wife just a night or so before. I had kind of convinced myself that I was invincible, that the quarantine hadn’t impacted me too much. But I suppose in an altered state or deeper conscious kind of way, I am pleased that today smashed that ego to pieces, and I am vulnerable to emotion just like everyone else. And proud to admit it too.

Nonetheless, I want to end this post on a positive note. Even though I first came aware of NPH 10 years ago while working with Casa Alianza, my first real venture into the NPH family began three years ago, almost to the day, when I worked in the projects department. I remember that one of the girls, who at the time was about 10 or 11, enjoyed practicing English with me. She was learning about positions and directions in class, so I played a little game to help her remember which I used to play at school when I was young and involves holding your hand out for your friend to gently pat/slap it.

So there we were, this animated young girl and I, sitting on a low wall outside her home.

“Give me five.”

Pat.

“On the side.”

Pat.

“Up above.”

Pat.

“Down below.”

Move hand out the way so she misses.

“Sorry, you’re too slow.”

Cue bursts of laughter.

She made me play this game with her for over a year, getting her friends and caregivers involved, and it spread like a wildfire among the girls, laughing hysterically as I moved my hand out the way.

You may have guessed it, but I saw this young lady today at lunch, three years older, smiling, happy, full of energy and again she wanted to play, yet this time she wanted to be the one that moved her hand out the way.

And she remembered every word. But before we parted and elbow bumped, she said, “Siempre te recuerdo, Nico.” – I always remember you, Nico.

And that made it all worth it.