A Rewarding “Vacation” in Honduras
One morning, after our tortillas and beans, José stood, removed his straw cowboy hat and looked out of the doorway of his earth-floor hut towards the hills.
“I saw the haruca in the forest last night,” he said. I glanced across at his wife, Maria, but she wasn’t smiling. She stayed near to the wood fire on the hearth, rigid and silent. “Walking through the trees,” he added.
I’d never heard the word before, but I could tell it wasn’t good. “Who’s the haruca?” I asked. As usual, he didn’t answer directly. Never give too much away to the gringos, even the friendly ones. They will take it and never bring it back. At last, he said: “It means there will soon be a death in the village.”
