One good thing about living a relatively long life is all the memories that bubble up when I least expect them. And lately I’ve been dipping into my vast reservoir of memories like a man overboard in a violent storm.
At times, I envy the man overboard: he sees what’s beneath the storm.
Right now, I need memory so I can dip below the stormy waves of cruelty and xenophobia lashing my country.
Many years ago, I lived in La Lima, Honduras, the research headquarters of what used to be known as the United Fruit Company, now United Brands. The mission there was to grow a better banana, resistant to sigatoka diseases, etc.
My role was that of a dependent spouse, taking on the do-good mission of wives of the men working in Quimica, the main building in the compound. Yes, it was a colonialist and imperialistic situation, to say the least.
Along with two English women named Allison and Veronica and Ida, a Honduran national, the wife of a higher-up in the company, we ventured into the company hospital one day to ask the doctor in charge for permission to open up space for a prenatal clinic. After much pressure from Ida, the doctor agreed to let us use a large stairwell as our “clinic.”
Until that point, pregnant female workers had had no prenatal care at all. Many died of pre-eclampsia due to the lack of routine blood pressure monitoring. As we began collecting information on large index cards, we soon noticed a pattern with some of the women and flagged their progress, alerting the doctors to various problems. We also advised women on breastfeeding and diet.
The hospital director would not allow us on the ward to help women during labor, which took place in a large open room with at least two dozen beds. But sometimes the women, especially first-time mothers, wanted us to be there afterward.
That’s when we noticed several babies born with no brain case or anencephaly. Whether it was genetic or due to the continuous spraying of the banana plantations, we didn’t know.
The poverty of those women, even though their men worked for the company, and so did many of them, was starkly apparent. Having numerous children meant that men could openly flaunt their sexual prowess. However, the women were not so keen on being pregnant constantly. Many wanted birth control pills or sterilization. One of our pregnant patients told us she was 29 years old. We asked her the routine question, “How many pregnancies have you had?” She replied, “Thirteen with this one.” We assumed she’d lost some, but when we asked her how many of those pregnancies resulted in live births, she said “Twelve.” All living.
When we left Honduras a few years later, Clara, who worked as our maid, requested a sterilization operation in lieu of severance pay. She had three children already. “Bastante,” she said, tearing up.
Working for the company as managers or other “white collar” positions came with perks, one of which was time off to spend in a mountain cabin near Lago Yojoa or the beach at Tela. There was also the option of flying to the Bay Islands off the coast.
Specifically Roatán.
My family and some friends stayed in a pension similar to the one in the photo. Mosquito nets and fans in those days helped us to pass the night. The next day, in the early morning coolness, we pulled on our bathing suits and flippers, grabbed our snorkels, and jumped off the end of the dock. Swimming out to the reef, we spat in our face masks and rubbed the inside of the glass.
In an instant, the world changed.
The dropoff was sudden. Below, I saw only the deep, jagged sides of the reef. And the water temperature chilled me. I paddled back to a shallower spot to avoid hypothermia.
Holding my breath, I dove down into a smaller crevice and found myself surrounded by curious fish.
And that’s what I hold in my mind these days, the vastness of the ocean and the teeming life below, where nothing matters but the beauty and the silence.
Beneath the storm.
CYNTHIA D. BERTELSEN 
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