...unsure what to do (no, this post isn't about what you think)

This morning, as we were getting ready for the bus to arrive, which happens at 6:30ish am, our doorbell rang. Whenever the doorbell rings or we hear the annoyingly wimpy metallic-sounding taptaptaptaptaptap on our gate (a sound that frustrates me to no end - just knock full-out dude, rather than sounding so sheepish with your wimpy pen-on-metal-bar sound), we brace ourselves and none of us want to answer. If it's someone we know and want to talk to, the person will just call out. If the doorbell or taptaptaptaptaptap sounds, it's either Mormons, Jehovah's Witnesses, or people wanting our money, either begging-style or watchmen collecting monthly dues (a subject already sore due to an unscrupulous, now-unemployed watchman giving us fake receipts and essentially stealing our money). Whoever it is knocking or ringing, we don't want to talk to them.

In all of the Latin American I've visited, people asking for money have been a common sight - any big city has them. None of them have been particularly overbearing or forceful in their pleas for money, and it's fairly easy to pass them by. But now that I live down here, I've found that people just come to our door and ask for handouts. And it's not like we can go anywhere - it's where we live; we can't just pass by and ignore. I know it sounds a little nasty to complain about people asking for money, when I've always had resources in abundance, but I can't help but be skeptical of most people's motives (it's pretty much always men who come by, and I think it's reasonable to guess 99 times out of 100 any money you give would be spent on booze or drugs, no matter what story they tell you about baby sisters needing milk or whatever).

Anyway. 6:30. Doorbell. WAY too early for anyone to come calling, especially someone who's begging. We do happen to be up, though, and I open the door. This guy speaks very good English, but like most guys who come by, he talks way too much, trying to be way too convincing to actually be convincing. He tells me his life story and I can't get a word in edgewise. Grew up in Houston. Somehow in Honduras. Stuck in Honduras. I don't understand why. The cops hate him and are unfair to him because he's not Honduran. Bladiblahdiblah. Through all of this, he's hiccuping. Actually hiccuping, like I thought only cartoon characters do when they're drunk. But he must have been. He wonders if we have any work he can do - he can do it all. I tell him it's not our house to have work done to it, and I tell him we will be going to work soon and I'm very sorry but can't talk right now. He asks me where I'm from, said something to the effect of "I thought you might be Christian." I tell him I am, but that doesn't change the fact that my ride will be coming in just a minute. But he doesn't shut up. Then the bus rumbles up and we have to go. We make extra sure to lock up carefully, because he's still just hovering. Gah.

This evening, our doorbell rings again. Dan answers, and it's the same guy. He launches into the same spiel, asking for work, growing up in Houston, Honduran police give him problems, and he's in bad shape. Asks if we're Christian, asks if we have a Bible we could give him. It's hard to say no to giving a Bible, but we each only have our own personal Bibles down here - I have scads in the States, but I decided to allot packing space and weight to other things I might use more down here than a spare Bible. Then he asks if he could have some money for rice and beans, because the cops won't let him work, they say his papers are no good, and he can't work. And the FBI is after him somehow, too? He certainly speaks English better than any other person asking for money than I've met. Dan offers some break and water, but he's not interested. He's up for the rice and beans, and so needs the money.

Well, I have some extra packets or refried beans, and we had a tupperware full of rice. While Dan still patiently listens to this guy's trying too hard, I scoop the rice into a ziploc bag, grab a packet of beans, and walk out to him. I say, "Well, we aren't comfortable giving you money, but if you are hungry and need food, we will gladly let you have this. It's exactly what you were saying you needed to buy. Here you go."

The man kind of ignores my offer and keeps talking about his various problems with the police and not working and the FBI and how he needs to get to the embassy and talk to the ambassador and can we help him talk to the ambassador because we are Americans and the ambassador is an American and he needs help because no one will listen to him. As he continues, I continue to hold the food over our gate, telling him that if he really needs to get to the embassy, he's been hanging on the wrong side of town ALL day, and that we're just teachers and we know nothing about embassy affairs, nor would we hold any more sway than a guy who's born in Houston like he supposedly is.

"Would you like this food or not?"

"No I won't humble myself to take food from somebody else."

"But you'll humble yourself to take money to buy the same food?"

He shifts his balance to the foot further from the gate. I continue, "We are more than glad to give you this food, sir, but I'm afraid that is the only way we can help you and if you don't want this sort of help I have to ask you to leave."

He takes a step back and says, "You won't see me again."

"Okay. If you still need the food, we are glad to help you out."

"Do you have a Bible?"

"Again, no extras, I'm sorry. If we did, you could gladly have one," I said, gently thrusting the rice and beans in his direction again, "but I'm afraid this is the only way we can help you."

"I will leave. You won't see me again."

At this point, he started to try launching into his litany of problems again, but Dan and I had made the only offer we could in good conscience, and a very reasonable one at that. We just turned around, walked inside, and closed the door.

Please don't lie to us.