“In order to live the life God yearns for us to have, we must let go of where we are now and what we love in order to live into the bigger place to which God is calling us. We have to be willing to endure chaos and not know where it will all end in order to experience new life.” (from Living into the Answers by Valerie K. Isenhower & Judith A. Todd).
Quotes like this kept me going during my time in Honduras. Now that I’m back, I realize how much of the “me” I know myself to be I had to be set aside, so to speak, in order to survive (emotionally) those ten months. This is a difficult thing to explain without sounding whiny, inflexible, judgmental, prudish, or culturally insensitive. While we could have been struggling with much rougher conditions, living in a third world country is hard. Period.
Luckily, I had read some of the information on re-entry and reverse culture shock, and my conversations quickly confirmed the materials were right—the biggest challenge is that most people can only hear my story by comparing my experience to theirs…or to someone else’s story they’ve heard second-hand. I suppose this is only human nature, but more than once I wanted to scream, “I’m pretty sure visiting a tropical island for a few weeks is not the same as living in Honduras for ten months!”
In many cases, I opted to just keep quiet and let the other person tell their story. However, I also had the wonderful opportunity to really share my journey in some detail in both public and more informal settings. One of the most healing evenings was with a couple of friends who asked me questions, listened carefully, and laughed hysterically with me at the zaniness of some of the stuff I put up with this past year.
The larger presentations, in Seattle and Montana, helped me to publicly acknowledge my gratitude for the financial, emotional and spiritual support people provided me. Although I worried about saying all the things that needed saying, I was reminded that some of the most important information comes through during the Q&A period. Another meaningful evening was an intimate gathering of women, during which we used my story to discuss how we must share the “gospels” of our hearts.
Since I’ve been back, I’ve preached three sermons, and I now understand why the minister of the church I attended during high school talked about his mission trips to Madagascar so much. Living in a foreign land where the needs are so much more severe than in the U.S. provides a global perspective that is handy to use when making a point about helping those with less.
I also had the privilege of writing and delivering the eulogy at my 99½ year-old grandfather’s memorial service this summer. We mourned our loss and celebrated his life with a large gathering of friends and family. While some of the family elders sat inside reminiscing, the younger generation was outside watching over children who chased “giant” grasshoppers, and those of us in the “middle-aged” group sat around citronella candles finishing off grilled steaks, listening to my brother’s tales of the modern day cattle rustling trial he participated in.
As I write this, I’m preparing for my next transition…two years of study to complete my MDiv at Virginia Theological Seminary in Alexandria, Virginia. I decided to ease into my new habitat by taking the train from the West Coast to the East Coast—what a great way to unwind!
So what were my biggest learnings from my time in Honduras? As a future priest, I learned that this is not “my” call I’m answering—this is God’s call. All I can do is try to answer that call as faithfully as I can, but I am NOT in charge!
As an individual, I think I am clearer now about the difference between faith and optimism (a query I refer to below in my 9/6/09 entry). It was optimism of sorts that took me to Honduras with the idea that I am a leader—I make things happen—and that even though I was signing up to simply be of service at the OLR home & school, most likely I’d be making changes and improvements as a leader…that’s just how my life works. But it was faith that helped me realize that even though I was not seen as a leader—at ALL—and even though there was nothing I could really do to instigate change—of any kind—I know that just showing up with an open, loving heart—everyday—made a difference in the lives of whom I interacted.
Inside I feel gentler, and after time with my friends and family, I feel renewed. God is good…all the time! ============================================================
FIBS & BLACKMAIL (6/5/10)
Very funny…the little “fibs” kids will tell to get what they want. Today I realized that there have probably been more than a couple of “fibs” that I was not aware of over the past year. Since I mostly don’t know the language here, I’m at a big disadvantage, but today my limited knowledge kicked in and paid off. I was tutoring one of the girls who will need to re-take her exams her next week. It was hot, we were sweaty, and she asked if we might study the other subjects tomorrow. “Sure,” I replied.
Then she called out to one of the tias to explain why we were quitting early. I typically try to figure out what’s being said, even if I’m not always successful, so a key phrase caught my attention—“tiene sueño”—which basically means, "she’s sleepy." Then I realized I had also heard “Miss Brenda” as part of the same sentence. Wait a minute! Now the tia sort of rolling her eyes at us made sense.
First I explained myself to the tia: “No tengo, sueño. Rosa tiene sueño,” and then I poked Rosa as I laughed, reminding her that I know just enough Spanish that she should always be worried. The side-benefit? A beautiful acrostic she created for her English exam that is only a teensy bit guilt-laden.
Beautiful girl Rosa loves her Enjoys Math New in Honduras Drinks Pepsi Light Angel girl
I only have seven days left in Honduras! Forty-something weeks ago, it felt as though June was a lifetime away. And, in many ways, it almost seems like years ago that I arrived. I’ve cycled through so much during that time. I also thought I might reach this point and be heart-broken to leave. Once again, however, I have the OLR girls to thank for being part of what feels like a blessing.
When I was having such a difficult time here, my saving grace was visiting the girls. Just being with them—hugging them, feeling them lean against me during tutoring, laughing with them—brought me the joy I so desperately needed. But, like all of us, they have learned to protect themselves, and none of them have let me get too close.
In fact, visiting the home is a bit of a crap-shoot. One day it’s Vanessa who crawls up into my lap. The next day, she shuns me and Karla takes a turn. For a couple of weeks in a row, Sophia would run toward me shouting, “Ho-la,” in a sing-song voice as soon as she saw me. These days, she makes a few faces from across the way, but takes her time in greeting me. And the older girls? Well, we’ve all been around adolescents, so ‘nuff said.
Early on, I committed to having what I call an “available heart”, so that whichever girl was ready for a cuddle or a song, I’d be ready to receive them. This has served me well. A few weeks ago, for instance, when classes were cancelled, but we teachers worked, a few of the girls dropped by my classroom to say hello. Word travels fast, so as soon as others heard I had candy to share, I had even more visitors. But Jacqueline, who rarely seeks my attention, hung out with me for a couple of hours. She borrowed my whiteboard marker and would occasionally call to me, “Mira,” (look), which progressed into her writing words in Spanish and having me pronounce them.
Lately, Dayana and Karla have been asking me to read to them in the afternoons. They are in the bilingual school kindergarten class, so they’re learning English, but I think they mainly ask me to read books in English, because they know that I don’t speak much Spanish. They love the voices I make and the animal sounds that accompany the dialogue, but they spend a good deal of time chatting while I’m reading aloud. By now, I know that’s just how it’s done here—people talk at the same time in almost all settings.
Along with the rotation of interest, there also seems to be a pecking order as well as some sort of hierarchy of loyalty. That is to say that if Vanessa has claimed me as her companion for the afternoon, she doesn’t want to share me with Kensy—Kensy may not even LOOK in our direction, thank you very much! Likewise, if Tia Belkis is around, Heidy will not have a thing to do with me.
And so it goes…my point is that while I’m grateful for the insight I had into always being available to share my heart, I’m also grateful that no one girl let me get too attached. I will miss having a daily dose of the ivory-soap smell on the skin of a child, and I will especially miss giving and sharing affection with these adorable girls, but I feel incredibly fortunate to be able to leave without feeling like I am abandoning anyone…or that I am leaving something undone.
I’ve been thinking about empowerment a lot lately. I suppose this is another example of what empowerment is supposed to look like—a form of interdependence rather than co-dependence or complete independence. However we might label it, I thank God for the little blessings in my life…all 65 of them!
Okay, so it’s not actually “silence,” but it’s the closest thing to silence I’ve experienced since I’ve arrived! In fact, I had grown so accustomed to the cacophony of dogs across the street, that I didn’t notice that they were gone. It appears that the neighbors have temporarily moved out of their house while they remodel, and they’ve taken their three dogs with them.
By the way, a remodel in Honduras is quite a sight! Apparently there’s not much of a foundation under the house, because in addition to the discarded ceramic tile piled out in the street, there is a HUGE mound of dirt and rocks! An older gentleman sits out front each day serving as sentry while the workers haul in supplies and carry out debris.
After about a week of the activity, one of my housemates commented that she hadn’t seen or heard the family lately, and we wondered aloud where they might be staying. Then it hit me—we also hadn’t heard “Judy” scratching on the iron gate to be let in; we hadn’t heard her owners calling her back from her late-night carousing; we hadn’t heard the afternoon play-fighting of the Dalmatian and the Cocker Spaniel; we hadn’t heard the belt-swatting and yelping that typically followed; we hadn’t heard the three of them barking at every horse-drawn cart or bicycling security guard that passed; and, come to think of it, we hadn’t heard the incessant, morning squawking of their bird, either.
Now that I’m aware of the missing noise, I almost can’t get back to sleep when I wake up in the middle of the night—I’m too busy marveling at the quiet.
That's what the neighbors call us--even the Pizza Hut delivery service has us in their system as the "casa de gringas". My housemates in order below: Yara from Holland, Hannah from Michigan and Emily from Illinois.
Today I told one of our neighborhood taxi drivers (Donilio--the one who drove us around when we first arrived last August) that I leave in two weeks. He said, "oh, mi corazon" (oh my heart) and told me how much he'd miss seeing us...so sweet.
I’m a cat-lover. My first word was “kitty”. I grew up with a cat always sleeping at the end of my bed, but I do realize that not all cultures—not even all people in my culture—feel the same about my feline friends. It was apparent to me when I arrived in Honduras, that cats are not often pets; in fact, we seldom see cats. Dogs abound, but even they are more often used as guards and not cared for as a beloved pet.
So when I arrived at our local taxi stand yesterday afternoon, I was delighted to see two, teeny-tiny kittens playing on the bench. In my limited Spanish, I commented on how cute they were, and was able to understand the two drivers as they told me that I could buy them, two for the price of one. We laughed and I moved on to explaining my destination and securing the price.
As my assigned driver answered me, he picked up both kittens by their necks dangling them in one hand like slinky toys stretched to their full-length. I started shaking my head trying to find words to “encourage him” not to hold them that way. When he opened the trunk of his car, my hands flew to my mouth in horror, and I gasped as I shook my head “no.” He tossed the kittens into the trunk, and the only word I could think to shout was “Muerto!” which I knew in some version means “dead”.
He and the other driver started laughing. This was apparently VERY humorous to them. They roared, holding their bellies in laughter, but they could also see I was terror-stricken and was not getting into the car. In my head I tried to remind myself this is a different culture—cats aren’t that important, but I kept wondering why he’d bothered to put cute little chains on their necks for collars if he was going to kill them.
Finally, he shook his head, opened the trunk, pulled out the box the kittens were in and threw it over the fence into the yard of the house next to the taxi stand. I decided that was better than nothing, and that in the scheme of things, I couldn’t worry about how cats were treated in Honduras. As we drove away, he tried to explain that he was giving the cats to his mother, but I wasn’t buying that story—he had put them in the trunk on a day that weather.com had registered as “90 degrees; feels like 106.” I felt sick to my stomach and tried to keep from crying as we drove down the street. “Only 20 more days,” I reminded myself.
Six hours later, my housemates and I called for a taxi to take us to dinner. Lo and behold, the same driver pulled up outside our gate. Since they had already piled into the backseat, I had no choice but to ride up front with the kitty-killer. After a few minutes he gently asked, “so you don’t like cats?” I started to smile at the thought of the earlier scene. He and his friend had thought I was scared to get in the car. They must have thought I was a really crazy gringa with a cat-phobia who wouldn’t even get in a vehicle with cats in the trunk! Oh my!
So for several minutes he and I had one of those conversations in Spanish where I understood about 3/4 of what he said, and I was able to say about 3/4 of the words I needed to say. I explained that, no, I really do like cats. “But,” I added, “they need air—that they can’t live back there,” while pointing to the trunk. He told me he really loved animals—all animals—so again I said, “well, then you can’t put them back there. They need air.”
Finally he laughed and asked, “so I should let them play up here? Turn on the air-conditioning for them? Play them music? Let them dance?”
I wish I had the ability to have figurative language roll off my fingertips onto the page. If I did, I’d describe last night’s thunderstorm for you in a way that you’d be able to hear the crack of the thunder as clearly as we did. I grew up on the plains of Northeastern Montana, but I can’t remember ever hearing thunder like this! (of course, that was a few years ago, so my memory may be fading!)
Usually the loudest sound in the Honduran rain showers is created by the rain pitter-pattering on the tin roofs, but last night the rain was overshadowed by the almost constant thunder. It was as if we lived directly under a bowling alley without any acoustical barrier in our ceiling. Then every few minutes the rolling was punctuated with what sounded like a very long, loud gunshot right next door. That reverberation would barely end and the next would begin.
The rain surpassed the stages of “cats and dogs”, and “coming down in sheets”, instead it appeared to be a cascading wall of water. And the floodgates had angled the downpour to aim directly into the open ends of all the buildings in the area—including our place. Behind our house, the field where our neighborhood “church bunnies” live, was waist-high with water within 45 minutes. By some miracle, several—maybe most of them—survived the storm and are out nibbling grass this afternoon.
Streets around us became swimming holes as the gravel recently hauled in to fill in the holes of last year’s storms washed away. Below are photos of two of my housemates testing the strength of the rain boots left in our house by a former volunteer. The worst damage we know about is that the 10 foot high, concrete wall, with barbed-wire attached to it, that used to separate one side of the OLR compound from the rest of the neighborhood, fell down in the midst of the storm. Hopefully, we’ll be able to get that repaired soon. In the meantime, extra guards are on duty to protect the home, the girls and all of the school property.
This has been an interesting week—being a part of a community that includes 60+ girls who aren’t living with their mothers makes for some intense emotions around a holiday like Mother’s Day. For the most part, the girls seem to maneuver these kinds of things with much more grace than I think I could muster. I suppose part of that’s due to the work they do with the resident psychologist, and some of it has to do with acceptance and time healing all wounds…that kind of thing…but it’s obvious that the success of the OLR home is grounded in love—pure and simple L-O-V-E.
When a couple of the girls had emotional melt-downs in the midst of the rehearsal for the school’s Mother’s Day program, it wasn’t the adults who provided consoling in the ways we might expect. Instead, it was the other OLR girls who stepped in to provide a hug, a smile, and a few encouraging words. While the tias are in the home as a consistent presence, these girls perpetuate a deep love for one and other. As soon as a new girl arrives, she is incorporated into the family. They become mothers to each other. For example, today at church, I watched as an eight year-old reminded a five year-old how to hold her hands to receive communion. Sure, there are the typical arguments and fights over toys, but most apparent is the love they have for each other.
Because it’s Mother’s Day—a day epitomized by unconditional love—I’ve been thinking about the things I’ve written over the past nine months, and how someone might ask, “and where do you see God in all of this?” To which I would reply without pause, “In the faces and hands of these girls who continue to help make God’s love tangible in this world.”
P.S. Apparently, people in Honduras like to get a head-start on the important holidays. My housemate had told me that one of her friends hired a mariachi band to play for her mom at 4am in honor of Mother's Day, and then around that time this morning, I heard a group of people in our neighborhood serenading their madre with song, shouts and noisemakers. Kinda cool, but very early!
An update on the post below: this week, right here out in front of our house, a man held a gun to the car window of one our neighbors. Most days, as we leave for school, we exchange morning greetings with her. One of my housemates will call to her toddler in his car seat, while our neighbor waits for her co-worker to arrive from down the street, but that morning, her schedule was different than ours. Luckily, she was able to step on the gas escaping harm, and her co-worker, who was still walking toward the car, was able to run in the opposite direction.
As my housemates and I processed what this means to our lives, I realized these events don’t make me any more scared. Actually, as I said below, I don’t feel afraid, and I don’t post these accounts so that people will sympathize with my current living conditions or worry about us. Each day that I count off as a day closer to my time here ending, I become more aware of the ways I have learned to cope. What I mean is, now that I only have about a month left, I am extremely congnizant of just that…I get to leave.
When I was initially faced with the safety issues of walking outside, I simply said to myself, “oh well, so I won’t go for walks—it’s only 10 months of my life.” I’ve used that phrase to reconcile a whole host of frustrating circumstances, and for the past nine months, I’ve sort of had all of this back in the “denial file” of my mind. But now—now that I can see the light at the end of my tunnel—I have to try to come to terms with the realities of a third world country. This is how people in San Pedro Sula live; this is how my students live; this is how the girls at home live, and this is how they will continue to live for a very long time. Very few of them will ever have the option of simply leaving.
I think I’m going to need a good massage when I get back to the states in June! Not that I’m doing “back-breaking” work, but every once in awhile, I catch myself holding all my muscles tightly in protection. Most often I’m not aware that I’ve tensed up, but I realize living under such precarious circumstances tends to worry me occasionally.
Open any guide book and you will read about the dangers of San Pedro Sula—related to robbery for the most part. Drive down the street and you’ll see signs of the problem—guards holding huge rifles outside almost every restaurant, bank, and supermarket. When a delivery truck pulls up, two armed guards jump off first, and then the driver begins his work.
Sometimes it’s easy to forget that the threat exists. We walk the block and a half to school saying hello to the usuals—the wheezing, shirtless grandfather who calls out, “Bye, bye,” and the little girl who runs to give us a flower blossom—and all seems calm. But just the other day, shortly after we had left the OLR compound, a gang of five men threatened the guards at the gate with a gun. And yesterday the OLR girls attended the funeral of a staff member’s son. He was a victim of an attempted robbery and was shot 10 times.
I know that anyone of us could suffer the same kind of random death at any moment, but the odds of that happening seem to be a lot higher here, and the weight of that feels like the heavy humidity we’ve been experiencing—you can’t touch it, but it’s there pressing down on you all the time.
This past week there was a special presentation at school in honor of Earth Day. Like so many things in the school’s curriculum, most of the ideas are completely irrelevant to the lives of these kids. They can recite, “Reduce, Reuse, Recycle,” and they’ve made posters for the hallways illustrating the motto, but it doesn’t really mean anything to them. They don’t have a dishwasher that they can run less, or a lawn mower that uses too much gasoline. Likewise, there’s no recycling center.
As I was walking home this afternoon, however, I realized how privileged I am to live in a society that has to create a slogan to remind us to reduce, reuse and recycle. At first I laughed at the sight, but then thought, “how ingenious…a flattened pizza box used as a sun-shade on a car windshield!” And then, because I’ve been thinking about this Earth Day thing for days now, it registered in a whole new way…most of these people don’t have to worry about reducing consumption, because they can’t afford a lot of the necessities to begin with. Only people in a throw-away culture, have to be reminded to reuse and recycle things. In places like this, people are happy to have a used pair of shoes or used t-shirt.
Of course I knew this before, but I think I’m finally beginning to understand it. I once heard someone say that one of the greatest distances in life is how long it takes for some things to travel from the head to the heart. Hopefully once it gets there, it stays.
Two of my favorite people in Honduras are Hugo and Esperanza. I see Hugo almost every Saturday around 9:30am. I know he’s getting close when I hear his voice on the loudspeaker calling out “Agua Purifcado” throughout the neighborhood. He tells me his late wife was a teacher, so I think we hold a special place in his heart as teachers—even if we are only volunteers.
Although he encourages me when I try to converse with him in Spanish, he prefers to demonstrate his English abilities. Until recently he wore a pair of gold-framed glasses that were so bent and twisted, I’m not sure how they stayed on his face. Lately he’s been sporting a pair of women’s bifocals; they’re in much better shape than the old pair, but these barely fit him. Things like this constantly reminded of how much I took for granted in the states—little things like hot and cold water, and other “luxuries” like being able to afford prescription glasses that fit properly.
Since I’m up early on Saturdays, I’m typically the one to interact with Hugo, but even if I’m not, he asks about me. A month or so ago, he left a bag of cookies for me with my housemate. Today, he brought a bag of chopped pineapple along with a small sack of oranges. Such generosity!
Esperanza was one of the first people I met in Honduras. When I arrived, she was helping prepare this house for us to move-in. She giggled at my excitement as I chose the furnishings for my room. Now I get to see her every week day, because she cleans the school. Esperazna is one of those people whose eyes light up with a sparkle when she smiles—and she smiles often. The other day, after I’d returned from a five-day trip, she gave me a big hug. She said, “I haven’t seen you for so long!” I confess, I had to ask another colleague if that’s what she had said, but her embrace communicated every word I was unable to understand!
I also have buddies at the taxi stand a few blocks from our house. Donilio always asks, “City Mall?” no matter where I’m headed, Jorge always flashes me a warm smile, and Hector seems to be quite serious about safely getting me where I’m going. Riding with them is a much different experience that any return trip. The other taxistas are typically ask questions along the same lines: am I married? Do I have kids? And don’t I need a Honduran boyfriend to teach me Spanish?
If we have luggage, or it’s after dark, we call the taxi stand to have them pick us up here at the house. Since there have been a series of volunteers living in the same house over the past several years, when they ask, “Donde?” (where?), we simply say, “Los apartmentos de las Gringas”, and they know exactly where to find us. It’s good to have a few compañeros here.
I haven’t figured out how to politely say, “I’m not ready to talk about this experience yet,” when someone asks me about living in San Pedro Sula, but I’m really not ready. It’s all still too hard to process, little ‘lone try to describe the issues coherently to someone else. I can’t quite make sense of my life in contrast to the lives I see all around me, so, as I’ve expressed in prior posts, I often end up feeling misunderstood when I do try to share.
This time I felt misunderstood by an expat living on Ambergris Caye, Belize. Since we have time off from school (Holy Week, or “Semana Santa”, is a huge holiday for most Latin countries), and I needed to update my tourist visa by traveling to a non-bordering country for a minimum of 72 hours, I decided to visit Belize (it’s beautiful, by the way; the water looks almost jewel-like in its light green color).
Without getting into all the details, I was trying to express how wonderful it felt to freely walk down the beach here in Belize—day or night—without worrying that I might be robbed at gunpoint. Hearing myself say these things, I began to sense that I sounded like an uptight “gringa”; I felt light-headed, and as I was asked more questions, I kept thinking, “I am not in the space to discuss the complexities of poverty!”
And then I recognized the look in the eyes looking back at me. It's the look that is paired with a saying I used to use myself—the cliché that denies the pain and brokenness of our world—which challenges, “well, if that’s how you choose to see the world, that’s how it will be.” So as I tried to describe both the pain I felt around seeing the poverty in Honduras, and the feeling of somehow being isolated from it because of what amounts to cloistered living for my housemates and me, I wasn’t surprised by the response—I knew it was coming. “You know, there’s a lot of poverty here, too, but I’ve really come to see the beauty in it.”
And for awhile, I felt ashamed at not being able to see the beauty in poverty. “What kind of person am I?” I wondered, “I must really need to do some more work on how I’m viewing the world!” But this morning, I woke up remembering the truth about poverty. “Wow!” is right. Wow, that I can let someone else’s limited view cloud what I know to be true. Poverty is NOT beautiful.
While I’m sure beauty is present in the lives of people suffering from poverty—just as there are moments of beauty in all of our lives—there is not beauty in poverty itself. Maybe poverty looks different here on a little resort island, or maybe poverty is easier to look past after one has lived next to it for a few years. But the makeshift housing I see in the corners of vacant lots in San Pedro Sula—a few pieces of wood holding up worn, blue plastic tarps—are not beautiful. Inside those dwellings are children who beg for food every single day, and who go home hungry almost every single day. Inside, there are women who are beaten and raped due to the extreme conditions they all endure.
The other day, I watched a small boy who frequents our street playing with the neighbor’s son. They took turns pushing little cars and trucks back and forth to each other through the locked wrought iron gate. Watching them play was beautiful, but knowing that Wilbur really needed to be on his way, because he had a big stack of tortillas left to sell? Not so much. From the stories he’s told another neighbor, we know that if he doesn’t bring home enough money at the end of the day, he’ll be beaten. Is there beauty in that?
Every few days I see a family drive by our house on their garbage wagon. By bordo standards, I’m guessing they’re probably fairly well-off since they actually own a horse and a cart, but their baby lies crying in a plastic dish tub covered by a broken umbrella. Despite the baby’s apparent illness, they will continue driving up and down each street hoping that they will find enough people willing to pay to have their trash hauled away—even though three or four other carts have already been down the same streets.
So please don’t ask me to tell you things in a way that you can handle them—I can’t handle them myself. And please don’t tell me you see the beauty in poverty—poverty is not beautiful.
I had been dreading last week; I spent a summer as the lead teacher in a science camp about 10 years ago—I know how stressful taking a bunch of kids on field trips can be. Much to my chagrin, however, it turned out to be my best week in Honduras…so far!
Each year Holy Family School participates in an exchange program with an Episcopal school in Florida. They send about ten of their middle-school students here for five days, and then a couple of weeks later, we send our kids to visit them. Instead of just attending classes together, they arranged for the kids to do some service work, so we spent the first three mornings painting the walls of the inner courtyard up in Pueblo Nuevo at the retreat center recently built by Our Little Roses.
The center, located about an hour from San Pedro Sula, will be both a retreat space for the OLR girls and visiting groups, and a training site for community programs and classes. During our time in the area, we also walked up to what would be the equivalent of a U.S. county seat, and visited a local school. The school is over-crowded with very little room for outdoor recreation, so a new site is being prepared for their future building. Unexpectedly, their initial digging turned up ancient Mayan relics, so the site will now also be home to a museum.
Archeologists from around the world have since discovered a Mayan city under the area. Because the gentleman showing us around had in his possession some of the recently found relics (for ”safe-keeping”…in a worn manila envelope), he allowed us to hold some of them. It’s amazing to think we were touching artifacts almost 2000 years old!
In the afternoons, our hard work, which was done in the blazing heat (winter is over and summer is back in full force), was rewarded with fun. We played in the pool of a private club—complete with a water slide—one day (“Mees Brenda, you are so crazy!!”), and another day went to see the new Alice in Wonderland movie in 3-D (and in Spanish). We also shopped at an arts and crafts market where the kids all bought bracelets for each other.
Later in the week, we made the 3.5 hour trek to the Mayan ruins in Copan. Even though I visited these last October, I learned a lot on this trip—as you might expect, a good guide makes all the difference. I have to say, though, the kids were much more impressed by the waitresses at the restaurant we ate at after the tour than with the ruins. These women brought the food and drinks up the stairs while balancing platters and glassware on their heads!
One of the things I found interesting was sort of re-visiting some of the culture shock I’ve overcome through the eyes of our guests. For instance, the U.S. teachers were beside themselves with the level of noise on the bus. “Is this cultural,” they asked, “or just these kids?” Surprisingly, I hadn’t really noticed the volume. Some of the other comments about organization and timing made me realize I really have adjusted a lot to the "mañana" attitude.
But my favorite part of the week was watching the kids become friends. While they were still sitting in separate groups (Honduran kids here and U.S. kids there) at dinner on Monday, by Thursday, there were love notes being exchanged between boys and girls. Friday’s good byes also included several declarations of “Best Friends Forever”. I was touched by the ability of youth to be so completely open hearted. They weren’t considering whether they’d ever see each other again, or what exactly their declarations of love and friendship meant, they were just enjoying what they knew to be true in their hearts in that moment.
Reflecting on the week reminded me of a line from one of my favorite Mary Oliver poems: “You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves” (from “Wild Geese”).
My imagination—combined with all the warnings I’ve received about the gang problem in San Pedro Sula—got the best of me the other day. To preface my blunder, let me explain that one of my housemates had invited over a visitor I’d never met before. I didn’t know much about him except that she had once teased that he was probably a gun-toting drug-dealer.
He didn’t really look like a gangster type, but when a “gang” of guys started pounding on our front gate only an hour after his arrival, I panicked. Everyone else seemed to be in their rooms with the A/C on, oblivious to the action below, so I first tried to sneak downstairs to peek out the window. Unfortunately, the crack in the inner gate is big enough that they saw me right away.
“Bueno,” one called out as another shouted something else in Spanish, a few others looked all around at our courtyard, and even more guys continued banging on the gate. I tried not to imagine what their intentions were, but reminded myself that our fence was high and topped with barbed wire—that I was safe. Since I couldn’t understand what they were saying, I slipped back upstairs, resigning to hide in my room until they went away.
However, my racing heart and my curiosity wouldn’t leave me alone, and I became even more determined to figure out what they were doing down there in the street. This time I slid over to the upstairs window to look down. Since it’s just a large metal screen, and they were equally determined to get my attention, they spotted me right away and started yelling some more.
Finally one of the guys— obviously the “gang” leader—started making a circular motion in the air above his head as he called out to me. Suddenly his gestures, along with the looks of their clothing clicked into place. Um, well, it seems that they were all wearing soccer uniforms, and what they wanted so desperately, was the soccer ball that had accidently been kicked into our courtyard!
“Lo siento,” I cried, “no entiendo Espanol!” (I’m sorry; I don’t understand Spanish), I shouted as I ran down to retrieve their ball.
By the time my heart had returned to a normal rate, a second ball flew into our back courtyard (did I mention that I had also overlooked the fact that a soccer tournament was taking place in the church lot that butts up against our back wall?). This time I laughed at myself, as I remembered enough Spanish to chide the little boys who came to retrieve the ball.
When I handed them the ball and they started to dash off without a word, I said, “Digame” (talk to me). The kid looked at me for a minute and then, noticing my upturned hands said, “Gracias.” To my surprise as he ran off, he added, “Thank you!”…just to make sure I understood, I’m sure.
I have to wonder—why, living here in a soccer-crazed country, did it take me seven months to learn that “pelota” means ball? I’m not sure, but I do know that I won’t forget it any time soon! ============================================================
IT’S THE SIMPLE THINGS (3/4/10)
Today I’m feeling grateful for all the silly stuff I get to share with these kids. They work hard in my classes and I have the reputation of giving the hardest and longest tests of all their teachers, but we also enjoy quite a few laughs throughout the day.
The eight grade girls now almost always respond affirmatively by saying, “Yup!” in unison, because I once told them about how cowboys in Montana prefer to use words sparingly. We have a “class pet” which is a photo of my big, grey tabby cat sitting proudly on my mother’s kitchen counter.
Last night we celebrated another housemate’s birthday. This time the festivities involved having about 25 of the OLR girls join us for a dance party. Talk about energy! Like any adolescent girls, they love to dance, play pranks on each other, take photos, and eat sweets.
This afternoon, one of the girls finished her homework before my tutoring time was up, so she slid onto my lap and read me a Bernstein Bears book. If only my Spanish was improving as much as her English has!!
Now that we’ve been here almost seven months, the change in height, hair length, and maturity levels is noticeable. What a joy to spend so much time just lovin’ on a bunch of girls!
Lately, I’ve been thinking about a quote I referred to in the women’s spirituality groups I previously facilitated. Cherrie Moraga, a Latina poet wrote, “The passage is through, not over, not by, not around, but through.” What I’m wondering, at this particular juncture, however, living in a third-world country, is whether even the idea of “through” is more ambitious than I am capable.
The past several days has provided me lots of opportunities for related reflections. Earlier last week, we went out to celebrate the birthday of one of my housemates. Since it had been a sweltering day, we chose a restaurant with an outdoor area up on stilts where the breeze would reach us, but, without much warning, the breeze turned into a huge windstorm. Part of a tree fell on a car below us, and leaves and dirt blew in from all directions. The effects were intensified as fruit and large seeds fell from the treetops onto the tin roof above our heads.
As the unstable building began to sway with the wind, we decided to move (read that “run”) downstairs. Luckily, the electricity didn’t go out until after we’d secured new seats. Needless to say, we did not get to enjoy a birthday dinner, but, fortunately, we were able to get a taxi to take us home via a route that was free of fallen trees. Watching the recent devastation in Chile, I was even more aware of how precarious life is in a place like Honduras where building codes seem to be very lax.
A few nights later, the taxista who drove me home from my weekly outing to the mall (where I can safely wander around at my leisure and get a “comfort” meal), gave me more to think about. He had spent a year or so in Memphis a number of years ago, so he was patient as I practiced my Spanish by discussing with him the economic challenges of Honduras. At one point, he said, “many people can’t afford to feed or clothe their families, but,” he continued, holding up his cell phone, “we all have these.” He shook his head and we agreed at the absurdity.
To add to the mix, yesterday was family day at the OLR home, which means the girls who have visitors were out in the exterior yard of the compound, visiting with their families. At first glance, the scene looked like any family gathering…different groups laughing and eating at various picnic tables. But as I walked by, I began to remember the few stories I’ve been privy to and observing details. For instance, one young mother was there visiting her two, very young daughters. She looked a bit haggard, but was wearing a festive, yellow dress. Then I noticed her pregnant belly. She’ll give birth within weeks, I’m sure. Immediately, I asked myself, “And what about this baby? What will become of her/him?”
Almost as quickly, as my brain swirled round and round with all of these experiences, I began asking myself, “What can I do? What difference can I make?” And what came to me is that maybe—and perhaps this continues to be my biggest learning here—all I can do is be WITH the girls, with the people struggling to feed their families. I am more and more aware that really there is nothing I can “do”…I can’t change the system, I can’t fix the political, economical and social problems all in one fell swoop—it’s all much more complex that I could dream of understanding. Instead, I said to each girl in my head, “I can stand here with you. I WILL stand here with you. I AM standing here with you.”
On this day, instead of moving through to the other side, I lift it all up. This African prayer sums it up for me: “Show us the light of grace. … illumine our souls with joyful delight when sadness tries to take over the day. Shine brightly on us today, God, until we reflect your glory as a witness to this world” (from The Africana Worship Book).
Six months into my tenth month stay, I am realizing that although there are lots of places I think I’d rather be when I’m in the midst of feeling frustrated with my surroundings, I know that if I left, I would absolutely regret not having had this experience. Below are four poems that will be a lasting memory of my time in Honduras.
In Literature class last week, the 8th grade girls read a poem by Julio Noboa Polanco called “Identity” in which he says he’d rather be a tall, ugly weed than an admired, watered flower. The following day we brainstormed some other contrasting elements in nature, next I gave them Noboa’s lead-in lines of: “Let them be a ….” and “I’d rather be a …”, and finally, I asked them to write their own poems. I was so pleased with their efforts.
When I asked if I might publish their poems on my website, they had only one demand—that both their first and last names be included! Enjoy, and remember that these were written in English by students whose primary language is Spanish.
”I’D RATHER BE…”
By Astrid Rivera
Let them be controlled temperatures; they are not alone and sure about their life, they can’t escape and play around the sky.
I’d rather be natural wind, like that I can play with my wings, and see everything.
I never have wanted to have life stuck, inside four walls of block and rock— to be controlled by another person.
I want to hear songs from the birds, I’d rather be natural wind. Like that I can whistle, and not give away my soul.
I’d rather help people day and night, I will fight to be free, like the sun’s light shining down.
“I’D RATHER BE…” By Maribel Alvarado
I rather be a wild horse than a domesticated horse.
If you want to be a domesticated horse, then march along like the farmer tells you, and let them brand their initials on your butt.
But let me be a wild horse, running the whole day, eating whatever I want and sleeping wherever I want.
I don’t need anybody telling me what to do, or branding my butt. Because I don’t want to be a horse who uses a saddle or a bit.
“FRIENDS OVER SOLITUDE” By Tania Santos
Let them be lone wolves. I’d prefer swimming around in the blue seas, seeing the good sunshine.
Let lone wolves have the dark night, all alone by themselves, wondering around lost in the deserts. I’d rather be a fish in a school.
We swim, dance, cheer for fun. But lone wolves, they’re up all night, watching the dark sky— nobody to talk to.
“Who I Am” By Claudette Sanchez
Let them be the odor of the drain in the city, always caged, going nowhere.
I’d rather be the sweet smelling flowers on the prairie, forever beautiful, growing free.
To be prettier when I’m getting old to live free, to move free, going wherever I want to go.
To be embraced by the wind to be kissed by the sun, and hugged by the rain.
I’d rather be who I am, being free, than being judged by my scent or being trapped by a cover.
Last night we were invited to an impromptu service in the school chapel. One of the OLR board members recently passed away, and some other board members were visiting, so a liturgy was arranged in his honor. Everything was very informal, including the dress-code. The bishop who celebrated, the visitors, and the girls all wore shorts…although, I think I may have spotted one girl sporting pajamas.
Even though the whole service was in Spanish, our celebrant—a “gringo” from New York—spoke slowly enough that I was able to understand almost the entire homily. I didn’t know the man we were memorializing, however, I was very touched to be reminded that we are never separate from God, and to hear that Nelson was a man we might all emulate as he lived his life fully. The girls’ own appreciation of life and community seemed to swell to the surface as warm smiles were shared across the room—even by some of the teenagers who typically seem to take pride in their sullenness.
As usual, sharing the peace took quite awhile because hugs and the words “la paz” are always shared between each and every one of the 70+/- girls. It really is a beautiful thing to experience. Afterwards, as we stood in line for communion, I wrapped my arms around the girl in front of me —a girl, I might add, who used to purposefully ignore me—and felt her lean back into me as we swayed to the music.
Meanwhile, the older girls, who, prior to the service, had been hesitant to even make suggestions for worship music, began spontaneously singing songs of praise whenever there was a pause in the service. And when that many girls start clapping and moving, everything else—the worries and concerns of the day—all just fade away. THIS is abundant life.
Feeling filled with the grace of God, I experienced today’s walk up the Coca-cola hill much differently than I have in the past. While my housemates ran up, I walked along in a meditative silence. I was overcome with gratitude, and in awe of the sounds of the birds, the lush green and the friendly, “Buenos dias,” from almost everyone I met. God is good…all the time.
Yesterday I made my second trip up the mountain to the Coca-Cola sign (photos below in 11/01/09 post). This time I was accompanied by about 100 Holy Family students and their parents. After two weeks of cold and rain, the weather was PERFECT—a sunny day in the mid-80s. At the top we made use of a dirt playing field that is mostly level, with only a few rocky areas, and has make-shift goal posts at either end.
There, the families engaged in a school-wide competition involving many of the traditional picnic games: the spoon race (but with limes instead of eggs), the parent-child piggyback race, a limbo line, a hula hoop spin-off, and mommies in a jump-rope contest, just to name a few. The yellow team was triumphant which made our bus-ride home quite celebratory since all of the OLR girls who attend Holy Family were part of the “equipo amarillo” (yellow team).
On the way up the mountain, my walking companion was a precocious 8 or 9 year old with excellent English skills. I said, to her, “Por favor, Vivian, necisito practicar my espanol” (I need to practice my Spanish). She agreed and what a teacher she turned out to be. With each phrase I practiced, she would smile and say, “Yes!”.
Duly encouraged I continued only to have her add, “Miss, you’re so cute.” Knowing that although I’ve gained a few Spanish words, I have a long ways to go before I master the accent, I laughed and said, “I sound like a gringa, don’t I?” To which she replied, “but, Miss, you are a gringa.” …Maybe the truth really does set us free!
=========================================================== CHILLIN’ IN HONDURAS (1/13/10)
Today marks my five month anniversary of arriving in Honduras. When I arrived, it appeared that every day would be around 95 degrees with high humidity, although we were told to bring at least one sweater because during the winter it might reach 60 degrees. “HA! Sixty degrees,” we scoffed, “that is not cold, and WE know what cold is.” But today we three North Americans (two mid-westerners and one Montanan), along with our two Dutch housemates, who are also used to frigid winters and snow, are comparing notes on what we wore to bed last night. My ensemble included long pajama bottoms with a pair of sweats over them, a long-sleeve t-shirt with a hooded sweatshirt over that (with the hood pulled-up and tied), and two pairs of socks under two blankets…and I was still cold! So as it turns out, 60 degrees is only “no big deal” when there’s a heater involved!
This morning I gave thanks that I am able to close off my room even though the ends of our house are open-aired, because after taking stock of how cold I felt, I realized the people in the nearby bordo don’t have the conveniences I am afforded. They, unfortunately, hardly have a roof to keep the rain off their dirt floor. When I took a shower this afternoon, I was doubly grateful for the contraption attached to my shower. (I can’t figure out how this electrical showerhead—that’s right, an electrical unit with water running through it—can be safe, but I am happy to have hot water despite any risks).
The average temperatures I’ve found on-line for January in San Pedro vary from highs in the 70s to lows in the 60s, but even so, our co-workers tell us that they typically don’t have to endure such a long span of cold temps (this one’s lasted for about two weeks now). The students, on the other hand, seem to enjoy wearing the stocking caps, scarves and gloves for which they normally have no occasion. While all of these sporty accessories make me smile, my favorite was when I spotted one of the girls walking around the courtyard at the OLR home in a long, fuzzy robe after school today.
Other news: on Monday afternoon, for about 20 seconds, we felt the rolling movement of the earthquake that had its epicenter in Guatemala. It was enough to leave us all feeling a little sea-sick for a bit, but, fortunately, it was much smaller than the quake that took place in Haiti, and we are left without any damage.
Perhaps you’ve noticed I’ve been blogging less often. I’m guessing that part of the reason is because I’m settling in more and have less culture shock, but I’m also aware that my cross-cultural experiences have me discerning more carefully about my posts. For instance, the 7th and 8th graders let me know they occasionally look at my site. Knowing them, they look at the photos and skip all these “boring” words, but just the same, I want to be careful not to tell their stories for them. (hmm…but that gives me an idea for an English writing assignment…stay tuned!).
Likewise, I know that some of my co-workers visit this site, and though I am not intending to offend anyone, I fear that I might. Another couple of cross-cultural experiences are taking place here in the volunteer house. One is that I am more than a few years older than the oldest of my four housemates (okay…22.5 years older to be exact), and, as I mentioned, two of them are from Holland. Many conversations—with them and others in our midst—leave me feeling misunderstood. Recently, I’ve become aware that I’m also misreading some non-verbal signals.
Now, more than ever, the prayer of St. Francis is my constant companion:
“Oh Lord, make me an instrument of your peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is discord, union; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy. Grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.”
I returned from the states around 10pm last night—just in time to settle in for the New Year’s Eve celebrations. The fireworks began around 11:30pm and lasted until at least 12:30am. By the sounds of it, EVERYONE in San Pedro must have had an arsenal of fireworks to set off! I could only see a few blasts of light in the sky, but the neighborhood was reverberating with bangs and booms. This morning the streets were filled with confetti as well. Now that’s a celebration!
I missed Christmas here, but the taxi driver who drove me to the airport told me that the Christmas celebrations outshine the New Year’s festivities by far. Based on what he told me (that is, what I think I understood, since my Spanish has improved only slightly…on the other hand, he was very good at charades), everyone stays up all night. He said things get so crazy in the streets that he never drives on Christmas.
Although I had a wonderful trip and feel completely rejuvenated, I am sad to have missed Christmas with the girls. I went over to the OLR home today for a tamale (a holiday tradition here), and to give/get some hugs. I heard all about the girls’ Christmas celebration…church in the morning (“Boring!” said one of the girls), followed by lots of gifts, plenty of food, and an afternoon of dancing (lit up faces all around as they talked about their dancing)!
Around Thanksgiving last month, I heard a heart-warming story about the way the OLR girls share so freely. A giant bin of flavored popcorn was delivered by the volunteer who brings things from the Miami office to one of the girls. As soon as she opened the can, she dispersed popcorn to all her friends in the home. Likewise, they each took some around to other girls until it seemed everyone had some of the tasty treat. The challenge came when she asked for help writing the thank you note. Unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be any indication from whom the package was sent.
A few weeks later, I began tracking down the birthday present my cousin told me she had sent. After several emails between the Miami office, the office here, and finally to the founder, Diana, who was visiting for Christmas, the details were pieced together. By cross-referencing inventories, Diana realized she had mistakenly given my gift to one of the girls. No wonder there was no indication of the sender!
Flying home for the holidays, I laughed thinking about how much I had enjoyed the popcorn story—probably more than I would have actually enjoyed eating the popcorn myself (and that’s saying a lot…I think it was Garrett’s from Chicago…NUM)!
Today was my last day of teaching and tutoring for 2009. There’s one more day of school, but I have to head back to the states early for a couple of meetings. I’ll have a few days in the Bay Area which will include my admissions interview at CDSP (the Episcopal seminary), a few days in Seattle, and then a day-long train ride to celebrate Christmas with my parents before returning to Honduras. Since it’s been in the low-to-mid 90s here for the past four months, I am a little nervous about the sub-zero temps of the Montana prairie!
As hard as it was to say just a couple of goodbyes today, I cannot imagine what it will be like when I leave for good in June--Ugh! Here’s a shot of some of the girls and I mid-tutoring. A little Math, a little English and since Sofia joined us, a few play-dough tortillas in between! This photo also shows the courtyard at the center of the OLR home. The fountain at the center (in between Santa & Mrs. Claus) has a few resident turtles.
Math was always my favorite subject in school (except for that year of college calculus!!), so it’s not surprising I enjoy my math classes, but now I find myself loving math even more because of the connection it provides me with the OLR girls. In addition to teaching 7th & 8th graders and helping them make up for lost time (they had four different math teachers last year and two months without a teacher), I’m the one who usually helps the 10 years-old and up OLR girls with their math homework. I have so much fun watching them become more confident in their skills, and they have fun teasing me about how much I like math! Of course I exaggerate and ask, "we're done already? But we hardly got to have any fun yet!"
In addition to the reward of their smiles, I always have time with the little girls to look forward to after tutoring. Today was extra special because Rosio, the baby of the OLR home, took some of her first solo steps! Then Karla, Vanessa, Nahomi, Sofia and Kensy all took turns (two at a time, of course) sitting on my lap as we unwrapped the candy treats someone had given them. Ah…the simple life…sugar, grins, and hugs. Does it get any better than that?
Political Update: I’m not sure why now, but in the past few weeks, we’ve hearing more anit-U.S. comments. Some people are complaining that if it wasn’t for Obama, they’d have Zelaya back in the presidency continuing to make the good changes he was working on. Others say, “Honduras doesn’t have any problems besides Zelaya…he should just go away.” So like any issue, there are many people on both sides. Meanwhile, Zelaya is still living in the Brazilian embassy. Here are a few of the articles about the situation I’ve read recently:
You may have heard that the Honduran elections went off without a hitch and that Porfirio ”Pepe” Lobo, of the more conservative National Party, was elected President and will take office in January. The congress also recently voted that they would not reinstate Zelaya during the interim period. Even though we had heard about people who were boycotting the elections because they viewed them as illegal, and some who were planning to burn ballot-boxes, there was no anarchy, and no curfews nor electrical shut-offs. PHEW!!
Since our Thanksgiving holiday coincided with the post-election holiday, we had a four-day weekend, so my housemates and I slipped away for some R&R. We went to a teeny, tiny diving town on the island of Utila. Because it’s their low season, we found a screaming deal at a diving lodge right on the water. Although it rained (POURED, actually) non-stop for two of our three days on the island, we enjoyed the down time immensely. The island is full of ex-pats, and also has Garifuna-Caribbean influences, so English is the predominant language. In fact, our lodge is owned & run by a woman from Minot, North Dakota. When I asked how she ended up there, she replied, “we came for two years, and sixteen years later it still doesn’t feel like it’s time to leave.”
Here are a few photos from the neighborhood in San Pedro. The larger, yellow structure in the background (and the shot with the graffiti) is the volunteer house. By the looks of most buildings, including the one under construction you see below, I’m guessing the concrete block business is flourishing in Honduras!
The other photos include one of the “little” roses choosing ornaments for their Christmas tree and a shot of the sunrise out my bedroom window. Every morning around 6:30am, a pair of yellow birds light in the same window and sing for a few minutes (I miss them during the week since I’ve already left for school).
This Thanksgiving, I am grateful for resilience. This morning in chapel, I silently prayed, “Thank you, God, for sending me here.” For a split second I thought an alien had taken control of my mind, but then I realized that I meant it. It’s taken awhile, and when things felt really difficult, I never imagined that I’d be having these thoughts, but here I am, and I AM thankful to be here having these experiences. I’m also completely aware that my resilience—the strength that saw me through the hard transitions—is grounded in the support system provided by friends and family. Support I see as the just a few of the many facets of God’s love made visible in my life.
Today began with a Thanksgiving chapel service that was absolutely magnificent. A group of our 4th-6th graders performed a short play in place of the sermon, some of my 7th & 8th graders served as acolytes, a few 1st–3rd graders prayed prayers of thanksgiving, and one of the preschool classes sang a fun “Gobble-gobble” song. Then, because it is my birthday, the priest gave me a special blessing while tears of humility and joy rolled down my cheeks. And my concept of “family” expands…
At both the Episcopal church we attend on Sundays, and at the school chapel services, we hold hands during the Lord’s Prayer. So another touching moment for me this morning was when little Vanessa, the four and a half-year old I wrote about in my recent email update, noticed I still had one hand free. She reached up and connected my hand to hers and her classmate’s. And my sense of family expands…
After the service and some other school festivities, one of the teenage girls from the OLR home came to deliver her hand-made birthday card and a note she’d written to me. The note told me how much she hoped I would have a wonderful birthday, how glad she was that I’m here, and that she hoped I knew even though I was far away from my family, that I now belonged to a very big family. Oh my…how my family is growing!!
Several people have asked, so I thought I’d note that we haven’t heard or seen much here in San Pedro about the upcoming national elections even though they will be held this Sunday. It sounds as though prior concerns that curfews will be reinstated were just people worrying. On the other hand, my experience here tells me that could change in a matter of minutes without any warning.
I've been told that some of the current unrest in Tegucigalpa is being caused by governmental employees who will lose their job if a new party takes office. Another interesting fact I learned today is that the current interim president, Michelleti, is of the same party as the ousted president, Zelaya. If I understand things correctly, the person who normally would have stepped into the role of president once Zelaya left, resigned last year so that he would be eligible to run for president this year. So Michelleti was simply the next congressional person in line to assume the office.
When I left for Honduras, I stashed several of my favorite movies in my suitcase. I realized the DVDs wouldn’t take much room and that watching a good, romantic comedy now and then would provide a temporary remedy to homesickness. My housemates and I will probably have most of the lines memorized from those twelve films by the time we return. We all have laptops, so the movies also provide us with entertainment in our individual rooms when we need to escape community living.
Anyway…a few days ago, I watched one of my favorites: Michael. If you haven’t seen it, it’s a humorous, feel good movie starring John Travolta who plays an overweight, beer-drinking, woman-loving angel. At one point in the movie, he says, “you know I invented lines. Before that everyone was just milling about.”
I laughed extra hard when I got to that point in the movie the other day, and thought, “well, he never made it to Honduras!” Those of you who know me very well, know how much I appreciate “order” and “structure”, so imagine my distress when I discovered they don’t “line-up” here to use a public bathroom. They just all crowd into the open space between the sinks and the doors and push to the front to use the next stall. The same thing happens at the pulperia.
“Pulperias” are little “mom & pop” type stands all around the neighborhood—usually attached to people’s houses—where you can buy almost anything you want: a bag of chips, a few vegetables, a couple of eggs, toilet paper, dog food, batteries…you name it. But you can’t access any of it yourself—you wait in front of the barred window and ask for what you need. As a result, customers have to wait to be served one at a time. But if you’re not paying close attention, two or three people might fill in any gap you’ve left between you and the window. Oh, how I wish Michael would visit! :-)
Here are a few more things I’ve noticed about Honduras (warning: my ongoing culture shock may show through just a teensy, tiny-bit): -if a song is good, it’s even better when it’s loud—and I mean really, really loud…even in church…or in your car with the windows open at 6am.
-if one person can do a job, it’s better to have five or six people do it and make it last longer.
-if the floor is dirty, a bunch of disinfectant thrown down and sloshed around oughta’ do the job—rinsing out the mop at any point would just be a waste of time.
-since toilet paper can’t be flushed anyway, it’s not really a necessity…even at a school.
-if you really loved their country, you would learn the language (not only are they VERY patriotic, rather than finding you endearing when you try to speak Spanish, they are more likely to make fun of you).
-if someone else might pick-up the trash, why worry about where you throw it?
-if you are overweight you know it too, so of course your nickname will be “gordo” (fatty), but it’s a term of endearment.
-if something can be hand-printed in nice penmanship, a computer print-out is second rate.
I don’t have much to write about this week—the students were hyper all week because of the three events scheduled for Friday: we had the school elections, the city newspaper came to photograph a short dancing program the pre-schoolers were performing, and the bimester grades were distributed in parent-teacher conferences. Hopefully next week will be back to normal…whatever “normal” is. We’re getting close to the national elections (November 29), so there is talk of returning to curfews...UGH!
On a lighter note, yesterday I found out why you can’t trust the translator programs online. We “gringas” are in charge of the Thanksgiving chapel service (they don’t have a Thanksgiving holiday here, but as a bilingual school, we are celebrating the day), so I was trying to translate a prayer for the priest who will be presiding. As I was having my housemate check my work, I kept asking, “why does it say ‘Holy Alcohol’?” Finally we figured-out that the translator had read the word “spirit” in “Holy Spirit” as the kind of “spirits” that we drink. Sometimes a good laugh just feels so good.
============================================================ NOT IN MY BACKYARD (11/8/09)
I have often been intrigued by the way it seems to be easier for us to talk about problems outside of ourselves, outside of our community…outside of our country. We seem to be more likely to send aid to save the whales or help the people of Darfur then we are to help the homeless person outside our own door. I realize this is a broad generalization, and yet I wonder if it’s an inherent human tendency—maybe a self-preservation tactic of some sort.
Of course, it’s easier to notice this when we ourselves are somewhat distanced from the situation. Last summer I spent a couple months in my hometown in Montana which is located on an Indian reservation. Being there for more than my typical 4-5 days made me realize how pervasive the poverty is there, while the realities of that poverty is simultaneously denied by many of the townspeople.
Now that I’m in Honduras, I’m seeing the same phenomenon. A few weeks ago, for instance, the priest at the church where we worship with the OLR girls suggested we remember the poor by sending money to Africa. Half of the participating congregation are orphaned children or someone who works at OLR, but money should be sent to Africa? How does this make sense?
I’m writing about this today, because I had a profound conversation with my seventh grade class this past week. In the middle of literature class, while I was translating the word “begging” for them, we began discussing how it is we respond to people in need. When one of the boys asked if I gave money to the little children who “beg” in the streets of San Pedro, I tried to explain, that although I don’t, I am giving a year of my life to help OLR. Another boy responded that the girls at the home have everything they need—that there is no reason to help them. He added that his father told him some parents just leave their daughters at OLR to be taken care of—that they pay OLR to raise their children so they can go live a life of leisure some place else.
Although I was a little shocked, I realized this is it—it’s just too painful to admit that the need can be so great right here in our own backyard. Interestingly enough, two new little girls just arrived at the OLR home the week before last, so I was able to depict the state of Bridget and Sophia for the class. I described Bridget’s bloated belly—a symptom of her malnutrition; I relayed how scared both girls looked; and eventually contrasted that visual with the image of Kensy and Rosio, the sisters who have blossomed over the past month.
As I talked, their eyes grew big and their voices quieter. Finally, one of the boys asked, “so if someone had been saving up their money and they had maybe 10,000 lempiras in a box, could they give that to the OLR home?”
“Yes. Yes, they can.”
And then—because after all, they ARE twelve year-old boys—they had to throw in a little humor, so when I suggested that they go home and give their parents appreciation for the love, food, and shelter they are provided with, the three guys who are best friends all stood up for a group hug. Hmmm…maybe God IS using me here after all.
Moving to Honduras has been a difficult adjustment for me, but yesterday I really felt alive. Who would have guessed that a hike to a giant Coca Cola sign could make me feel so great. Throughout the day, I was aware of the ways I have really settled in to my new surroundings, and, gee, it only took two and a half months!!
Our day started with us arriving at the OLR home just before 6:30am as we’d been told that would be our departure time. Plans had changed, however, and the girls were just getting ready and starting to go in for breakfast. Instead of stressing about the time-frame, I just sat in the courtyard and enjoyed the parade of freshly awoken little girls with mussed up hair and cute little jammies. Their smiles (or forced grimaces for effect) melt my heart!
About 15 of the older girls, one of the tias and all four of us volunteers piled into the van and off we went. Of course our 15 minute ride to the trailhead was accompanied by the radio turned up and the girls all singing along at the top of their lungs to their favorite pop songs (mostly American). Within minutes of starting up the trail, several of the girls were scampering up steep side trails to avoid the switchbacks. Some of us much older girls, however, stuck to the paved roadway.
The vegetation was lush, the views amazing, and since it was early, the heat hadn’t set in yet. One of the things I enjoyed most was the friendly, “Buenos Dias” exchanges all along the way. The area seemed to be a natural reserve or park that is well used by walkers and bikers. Since most of our time is typically spent indoors (inside the school, the mall, restaurants, or the house where it’s safe and cool), it was pure joy to be out in nature.
At the top of the mountain, there were more spectacular views as well as several fruit trees. By the time we were ready to make our descent, the girls had loaded up pockets and shirttails with limes, something called nances which look a little like small Rainier cherries, and some other football shaped fruit called cacao.
Once we reached the bottom of the hill we waited on the bus for about an hour. Again, I was amazed to notice that the wait didn’t really bother me. We were sitting in grassy, shaded area and I was enjoying hanging-out with the girls. They entertained themselves by getting water from a guard at a nearby house, and then playing soccer in the street with a ball that miraculously appeared. No one complained the entire morning…amazing!
On the way home as I recognized the shops that tell me we’re getting close to “Colonia Villa Florencia”, which is what our neighborhood is called, I thought, “Wow…I can remember when I thought these buildings all looked the same to me and how I felt like I’d never figure out how to get to the supermarket and back!” Now when I look out our window and see the Coca Cola sign in the distance, it will serve as a great reminder to me of my progress.
Earlier this month, we took advantage of one of our holiday to make the 4-hour trip to Copan Ruinas to visit the Mayan ruins. The site is quite amazing. At first it was a bit confusing because many of the structures seemed to be in such great shape while others looked more like piles of rubble. Eventually, however, we were able to ascertain there had been a lot of reconstruction in the 1930s.
One of our biggest learnings as a group of “gringas”, as they call us, is to ask more questions rather than just being what we think of as “polite”. When we arrived at the site, there were lots of official-looking guides with name badges, sticks with feathers on top of them (for gathering their particular group of tourists) and matching polo shirts. They asked us, “English or Spanish”, and a woman was assigned to us. Although we noticed she also paid to get inside, we passively accepted her services.
She provided us lots of information over the two-hour tour, but we started to wonder aloud to each other when we were out of earshot: “do you think we need to tip her at the end?” (tipping is not typical in Honduras); “why don’t other groups have a guide with them?”; “if we do have to give her some money, what will be appropriate?”. Sure enough when our tour was over, she looked at us and simply asked, “who will pay me?”
I think by that time we all had a number in our head of what we might pay based on the minimal amounts we pay for other services, so we were in shock when she answered our, “how much” with “600 lempiras” (about $30 US)!...so much in shock that we didn’t argue, just paid her the money. While her guidance was much appreciated, we are learning that as North Americans, we pay more for a lot of things…like the bus ride home.
P.S. I'm having trouble uploading the photos, but here's one:
============================================================ BOTH SIDES OF THE COIN (10/20/09)
Once again I am reminded of the difference between studying a concept and actually living the idea. For instance, I’ve had many conversations and participated in lots of class discussions over the years about how much more value some cultures put on relationship than others. Looking back I realize that I romanticized that value while simultaneously trashing the individualistic ways of our North American society, without thinking much about how an emphasis on relationship might effect other outcomes. This week I witnessed both sides of the coin, so to speak.
As I’ve mentioned in other posts, the staff meetings here can be a bit trying when everyone talks at the same time, raising their voices as the conversation progresses to be the one who is heard. During today’s meeting there was, from my North American perspective, more “order”, but probably not much more “productivity” than usual. As we reviewed the successes and challenges of the Folkloric Festival, almost every teacher told their version of the same thing—they were all disappointed by this year’s food. As I listened to each person speak, I started to realize that whether we “solved” anything or not was not the issue at hand for them. What seemed to be most important for them was that they each had a chance to tell their story. Although I’m convinced that the notes taken about the feedback will be long misplaced before it’s time to plan next year’s event, which feels like a waste of our time today to me, that’s only based on my expectation for meetings.
On the other hand, I was nearly in tears recently as I watched my seventh grade boys offer support to their classmate. This particular boy is new to the school—a kid I really expected to have a hard time fitting in because he doesn’t have the typical machismo attitude that the other guys display. But I was wrong. The other students didn’t even seem to notice the differences—he’s their classmate, so they include him…simple as that. Yesterday he kept wiping tears off his face and then asked to go the bathroom because he thought he was going to be sick. When he returned, the other boys and I asked what was the matter. As he explained a family situation that he was really worried about, the boys came forward and took turns hugging him. We’re talking about seventh grade boys…hugging each other in school!!! No one pressured them, no one made fun of the tears…they simply saw someone hurting and they responded with love. WOW!
============================================================ FESTIVAL FOLKLORICA (10/19/09)
On Saturday, we celebrated the rich traditions of Honduras at the school. Each class from pre-school to Middle School created a display booth called a “champa” to represent a different area of the country (photos below). One of the booths even included a clay oven. Others included saddles, boats, sand, traditional pottery, and more—visual presentation is a very important aspect of the culture.
The whole community was invited to stroll past the displays and then watch an afternoon of dance performances by each grade. The students all came in costume, and even the Middle School kids, who had been acting like they thought this was the stupidest idea earlier in the month, danced their little hearts out. In addition to the best decorated champa, each grade competed for the most beautiful Indian Princess and Prince honor. The parents also pitched in by providing typical Honduran dishes for dinner. Some of the food, such as the tortillas, were cooked right there.
While Saturday had the crowd moving chairs around trying to find shade from the heat of the day, yesterday was a full day of rain and slightly cooler temperatures. The whole house was excited to put on long-sleeve tops and longer pants for a change! The excitement continued as we felt the tremors of an earthquake (5.3) mid-morning…never a dull moment!
I was already dressed for school and had the coffee brewing when I could hear my housemate upstairs saying, “Que bueno” (very good) in a much livelier tone then is typical for 5:45am. The good news she’d just received was that today has been declared a National Holiday, so there’s no school today. No…it’s not another curfew…something much more exhilarating...
Imagine out of control fireworks (before they were illegal in the city limits) from the 4th of July, combined with the thrill of your favorite team winning the Super Bowl, added to the wild celebrations of New Year’s Eve, and you will have the beginnings of the scene here in San Pedro Sula last night. And that’s just what I observed from the confines of my house, I’m sure areas around downtown and near the stadium were even crazier.
Why all the hoopla? Part of the excitement is because the US soccer team beat Honduras on Saturday, depressing everyone with the thought of trying to beat El Salvador last night. However, last night, because the US also tied with Costa Rica equalizing some of the standings, Honduras, for the first time in 28 years (little, poor, politically-strained Honduras) has qualified for the 2010 World Cup to be held in So. Africa.
I’m not a big sports fan (shhh…don’t tell my Honduran colleagues that I had to look up some of these facts on the internet), but this is worth noting, because, unlike all of the political activities that have been centered in the Tegucigalpa four hours away, the soccer team plays right here in San Pedro. Vive Honduras!!
Here's a photo of the "Basura" (trash) man. He rides up and down the streets of our colonial, shouting, "Basura! Basura!". We pay him 10 Limperas (about 50 cents) to haul away a big bag of trash.
============================================================ POLITICAL UPDATE (10/10/09)
Now that the curfews have been discontinued for over a week, we aren't hearing much about the political situation here in San Pedro, although the teaching staff was asked by the school administration to not discuss the situation, or our opinions, with the students or with each other. We also received a notice from the US Embassy recommending we do not attend the US vs. Honduras soccer game taking place here in San Pedro tonight.
Here are some reports on the situation recently forwarded to me...as you'll see, the issues are very complex:
============================================================ JUST ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE (10/8/09)
I’m hesitant to post this, because I don’t want to instill worry for us, but I think the following paints a vivid picture of the intensity of living here, so here goes…
Today was quite a day! Around 9am—two hours into the school day—as I worked in the teacher’s lounge, I could hear some screaming out in the hallway. From where another teacher and I sat, it sounded like a very rambunctious student, so she ventured out to investigate. Soon after she left, one of the administrative staff whom I’ve never before seen in the lounge, came in and started talking on her cell phone. I couldn’t understand what she was saying in Spanish, but I could sense her fear. I was guessing maybe she was dealing with a family emergency.
When she hung up, she motioned for me to be quiet, said “Policia” (police), and held up her fingers to her head in a gesture to indicate shooting. I kept staring at her wondering what was going on. Should I move out of the line of the doorway? Were the police going to shoot us? Had someone already been shot? The only thing I knew I could do that wouldn’t cause further problems was pray.
She motioned for me to be quiet again when we heard a knock at the door. At that point, I’m sure I stopped breathing. We didn’t answer, but the door opened. Much to my relief, it was the other teacher coming back to tell us what was happening. As it turned out, a woman and her father were walking outside the compound of the school/OLR home when a man tried to steal their cell phone. She spotted the school guards and ran to them for help. As she ran inside the gates, one of the guards fired a shot from his position up above the gate.
The woman was so scared that she assumed it was the thief was shooting, and in her shock concluded that her father had been shot. She ran past the guard station, beyond the home and up the stairs into the school where she threw herself on the floor and began wailing, “My father is dead! They shot my father!” As the emotions flew through the hallway, the stories about what was transpiring spun out of control. In the end, no one was hurt, but I’m still not sure if the thief was apprehended or whether the cell phone was recovered.
I know this kind of thing could just as easily have happened in downtown Seattle, but there’s something about the abundance of visible guns that is really wearing on me. Most of the bigger stores, banks and restaurants have armed guards outside of them—and we’re talking big, semi-automatic weapons, not little revolvers; the guards at the school all have pistols hanging out of their pants pockets, and on the way home today, I walked past a group of the neighbor boys—all in their late teens—checking out the revolver one of them was holding. We are careful when and where we walk, as well as mindful about what we are carrying, but events like this remind me that there really is no such thing as “security”.
P.S. I should probably add that although the experience was scary, it also brought us some wonderful belly laughs later in the day as the older students and teaching staff swapped stories. For instance, one teacher giggled about how she demanded her students dive under her desk, but she went first and then there wasn’t any room for kids!
============================================================ WIDE MARGINS OF GRACE (10/2/09)
Recently a friend told me his prayer for me included "wide margins of grace". I appreciate the spaciousness of the sentiment, and I have the feeling that’s what I experienced that very day—a wide margin of grace. The day before, most of the 8th grade girls did their best to wear me down. They sang when they should have been listening, they put their heads down on their desk when they should have been looking at the whiteboard, and they spoke Spanish when they should have speaking English. Three of the four are from the OLR home, so I continually remind myself that they’re dealing with things I can’t imagine, but still…at the end of the day I was almost in tears.
The next morning, I was absolutely dreading going back to school even though I’d given myself several pep talks and prayed numerous times. As a last ditch effort, I decided to sit down outside the school to say one more prayer. This time as I prayed for support from God, I was given a powerful image. In the vision, the people I know and love began to step forward, one by one, into a huge circle. It was just what I needed—to remember that I am not here alone—that you are all here with me in spirit surrounding the girls and me in love (THANK YOU!). I had a much better day with them, but of course, I know that adolescent girls will be up and down and back around again over the months to come, so I will be counting on that "wide margin of grace" again and again…and again.
To make that day even better, the 7th grade boys proceeded to melt my heart. As it turns out, they are CRAZY about Spelling Bees. They LOVE racing up to the board and seeing who can finish writing first (even if they can’t remember how to spell the word!). In fact, in the end, they don’t even care who wins (I have a feeling that even though the inclination doesn’t hold true in all settings, there are some cultural aspects to their non-competitiveness). So on this particular day, one of the boys took the lead by nodding to the others to watch as he got down on one knee, clasped his hands together, and began to plead for yet another spelling bee. The others looked at him for a second, and then, as if part of a synchronized dance team, went down on their knees one after the other. How could I refuse? Lucky for me, they accepted my offer to play their beloved game for just 10 minutes!
============================================================ A WINTERY ECONOMY (9/26/09)
Two things worth noting today: 1) the blasted curfew continues & 2) winter seems to have arrived! As we talk more in-depth to some of the teachers and friends we’ve met here, we’re realizing the complexity of the issues. While some people thought the interim government brought great promise, they are now frustrated by the ongoing political crisis which is creating more stress on the economy of Honduras rather than helping things. Here’s a video I watched earlier today that presented that point well. Plus it will give you a good feel for what Honduras is like: http://english.aljazeera.net/news/americas/2009/09/2009926142318826278.html .
Now, let me describe for you what the Hondurans call “winter”. The temperature hasn’t changed, but it has begun to rain…A LOT!!! It comes down in buckets making a huge racket on the tin roofs. The streets quickly fill with water and soon it looks like we’re living on a fast-moving canal. Because of the heat, there is also plenty of lightening. And then, of course, there is thunder—thunder like you’ve never heard before. One of the downsides is that our interior staircase gets very wet & slippery since it’s alongside the open-aired wall. The upside, however, is that the combined effects are so loud that we can barely hear all of the barking dogs!
============================================================ THE CURFEW (9/21/09)
What excitement...Zelaya, the ousted Honduran president is back in Tegucigalpa! Although there is nothing going on here in San Pedro Sula, we are home under curfew from 4pm today until 6pm tomorrow (no work, no school), as is the rest of the country.
It’s WILD, because earlier we channel-surfed the local channels watching what appeared to be a balance between the pro-Zelaya protest coverage and the Michelleti comments (head of the interim government). Just now, however, I listened to a guy outright lie to an English-speaking station on a phone interview. He claimed this is a human rights issue and that none of the pro-Zelaya protests were being broadcast—that these stations were being blocked.
He then said that over 70% of the Honduran people are for Zelaya, but everyone I’ve talked to from people at the airport, to the teachers at the school, to the people we've met out on the road all say that only a few people are for Zelaya and that Zelaya’s administration pay poor people to protest on his behalf. I’m sure I don’t know the full story, but I now have first-hand experience of how distorted the message can become. ============================================================ HOLIDAY (9/20/09)
Now that I’ve been back in San Pedro for a few days, the beach seems like a distant memory…but a wonderful memory at that! On Tuesday, two of my housemates and I took advantage of the school holidays and headed for the North Coast. The locals ride old yellow school buses for public transportation, but we paid about $4US so that we could make the 90 minute trek to Tela in air-conditioned comfort. The topography reminded me a lot of Hawaii…lots of palm trees and green hillsides all around.
Tela is a sleepy little beach town, so we had much more freedom to walk around without feeling our safety was at risk. We stayed at a sweet hotel where Manuel, the elderly doorman, recited the states he knew nearby Washington and sang old American love songs to me every chance he got. The hotel proprietors are a French couple who gave us great recommendations on places to eat including “Maya Vista” a hotel & restaurant that is reminiscent of the Swiss Family Robinson tree-house with views of the beach (photos below include my housemates, Emily & Hannah).
We spent one day on a boat tour with a group of tourists—half of whom were from Seattle!! On the peninsula of Punta Sal, we made a short hike through the rain forest where we saw Howler Monkeys up in the trees. The guide would make a “woofing” sound to get them going. They are black with a white ring on their tails and looked to be smaller than Chimpanzees, but bigger than Spider Monkeys. Further down the beach, we had the opportunity to snorkel, and then had an authentic lunch on the most gorgeous beach!
============================================================ MARCHING IN THE STREETS (9/18/09)
Earlier this week, our school celebrated Honduras’ National Independence Day (9/15/09) by marching in the streets of our neighborhood. Several of the 7th & 8th graders practiced hours on end during the preceding two weeks so that they could provide percussions for our parade. We also had pom-pom girls and baton twirlers. Since my students were either playing in the band or carrying flags, I marched with the pre-schoolers who all came dressed in animal costumes (I’m not sure why).
The students were all so proud of themselves, and as you’ll see in the photos, their parents were also proud, walking alongside their children most of the way. Even though we marched at 7:30am, it was already very hot, and because it took some time to move the entire school (approximately 200 students) from point A to point B, it could very well have been the longest five blocks I’ve ever walked!!
The folks in the blue & black are my fellow teachers.
============================================================ AN AUSPICIOUS DATE (9/9/09)
The nephew of one of my housemates was born today…what an auspicious birthdate (9/9/9…if only he’d been born at 9:09). She’s about to make brownies in celebration…this is truly a positive side of communal living—NUM!!
Today I sang the “Star Spangled Banner” to the 7th graders. I’m not sure why since I can’t really sing and definitely can’t remember all of the words, but it came up in conversation and I wanted to demonstrate how much shorter our song is compared to their national anthem, which is eight verses long! I think the singing was also an indication that I am really settling into my role with more ease and confidence.
Now that we’re midway through the third week of school (and after a lot of prayer on my part), I am relaxing into the Honduran rhythm and I feel less uptight about starting each class on time. I’ve realized the kids need time to transition from one subject to another, and they are realizing (I think) that I expect them to prepare themselves by putting one set of books away and taking out the next set. I also notice myself flowing more smoothly from a discussion about the subject matter to answer their questions about the crazy American in their classroom (that’d be me), and then guiding them back to the course material.
Since I spend three class periods a day with both the 7th & 8th graders (each of their other teachers are only in the classroom for one subject per day), I’m developing a more in-depth relationship with them which I’m appreciative of (I’m also thankful that there are only 10 of them all together!!!).
The highlight of my week so far was attending a theatre performance with 22 of the older OLR girls. One of the teachers from the school has a supporting role, so everyone was excited to see “Miss Patty” in action. It’s just a community theatre group, but the sets were fantastic and the costumes were GORGEOUS! I can’t critique the play itself because, of course, it was in Spanish, but the audience seemed to enjoy the humor. One of the girls did some translating for me, but she tired of that fairly early into the performance.
My heart swells in gratitude as I remember how much fun they had—everything from dancing and singing in unison on the bus as their favorite American song played full blast [the drivers are just as loving with the girls as the “tias” (aunties) in the home], to watching them laugh at the comedy—and how amazing it is that each of them was once living in horrid conditions with no hope for such pleasures.
About a year ago, I preached a sermon entitled, “Roped Together” in which I suggested the Gospel calls us to act as if we are “roped together” in the same way a mountaineering team would to ensure no one “falls off” the slope of life. Now that I am in Honduras where poverty is so blatant, I am experiencing the reality-check of how easy it is to speak conceptually, but how much harder it is to live out these ideas.
When Bishop Nedi asked me to consider a mission trip, she encouraged me to dig deep within myself to explore the difference between faith and optismism. Ever since our conversation, I’ve been noticing the places where I use my rose-colored glasses to gloss over the painful parts of life. This morning, for instance, I realized that I painted a beautiful image in an earlier blog entry of a green field with bunnies and a bouganvilla bush. What I didn’t tell you, however, is that to see these vistas, I have to look through wrought-iron grates that have barbed-wire material in front of them. The truth is, it feels like I am living in a prison.
There are rabbits out there, but they’re hard to spot them through all the metal.
This is our front gate...the stream you see (reflecting the barbed wire) results from our neighbors hosing the dog feces out of their driveways each morning.
And why do we have all this metal around us? Because of the “high crime rate” in our neighborhood…in other words, there are lots of robberies here. But why are people stealing? Because they are hungry. When I think of it that way, I feel such great sadness that we even call it a crime. I look at the girls at the OLR home and know that we have “roped” ourselves to them. We have created a safety net for them, and for that I give thanks. But today I wrestle with what my faith calls me to do about the rest of the world.
============================================================ UPDATE (9/2/09) - Gmail is actually working fine...it was just a few slow responses that made me question the service. Perhaps I'll develop more patience in Honduras! ============================================================ A BOUNTY OF LOVE (9/1/09)
Thanks be to God…the second week of school is MUCH better than the first. I have implemented some new tactics and the kids seem to be settling back into the routine of being in a classroom. I even had the energy this afternoon to stop by the OLR home to offer tutoring. We did some homework, exchanged a few laughs and then I took a few photos. One thing we volunteers are noticing is that the atmosphere in the home is very positive and healthy. Even though there are 56 girls, everyone has everything they need, so there aren’t any fights over stuff or stealing, or anything of that sort. They also meet regularly with either the on-staff counselor the psychologist.
P.S. I asked about the lack of dishes and silverware, and while I am welcome to purchase some supplies, the women in charge all assured me that they buy new dishes & silverware annually, but that the utensils seem to get thrown away regularly.
A couple of the little ones (both around age 3) "hamming" it up with their afternoon snack. I love it when they call out, "Hola, Miss (which always sounds like "Mees") Brenda!".
Some of the younger girls doing their typical afternoon activity...hopscotch in the shade. Some of those girls can JUMP!
============================================================ THE BLESSING OF SUNDAYS (8/30/09)
Sunday...my favorite day of the week with the girls. Everyone dresses up and we head off to church. We attend the Episcopal Cathedral and I can understand some of the service...it's all in Spanish. The music is very upbeat and the girls take active roles in the liturgy.
Here's a photo of them after church. A professional photographer was there staging them. I think they were telling us that it will be used for their Christmas card.
A close-up on the littlest of the Little Roses. The girls are so good about helping each other out. I LOVE this shot!
Here we are loading-up to make the HOT trek to church. We sit 3-4 to a seat with little ones on our laps. Very sweet!
============================================================ JUST NOTICING (8/29/09)
Here are a few things I’ve noticed about San Pedro: The drivers are CRAZY! Because there aren’t really any traffic lights—just an occasional stop sign—if you want to get anywhere, you have to be a very aggressive driver. As a result, riding in a car is an adventure, and pedestrians better stay out of the way. Another is interesting gestures…during a class discussion on the use of body language the other day, I gave the girls the example that I’ve noticed they use pursed lips with a jerk of the head to indicate direction. All the grass in our neighborhood is hand cut with a machete rather than a mower of any kind. And, my best discovery so far is that the limeade served in restaurants makes a great margarita mix when margaritas aren’t on the menu, but tequila is. Salud!
This afternoon I went over to the OLR home for lunch and took along my pedi/mani supplies. After a hearty lunch of rice, beans, tortillas, cheese, a tangy coleslaw-like salad with beets, and some tomatoey meatballs (lunch is the big meal every day), some of the girls and I set up our own private nail salon…I guess girls will be girls!
Yesterday we were informed that since there are only 56 girls in the home right now and there’s room for about 70, they are arranging for five new little girls—all around two years of age—to move in. Until the court process is finalized, they will continue to live in a holding facility where many, many girls sleep on mattresses on the floor without sheets…I don’t even want to imagine what else they are without, I can only pray that they will all be appointed to loving homes soon.
============================================================ SETTLING IN (8/26/09)
I have to laugh at myself when I remember that I thought that teaching school in Honduras would be so much different than teaching in the states! I remember talking to the founder of the school saying I was guessing that these kids would be much more appreciative of the opportunity to learn. After sort of smirking, she said, “oh, you’d be surprised.” And here I am after the third day of school, feeling absolutely exhausted from trying to keep my students attention. The saying, "boys will be boys" applies here. Like every 7th & 8th grader I met in the States, they are really not very excited to be learning something new, and the “mañanna” attitude is alive and well among them. I’ve tried a couple of more creative things to engage them, but we are required to complete each of the text books by year-end, so that doesn’t leave a lot of time.
On the other hand, after school I had a delightful exchange with one of the little girls at the OLR home. Naomi and I ate some imaginary food, drank some pretend coffee, and then we took a few quick trips to the beach (scenarios which all involve the few Spanish words I remember). The only problem was making myself understood when it was actually time for me to say “Adios.”
My Spanish classes begin tonight…I’m looking forward to learning more Spanish, but feeling very overwhelmed enough as it is.
One thing I am VERY grateful for is that the AC works in both the school and our house. YAY!...although it isn't quite as hot as I expected...high 80's most days...there is PLENTY of humidity. This is what they call their winter or rainy season, but that runs from April to September. The summer isn't hotter, just drier.
============================================================= MISSING THE PRAIRIE (8/25/09)
New photos below!! Right now one of the hardest things for me is the lack of what I would call “auditory personal space”. Since our house has huge areas open to the outside (behind wrought iron & barbed wire fencing material), we here EVERYTHING from the streets…ALL the time. Many of our neighbors have pet dogs, but none of them seem to take their dogs inside at all and the dogs bark constantly. I enjoy the music playing throughout the neighborhood, but I find myself missing the silence of the Montana prairie!
Here's my 7th grade class...5 boys and 1 girl (I'm working on figuring out how to make the photos bigger).
P.S. I made the sign on the wall all from scratch & cut with child-size left-handed scissors (that's right...I'm right-handed...we had to wait for the students to bring the supplies).
And here is the 8th grade class...4 girls. Three of them are from the OLR home. This is an amazing example of the playing field being leveled for these girls. Not only have they had a great home through OLR, but now they get to attend a bilingual school. I am VERY impressed with their English!
We had a fun surprise at the OLR home today…upon arrival, we immediately noticed that one of the girls’ two little dogs had been groomed (he was even sporting a mini-bandana). When we asked why the other dog didn’t get a bath, they took us by the hand to show us the reason… puppies! It seems that at one point a volunteer had the male dog neutered thinking that’d ensure no pregnancies, but the principal’s male dog just happened to visit on the right day, and voila…five puppies that are a mix of poodle, beagle and something else.
I’m finally comprehending that, although we’re in a city that is filled with people, the majority of Hondurans are in smaller villages throughout the country. Even though I’ve written about some of the “Americanized” ways that I’ve observed, today we called out for the basura (trash) man to stop for our garbage. They drive their horse-drawn cart up and down the streets calling out “basura!”. Again, this is quite a process because, like all of our neighbors, we have an outer gate with a padlock on it, and an inner gate with a hefty lock that both have to be unlocked with keys before we can get to the street.
We have a real sense of accomplishment today as we also were able to go through a similar process to obtain more bottled water for the house, but in this case, the agua man had a truck. Later we went on our first shopping excursion by ourselves. After several people at the OLR home assured us that our neighborhood taxi stand is operated by trustworthy men, we walked over and asked “Donilo” to drive us to the supermarket. Lucky for us, he was happy to provide his phone number, so we called him on my newly purchased cell phone for the return trip (unlike other things, the cell phone actually was much cheaper than I expected…$12US).
We’ll probably be able to get back on our own next time, but we don’t really have an address, so we have to be able to give the driver directions and we weren’t ready to attempt that endeavor just yet. The other night, our hosts said, “we actually don’t know where we are right now,” joking about the fact that there isn’t an exact address for their house.
I’m also now understanding that when people talk about “culture shock” that there is a myriad of things that contribute to the feeling. This past week was both frustrating and intriguing to try to participate in a different work culture. The Hondurans talk over the top of each other in meetings, and move from topic-to-topic rather than following an agenda. An added dynamic for us as the staff of a Bilingual School is that the parents insist that their children develop a sense of “American discipline” in terms of being on time, etc., so the founder of the school is having to stress the need for the teachers to be disciplined as well in a way that we would take for granted in the states.
============================================================= MANANNA TIME (8/17/09)
The past few days have been a mix of prepping, nesting and meeting new people. There are now three of us volunteers, so we have moved into our apartments. After living out of my suitcases for almost two months, I am so happy to have my own little place again. Out of one window, I can see beautiful, deep pink bougainvilleas, a bird with a chick is roosted outside my bathroom window, and there are bunches of bunnies that gather each morning out in the field in front of my other window.
Two or three more women will join us in a few weeks, but for now the three of us are enjoying each others’ company and figuring out how we are going to share space for the next 10 months. Hanna & Emily are both in their early 20s, so I told them that if I occasionally act like I’m “old”, it’s because I am (compared to them).
Today was our first day of preparing our classrooms at Holy Family Bilingual School. I’ll teach Math, English and Literature to the 7th & 8th graders. While the entire school is bilingual, the other 20 teachers and assistants are Honduran, so there is a lot of Spanish being spoken. Hanna majored in Spanish and has traveled in Latin America, so we rely on her to help us make ourselves understood while we soak up as much as we can.
We are also learning more and more about “mañanna time”. There’s a whole process to get things done…for instance, the OLR office has to send a driver to make a payment and then the service/repair person will come, but, of course, it might not be the same day. So for now, we’ll wait to wash our clothes or check our email at the volunteer house. We’ve talked about how strange it feels to know that if we were on a mission out in the hill country, we wouldn’t expect these luxuries, but because the services have been promised to us, we feel frustrated.
On the other hand, we are also being exposed to parts of San Pedro that would make you think there is no Honduran culture left. Driving down one of the main strips, we saw Popeye’s, TGIFridays, Tony Romas, Applebees, etc. (I haven’t yet spotted a Starbucks). Inside the shopping mall is the same…Foot locker and Cinabon. Even the menu titles are in English with the descriptions of the food items in Spanish, and many of the products at the super market our hosts drove us to were American-made.
I’m finding it hard to wrap my brain around the fact that, along with Nicaragua, Honduras is the second poorest country in Latin America, yet many Hondurans eat and shop at these higher priced chains. How is it possible that next to the OLR home is a huge neighborhood of adults and children who are barely surviving while others can afford nice-looking homes? =============================================================
This is it...everything I need for the next year stuffed into two suitcases and a carry-on. Makes me wonder why I needed all that "stuff" that I sold at my yard sale! And I promise...photos of the girls soon.
SLEEP IS GOLDEN (8/14/09)
Last night I recouped the sleep I missed previously…and more! Not even the cheering across the neighborhood for the futbol teams could keep me from dreamland. This morning I poked my head out of the guest apartment to see a large iguana sunning itself on one of the tin roofs.
While helping out with some school preparation, I began to get the true meaning of “mañanna”…the process was very lackadaisical by my standards, but I’m going with the flow and understanding that unless it’s really, really important, it might not get done today. I was also reminded by one of the administrative staff that it’s not good to go back to work right after eating, rather I should go take at least a thirty minute break...I think I can get used to this.
Best of all, I was able to visit my little “home” for the upcoming year. Each room in the volunteer house has a private bath with shower, a kitchen sink and working AC. They are by no means fancy, but quite comfortable and more than I expected. The common area is equipped for cooking, watching TV and working on the computer.
Since I am the first volunteer to arrive, I was given first choice of the apartments. After narrowing it down to two upstairs units, I chose good morning light and quiet with a view of a big grassy field, over a view of the mountain with street noise. I felt a little mischievous as I was also encouraged to take my pick of the "extras" left behind by previous volunteers. Who knew I could get so excited over an old coffee-maker, mismatched hangers and slightly used doilies! It was like a garage sale without any of the haggling.
Afterwards I tried out my sense of humor as Don Pedro walked me back to the girls’ home. In my best (or perhaps worst) Spanish, I asked if the machete he was carrying was for plants or people. He laughed and assured me plants…hopefully I was the only one joking. :-) ============================================================= HELLO, HONDURAS (8/13/09—7:00pm)
I have arrived...and had a nap and my first meal with the girls. The weather was cooler than I expected, but just as muggy. Sunset was around 6:15pm. Dinner was a simple plate of refried beans, some baked plantains, cheese and jamon (ham-like meat)—very filling and tasty.
As it turns out, the San Pedro flight was cancelled due to a rumored protest (which didn't happen), but according to the locals I met in the airport, this is a weekly type of rumor circulated by the supporters of the ousted president (they call him, "Mel"), whom none of them seem to like. This morning's flight was, fortunately, uneventful.
Watching the terrain from the sky was spectacular…very green and mountainous. I missed a lot of the sights on the way to the school as the director of the school wanted to chat, but I did notice horse-pulled carts right alongside the cars and busses. The home & school are located in a neighborhood where people are living under corrugated steel/tin roofs. I can smell the wood-burning fires and earlier heard a couple of roosters crowing. I could also make out the sounds of some insects and birds, but have yet to identify them.
The girls have been a mixture of hearty welcomes and hesitant shyness. There are so many faces & names to remember, and already they’re teasing me by giving each others’ names instead of their own. Lucky for me, one girl is named Brenda, so that will be my saving grace! At least one or two grabbed onto my hands and arms right away—they are very proud to show off their home and have so much love to share. Right now my biggest overwhelm is that I’m realizing how very little Spanish I remember…hopefully that old wiring will kick in quickly! =========================================================== SLIGHT DELAY (8/13/09—3:30am)
I had hoped to be in San Pedro by now (and asleep in my own bed), but it seems I have yet another time of transition before my final destination. Due to T-storms and the possibility of a long wait to land, we were re-routed to San Antonio to get more fuel before landing in Houston. In the meantime, my flight to Honduras was cancelled. Watching the number of people trying to make alternate plans, it seemed the likelihood of finding lodging would be slim to none, so I decided to pull out the laptop and settle in for the long-haul.
It’s interesting to see what people do in this setting. Of course, finding a quiet place is nearly impossible—those giant TVs blare all night long. While I continue moving from one waiting area to the next (I just get settled in and then the same guy with the vacuum on his back arrives...again), a couple of men loop round and round on the walkway conveyor. I was able to sleep on the floor for a few hours, but discovered ants crawling on me, so have moved to a chair.
I noticed that virtually all of the signage is in both English & Spanish, and felt grateful that I was able to make my flight changes in my native tongue. But despite my discomfort, I’m sure this will all seem insignificant once I hear some of the stories of the girls. ============================================================= PURE GRATITUDE (8/5/09)
What a wonderful show of support! About 50-60 folks from my various communities joined me at my Send-off Party in Seattle. After lots of food, conversation, good wine and the exciting raffle drawing, Bishop Nedie Rivera invited the group to lay hands on me as she blessed my mission. Now my trip feels "real" in a way it hadn't before. I can hardly wait to meet the girls...I have a booklet of their photos and backgrounds to study before I leave on 8/12/09.
