Merry Christmas

I am in Utila, a Caribean island off Honduras and Christmas time has come and gone both eventfully and uneventfully. I wondered the span of my luck as, upon a self-guided running tour of the island I was gifted a show of a baking soda bubbling waves dashing against and over five meter high dried coral reef mixed in with various land vegetation. There were some waves that reminded me of a physics experiment I did in high school, where one person had a string and had to quick create a ripple that traveled along the string all the way to their partner. It was much better though, watching physics in actiopn without human manipulation, as the wave sensation was what we were trying to arrive at in the experiment after all.

As my muddy tour continued, I was greeted by whatever bright colored you can think of butterflies, and black with a tinge of purple birds in a canopy of viny and tropical trees. I was met by the salty air whose scent seemed to tell me that it was perfectly OK and actually preferable to slow down for awhile.

With all such vivid stimulation, backpacking foreigners and familiar styles of stores and restaraunts, I almost began to forget I was in Honduras, almost began to forget the slum neighborhood that me and my traveling companions had just come from. Until a friend from the neighborhood popped in my mind. Then I began to realize that though Nueva Suyapa contains its own flavor of beauty, it is surrounded by the crime, poverty and desperation they have begun to call home for so many years. Necessity doing its job in blinding them, as it would me if I had such things to consistently worry about, to the beauty of the view of the sun setting behind the far mountain and over the whole of Tegucigalpa from the soccer court in Onesimo or the sun rising behind the mountanita that friends and I run up. Sometimes we looki down instead of up I guess, when muddy bumpy roads and wind seeping through fagile walls surround us. I have also been blessed with the outside perspective of that neighborhood, as I am blessed now with a traveler´s insight and curiousity in Utila.

I did spend Christmas Eve and day in Nueva Suyapa, and I was very glad I did. I mixed my activities, spending some time with friends and come time with the family I was staying with. It was quite an international Christmas Eve, as the Danish volunteers here put on a Danish Christmas lunch which involved roasted duck and a wonderful sauce, gift giving games and some playing legos with children. I guess that wasn´t much unlike my usual Christmas celebrations where I often at some point find myself playing with children.

There was a lot of food involved, as everywhere I visited insisted I eat. The tradition in Honduras is to eat larger tamales stuffed with pork, rice and potatoes; delicious chicken sandwiches made in some well stewed sauce; torejas, a doughy doughnutty treat drenched in honey and of course...oil; squash also drenched in honey and chicken stuffed with, you guessed it, more meat. I must say it was a good thing, for my and hospitality´s sake that I had long given up the conscience driven desire to be a vegetarian. We´ll work on that when I get back.

In Honduras, everyone eats in shifts, guests first, ¨man of the house¨ second (my favorite tradition....) children next and cook last. Usually, all eating in the living room in front of an always on TV. I thought Christmas was different, big feast oriented like in the States. It wasn´t, I ate a chicken sandwich in the morning, then the danish duck, tamales in the evening and, a toreja at my friend´s house after church and, if you can imagine, the double meat meal, served alone with tortillas on Christmas morning.

I did attend church, the slacker way, after all the preaching was done. I was in time though to watch all of the ¨especiales¨, the highlight of which was the mid primary school children dressed in paper and cloth angel costumes with glitter spray painted paper wings. They sang a few songs, and there is a kid in the choir that loves to sing, and sing loud. He is not too of key, just aways a little low and booming. Because he sticks to it, they always seem to put the microphone near him, which I think, is unneeded, and it often ends up that only he is heard.

I was kind of disapointed with Christmas day at my house, as it was a ¨watch Chrsitmas cartoons all day¨day. At my house in Chicago, we sometimes had the tradition of watching Christmas movies, so that was OK, but the all day thing got to me. We did not exchange gifts as there was no pisto, and my family never really carried on that tadition. It was a unique and I think good for me experience to have a giftless centered Christmas. The focus in Nueva Suyapa seems more on people since things are hard to come by. However, on my trip to the mall Christmas day (can you believe it) to follow my personal tradition of last minute gift creating, I realized that materialism has seeped its way into, in a big way, Honduras´s Christmas, only it was those in the upper classes that indulged in it. There was a 100 ft. line of people of all classes to get the new Digicel cheap deal cell phone. Now it was starting to feel like home, memories of tickle me Elmo and Teddy Rubble flashing through my mind.

I was not giftless though, as my workplace did an ¨amigos secretos¨ that everyone went all out for, interestingly enough. I was surprised when, thinking my gift was good, I was outdone by people buying this very same cell phone for one another. It seemed that this work celebration was probably the biggest celebration that most of my co-workers would experience this Christmas, making the actual day anticlimatic. We sang Karoake and had a time to say what we thanked God for, which did remind me of my own family celebrations, and helped me get to know each of my coworkers better.

To finish off Christmas celebrating in style, I danced the night away with my Honduran family, quickly and awkwardly trying to learn Honduran dances like the punta, a typical dance from the Honduran Afro Carribean group the Garifuna.

I hope to pick up where I left of with my lack of dancing ability in the once was home of this very group, the Bay Islands.

Just so you know, I have a plethera of pictures available on my picasa website, that I just uploaded at: http://picasaweb.google.com/home.

A la Ruta a Copan

It is 12:00pm on a Sunday afternoon, I am on the road to Copan, not unlike that first Sunday I arrived and traveled in Honduras. I think about the things I was thinking about then and how much they stuck. How the defeats and triumphs, messes and well-architectured creations followed me, as they often always do, to the new distant place I was choosing to reside.

On my trip back to where I started, it all seems to come full circle.

A child yells “Adios” to passersby, to gift a greater recognition of his and the bus’s presence. It is nearing Christmas time in Honduras and the ones on the empty billfold side seem little to notice or to mind. Presents and abundant food less missed when the lack of is not brought to light by T.V shows and advertisements all too commonly watched in my parts. Allowing immediate escapes to trump long term investments is a tendency too often turned to here. However, having similar natural instincts, to a degree, I understand.

A vendor or three jump on to sell icecream, chips and other frozen treats. Each a different product for a prospective different person. I make small talk with a child sitting on a stool next to me. He is admirably confident and knowledgable of the area and my guessed destination. The once heavily laborious execution of the language flies effortlessly off my tongue now.

I was on my way to dreaming about flying over the mountains we were speeding around when the anticipated but undesired necessity of giving up my seat came. A water logged single mother with a four month old baby, an also swimming four year old and six year old child mount the bus. She said they all walked two hours from her parent’s house up in the mountains. Baby still beautifully wrapped and intact, cooing and giggling at any attempt at interaction.

The driver attacks the curve and aces it every time. Bags flying and children crying are its battle wounds. One with a fuller billfold or a larger loan holds her bag of perfectly bowed presents.

The winding doesn’t bother me like it used to, but I notice our new busmates are having a bit of a tougher time. The four year old and six year old take turns throwing up as me and my friends take turns comforting them and searching for solutions to motion sickness.

Me and a friend get pushed to the back by the possiblility of more passengers. We are the ones sitting on stools now. During Christmas there seem to be higher volumes of travelers forcing higher regulations on the bus drivers, hence our need to appear somehow and somewhat seated, regardless how safe.

My mind doesn’t stick anymore like it did before, now maybe just a calm gentle swirl of past stuck items. I am more than grateful. Messages breeze past me in unattached clumps; aware now and once again that something greater than myself is at work amidst and around me. I am appreciative for such a conflicting yet conscience altaring bundle.

The gifts of one with fall on the ground. I am reminded I can help as well as watch.

Persistent Christian(s)

Luke 18:1 – 8 1 One day Jesus told his disciples a story to show that they should always pray and never give up. 2 “There was a judge in a certain city,” he said, “who neither feared God nor cared about people. 3 A widow of that city came to him repeatedly, saying, ‘Give me justice in this dispute with my enemy.’ 4 The judge ignored her for a while, but finally he said to himself, ‘I don’t fear God or care about people, 5 but this woman is driving me crazy. I’m going to see that she gets justice, because she is wearing me out with her constant requests!’”
6 Then the Lord said, “Learn a lesson from this unjust judge. 7 Even he rendered a just decision in the end. So don’t you think God will surely give justice to his chosen people who cry out to him day and night? Will he keep putting them off? 8 I tell you, he will grant justice to them quickly! But when the Son of Man returns, how many will he find on the earth who have faith?” ~ From - Jesus~

“There is education in the family: first you shouldn’t speak because you are a girl, then later you shouldn’t speak because no one will marry you, then later you shouldn’t speak because you are a new bride. Finally, you might have the chance to speak but you don’t speak because you have forgotten how to.”

~ An activist from Pristina, Kosovo ~


“Mi hermano necesita dormir en puro piso,” (My brother needs to sleep on pure floor!!) he gutteraled to me followed by a request for a mattress for the third time in the matter of 5 minutes. Christian looked around ten, with short, mud-greased black hair that somehow met at the same color by the time it reached his Honduran darker side of brown skin. His clothes mirrored the floor he slept on last night; worn down by uncleaned overuse.

The thing I liked about this ten year old boy is that he realized this, and realized, looking at a clean face American snapping a $500 camera, that this contrast was not fair. However, unlike the clothes he had been given, he had not yet been worn down by a life of liars trying to convince him that he deserved this fate of floor sleeping with 30+ others huddled uncomfortably close. He knew my sometimes well matted hair indicated not only a mattress but a bed with more than enough blankets. He knew in some stubbornly courageous way that I did nothing better to deserve my comfortable beds and pillows and feasts than he did anything to deserve a one room shack with soggy foundations on the side of an eroding mountain. He was just a child after all, he was born into it after all, and he seemed to need to realize that to be able to speak up with the persistence and passion that he did. I guess he figured boys can shout because they were expected to shout while his mother and grandmother who tried to quiet him down had long been excluded from that possibility.

Maybe, in the end, what I liked most about this boy was that he probably did not think or figure or realize any of these things; that was me and my adult overanalyzing. Instead, it just sneezed out of him, and you’re kind of a jerk if you get mad at someone for sneezing: regardless of whether it makes a mess or not. While for me, years of over self restraint had provided me with the what I once thought was the stellar ability to sneeze inwardly; only to bring on more colds, more mess and needing more medical attention in the end.

I did not have extra blankets or mattresses on me, they don't really fit in my pockets, but I knew someone who did. So, remembering a lesson on empowerment from our Mujeres Valiantes (Valiant Women) program, I told him he was doing the right thing, speaking up on behalf of his brother, himself and his family, and that he should never stop, even if those children-should-be-seen-and-not-heard types consistently tried to shut him up and tell him no.

I saw Christian the other day with his grandma and mother, visiting a co-worker. I took more time to talk to the three of them and learnt that Christian loved to sing. “Figures,” I thought, as they explained him singing solos at church, gutteraling for Jesus, I guess. They said he wanted to learn to play the guitar to complete the set. I thought a guitar may be a hard thing to come by, but at the same time felt, this boy had a gift and hoped maybe he or I would meet someone with an old rusty or brand new unused guitar to speed along that process.

Natural disaster season is hard here in Honduras; a mix between afraid and desperate people who have really had their houses destroyed and everyday living in poverty people trying to get a piece of the pie. It is hard to know one from the other, and in the end, I wonder if it really matters, both, like Christian, have been given only the crumbs falling from the crusts; and those that made that pie often seem to wait until disaster strikes to offer a piece.

On Ants

Blazed by
chalk-board-erased
yellow curbs
and cloudsun mirror effect

hovered over by
mini-miniscule
treeitos y cenaitas,

they carry on from that
stepped on and run over possibility
to their crumb by crumbsoil
multi-passagewayed; multi-bodied
mansion

that I managed
to step on
while trying to get a better view
of perceived perfection
off in the distance.

It is no wonder in retalliation
and groupself over-worked protection
they swarmed insecondly;
and bit.

Shells

Shells

Remembered landscapes are left in me
The way a bee leaves a sting,
Hopelessly, passion placed, ….
All forms of landscape are autobiographical.

Charles Wright – “All Landscape is Abstract and Tends to Repeat Itself.”


I watch the tortoise on the television
with the surrounded-by-supposed-slum family
that I am living with now.

on the TV we see:

Hanging cliffs
taunted by tempting to conquer
to be conquered waves
boiled by angry lava rivers
expulsed by volcanoes
no longer able to keep it inside.

My treated like temporary sister says:
“That is the tortoise’s way to
Protect himself,
he hides under his shell.”

We shes could not help but agree.

I look outside;
it is bright and has been half the day.
Once and nine tenths again,
the sun re-introduces its beauty
from behind the clouds
making the thanks-to-the
too- much-rain
green grass
shine
and the aluminum,
can’t-keep-water-out
roofs glisten
like stones guiding
giants up this river hillmountain
that I find myself living on.

Children are out,
and one carries a turquoise toy
tortoise car up the hill
another runs a got-more-life-in- it
bike tire
down the rollercoaster road.

When too much rain shifted mud, cracking houses,
Shes did more than just pe(e)ck.

Bus trip: Suyapa Style

Honduras bus lingo for dummies:

Cobrador – Dude who collects pisto --- (cash), yells out orders and does other all purpose and necessary bus things constantly on the bus.
Monton --- Call it like it sounds – A TON. Though it is said more like maun – tone.
Reggaeton --- If you’re reading this definition I’m sorry but you’ve got to get with it, a Latin –fused reggae, quasi rap heavy beat and base oriented type music that has taken Latin America by storm for some time, and finally, the U.S too.

“El estadio, el estadio; Mercado; estadio!” The Cobrador yells habitually and monotonely; in the required pitch used by all Cobradors to communicate that this is in fact a bus and it is in fact going to the stadium and the market. The bus swerves to the curb and the Cobrador swings on the pole like a fireman preparing for action; he jumps to the ground with a rolling stop as the bus too finds its resting spot, beckoning passer byers and stand in liners with his welcoming routine to enter the bus. Mothers holding carrot heads sticking out of bags; sweat drenched mechanics with grease decorated necks and teenage girls, skilled in traversing diverse terrain in 8” high heels all pile in.

Off to the side is a large family scrambling for the bus. Father and son are both holding on to sister and daughter’s hand, and excited and frantic that the bus may soon leave, both men run to entry ways of the bus, opposite ones, while the girl is left laughing by herself, running after one relative to one door. As they enter, they are greeted by packed seats and overflowing aisles, and they attempt to squeeze a space for themselves and find a handhold on the metal bar above. They sway in one piece; as the bus jolts to assert its place on the motorway free for all.

The Cobrador, still beckoning on the street seeming left in the dust has not forgotten us; he in fact is only tying up loose ends, and right when it seems a tad too late, he gallops, and regains hold of that same fire pole. Once entering, it becomes clear that his job has just begun, he scans the bus and notes the new entries, some of which are obvious, some of which blend in too much with everyone else. He pushes through this continuously morphing amoeba, and begins to select those he thinks have not yet paid. As he discovers them, they pay, sometimes in exact change; L3.50, but mostly not. He shuffles through his mounting pile of pisto, fingers flying like a novelist burning up the typewriter --- L1.50 back to him, L6.50 back to her, and un monton – L25.50 to that un-latino-bus-savy group of gringos; always moving on to the next while counting the last in his hands. The bus pulsates heavy base; typically body invading and tap inviting reggaeton that is sometimes settled down by Bryan Adams or other similar eighties greats; the fuller the bus gets the bass-ier the driver seems to want the music.

This is a 1996 School bus from Lancaster County, Pennsylvania; as indicated on the side in unchangeable stenciled black letters. In the front and on the inside, it has discovered its own flair; painted in green and purple on the front are the simple words: Estadio; Mercado; Colonia Suyapa to communicate to all those deaf but literate; once again where this bus is going. This might have been painted years ago, lacking significance to the current driver, though still running the same routes. Inside is where the driver’s personality really shines. It is vital for most drivers to have some indication that God or Mary or Jesus or the church dictated trinity are in fact watching over the bus, and that he does in fact pray to or love or do something for that holy entity, if only to ensure safety for that bus. Dios es Amor is a common easy and quickly does it all encompassing favorite. With thousands of passengers a day, sometimes over a hundred traveling at a time, irratic driving and unpredictable obstacles and sharp turns, I guess he figures he needs it. To have someone to keep Mary or God or Jesus company, the driver usually has some image – pictorial or key chain style of an on the way to if not completely naked lady. This one seems more like a mermaid, swimming below his cracked and crooked mirror, letters about some God now drowning in its worn – downed-ness. Above the driver to the top left is a state of the art car C.D player, with 6 disc change availability that he chooses and abuses with the touch of a finger to mold the mood of the bus like a puppeteer with his puppets. Daddy Yankee is still his current favorite, and it blasts out of the carefully placed and carefully kept state of the art speakers.

The Cobrador swivels and swerves as he dances through, with and around passengers; rubbing hips and torso, pelvis and thighs against complete strangers; all knowing he would not if he had any other way to navigate through, all doing the same when needing to navigate too. After sudden stops and starts, unnecessary running and waiting, and waiting and screeching, we arrive at one of the destinations – the Stadium. My friends and I exit and as I wait for them also exits a 5 year old girl with her grandma. The Cobrador has beat us all to the punch, and once again, just in time, grabs on to the little girl and lands her to the ground, lets her stand close, and throws out those same arms for the older lady --- right arm offered to hold her hand, left arm guiding her safely down.

He repeats this, and he is so almost always a he, from 5:00 in the morning until 7:30 at night.

My life as it is now

My stomach is lined with unseen grease.
every time I enter the house, and I hear that sound
of sizzling oil, that I should probably appreciate;
small wrongly nourished babies try to kick it away.

It seems people are unable to walk down
this hilly road that lies in front of my house;
they only plod;
keeping me from and leading me
to blissful dreams
about horses.

Every time I attempt
to pour this bucket
of less than room
temperatured water
over my comfortably
body temperatured
Nakedness;
In this all-purpose pila
Wash-shed;
I wait, and stare and think
that in the waiting, staring and thinking,
the water may in fact miraculously
heat.

Ahh, lastima…
it doesn’t,
and eventually;
I count to ten
or take myself to my happy place
and let go;
shivering in shock
and unforeseen refreshment.

I like how I can buy a newspaper
and know that it will be jointly
read by the whole office;
all communal curiosities quenched
for less than 30 cents.

Sharing the Community Garden

Before you knock it, try it first – you’ll see it’s a blessing and it’s not a curse – Ben Harper


She came in with her mother, sat down so proudly on her own, next to the new born sister with strangely blue eyes. Her cheeks puffed out a little too much, like a chipmunk with her mouth full of nuts. Her hair was a wavy mahogany, roundly framing such cheeks, not hiding deep brown curious eyes. It struck me all not so different from mine when I was three. She looked straight and so serious, not willing to crack a smile when I tried to pursue that option.



I wanted to listen to the lady talk, so I put my hand on her head and gave her the smile she did not have and carried on. She stayed for a second, and then began circling around the room as if no one else was there, as if there was not someone in the front speaking, and even if there was, as if she herself was so invisible that her circling would be of no consequence to anyone. She circled because she wanted to know, and maybe too, wanted to be known; wanted the magic potion to wear off so she too could be a part. She went back to be with her also potion drinking mom, always a step away, looking at the pictures on the wall, the cracks in the paint, the wrinkles on the other lady’s faces, the way their lips moved up and down when they were speaking so fast.


She came back up front and made a courageous attempt to engage; staring and standing, still apart, not about to let on that she might be enjoying something or even more someone. I invited her to come closer and began drawing a picture for her; my typical cartoon face guy, the only one I can do well, with wobbly knees and no hands, playing with an oblong and oddly checkered soccer ball. I offered the pencil but that was not a risk she was willing to take at the moment. As I drew she would sporadically look away, down on the ground, hiding the smile and maybe even the laugh that such a silly picture seemed to force.


Now, the picture had run its course, all concealed chuckles had dispersed and she was simply squeezed in between the two chairs, studying the contours of my face, and the level of sincerity in my eyes. I loved her, and I showed her by patting her gently on her back and her head, as she stayed and explored being in a new person’s presence. She then left and began circling, and my attention once again was stolen by the lady in the front. As I did, I glanced to check on her and out of the corner of my eye began to notice that it wasn’t just my presence with which she was experimenting, that this was the way she began to learn and test and trust any new surroundings or possible entrees into her life. Therefore, it was OK for me to listen to the lady talk if I wanted to, I would not be neglecting her if I did. There were other presences to provide just such a loving pat in addition to my offerings, making it easier for everybody; making sure everyone could listen and love enough to be filled and in turn have enough to give. I realized, such a seed was much more able to blossom under many types of shade and sunlight and periods of rain shower.


When the lady at the front ceased, this very girl went over to another baby, just a little older from the one she was used to, held both of the baby's hands and unashamedly; with such confidence smiled the biggest smile and made the silliest faces just to make the baby laugh . It was hard to keep in the joy that flooded my body at that moment. Maybe I could not make her smile that way, but I was glad to see, there was someone who could.



~ Personal comments --- maybe you guys are starting to wonder why I am mostly putting up creative writing excersises, and not explaining my own thoughts and details of specific experiences. The thing is, these are my thoughts and these are my experiences, and instead of going on an on, as I can, about what is going on, I thought I would communicate it concisely in a form I have grown to love. I wanted to share the things I loved with you, so maybe you could grow to love them too, and in turn me. I feel a need to be honest but also realize there are certain formats for certain levels of honesty; this is a way to stay honest --- allowing someone to unpack the layers of my writing and see the levels to which things are going on in my life without directly saying it all. I hope you enjoy it and don't feel I'm being exclusive and escoteric.

P.S -- I know what that Ben Harper quote is referring to, and don't worry, that is not what I am --- just in the end, talking about love; its a darn good thing I went to Calvin, and believe in discernment.

Peace,

Rachel

Orchestra de la Calle

I lie down to retire;

early again;

missing a song, perhaps

to see me to sleep.


Until I realize that such a

possibilty lies

just outside.


Choruses of laughter mounted

upon other rings of chatter

accompanied by

cacophanies of dinner ware

backed up by a dog's

bark off on

the other side of the tracks.


Cocks miss their cue

and overecstatic;

they sing too soon.


Children bounding,

up and down and threw

falling misshapen streets

percuss

the otherwise

irrythmic orchestra.


My own music broke

but if it were

to be working

I would have never heard

such valiant attempts

to share theirs.

Dia de Independencia - the flip side.

Dia de Independencia en Nueva Suyapa.

The neighborhood had the scent

of holiday; so much

that I forgot other people

in other places were not experiencing

the same.

“We will not go down to the parade,”

they say,

“the buses don’t run;

there are ALBA protests and rowdy people,

and our bands are not playing anyway.”

So instead we hear

every TV from

every diametric stones throw

singing songs

of feigned freedom

as we reinvent the drainage system

that sends access food and trash

into the gulley down below;

as we finally finish that roof,

nine months overdue;

as we dig our buckets

deep into the pila

using the last of it to

wash brilliantly

the clothes of one

who is not our own.

When all is said and done

we sit down and drink a glass

of Pepsi or Coke and toast

to the gods who were so benevolent

to give us jobs

at Burger King, McDonalds and Pizza Hut;

and factories of Gap and Walmart

at banana plantations and coffee farms

on the land of our ancestors

who gave us some walls after the hurricane

and left.

Disclaimer -- this poem is quite; well, negative towards the US, I tend to be so... especially when their presence is so visual here. Yes, this is a poem about re-colonization and asks the question; is Honduras really independent?I am playing with that, yes. I mean what I wrote, but, Independence Day is quite a cool thing here, if you read a blog entry of fellow co-workers, particularly the Troyers: troyteguc.blogspot.com: who are in Copan right now, you might learn that; marching bands from high schools across Honduras practice for months to prepare for this day, much of the community gets involved; it is quite exciting and beautiful; maybe I am just bitter because I wanted to go down and see the parade but couldn't, and if I did, I would have written a different kind of poem I'm sure. I'm glad I stayed though, and I'm glad I wrote this one. I might have been getting to know Honduras better if i went, but not the Honduras that I am currently living and working in. I'd like to know your thoughts on this,

Peace,

Rachel

Nice things

once again -

" there are nice things in the world---and I mean nice things, we're all such morons to get so sidetracked." (Salinger, Franny and Zooey p.152)

I know I can often get caught up in the analysis, and sometimes, allow things to appear like they are worse than they really are. But really, there are some really nice things going on here that I notice, so I thought to honor a good line from a good book, I would have a blog on nice things that I notice in Honduras. It will be a random list that I will update as the situations arise. And, those in Honduras, feel free to add anything you notice, love, can think of or are enjoying at the moment, in the comments, or send me an email and I'll add them to the list - with your name attached, si quiere.


Primero:

Dia de los ninos - I might have a blog entry about this, but I may not have time, so for now, a nice things entry will do. They have a day for children like mothers day or fathers day; many Americans say every day is children's day, but I don't know, I think I beg to differ, and maybe the day of the children here is just giving kids more of what they don't need -- kitchy toys and candy and pop, but it also allows for a time for everyone to stop and celebrate, and enjoy having fun and being silly, and I think, well, maybe in the US we just need a sill day, but I can understand calling it a children's day because us serious adults would not admit to needing a silly day; I think I do, often. I was talking to a coworker, that we call Carlito who compared it to Halloween, a similar idea, that makes sense to me; because I guess on Halloween we do all get dressed up pretty silly and crazy and have fun taking on other personas. Anyway, where I work, well its basically a community organization that does micro-finance but many other things too, I should, write a blog explaining that. Anyway, part of the project is a low income Christian primary and high school that has been around for around 14 years. Well, our office is inside the school grounds, and right outside our window is their recess/play and assembly area. So, yesterday for children's day, they had a program with a couple of plays. It is always fun to see teachers making fools out of themselves to make children laugh, and this group of people seemed to not be very self conscience about it at all. There is a T.V program called "Del Chavo del Ocho." a very funny one that many people/kids like, and these teachers and some people from my work seemed to mimic this program very well; possibly catering it to the school, but that I would not understand. I may post the video of it here. But that I liked. Celebrations seem to be over the top here, and ya, kids get pretty spoiled on this day, and the day becomes commercialized like so many holidays in the US, but hey, I like the idea.

Other nice things:

The drive from Gracias Lempira to Tegucigalpa, the road was bastante fea..more than that really, but a nice thing, is Amanda, who is "connecting me" with her husband Andrew to my SALT job; gunning it in the truck at the right moment, and using just the right amount of force in the right places to get us out of a sticky situation in the mud in the road, and keep us from spinning. We were all very proud of her. But the fea'ness of the ride allowed for a lot of laughter, because when things are just a little crazy and bizarre, well there's not much less to do than laugh. Other things that happened on that trip: a crane almost missed its destination, and came very close to dropping that pile of dirt on our car; there were few signs and the signs that existed pointed in the wrong direction on worse roads through little towns, while on one such bad direction, a group of men and boys working outside greeted us, one man saw it necessary to salute us, and on the way back, when we realized we were going the wrong way, he insisted on saluting us again. In the end Amanda just kind of picked roads, and somehow, we ended up at the town where we were to meet up with an actually paved road - in La Esperanza.

La Esperanza is another nice thing, and I especially like the town square with a fountain; where kids played and many talked, and there were no ants on the grass when I laid in it.

But yes, the drive it self was beautiful, going from one spectacular mountain range to another, different feels, like driving West in the U.S. I tried to take pictures with Andrews camera, but we were driving around mountains after all.

Futbol --Right now are the preliminary games for the World Cup, maybe you are watching them at your house for the US team, but I can assure you it will not be like here; last night the whole town was alive, I will write about this one "creatively" because it was awesome; with every goal that Honduras scored, and they scored 2 you could hear cheers from all over the hill, and firecrackers as well; after a while I went to bed because I figured I did not need to watch to know what was happening, use my other senses for this one.

Trumpos - Tops, in Copan a lot of the kids had plastic tops that they spun from a string that they were very good at making spin, and then putting on their hand to spin some more --- this all took technique which I did not have, the kid who was showing me grew impatient.

Thoughts from a Nueva Suyapan porch

“ Sir, we ought to teach the people that they are doing wrong in worshipping the images and pictures in the temple.”

Ramikrishna: “That’s the way with you Calcutta people: you want to teach and preach. You want to give millions when you are beggars yourselves…

Do you think God does not know that he is being worshipped in the images and pictures? If a worshipper should make a mistake, do you not think God will know his intent?”

~ The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna. Taken by me from Buddy and Seymour’s room in J.D Salinger’s Franny and Zooey. ~

I have now arrived in Nueva Suyapa, and, resting, I sit on my porch, enjoying the activities of the night. It is here that yearning and satisfaction; anguish and joy; fear and confidence, live together holding hands, one because of the other, the other in response to the other, it is hard to know after a while where it came from and who dealt what first. It is here that I live, and here that I come with a lot of the same.

The winding paths nearing entry ways to both well planned and randomly arranged houses offer an exciting through passage for children to lose a little control as they bowl down the hill. However, also it seems a perfect spot to jump some unsuspecting individual, to grab a trustful child. And outside, I see two guys standing on the corner, and maybe, I would like to think, they are simply talking, simply discussing the day, but it does not look like that to me. And on that same corner, were two kids consumed with the game pong just twenty minutes before; and I watched them until they noticed me because the process was so fascinating at that moment. As these two men appeared at that such corner, the song Alabare wafting from the church at the top of this mini hill seemed to create a new mood, because in some way, we all could feel it though it had no way of really understanding this condition. Not unless it was an honest praise; unless it was an angry Psalm turned grateful; unless it says “Oh God; my God; why has thou forsaken me”. But maybe, I feel that way more than they do, maybe they have something to teach me in that area. Maybe we have something to teach each other; humans struggling with human things when we take money out of it. When we stop looking at the outward signs and all that may represent in this stuff driven world. I am not proposing that I understand, just because I struggle, the level of material, emotional and social struggle that exists here. I am also not proposing that the emotional and spiritual and social ways of seeing oneself supersedes the physical, but maybe I am saying as I mentioned before, that the physical is simply a representation of those ways of being treated, being seen by the rest of the world, and in turn, the way they begin to see themselves. I am instead simply making the point that it is better to stop comparing levels of pain based on things our society deems as most important and to start to realize in many ways we all struggle; and maybe it is better to see it as struggling together than to start creating hierarchies based simply on lucky opportunity that one may have been allowed to have in one area instead of another. It just so seems that a whole community seems to be unlucky in many areas, and a whole different one very lucky in many specific areas. And it is at that point we notice, it is not luck at all; it is intentional malice, by one group over another, it is power stealing and grabbing, it is suffering never realized, deeply hidden and turned on its own. But it still does not make them very lucky or happy in the end. And some of us know that story all too well, and we do not want to perpetuate it, but our desire to help can sometimes further enforce such untrue artificially created feelings of inferiority in these people. I guess there in lies grace’s duty; to lift the veils of good intention and even grief guided bad ones and help us start to try to understand those of one another.

I guess at that point I can see a mother shaming a child for simply being a child as only doing what has been done to her, so many times, therefore only doing what she has known to be right, even if it is a way to grab a little piece of untouched power from the one group of people with which she feels she has been given some influence.

And the thirteen year old who says to her nine year old sister who is taking care of the baby “I am not the mother,” well she has probably taken care of more than her fair share for her age, and is maybe finally learning to stand up for what she wants and needs, even if it is not in the best way and at the expense of this such sister who simply wants some one to leave the baby with for a second so she can join the spelling game, because she knows she is a very good speller, and she loves it.

And I guess, in the end, that is what I want to do while here, I want to notice the smart girl who loves reading and spelling and help her find a way to do it, if the way is not very available to her, and if I have a way of making that more available.

I want to realize that the very same woman who shamed that child was also there when so many parents weren’t. And communicate that she did join in the game and let the little kid stuff her face full of a cookie when most others did not participate; and she did only laugh when that girl stuffed her face a little too full, and allowed everyone watching to laugh at and with her too, instead of getting annoyed. I want to make it known that that was her way of loving and knowing how to love; and I want her to find out how to use that rough charisma to rightfully regain that power from those who stole it from her, and to encourage those sitting on the sidelines to regain it too.

And maybe, maybe even first, maybe better, at the same time, I will finally do the same for myself, and very probably, they will help me as I explore such an option; I will write because I always loved to write, and sometimes, I can even be good at it. I will read because I have such a wondering imagination that would love to be transported to other worlds for at least some period of time; and then in turn, bring the lenses of such worlds back to this one, allowing for some type of cross world exchange. I will let myself wonder, and let myself ask questions, because when attentive, I always was so curious. I will also allow myself to be funny, because sometimes I can be, when I try a little less; and make room for laughing at the bizarre, the ironic and the every day, and to notice those things. Because, as Zooey said " there are nice things in the world---and I mean nice things, we're all such morons to get so sidetracked." (Salinger, Franny and Zooey p.152)

That I think, is our task, because the gold, we don’t need to bring that; it is already here, it already was here hundreds and thousands of years ago, it was simply taken by the conquistadors and every body else who followed; we just need to allow them to uncover it, reclaim it, and then, help people like ourselves to see it as such, and this time, allow it to stay with its rightful owner, realizing, we don't need to take theirs, but we can all share, for we've got our own gold too.

San Pedro hasta Nueva Suyapa

I thought I would quit being obscure and actually write something more direct, though I am working on more creative writing type pieces about my experiences; explanations are good too. But, you can look forward to those as they come.

I am finally in Nueva Suyapa, the neighborhood in Tegucigalpa where I am working and living and it feels very good. I am living very close to some friends from Calvin as well, which is nice. I guess, as reuniting with a place that I loved and haven't been in 4+ years would do to me. I'm sure I will write more about what I specifically like about it in many different forms. What I really love is the random disorganized organization of the houses here, they seem to be built with whatever is available wherever there is space, responding either to already existing streets or paths, or creating new ones, based on their location. I guess it, (man the words in English are not coming so easy... I guess when i add a couple spanish ones a few english ones drop out or something) I guess it signifies what I love so much about many developing countries, but about Honduras specifically, the organic creation of something that people contribute to little by little, without having as much of a specific plan, making the most of the opportunities they have and the things they have around them. Now, there are good and bad aspects to this quality, as a small conversation with a coworker indicated, but for now, I choose to enjoy it.

Getting to Nueva Suyapa, the colonia up on a hill where I am living and working, has been a long time coming. I would like to talk a bit to the experiences I had in the past week, as we went to many places, and learned about the work of many good organizations, most of which are partnering with MCC.

After our stay in Copan we went to San Pedro Sula for training. Us three SALTers made good use of the office, having dance parties and watching movies. We were told that we managed to turn it into a college dorm. While there we visited the organization/project called the Mama project which is the partner organization that MCC Honduras spends a good amount of their time, volunteers and money on. MAMA stands for Mujeres Amigas Miles Apart. They are a very diverse organization that does many things in San Pedro Sula and surrounding areas, but what they started for was to help and support children and youth, specifically marginalized youth. I was impressed to hear the headway they had made in a dangerous, gang controlled neighborhood called Seis de Mayo. The gang activity is still very present, as every business, taxi bus that enters has t0o pay them a certain amount to be there...and there is more...but they have managed to reduce the violence quite a bit. A story that indicates their presence in the community is that a group of guys from the gang stole something from their van, before they saw the logo, later someone noticed the logo, and they brought the item back to the organization.

We were able to see an after school program for children with learning disabilities that encouraged tactile and experience based learning, and a pretty sweet language learning lab where the kids get to learn via Rosetta Stone and a US tutor via skype. I was impressed.

We also went to a farm of the Mama Project, where a couple with MCC is doing a 3 year volunteer stint. It is very refreshing to be out there after being in a smoggy city. The original focus was tilapia, which they take care of and sell; they have about four tilapia ponds, with quite a few tilapia, I decided I was going to shed my vegetarianism at that moment to eat it, and it was good. They also have many fruit trees, quite a few animals and some vegetables. While there, there was quite a storm during the night, and it felt like a pre-apocalyptic experience...not really, but I definitely felt like worse things were going to happen than did. The lightning seemed so close, and the tin roof made it so loud.

After this experience...we were on the road again to La Campa, where another individual from our group, Micheal will be working. The ride was OK but the arrival better. La Campa is beautiful, amidst an amazing mountain range where the highest mountain in Honduras, Celaque is. The town is very quaint, surrounded by cliffs and mountains, quite an up and coming vacation spot, I think. That area is where the indigenous tribe, Lenca originated. Typical to the Lenca is a beautiful hand made pottery; which we were able to see made very quickly as if it was super easy, before our eyes. She was able to create an anafre, out of just a block of clay in about ten minutes, I was super super impressed. Anafre is a Honduran version of fondu, I would say, beans and cheese, the most mild and well liked Honduran cheese quesillo and refried beans, and sometimes chorizo burning over a flame, sometimes a candle in this dish called an anafre, which is made specifically for this type of appetizer; it is eaten with tortilla chips. I love it, but love the anfre even more, and think, I love watching someone make an anafre dish even more. She also made a couple small vases, about one minute each. I am writing something about that, and so hope to have that ready some time when I find time to write about all these things I want to.

I will add to this blog more, or mabe just have a blog about my trip to Teguc., actually, just read about that part in nice things, and I just wanted to say a bit about my time in the orphanage -- It is an orphanage for children with AIDS and affected by AIDS, and is a well run, joyful place amongst much heartbreak, and much potential heartbreak. These children are well loved though they have to deal with their fair share of suffering --- one particular child, Hector, who was very could at making friends immediately and who I connected with, has very low platelets, which is a constant problem, currently has pneumonia, sores in a few places on his face and can eat casi nada (almost nothing). A hard life, and it did make me sad to wonder how long this beautiful child had to live. I will post a picture of me and him and his favorite Tia, because we took them to the hospital in Teguc when Andrew and Amanda were bringing me to Nueva Suyapa. I did love that place, even though I was there less than 24 hours, and imagine I will be visiting often; it is on a little mountain and has a beautiful view, and is a little away from all the noise of city life, and is only 45 minutes or so away. I don't know how often I will just go down describing events like this, but I figured it would be good to know the specifics, things I am not good at and don't usually connect to people on, but other people do, so I thought I'd include them. I might add more to this about La Campa too.

A night in Copan

Evening Events

They sat in a circle, across generations, and shared stories of the day and stories of the past. The youngest ones ran down the cobblestone hill holding hands, just far enough to feel the danger of distance, just close enough for the circle to know of their whereabouts. As we continued to climb the hill to our respective houses, a pair of children from another set of circles were rolling what seemed to be a set of light exercise weights, the kind one may keep in their basement, down another similar hill. As we neared the final corner, a caballero suited in a well worn sombrero; a loosely checkered navy blue and white camisa and soiled lived in jeans habitually but not less graciously said “Buenas” to wish us goodnight, and we responded.

Sunsets, Photographs and Pensamientos.

Some things that have been on my mind, a mix of inner ponderings, struggles and discoveries and the way I fall in love with the landscape here, and how I deal with that.

Sunsets, Photographs and Pensamientos

Copan and San Pedro Sula

And yes,

it was a sunset;

the hidden sun

mirrored by blinding clouds

creating shadows;

off setting its otherwise

overpowering illumination.

Oversized trees

with cement synonymous roots

edging their way

up, around and through.

Soft hills flowing into

mini mountains that seem so

conquerable from afar.

I said, what about that one?

the largest one leering in the distance

with the coca cola sign in the middle.

I wanted to capture it

I wanted to take a picture

but I didn’t;

too late, I did;

by that time;

diesel fume colored clouds

were taking my place

on the top;

obscuring any kind of a sign

and then, demasiado;

de-mass-iado;

tan demasiado para me.

There will always be more you know,

every day another kind of sun sets

behind, around and above

that same kind of mountain.


Well; today it seemed

another expansive mystery,

the gray clouds remained,

the top I still could not see

but the once unknown

florescent fushia reflections punched

through their nemesis blackness

and made quite a place for themselves,

quite a place indeed.