August 22, 2007
Bittersweet seems to be the perfect word for almost everything I am and have experienced in my time so far surrounding Honduras and all that I have done to prepare and process being here. Though such beauty exists here, the stark poverty cannot be called beautiful. It might be easy to glorify the plight of the poor by saying that they have happiness that we will never find and yes, they might. But, struggling to feed one’s own children or being unable to send them to school is not beautiful. It is a bittersweet combination of genuine happiness, faith, and value for the most precious parts of life with hunger, struggle, and discomfort.
My day took me to “El Rancho,” an orphanage officially titled Nuestros Pequenos Hermanos that is home to 600 children who have either lost parents or been given to this home. I have never before been to an orphanage and the only word I could find to describe it is bittersweet. The property stretches for acre upon acre of woods and fields and it seems the perfect place for a child to run free and explore. School buildings, girls’ dormitories, boys’ dormitories, and vocational buildings scatter the property. The children are housed by age and in the ‘Hijas de Maria,’ the ten year old girls sleep in triple decker bunk beds in one room. I struggle in my description to accurately depict how I feel without looking through the American viewpoint that has come to shape my reactions. I think of how much love and guidance my own parents have given me and look to these many children who will never know that. They will never have a special nickname with their dad or be tucked into bed by their mum. They will never go school supply shopping with mum and come home to a meal cooked or bought by dad. Instead, they awake to a room of other children with the same schedule of school, work, dinner, and bed.
But, this life in the orphanage, in the viewpoints of the children, is incredible compared to the lives they previously lived. They appreciate knowing that they are waking to eat three meals, have their own bed, and be surrounded by friends. It would be unfair of me to say that this place is not filled with joy. In our visit to the baby’s room (really the toddlers’ room), we spent mere minutes before little hands grabbed ours and took us off to explore. Genesis, a beautiful little light haired girl, took my hand and mischievously told me that all the beds were hers. Our playful banter beckoned the presence of three little chicos and laughter and giggles filled the room as we played. Yes, bittersweet.
And then it was off to la Casa Passionista, a home for those suffering from AIDS. About fifteen internos call la Casa home. Located on the ranch, la Casa is a beautiful building with rooms surrounding a courtyard. Everybody, but the director, Puri, suffers from HIV/AIDS. Have I lived a sheltered life? Yes, yes I have. I have never before met a person suffering from AIDS. Somehow in my mind I thought they would be different. Not that they would wear a sign telling me that they were positive, but that I would be able to tell. But, no. The internos (residents of the Casa) are quiet and somewhat timid people, but they laugh with joy and sit attentively listening to the every word of Puri. The Casa has been open since 1990, but it has changed much over the years. With advances in medicine, most of the patients in the Casa can now expect to live relatively normal lives. However, when it first opened, life was a lot different. Death and sadness were common place and la Casa was not a happy place to be. I do not know enough about AIDS to be able to say what will happen to the internos or how this disease will affect their lives. But, I see these people and my heart opens to them immediately. I want to say it is just one or two, but all of the internos seem to tug at me in different manners. I cannot help but feel sorry for them. I know they do not want my pity and that is not what I want to give them. I want to open my arms to them and welcome them into my life. I want to share my life with them. Corrino, an older interno, smiles gently and when asked how he is doing responds with a ‘thanks be to God’ for being alive. When the old volunteers were leaving, he shed tears as he hugged them goodbye. Yes, bittersweet.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
All Over the World in One Day
August 20, 2007
It might just have been one down day here in Honduras, but today I traveled to different countries and cities through conversations with loved ones, new friends, and memories that captivate my senses and take me back in time to other lands.
Charleston, SC: A morning conversation with Grace brightened my day. To hear her chipper voice on the other end of the phone made me feel as though she was right there and that we could have been laughing about the silliest thing just minutes earlier. I remembered days in Charleston spent with Grace eating yummy food and watching hours upon hours of House.
Valles de Angelles, Honduras: On winding paths through breathtaking scenery, we scaled and dipped deep into the valleys of the rugged mountains of Honduras. The mountains stretch further than the eye can see and tiny towns are scattered throughout the paths that take us to our destination. It is hands down one of my favorite parts of Honduras. I just stare out the window gawking at the majesty of nature.
Cuba: In our lunch date with Cardinal Oscar Andres Rodriguez, we were humbled by his down to earth manner and kind welcoming manner. And yet, we traveled to Cuba in his stories of banquets he had shared with Fidel Castro, a joyful and extremely intelligent man (as described by the Cardinal). We joked about Cuban cigars and learned of the prideful, yet kind and charismatic nature of Castro.
Guatemala City, Guatemala: On our drive to Tegucigalpa, we passed a Pollo Campero and I was suddenly back in Guatemala being covered in dirt and grime after a long days work. The succulent smell of fried, unhealthy chicken filled my nose and memories of friends who share my love for Guatemala flooded my mind. I was back in the country and in the experience that laid the foundation for me being here.
Charlotte, NC: Once we had arrived in Tegucigalpa, I found myself literally in South Park mall. I do not exaggerate when I say this mall had Lacoste, Tony Ramas, and a food court that included Wendys, Burger King, Sbarro, and Church’s chicken. It was such a strange, strange feeling. I had been transported into the first world in the midst of a bustling third world capital. High heel shoes that I would have loved just months ago now just seem so unpractical.
Marietta, GA: Once the mall had been conquered, we went on our first bulk grocery shopping trip to the Honduran version of Costo. I may as well have been in Marietta on Barrett Parkway like six or seven years ago when I first moved to America. We shopped at Costco a lot and it was just like it—apart from the fact that I was spending someone else’s money and that I finally I got to buy a 36 count box of Twix bars.
Charlotte, NC: On our way home, we got a flat. I have only ever been in a car when there was a flat before and it was at night in Charlotte. Just as difficulties occurred in Charlotte like a big crack (a lucky crack even) in the pavement where the car was parked and so forth, many a problem occurred here too. Not only were we stuck on the road at night (equals dangerous) but the spare tire was locked underneath the car and no key was to be found. Needless to say, we made it out in one piece with a new tire on and no one harmed and an experience to recount to others—just like in Charlotte.
Talanga, Honduras: And suddenly after a day away from Talanga, I was relived to be welcomed by the rocky, dusty roads and to come home to our newly cleaned home. Yes, it is becoming my home. As we entered Talanga, we passed through the market that I walked with the Eucharistic minister on Sunday, we passed the baleada lady who sells us delicious dinners and sometimes late night snacks, we passed the church of beauty and simplicity and finally we arrived home—to our slightly dusty, very clean and work in progress house. Yes, it will be home soon.
My mind has been everywhere today. Though some of these memories so joyful in themselves make me crave the places and people I love, they have begun to sustain me in my frustrations and bring a smile to my face and a thank you for being blessed enough to travel all over the world in one small day.
It might just have been one down day here in Honduras, but today I traveled to different countries and cities through conversations with loved ones, new friends, and memories that captivate my senses and take me back in time to other lands.
Charleston, SC: A morning conversation with Grace brightened my day. To hear her chipper voice on the other end of the phone made me feel as though she was right there and that we could have been laughing about the silliest thing just minutes earlier. I remembered days in Charleston spent with Grace eating yummy food and watching hours upon hours of House.
Valles de Angelles, Honduras: On winding paths through breathtaking scenery, we scaled and dipped deep into the valleys of the rugged mountains of Honduras. The mountains stretch further than the eye can see and tiny towns are scattered throughout the paths that take us to our destination. It is hands down one of my favorite parts of Honduras. I just stare out the window gawking at the majesty of nature.
Cuba: In our lunch date with Cardinal Oscar Andres Rodriguez, we were humbled by his down to earth manner and kind welcoming manner. And yet, we traveled to Cuba in his stories of banquets he had shared with Fidel Castro, a joyful and extremely intelligent man (as described by the Cardinal). We joked about Cuban cigars and learned of the prideful, yet kind and charismatic nature of Castro.
Guatemala City, Guatemala: On our drive to Tegucigalpa, we passed a Pollo Campero and I was suddenly back in Guatemala being covered in dirt and grime after a long days work. The succulent smell of fried, unhealthy chicken filled my nose and memories of friends who share my love for Guatemala flooded my mind. I was back in the country and in the experience that laid the foundation for me being here.
Charlotte, NC: Once we had arrived in Tegucigalpa, I found myself literally in South Park mall. I do not exaggerate when I say this mall had Lacoste, Tony Ramas, and a food court that included Wendys, Burger King, Sbarro, and Church’s chicken. It was such a strange, strange feeling. I had been transported into the first world in the midst of a bustling third world capital. High heel shoes that I would have loved just months ago now just seem so unpractical.
Marietta, GA: Once the mall had been conquered, we went on our first bulk grocery shopping trip to the Honduran version of Costo. I may as well have been in Marietta on Barrett Parkway like six or seven years ago when I first moved to America. We shopped at Costco a lot and it was just like it—apart from the fact that I was spending someone else’s money and that I finally I got to buy a 36 count box of Twix bars.
Charlotte, NC: On our way home, we got a flat. I have only ever been in a car when there was a flat before and it was at night in Charlotte. Just as difficulties occurred in Charlotte like a big crack (a lucky crack even) in the pavement where the car was parked and so forth, many a problem occurred here too. Not only were we stuck on the road at night (equals dangerous) but the spare tire was locked underneath the car and no key was to be found. Needless to say, we made it out in one piece with a new tire on and no one harmed and an experience to recount to others—just like in Charlotte.
Talanga, Honduras: And suddenly after a day away from Talanga, I was relived to be welcomed by the rocky, dusty roads and to come home to our newly cleaned home. Yes, it is becoming my home. As we entered Talanga, we passed through the market that I walked with the Eucharistic minister on Sunday, we passed the baleada lady who sells us delicious dinners and sometimes late night snacks, we passed the church of beauty and simplicity and finally we arrived home—to our slightly dusty, very clean and work in progress house. Yes, it will be home soon.
My mind has been everywhere today. Though some of these memories so joyful in themselves make me crave the places and people I love, they have begun to sustain me in my frustrations and bring a smile to my face and a thank you for being blessed enough to travel all over the world in one small day.
Visitors
August 19, 2007
I have always liked visitors. In college, a constant stream of visitors would ebb and flow out of my suite and I loved it. We were continually entertained by friends bringing friends and story after story of this or that. Our door was never closed and people knew that. It was a rare night that someone would not pass by. Though I did not know this at the time, I think my college years and multitude of visitors will prepare me well for this year.
We have been here six nights so far and all but one we have had visitors at night (the other night it was raining and Hondurans do not like to go out in the rain). Every night, we hear a knock on the metal door and a ‘buenas’ and our visitors begin. Some are regulars and others just once or twice. Chike (pronounced cheek-ay) passes by almost every night. He is part of the Imprevistas, a local youth group, and has been friends with the volunteers since year one. With a greeting to everyone—kisses on the cheek for the girls and a hand shake for the guys, he makes himself at home and starts the jokes. Aside from Chike, a handful of the other Imprevistas stop by too and Professor Carlos from the local school comes by often. He has a hyena-esq laugh and him and Chike seem like partners in crime. Other nights, women from the church stop by bringing children and sometimes snacks. Two nights ago, we entertained Isabelle, her daughters Bessie and Noellea, Lewis (the Church guitar player) and another gentleman who we didn’t know. With various ages, the conversation from what I can understand is very interesting!
The night visitors are fun, but my favorites are the afternoon visitors. Every afternoon, a small knock on the door followed by lots of clanging and banging on the door signals the visit of one or two of the countless local children. They melt my heart and I cannot help but always say yes to letting them in and playing with them. Yes, it may just seem like babysitting in a different country, but these kids are ridiculously cute and have won me over completely. Four little boys who are all about seven stop by at least once a day. Marvin, Noah, Christano, and Omer, in many different combinations, wreak havoc wherever they go. Like a mini tornado, they come running into the house searching for Oso and then proceed to run around the couple of areas in our house chasing and then manhandling Oso. After Oso gets tired or starts barking/ biting at them, they curiously start to play with anything left on our coffee table. So far they have fallen in love with the light up yoyo, my sunglasses and anything with headphones especially Ipods. Some games or books are read but their attention span is very short and they are easily distracted. Every day they come with dirt caked on their faces and hands, wearing holey, dirty clothes, and only sometimes with shoes. They are a mischievous handful, but they are precious and exude such joy and little giggles. Two other girls come from the neighborhood come regularly to borrow books and even sometimes bring us banana pancakes. They are quiet and shy and hold the books gently like a prized possession.
The beauty of visitors is that our house is not only becoming our home, but theirs too. As each person spends more and more time, I am comforted by new friendships and people in my life and I am realizing more and more that the presence of God is not just found between the four walls of a church, but in the faces of those with whom I spend my evenings and especially my afternoon.
I have always liked visitors. In college, a constant stream of visitors would ebb and flow out of my suite and I loved it. We were continually entertained by friends bringing friends and story after story of this or that. Our door was never closed and people knew that. It was a rare night that someone would not pass by. Though I did not know this at the time, I think my college years and multitude of visitors will prepare me well for this year.
We have been here six nights so far and all but one we have had visitors at night (the other night it was raining and Hondurans do not like to go out in the rain). Every night, we hear a knock on the metal door and a ‘buenas’ and our visitors begin. Some are regulars and others just once or twice. Chike (pronounced cheek-ay) passes by almost every night. He is part of the Imprevistas, a local youth group, and has been friends with the volunteers since year one. With a greeting to everyone—kisses on the cheek for the girls and a hand shake for the guys, he makes himself at home and starts the jokes. Aside from Chike, a handful of the other Imprevistas stop by too and Professor Carlos from the local school comes by often. He has a hyena-esq laugh and him and Chike seem like partners in crime. Other nights, women from the church stop by bringing children and sometimes snacks. Two nights ago, we entertained Isabelle, her daughters Bessie and Noellea, Lewis (the Church guitar player) and another gentleman who we didn’t know. With various ages, the conversation from what I can understand is very interesting!
The night visitors are fun, but my favorites are the afternoon visitors. Every afternoon, a small knock on the door followed by lots of clanging and banging on the door signals the visit of one or two of the countless local children. They melt my heart and I cannot help but always say yes to letting them in and playing with them. Yes, it may just seem like babysitting in a different country, but these kids are ridiculously cute and have won me over completely. Four little boys who are all about seven stop by at least once a day. Marvin, Noah, Christano, and Omer, in many different combinations, wreak havoc wherever they go. Like a mini tornado, they come running into the house searching for Oso and then proceed to run around the couple of areas in our house chasing and then manhandling Oso. After Oso gets tired or starts barking/ biting at them, they curiously start to play with anything left on our coffee table. So far they have fallen in love with the light up yoyo, my sunglasses and anything with headphones especially Ipods. Some games or books are read but their attention span is very short and they are easily distracted. Every day they come with dirt caked on their faces and hands, wearing holey, dirty clothes, and only sometimes with shoes. They are a mischievous handful, but they are precious and exude such joy and little giggles. Two other girls come from the neighborhood come regularly to borrow books and even sometimes bring us banana pancakes. They are quiet and shy and hold the books gently like a prized possession.
The beauty of visitors is that our house is not only becoming our home, but theirs too. As each person spends more and more time, I am comforted by new friendships and people in my life and I am realizing more and more that the presence of God is not just found between the four walls of a church, but in the faces of those with whom I spend my evenings and especially my afternoon.
Humility
I write these entries at home and then post them on one date....so these are a little out dated but still pertinent.
August 17, 2007
To think that I was even a tiny bit prepared for what Honduras had in store would be a huge exaggeration…to say the least. I have now spent five days in Talanga and words struggle to explain what I have seen, what I have experienced, and what I have felt. I have left all that was familiar and comfortable to me and now I have regressed to the communication skills of a two year old into a home that is not home yet in a land that is nothing like that of anything I am used to. Scary, yes. Exhilarating, yes. But mainly humbling.
I am humbled by my surroundings—by the dusty, unpaved, pothole filled roads that take me from one place to another and are the home to countless stray dogs and a handful of oxen, by the lush greenery and majestic mountains that tower over every landscape and take my breath away every time, by the rustic beauty of the aldeas where one house with four rooms is home to an already large and growing family, and by the sounds of roosters and dogs and trucks that wake me at night.
I am humbled by the people—by the patience of Isabelle to repeat word for word the simplest sentence in hopes that I might understand and then wait patiently for my jumbled response, by the joy of the children with teethless smiles and hearts that immediately welcome and spirits that have not been contaminated by any prejudice, materialism, or insecurity, by the genuine love of the people in hugs from elderly, perfectly wrinkled old women and in tears of appreciation for the present volunteers, and by the gentleness of two old ladies who walked through the streets of Talanga delivering the Eucharist in kind, warming silence with me.
I am humbled by the culture—by the ‘buen provecho’ uttered as anyone starts to eat a meal—or even just an ice cream cone and the sincerity with which it is said, by the constant visits from friends of all ages at all times and in return the open doors of all we pass, by the importance of giving and receiving and the constant reminder that what is given to me is a gift from above, by the excitement of riding in the back of a pick up truck with twenty three new friends over a river and many a bumps, and by the pride of being a Catracho, of being from Honduras.
I am humbled by my religion—by the beauty of being Catholic in a country where I do not speak the same language but I share the same ritual, tradition, and faith, by the simplicity of a one room church perched on a mountain side with a small altar, a wooden cross, and six wooden benches on each side filled with eager and curious faces and deep brown eyes that savor each word spoken, by the reverence of the Eucharist in the hora sante where even the coolest teenagers in town will kneel in respect and humility, by the living and constant presence of God that accompanies me on my journey to the internet cafes or to far away aldeas, and by the vigor and life that comes through in the music of a school bus full of parishioners traveling to a neighboring town to celebrate mass in the streets with firecrackers and song after song after song after mass that only end because of a rain shower.
And I am humbled by my emotions—by the incredible happiness I feel when I play with the street children that visit our house once a day to play the Dora game or play with Oso, by the admiration I feel for the old volunteers in seeing their tearful goodbyes and in seeing the ways they have touched the people we have met, by the frustration I feel when even the most basic Spanish seems to escape me and leave me with nothing but a smile or a shrug as an answer, by the pangs of sadness when I think about my family and loved ones and by the joy of the memories I share with them, by the anxiety I feel when wondering if I will make a difference or if I will learn the language, and by the peace that cannot come from anywhere but above that has cradled me and reminded me that this is where I am supposed to be.
August 17, 2007
To think that I was even a tiny bit prepared for what Honduras had in store would be a huge exaggeration…to say the least. I have now spent five days in Talanga and words struggle to explain what I have seen, what I have experienced, and what I have felt. I have left all that was familiar and comfortable to me and now I have regressed to the communication skills of a two year old into a home that is not home yet in a land that is nothing like that of anything I am used to. Scary, yes. Exhilarating, yes. But mainly humbling.
I am humbled by my surroundings—by the dusty, unpaved, pothole filled roads that take me from one place to another and are the home to countless stray dogs and a handful of oxen, by the lush greenery and majestic mountains that tower over every landscape and take my breath away every time, by the rustic beauty of the aldeas where one house with four rooms is home to an already large and growing family, and by the sounds of roosters and dogs and trucks that wake me at night.
I am humbled by the people—by the patience of Isabelle to repeat word for word the simplest sentence in hopes that I might understand and then wait patiently for my jumbled response, by the joy of the children with teethless smiles and hearts that immediately welcome and spirits that have not been contaminated by any prejudice, materialism, or insecurity, by the genuine love of the people in hugs from elderly, perfectly wrinkled old women and in tears of appreciation for the present volunteers, and by the gentleness of two old ladies who walked through the streets of Talanga delivering the Eucharist in kind, warming silence with me.
I am humbled by the culture—by the ‘buen provecho’ uttered as anyone starts to eat a meal—or even just an ice cream cone and the sincerity with which it is said, by the constant visits from friends of all ages at all times and in return the open doors of all we pass, by the importance of giving and receiving and the constant reminder that what is given to me is a gift from above, by the excitement of riding in the back of a pick up truck with twenty three new friends over a river and many a bumps, and by the pride of being a Catracho, of being from Honduras.
I am humbled by my religion—by the beauty of being Catholic in a country where I do not speak the same language but I share the same ritual, tradition, and faith, by the simplicity of a one room church perched on a mountain side with a small altar, a wooden cross, and six wooden benches on each side filled with eager and curious faces and deep brown eyes that savor each word spoken, by the reverence of the Eucharist in the hora sante where even the coolest teenagers in town will kneel in respect and humility, by the living and constant presence of God that accompanies me on my journey to the internet cafes or to far away aldeas, and by the vigor and life that comes through in the music of a school bus full of parishioners traveling to a neighboring town to celebrate mass in the streets with firecrackers and song after song after song after mass that only end because of a rain shower.
And I am humbled by my emotions—by the incredible happiness I feel when I play with the street children that visit our house once a day to play the Dora game or play with Oso, by the admiration I feel for the old volunteers in seeing their tearful goodbyes and in seeing the ways they have touched the people we have met, by the frustration I feel when even the most basic Spanish seems to escape me and leave me with nothing but a smile or a shrug as an answer, by the pangs of sadness when I think about my family and loved ones and by the joy of the memories I share with them, by the anxiety I feel when wondering if I will make a difference or if I will learn the language, and by the peace that cannot come from anywhere but above that has cradled me and reminded me that this is where I am supposed to be.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Six Days.....
Holy Moly......
Only six days separate me from being in Honduras--from starting my journey, my year. I cannot believe how fast the time has flown by and I'm sure that this time next year I will be saying the exact same thing. Ever since I found out that I was going to Honduras, its always been so far away in the future..like months or at least weeks away, but now it is mere days away. Whenever big changes happen in my life, I spend the week or two before dreading them. I think of the worst case scenarios for EVERYTHING and the comfort of home and the people I love make the idea of leaving worse and worse. For those of you who know me, you know that I am awful at change.
But this time, I'm owning my weirdness of hating change and there is a definite peace. Since coming home from New York and orientation, I've come to accept that life is changing, but what a wonderful place in my life I am leaving and what excitement awaits me in a country of mystery and simplicity. With a quick, but wonderful weekend to Charlotte, I said goodbyes to the people with whom I have spent the last four years of my life. Some have only just entered my life and others have been there the whole time. Laughs were shared, some tears shed, but I realized once again how truly blessed I am...and how much sadder the weekend would have been if I didn't have so many wonderful people to say goodbye to.
Now I am home. Home sweet home. Spending my last couple of days with my family. Its wonderful. Its bitter sweet. But I'm happy and this is why....
"The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious--the knowledge of the existence of something unfathomable to us, the manifestation of the most profound reason coupled with the most brilliant beauty."
Only six days separate me from being in Honduras--from starting my journey, my year. I cannot believe how fast the time has flown by and I'm sure that this time next year I will be saying the exact same thing. Ever since I found out that I was going to Honduras, its always been so far away in the future..like months or at least weeks away, but now it is mere days away. Whenever big changes happen in my life, I spend the week or two before dreading them. I think of the worst case scenarios for EVERYTHING and the comfort of home and the people I love make the idea of leaving worse and worse. For those of you who know me, you know that I am awful at change.
But this time, I'm owning my weirdness of hating change and there is a definite peace. Since coming home from New York and orientation, I've come to accept that life is changing, but what a wonderful place in my life I am leaving and what excitement awaits me in a country of mystery and simplicity. With a quick, but wonderful weekend to Charlotte, I said goodbyes to the people with whom I have spent the last four years of my life. Some have only just entered my life and others have been there the whole time. Laughs were shared, some tears shed, but I realized once again how truly blessed I am...and how much sadder the weekend would have been if I didn't have so many wonderful people to say goodbye to.
Now I am home. Home sweet home. Spending my last couple of days with my family. Its wonderful. Its bitter sweet. But I'm happy and this is why....
"The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious--the knowledge of the existence of something unfathomable to us, the manifestation of the most profound reason coupled with the most brilliant beauty."
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