Saturday, December 29, 2007
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Christmas in Honduras
When I first applied for this program, one of the things I most feared was being away from my family—especially for Christmas. Like most families, Christmas is a joyful celebration of food, presents, Christmas decorations, and the love we share. The magic and excitement of Christmas gifts and visits from Santa as a child has now grown into a deep sense of gratitude for a day that seems magically reserved for everyone and everything I love. There is just something in the air in my house for Christmas—we all become beautifully aware of how blessed we are and it is a day that we all look forward to sharing together. It is a day full of delicious food, excitement, sincere giving, love, and Christmas touches that are O’Toole unique. And so in anticipation for this year, I expected that Christmas would be hard—and it has been. Throughout the day, my mind traveled back home to sit at the end of the table for dinner or sit on a couch to open presents and each time when I found myself back here, my heart sank a little. Thinking about my dog wearing or eating his antlers or who got to put baby Jesus in the manager or looking at the picture of Grace and I in Santa hats from last year reminded me just one more time how painfully I missed home.
I do not write all this to sound like the Grinch but to share with you the struggle that Christmas brought me. When I thought about this email, I had hoped that it would be similar to the optimistic Thanksgiving reflection that I wrote. But as I write this, I find it becoming less optimistic and maybe slightly more bittersweet.
As Christmas time approaches, there are normally little signs that signify the day is near and that the Christmas spirit is around. For me, I think about coming back home from college and putting up our Christmas tree and our decorations. Christmas candy starts appearing in the stores and the temperature is a little colder. All of my family makes their way home and I start buying Christmas gifts. This is when I know Christmas is near. But, here in Honduras, Christmas came a little differently. With no college to mark the beginning of Christmas break, no stores selling any different candy, and the temperatures still pretty high during the day, it was hard to tell that Christmas was coming. You could easily have thought we were in the middle of March. And so our signs for the arrival of Christmas were slightly different. With three major Christmas projects, we immersed ourselves in a month of heavy work that kept us both busy and distracted. Firstly, we were donated six huge bags of beans—so we bagged them and partnered them with bags of rice to give to one of the poorest neighborhoods in Talanga. We handed out over 300 bags of rice and beans. Secondly, with the money we raised from the big expoventa sale, we started a three tier toy project to give toys to Camalotal (a nearby aldea), Telerevista (a local TV program), and then to a handful of poor areas of Talanga. In total, we handed out 350 toys—and they were all wrapped. And then lastly, we worked with the children of Terrero Colorado and Louis, the choir director, to put together a Nativity play. And so for me, the signs of Christmas coming were the coming dates of these projects. Talk of making elaborate Nativity scenes in homes and baking catamales became common among the people as we started learning the Christmas traditions here and the days started ticking down.
And then Christmas Eve arrived. In Honduras, Christmas is Christmas Eve and all the big celebrations are on the eve as opposed to the day. This Eve put the sweet in my somewhat bittersweet Christmas time. It could not have been better and as I was experiencing it all, I could not stop thinking how lucky I was to be in Talanga and Honduras for this night. Our night started with the performance of the Nativity play in Terrero Colorado at 6 o’clock. However, it had slipped our mind that Terrero does not have electricity and thus no lights. And so by the light of one gas lantern hanging from the ceiling of the little Church perched on the side of a hill, the children performed the Christmas story. It was beautiful—and it was one of my signs that Christmas was here. The Church was packed and when the carols came up in the play, the whole Church sang along. And that’s when I knew my Christmas was here. I got chills and realized that maybe above everything this was what Christmas truly was. Sitting in that simple ten wooden bench Church with the decorations of crepe paper and a tiny tree, I thought about where I was and how I was celebrating Christmas and my heart gleamed with joy. A prayer was said by the leader of the group and as we all held hands, prayers of strength were asked for us and protection for our families far from us.
With some quick goodbyes and catamales in hand, we headed back to Talanga for the 8 o’clock mass. New clothes are a Christmas tradition here and Hondurans love to dress up. Matt had pants made and the rest of scrounged through our suitcases to find something a little dressier than normal. And so we made our way to Church to find out that the power transformer for that neighborhood had gone out. Without light or microphones, the mass was lit by little candles down the aisle and candles on the altar. A simple celebration of a simple birth.
After the mass, the streets of Talanga came alive with families and friends visiting house to house in excitement for midnight. We made our way to Isabel’s, my host mum’s, and ate dinner with her family. Laughter was our music at this house as we played with fireworks, new toys, and cameras. We dined on chicken and rice and potatoes and tortillas and lounged on couches joking and playing. Our celebrations then moved to the streets where we all became children playing with sparklers and watching the ‘tricky tracks’ go off and the ‘mariposas’ flying high. With some photos taken, we headed off to Prof. Daniel’s house. Prof. Daniel is the wise owl of Talanga and knows someone in every office and seems to own half of Talanga too. At his house, the festivities were well underway. With good food and drinks, everybody was having fun. Fatima, a member of our formation team, and her boyfriend and half of her family were there and the good cheer of the night continued with some very interesting Mexican dancing. When midnight arrived, everyone jumped up to give hugs and Feliz Navidads to each other. And the second meal of the night. Another tradition in Honduras is to eat at midnight on Christmas. And so we dined on our second meal of chicken and rice. As an hour or so passed by, we headed to Tyler’s host mom’s house. She lives right near the Church and they were still without power and so we arrived in the house to find them eating and talking by the light of the moon. Our Christmas Eve continued by moonlight to conversations about family and a proud mom retelling stories about her son. By the light of candle, Tyler and Angel tried to put together a puzzle. As another hour passed by, we headed home to a wrapping paper roll fight and then finally to bed at 3:45am.A night of laughter, joy, and friendship that warms the heart and made the night one of the best so far in Honduras.
Christmas day was harder. Since the 25th really isn’t a celebration here, the day passed more or less like a normal day and it was hard to feel the Christmas spirit. I have already mentioned that Christmas was difficult and so I won’t bore you with countless details—but it was tough.
And so my bittersweet Christmas came and went with the beauty of celebrating the Christmas story by the light of a lantern and in the innocence of children, the simplicity of a candlelit mass, the warmth of laughter and joy shared with friends, and the deep gratitude for having a family and memories to miss incredibly so.
Merry Christmas to all and hope it was a beautiful, simple, warm, and thankful day.
I do not write all this to sound like the Grinch but to share with you the struggle that Christmas brought me. When I thought about this email, I had hoped that it would be similar to the optimistic Thanksgiving reflection that I wrote. But as I write this, I find it becoming less optimistic and maybe slightly more bittersweet.
As Christmas time approaches, there are normally little signs that signify the day is near and that the Christmas spirit is around. For me, I think about coming back home from college and putting up our Christmas tree and our decorations. Christmas candy starts appearing in the stores and the temperature is a little colder. All of my family makes their way home and I start buying Christmas gifts. This is when I know Christmas is near. But, here in Honduras, Christmas came a little differently. With no college to mark the beginning of Christmas break, no stores selling any different candy, and the temperatures still pretty high during the day, it was hard to tell that Christmas was coming. You could easily have thought we were in the middle of March. And so our signs for the arrival of Christmas were slightly different. With three major Christmas projects, we immersed ourselves in a month of heavy work that kept us both busy and distracted. Firstly, we were donated six huge bags of beans—so we bagged them and partnered them with bags of rice to give to one of the poorest neighborhoods in Talanga. We handed out over 300 bags of rice and beans. Secondly, with the money we raised from the big expoventa sale, we started a three tier toy project to give toys to Camalotal (a nearby aldea), Telerevista (a local TV program), and then to a handful of poor areas of Talanga. In total, we handed out 350 toys—and they were all wrapped. And then lastly, we worked with the children of Terrero Colorado and Louis, the choir director, to put together a Nativity play. And so for me, the signs of Christmas coming were the coming dates of these projects. Talk of making elaborate Nativity scenes in homes and baking catamales became common among the people as we started learning the Christmas traditions here and the days started ticking down.
And then Christmas Eve arrived. In Honduras, Christmas is Christmas Eve and all the big celebrations are on the eve as opposed to the day. This Eve put the sweet in my somewhat bittersweet Christmas time. It could not have been better and as I was experiencing it all, I could not stop thinking how lucky I was to be in Talanga and Honduras for this night. Our night started with the performance of the Nativity play in Terrero Colorado at 6 o’clock. However, it had slipped our mind that Terrero does not have electricity and thus no lights. And so by the light of one gas lantern hanging from the ceiling of the little Church perched on the side of a hill, the children performed the Christmas story. It was beautiful—and it was one of my signs that Christmas was here. The Church was packed and when the carols came up in the play, the whole Church sang along. And that’s when I knew my Christmas was here. I got chills and realized that maybe above everything this was what Christmas truly was. Sitting in that simple ten wooden bench Church with the decorations of crepe paper and a tiny tree, I thought about where I was and how I was celebrating Christmas and my heart gleamed with joy. A prayer was said by the leader of the group and as we all held hands, prayers of strength were asked for us and protection for our families far from us.
With some quick goodbyes and catamales in hand, we headed back to Talanga for the 8 o’clock mass. New clothes are a Christmas tradition here and Hondurans love to dress up. Matt had pants made and the rest of scrounged through our suitcases to find something a little dressier than normal. And so we made our way to Church to find out that the power transformer for that neighborhood had gone out. Without light or microphones, the mass was lit by little candles down the aisle and candles on the altar. A simple celebration of a simple birth.
After the mass, the streets of Talanga came alive with families and friends visiting house to house in excitement for midnight. We made our way to Isabel’s, my host mum’s, and ate dinner with her family. Laughter was our music at this house as we played with fireworks, new toys, and cameras. We dined on chicken and rice and potatoes and tortillas and lounged on couches joking and playing. Our celebrations then moved to the streets where we all became children playing with sparklers and watching the ‘tricky tracks’ go off and the ‘mariposas’ flying high. With some photos taken, we headed off to Prof. Daniel’s house. Prof. Daniel is the wise owl of Talanga and knows someone in every office and seems to own half of Talanga too. At his house, the festivities were well underway. With good food and drinks, everybody was having fun. Fatima, a member of our formation team, and her boyfriend and half of her family were there and the good cheer of the night continued with some very interesting Mexican dancing. When midnight arrived, everyone jumped up to give hugs and Feliz Navidads to each other. And the second meal of the night. Another tradition in Honduras is to eat at midnight on Christmas. And so we dined on our second meal of chicken and rice. As an hour or so passed by, we headed to Tyler’s host mom’s house. She lives right near the Church and they were still without power and so we arrived in the house to find them eating and talking by the light of the moon. Our Christmas Eve continued by moonlight to conversations about family and a proud mom retelling stories about her son. By the light of candle, Tyler and Angel tried to put together a puzzle. As another hour passed by, we headed home to a wrapping paper roll fight and then finally to bed at 3:45am.A night of laughter, joy, and friendship that warms the heart and made the night one of the best so far in Honduras.
Christmas day was harder. Since the 25th really isn’t a celebration here, the day passed more or less like a normal day and it was hard to feel the Christmas spirit. I have already mentioned that Christmas was difficult and so I won’t bore you with countless details—but it was tough.
And so my bittersweet Christmas came and went with the beauty of celebrating the Christmas story by the light of a lantern and in the innocence of children, the simplicity of a candlelit mass, the warmth of laughter and joy shared with friends, and the deep gratitude for having a family and memories to miss incredibly so.
Merry Christmas to all and hope it was a beautiful, simple, warm, and thankful day.
Monday, December 24, 2007
A Small Ball and Ten Men
Futbolito literally means small football or soccer ball—and that is exactly what it is. Starting in November, the basketball court in the middle of the park in front of the Catholic Church became the home for futbolito every night. Hundreds of Talangans filtered into the three step ‘stadium’ seating that surrounds the court to cheer on their team or boo for their rivals. Just like at high school football games, most of the girls came dressed to the nines and the guys came to see them. Some nights the crowds came dressed for the cold with scarves and hats and other nights, the cool summer nights were perfect t-shirt weather. Each night, three games were played until the last couple of weeks of the tournament that would decide the winners.
Any team could enter futbolito—and so in total, there were about 30 teams of varying ages and physiques. For example, the Mayor’s team was comprised of slightly older men and the local youth group at the Church, the Emproistas, had a team of twenty year olds or so. Some players had lots of experience and others not so much. And depending on the level of experience of the players, different games turned out closer than others. This also happened to be the funnier part of futbolito. The ball is tiny and some of these men were a little bigger and didn’t seem to have played much football—and so the combination provides a very funny visual..
In addition to the games, local food vendors set up stations around the park. You could find a sample of some of the most common dishes here including puposas, carne asada, licuadas, and especially greasy French fries. One of my personal favorites was the yucca stand. I have never eaten yucca before Honduras—but it’s delicious. It tastes very similar to potato but with a slightly different consistency. Another part of futbolito that seems almost as important as the game was the oranges. Every morning, the park would be scattered with orange outsides and some games at night were even paused for orange fights. Oranges are eaten differently here. Instead of peeling them, they cut the peel off the edge kinda of in a spiral and then cut them in half. It is then your job to suck as much orangey goodness out of the halves. Hondurans also enjoy eating oranges with salt and pepper. It’s an acquired taste that I have yet to acquire. But the oranges that Glenda, one of our friends, sold were delicious—like little pieces of yumminess that I will now always associate with futbolito.
One night, three of us went to futbolito with Naza, Isaac, Sadie, and Gloria (four kids/friends). It started raining as the Emproistas game started but we were pretty well bundled up so we stayed to cheer them on. Sitting on the front step, you have to be ready to dodge flying balls and slide over if one of the players wants to do a free throw. As the rain started to get a little heavier, second half started and then out of nowhere, the power went out. It was pitch dark and being in the park in the middle of Talanga with hundreds of people was not where we wanted to be. It was crazy—I don’t think I’ve ever been in the middle of a town in complete darkness. We took the kids home and then made our way back to our house where the power returned about 10 minutes later.
Futbolito: A small ball and ten men.
Any team could enter futbolito—and so in total, there were about 30 teams of varying ages and physiques. For example, the Mayor’s team was comprised of slightly older men and the local youth group at the Church, the Emproistas, had a team of twenty year olds or so. Some players had lots of experience and others not so much. And depending on the level of experience of the players, different games turned out closer than others. This also happened to be the funnier part of futbolito. The ball is tiny and some of these men were a little bigger and didn’t seem to have played much football—and so the combination provides a very funny visual..
In addition to the games, local food vendors set up stations around the park. You could find a sample of some of the most common dishes here including puposas, carne asada, licuadas, and especially greasy French fries. One of my personal favorites was the yucca stand. I have never eaten yucca before Honduras—but it’s delicious. It tastes very similar to potato but with a slightly different consistency. Another part of futbolito that seems almost as important as the game was the oranges. Every morning, the park would be scattered with orange outsides and some games at night were even paused for orange fights. Oranges are eaten differently here. Instead of peeling them, they cut the peel off the edge kinda of in a spiral and then cut them in half. It is then your job to suck as much orangey goodness out of the halves. Hondurans also enjoy eating oranges with salt and pepper. It’s an acquired taste that I have yet to acquire. But the oranges that Glenda, one of our friends, sold were delicious—like little pieces of yumminess that I will now always associate with futbolito.
One night, three of us went to futbolito with Naza, Isaac, Sadie, and Gloria (four kids/friends). It started raining as the Emproistas game started but we were pretty well bundled up so we stayed to cheer them on. Sitting on the front step, you have to be ready to dodge flying balls and slide over if one of the players wants to do a free throw. As the rain started to get a little heavier, second half started and then out of nowhere, the power went out. It was pitch dark and being in the park in the middle of Talanga with hundreds of people was not where we wanted to be. It was crazy—I don’t think I’ve ever been in the middle of a town in complete darkness. We took the kids home and then made our way back to our house where the power returned about 10 minutes later.
Futbolito: A small ball and ten men.
Death
Death is neat, tidy, and hidden in America. Corpses are not seen until they are cleaned up and painted for wakes and as soon as a person is declared dead, their body is covered with a cloth or blanket. Instead of saying that people die, many say they pass away. Children are not exposed to death and death is neither gruesome nor publicly bloody—but here, death is a grisly public affair.
Open any Honduran newspaper and flip through the first ten pages and you will see a photo of a car accident victim or a murder victim. These photos are not for those with weak stomachs. Just recently, a seminarian was killed in a car accident. Driving at high speeds, he lost control of his car three days before his ordination. As if the story itself wasn’t tragic enough, the press captured every personal and unnecessary moment in photos. One photo showed the destroyed car—pretty typical for all journalism. Another photo showed the girl who was the passenger in the car lying on a stretcher obviously cut and suffering from lesions to her body struggling barely to hold on to her life. And then the last photo was of a lady pulling a bloody cloth of the face of the lifeless seminarian who was on a morgue table splattered with blood. These photos are not even the worst of what we have seen in the newspaper—and this is a daily affair. Death is not covered up and the gruesomeness of death seems to make it a better news story.
In a similar manner, in day to day life, death is not covered or hidden. In fact, I saw my first real dead body in Honduras. As we traveled to San Pedro Sula about a month ago, we were driving through Tegucigalpa when traffic came to a slow. As we passed by the obstruction, we saw a bicycle strewn across the road, a car, and a body lying on the road. He was bleeding from his stomach and the police were standing beside his body. We were driving in the heart of rush hour traffic and nothing was being done to cover this man’s body. Gasps from our car were quickly followed by the heavy silence of minds in prayer.
Such a sight was shocking for us—a group of four twenty some things, but for Honduran children, this is not out of the normal. They are used to death in a strangely comfortable way. In the first couple of months we were here in Talanga, a man was killed—someone tried to cut his head off and failed leaving a couple of arteries still attaching his head to his neck. Gruesome and bloody yes I know. But who did we get this news from? We were told about the murder from two little girls (8 and 9) who sell us banana pancakes most afternoons. It had happened in their neighborhood and they had seen the body with the head.
And so that is death in Honduras—grisly and horrible—but then there is also a very different side that came out on Day of the Dead. Whole families go to the cemetery to decorate grave stones with beautiful flower arrangements and bring crowns to place on the grave stones. They bring food and drinks to enjoy the day and it is a joyous celebration of the lives of those who have died. It is a beautiful day and the markets fill with flower vendors. Children bring games to the cemeteries and help their parents with decorating.
Two very different sides of death.
Open any Honduran newspaper and flip through the first ten pages and you will see a photo of a car accident victim or a murder victim. These photos are not for those with weak stomachs. Just recently, a seminarian was killed in a car accident. Driving at high speeds, he lost control of his car three days before his ordination. As if the story itself wasn’t tragic enough, the press captured every personal and unnecessary moment in photos. One photo showed the destroyed car—pretty typical for all journalism. Another photo showed the girl who was the passenger in the car lying on a stretcher obviously cut and suffering from lesions to her body struggling barely to hold on to her life. And then the last photo was of a lady pulling a bloody cloth of the face of the lifeless seminarian who was on a morgue table splattered with blood. These photos are not even the worst of what we have seen in the newspaper—and this is a daily affair. Death is not covered up and the gruesomeness of death seems to make it a better news story.
In a similar manner, in day to day life, death is not covered or hidden. In fact, I saw my first real dead body in Honduras. As we traveled to San Pedro Sula about a month ago, we were driving through Tegucigalpa when traffic came to a slow. As we passed by the obstruction, we saw a bicycle strewn across the road, a car, and a body lying on the road. He was bleeding from his stomach and the police were standing beside his body. We were driving in the heart of rush hour traffic and nothing was being done to cover this man’s body. Gasps from our car were quickly followed by the heavy silence of minds in prayer.
Such a sight was shocking for us—a group of four twenty some things, but for Honduran children, this is not out of the normal. They are used to death in a strangely comfortable way. In the first couple of months we were here in Talanga, a man was killed—someone tried to cut his head off and failed leaving a couple of arteries still attaching his head to his neck. Gruesome and bloody yes I know. But who did we get this news from? We were told about the murder from two little girls (8 and 9) who sell us banana pancakes most afternoons. It had happened in their neighborhood and they had seen the body with the head.
And so that is death in Honduras—grisly and horrible—but then there is also a very different side that came out on Day of the Dead. Whole families go to the cemetery to decorate grave stones with beautiful flower arrangements and bring crowns to place on the grave stones. They bring food and drinks to enjoy the day and it is a joyous celebration of the lives of those who have died. It is a beautiful day and the markets fill with flower vendors. Children bring games to the cemeteries and help their parents with decorating.
Two very different sides of death.
A Happy Giver
I wish I could be as happy of a giver as our across-the-corner neighbor. Known as Negrita by everyone in Talanga, Virginia is a tiny little lady who has a heart big enough for the whole of Honduras. Not a day goes by when a smile isn’t permanently decorating her face and she is not running from one house to another for a prayer service or to lend a hand somewhere else. Her life is one of true service because she is delighted to be living it.
I sometimes struggle with whether I am delighted with what is supposed to be my year of service. The foundation of this struggle comes from how I am beginning to perceive service and the goodness associated with it. For me, the value and the beauty of service comes not just from the action, but the intentions and the manner in which it is done. In other words, a deed is not just good because it appears to be so. Anybody can do a ‘good’ deed—but it takes sacrifice and a dedication to being a joyous servant to actually perform true service. Thus to me, true service is an action of sacrifice done in a joyous manner internally and externally.
I say all this because countless times a month we are asked to do things that none of us want to do but do anyway. Just a couple of weeks ago, one of the guys from Grupo Emanuel in the Church came over to ask if I could drive him to go cut down palms for him to build a Nativity scene. After checking my calendar, I told Roger I could do it a week from the day—next Saturday. He cringed and said what about tomorrow and after me telling him my entire schedule, he picked 6am as our start time. After he left, I cursed up a storm and was so frustrated that I had been suckered into getting up early. Negative Nancy status took over here. The whole night before I grumpily came to terms with it and the next morning at 5:50am, Matt and I were at the car. He was late—I noticed that. And then we spent the next hour or so climbing up and down the side of this treacherous mountain cutting down ginormous palms. And the whole time I was there, I was ready to leave. I complained in my head about getting dirty, about my splinter, about my sweat pants getting muddy and everything else. As we left, Roger asked if he could pay us—and of course, we refused and said it was fine. Yes, this looks like a good deed—but was it? Not on my part. The act itself was probably service but my intentions and mindset going into it were the farthest thing from true service.
Can sacrifice come naturally to anyone? And if not, how can a person become accustomed to sacrificing in a joyful manner? The whole reason why I so begrudgingly struggled to see the brighter side was because I didn’t want to sacrifice. I didn’t want to sacrifice my freshly cleaned sweat pants, my sleep, or my time. I wanted things to be on my schedule and in my way. And that’s one thing that I am constantly being reminded of here. Service and my struggle to live a life of genuine service cannot be perfectly on my time and in my terms otherwise it lacks the ingredients that make it true service. Not only must I be ready to sacrifice as so many have for me, but I must be ready to joyously give in a manner that can be seen in my actions and also in my intentions and thoughts.
One day I hope to be a happy giver—delighted to be living a life of true service.
I sometimes struggle with whether I am delighted with what is supposed to be my year of service. The foundation of this struggle comes from how I am beginning to perceive service and the goodness associated with it. For me, the value and the beauty of service comes not just from the action, but the intentions and the manner in which it is done. In other words, a deed is not just good because it appears to be so. Anybody can do a ‘good’ deed—but it takes sacrifice and a dedication to being a joyous servant to actually perform true service. Thus to me, true service is an action of sacrifice done in a joyous manner internally and externally.
I say all this because countless times a month we are asked to do things that none of us want to do but do anyway. Just a couple of weeks ago, one of the guys from Grupo Emanuel in the Church came over to ask if I could drive him to go cut down palms for him to build a Nativity scene. After checking my calendar, I told Roger I could do it a week from the day—next Saturday. He cringed and said what about tomorrow and after me telling him my entire schedule, he picked 6am as our start time. After he left, I cursed up a storm and was so frustrated that I had been suckered into getting up early. Negative Nancy status took over here. The whole night before I grumpily came to terms with it and the next morning at 5:50am, Matt and I were at the car. He was late—I noticed that. And then we spent the next hour or so climbing up and down the side of this treacherous mountain cutting down ginormous palms. And the whole time I was there, I was ready to leave. I complained in my head about getting dirty, about my splinter, about my sweat pants getting muddy and everything else. As we left, Roger asked if he could pay us—and of course, we refused and said it was fine. Yes, this looks like a good deed—but was it? Not on my part. The act itself was probably service but my intentions and mindset going into it were the farthest thing from true service.
Can sacrifice come naturally to anyone? And if not, how can a person become accustomed to sacrificing in a joyful manner? The whole reason why I so begrudgingly struggled to see the brighter side was because I didn’t want to sacrifice. I didn’t want to sacrifice my freshly cleaned sweat pants, my sleep, or my time. I wanted things to be on my schedule and in my way. And that’s one thing that I am constantly being reminded of here. Service and my struggle to live a life of genuine service cannot be perfectly on my time and in my terms otherwise it lacks the ingredients that make it true service. Not only must I be ready to sacrifice as so many have for me, but I must be ready to joyously give in a manner that can be seen in my actions and also in my intentions and thoughts.
One day I hope to be a happy giver—delighted to be living a life of true service.
Simply a license plate....
I don’t really know what the process of replacing a license plate would be in the United States—but I can assure you that the DMV in Honduras is just as frustrating and aggravating. To give you the background of this story that takes place over a month or so, we have to go back to the year before we were here. Last year, the license plate for our old, dirty Toyota pick-up was stolen and we were given a piece of paper that said we had filed a police report and thus had permission to drive with a plate. This paper was set to expire in October and this is where our story starts.
1st Trip to Tegucigalpa: On our first expedition on car business, we spent the morning taking in the beauty of the Basilica of Suyapa (the biggest in Central America) and then after a quick lunch, we headed to the DMV—well one of the offices of the DMV. First off, the DMV doesn’t have parking—isn’t that strange? I think it’s a little strange. So as Tyler sat in the illegally parked car just in case the police came and asked him to move it, the rest of us headed up to the office with Puri, our fearless leader in the license plate voyage. Well, the office is part of a long line of offices, but there is no orderly way to get into the office. Two guards stand inside the office and let a couple of people in at one time, but there is no orderly manner to get in. A huge crowd hovers outside the door and when the door opens, they just shove and push to get in. Luckily, our fearless leader, though a little short, managed to push his way to the front and proclaim that he was on business for the Cardinal. Of course, this gave him a VIP pass to the front of the line and we were awarded with an extension for our permission. Afterwards he said that he doesn’t normally lie, but if it’s for a good cause then it can’t be too bad.
2nd Trip to Tegucigalpa: After driving in and out of many different areas of Tegus, we found our way to another office—different from the first but seemingly as incompetent as the other. With Puri’s continuing leadership, we entered into an office behind what looked like a jail and went straight to one of the attendants dismissing the waiting room full of people. Puri disappeared into an office for about 10 minutes and then reemerged with the news that there were no more license plates in Honduras. Amy and I were quite befuddled by this—how can a country just stop making license plates? Well, we were told by this office which is on one side of Tegus to go to a different one—apparently the office we had visited on the first trip. So we drove to the other side of Tegus to get another extension for our permission to drive. This time Puri waited his turn as directed and eventually made his way to the front of the line.
3rd Trip to Tegucigalpa: This trip was made by Puri alone—but magically, we actually got a license plate—well actually a paper license plate. I am still not sure exactly how we are supposed to attach a paper license plate to our car so right now it is in our glove compartment. Apparently, Honduras will not be making metal license plates until January and so until then we have this paper license plate and a note giving us permission to drive without one until January. Puri gave us the permission form and told us it was worth more than dollars and lempiras and to guard it as carefully as a girlfriend or boyfriend. Well, I got the form, folded it up and put it in my back pocket. When we got home, I was opening the gate so that Matt could drive the car in and got oil in my pants. Outraged at the possibility of staining my pants, I quickly changed and took my jeans out to wash them in the yard. Later in the afternoon, we were re-telling the news from Puri and I went to look for the form in my purse and realized that it was in my wet jeans drying on the line outside! Eeeek! Thank goodness I didn’t scrub my jeans too much because we able to salvage the piece of paper and let it dry out and so far its worked just fine. I haven’t told Puri because I think he might freak.
And so this is the story of how we finally were able to have a license plate—yes it might be a paper one, but now we do have a license plate—and the DMV of a developing country is about as advanced as the DMV in GA.
1st Trip to Tegucigalpa: On our first expedition on car business, we spent the morning taking in the beauty of the Basilica of Suyapa (the biggest in Central America) and then after a quick lunch, we headed to the DMV—well one of the offices of the DMV. First off, the DMV doesn’t have parking—isn’t that strange? I think it’s a little strange. So as Tyler sat in the illegally parked car just in case the police came and asked him to move it, the rest of us headed up to the office with Puri, our fearless leader in the license plate voyage. Well, the office is part of a long line of offices, but there is no orderly way to get into the office. Two guards stand inside the office and let a couple of people in at one time, but there is no orderly manner to get in. A huge crowd hovers outside the door and when the door opens, they just shove and push to get in. Luckily, our fearless leader, though a little short, managed to push his way to the front and proclaim that he was on business for the Cardinal. Of course, this gave him a VIP pass to the front of the line and we were awarded with an extension for our permission. Afterwards he said that he doesn’t normally lie, but if it’s for a good cause then it can’t be too bad.
2nd Trip to Tegucigalpa: After driving in and out of many different areas of Tegus, we found our way to another office—different from the first but seemingly as incompetent as the other. With Puri’s continuing leadership, we entered into an office behind what looked like a jail and went straight to one of the attendants dismissing the waiting room full of people. Puri disappeared into an office for about 10 minutes and then reemerged with the news that there were no more license plates in Honduras. Amy and I were quite befuddled by this—how can a country just stop making license plates? Well, we were told by this office which is on one side of Tegus to go to a different one—apparently the office we had visited on the first trip. So we drove to the other side of Tegus to get another extension for our permission to drive. This time Puri waited his turn as directed and eventually made his way to the front of the line.
3rd Trip to Tegucigalpa: This trip was made by Puri alone—but magically, we actually got a license plate—well actually a paper license plate. I am still not sure exactly how we are supposed to attach a paper license plate to our car so right now it is in our glove compartment. Apparently, Honduras will not be making metal license plates until January and so until then we have this paper license plate and a note giving us permission to drive without one until January. Puri gave us the permission form and told us it was worth more than dollars and lempiras and to guard it as carefully as a girlfriend or boyfriend. Well, I got the form, folded it up and put it in my back pocket. When we got home, I was opening the gate so that Matt could drive the car in and got oil in my pants. Outraged at the possibility of staining my pants, I quickly changed and took my jeans out to wash them in the yard. Later in the afternoon, we were re-telling the news from Puri and I went to look for the form in my purse and realized that it was in my wet jeans drying on the line outside! Eeeek! Thank goodness I didn’t scrub my jeans too much because we able to salvage the piece of paper and let it dry out and so far its worked just fine. I haven’t told Puri because I think he might freak.
And so this is the story of how we finally were able to have a license plate—yes it might be a paper one, but now we do have a license plate—and the DMV of a developing country is about as advanced as the DMV in GA.
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