Don't worry, we didn't eat the dog.Friday, December 12, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Policia Suizia
Cops aren’t exactly the same here as they are back home (understatement of the year). They still protect and serve and still do a great job of keeping people safe (and directing traffic with the best of em’), but then… well I’ll just let the story tell the rest.
In all my time here, I’ve never seen a cop actually “pull anyone over” in the traditional sense (i.e. pulling up behind you with flashing lights to get you to park on the side of the road). It’s not that they lack police cars, more so that there just aren’t any real rules to enforce on the highway (other than drive as fast as the road will allow and be as aggressive as possible (until another car honks or waves at you, at which point you ease up, smile and then yield to them)). They still pull people over, but instead of using cars they use check points placed along the major highways and main roads in town to stop “suspect” vehicles. Somehow, our car always seems to be such a vehicle (I think what makes our vehicle most suspect is that we lack tinted windows, and the police can therefore see that the occupants of the car are gringos and therefore have money that can be taken… but I digress). In the past, nothing too major has happened from these encounters (they try to make sure we have required safety equipment (triangles, jack, etc.) or to ensure that everyone is wearing their seatbelt (click-it-or-ticket) or if they notice we’re in a hurry they might create a bogus fine for us to pay before we can leave ($10 last time)). It wasn’t anything much to write home about… until now.
The other day, the other volunteers and I were in Teguc dropping off Joe at the airport (good luck on the interviews!) and then going to the bank to get money for the month. Just as we were pulling into the bank, un policia came up to the car and tapped on the window. Asking for the standard license and registration, I obliged, but the office quickly found fault with my state of WA driving license (they have a Honduran license which you should get after being in the country for 3 months (I came back into the country at the end of Nov, so technically being the driver I was free and clear), but none of the past volunteers nor most people who live here have one, so neither do we). Anyways, he (and you could just tell this guy was a real piece) told us to pull into the bank parking lot (as we’d previously been holding up the traffic he was supposed to be directing) to discuss the issue further. So we parked, got out of the car, and walked over to meet the approaching officer who had stopped some 15ft away from the car and was writing something on his hand. I approached and began trying to work out the problem only to find him oblivious to all the world save his writing on his hand. Finally satisfied with his handiwork, he slowly turned his hand to reveal the following: $7,000 (mind you, not 7,000 limpieras (still $350), but actual US dollars). He was obviously planning on us being new to the country, scared, and rich gringos (of all these descriptors, the only accurate would have been that of the color of our skin). I pretended like I didn’t know what he was saying (i.e. that he wanted a bribe), and insisted that if there was a ticket or fine to be paid, that we could go directly to the station and pay it. Not deterred, he mentioned that the station was closed now (noon) and would not be opened until Monday (the story began on a Saturday just before 12). Realizing the time, we informed him that either way, the bank was closed by this point (thanks to his interference) and we also wouldn’t have any money until it opened on Monday (a slight lie on our part, but I think you won’t begrudge us that). Still, he wanted his cut of our money, and mentioned that there were other banks around town still open (with ATMs if we had debit cards) where we could withdraw the cash to pay him (I mean the police force). At this point, I brought out the big guns, the ace up my sleeve, the secret weapon: I informed him that we were actually volunteers working with the Catholic church for the next year (true), living in nearby Talanga (also true), that all our money came from the local Church (not quite true… it comes from the Passionists, but it’s all the same Church), that we were currently in Tegucigalpa working on a project for Navidad in our community (not true at all), and (here’s the kicker) that we would need to get permission from the local Padres of the Church before spending any money and that (because we didn’t understand exactly what was going on) he could use my phone to call them and explain the situation in full. Thankfully, he had some sense of morality, and not wanting to extort priests (just volunteers), he quickly made his exit without any sort of compensation for his hard work in delaying our day (total time was about 35 minutes).
So kids, the moral of the story would have to be: don’t listen to cops (unless: a.) they actually are legitimate and have a justifiable claim against you or b.) they actually are so corrupt and have so little accountability that they actually detain you without cause and/or harm your person without any sort of consequence).
In all my time here, I’ve never seen a cop actually “pull anyone over” in the traditional sense (i.e. pulling up behind you with flashing lights to get you to park on the side of the road). It’s not that they lack police cars, more so that there just aren’t any real rules to enforce on the highway (other than drive as fast as the road will allow and be as aggressive as possible (until another car honks or waves at you, at which point you ease up, smile and then yield to them)). They still pull people over, but instead of using cars they use check points placed along the major highways and main roads in town to stop “suspect” vehicles. Somehow, our car always seems to be such a vehicle (I think what makes our vehicle most suspect is that we lack tinted windows, and the police can therefore see that the occupants of the car are gringos and therefore have money that can be taken… but I digress). In the past, nothing too major has happened from these encounters (they try to make sure we have required safety equipment (triangles, jack, etc.) or to ensure that everyone is wearing their seatbelt (click-it-or-ticket) or if they notice we’re in a hurry they might create a bogus fine for us to pay before we can leave ($10 last time)). It wasn’t anything much to write home about… until now.
The other day, the other volunteers and I were in Teguc dropping off Joe at the airport (good luck on the interviews!) and then going to the bank to get money for the month. Just as we were pulling into the bank, un policia came up to the car and tapped on the window. Asking for the standard license and registration, I obliged, but the office quickly found fault with my state of WA driving license (they have a Honduran license which you should get after being in the country for 3 months (I came back into the country at the end of Nov, so technically being the driver I was free and clear), but none of the past volunteers nor most people who live here have one, so neither do we). Anyways, he (and you could just tell this guy was a real piece) told us to pull into the bank parking lot (as we’d previously been holding up the traffic he was supposed to be directing) to discuss the issue further. So we parked, got out of the car, and walked over to meet the approaching officer who had stopped some 15ft away from the car and was writing something on his hand. I approached and began trying to work out the problem only to find him oblivious to all the world save his writing on his hand. Finally satisfied with his handiwork, he slowly turned his hand to reveal the following: $7,000 (mind you, not 7,000 limpieras (still $350), but actual US dollars). He was obviously planning on us being new to the country, scared, and rich gringos (of all these descriptors, the only accurate would have been that of the color of our skin). I pretended like I didn’t know what he was saying (i.e. that he wanted a bribe), and insisted that if there was a ticket or fine to be paid, that we could go directly to the station and pay it. Not deterred, he mentioned that the station was closed now (noon) and would not be opened until Monday (the story began on a Saturday just before 12). Realizing the time, we informed him that either way, the bank was closed by this point (thanks to his interference) and we also wouldn’t have any money until it opened on Monday (a slight lie on our part, but I think you won’t begrudge us that). Still, he wanted his cut of our money, and mentioned that there were other banks around town still open (with ATMs if we had debit cards) where we could withdraw the cash to pay him (I mean the police force). At this point, I brought out the big guns, the ace up my sleeve, the secret weapon: I informed him that we were actually volunteers working with the Catholic church for the next year (true), living in nearby Talanga (also true), that all our money came from the local Church (not quite true… it comes from the Passionists, but it’s all the same Church), that we were currently in Tegucigalpa working on a project for Navidad in our community (not true at all), and (here’s the kicker) that we would need to get permission from the local Padres of the Church before spending any money and that (because we didn’t understand exactly what was going on) he could use my phone to call them and explain the situation in full. Thankfully, he had some sense of morality, and not wanting to extort priests (just volunteers), he quickly made his exit without any sort of compensation for his hard work in delaying our day (total time was about 35 minutes).
So kids, the moral of the story would have to be: don’t listen to cops (unless: a.) they actually are legitimate and have a justifiable claim against you or b.) they actually are so corrupt and have so little accountability that they actually detain you without cause and/or harm your person without any sort of consequence).
Monday, December 8, 2008
Nicaragua
I feel that all I talk about in this blog are fun things, so I figure why break the trend now. The other volunteers and I recently ventured from the safety of Honduras into the even safer environment of Nicaragua (after the US and Canada, boasting the lowest crime rate in the western hemisphere (or at least that’s what we w
ere told (Hippie Hotel Owner, 2008))). After the 10 hours of traveling by bus that it took to get there, the trip was amazing.
First we arrived in León, a truly beautiful city boasting an impressive collection of churches, museums, and local markets (I probably read that somewhere in a guide book). The local Cathedral is the largest in all of Central America, and at the time of our visit they were in the process of restoring t
he impressive pictures of the Stations of the Cross. It was a truly remarkable sight. We visited several other churches in the areas, and even some ruins! (Alright, the ruins actually weren’t sweet at all… just an old church that had fallen into disrepair… don’t trust everything you read on a map). We didn’t spend too much time in León (maybe because all the museums were closed for the day when we got there, maybe because some nice beaches were only another hour away).
So next we moved on to Las Peñitas. I’ve been to a few beaches in my life, and I can honestly say that this one was up there with the best of them. While not a place for the traveler looking for a place with “paved roads” or “active night life” or “other people,” it suited our needs just fine (also, we were there mid-week and arrived just before the busy holiday rush would come in, so that may have had something to do with it). Rega
rdless, the beach was amazing, and for $6 you could stay on the beach (literally on the beach). We stayed at the Playa Roca, and the guys who ran the place were awesomely entertaining. They even had a dog who would sing alo
ng to the music (she seemed most partial to Santana, though she would chime into most any song). We got a little history of the place, and apparently the town had been much bigger and much closer to the water about 20 years ago (and then a Tsunami came…), but it’s present state was exactly the sort of relaxing beach experience that I like. Reluctantly, after a couple of days we had to move on to our final destination.
The last town we visited was Granada, honestly the nicest and most well-kept place I’ve come across in Central America (the rich gringos who buy homes and shops down here probably have something to do with that). The
colors of the city were so vivid. Most buildings were painted in very vibrant and active colors, and there was an energy in the town’s center which was present both during the day and night. For those of you not familiar with Nicaraguan geography, check it out. You might be surprised to see the presence of gigantic lake in the southern part of the country (I was). If you had a little money (i.e. not us) there were some amazing tours nearby that would bring you to the top of a nearby volcano, to variou
s islands in the aforementioned giant lake, or to a nearby lagoon set in the crater formed by an imploded volcano (I heard it compared (by other gringos) to a sight similar to the Grand Canyon). Anyways, limited by time and funds we were unable to take advantage of these landmarks but instead explored the city (and gazed at the volcano and islands from afar).
I guess it wasn’t entirely accurate to say Granada was the last town we visited. We had a bus ride back to Honduras at 3:30am from Managua (capital of Nicaragua), and thus had to travel there while the buses still ran and while the sun was still in the sky. Not as exciting, as all we did was rest in the hotel room, watch TV, and walk to a nearby mall (to eat, play in the arcade, and watch Step Brothers (in English with Spanish subtitles)). Yea… kind of a downer at the end of the trip (besides Step Brothers, hilarious), but what are you going to do.
ere told (Hippie Hotel Owner, 2008))). After the 10 hours of traveling by bus that it took to get there, the trip was amazing.
First we arrived in León, a truly beautiful city boasting an impressive collection of churches, museums, and local markets (I probably read that somewhere in a guide book). The local Cathedral is the largest in all of Central America, and at the time of our visit they were in the process of restoring t
he impressive pictures of the Stations of the Cross. It was a truly remarkable sight. We visited several other churches in the areas, and even some ruins! (Alright, the ruins actually weren’t sweet at all… just an old church that had fallen into disrepair… don’t trust everything you read on a map). We didn’t spend too much time in León (maybe because all the museums were closed for the day when we got there, maybe because some nice beaches were only another hour away).So next we moved on to Las Peñitas. I’ve been to a few beaches in my life, and I can honestly say that this one was up there with the best of them. While not a place for the traveler looking for a place with “paved roads” or “active night life” or “other people,” it suited our needs just fine (also, we were there mid-week and arrived just before the busy holiday rush would come in, so that may have had something to do with it). Rega
rdless, the beach was amazing, and for $6 you could stay on the beach (literally on the beach). We stayed at the Playa Roca, and the guys who ran the place were awesomely entertaining. They even had a dog who would sing alo
ng to the music (she seemed most partial to Santana, though she would chime into most any song). We got a little history of the place, and apparently the town had been much bigger and much closer to the water about 20 years ago (and then a Tsunami came…), but it’s present state was exactly the sort of relaxing beach experience that I like. Reluctantly, after a couple of days we had to move on to our final destination.The last town we visited was Granada, honestly the nicest and most well-kept place I’ve come across in Central America (the rich gringos who buy homes and shops down here probably have something to do with that). The
colors of the city were so vivid. Most buildings were painted in very vibrant and active colors, and there was an energy in the town’s center which was present both during the day and night. For those of you not familiar with Nicaraguan geography, check it out. You might be surprised to see the presence of gigantic lake in the southern part of the country (I was). If you had a little money (i.e. not us) there were some amazing tours nearby that would bring you to the top of a nearby volcano, to variou
s islands in the aforementioned giant lake, or to a nearby lagoon set in the crater formed by an imploded volcano (I heard it compared (by other gringos) to a sight similar to the Grand Canyon). Anyways, limited by time and funds we were unable to take advantage of these landmarks but instead explored the city (and gazed at the volcano and islands from afar).I guess it wasn’t entirely accurate to say Granada was the last town we visited. We had a bus ride back to Honduras at 3:30am from Managua (capital of Nicaragua), and thus had to travel there while the buses still ran and while the sun was still in the sky. Not as exciting, as all we did was rest in the hotel room, watch TV, and walk to a nearby mall (to eat, play in the arcade, and watch Step Brothers (in English with Spanish subtitles)). Yea… kind of a downer at the end of the trip (besides Step Brothers, hilarious), but what are you going to do.
Copa Mudial
A momentous event happened a few weeks ago, the likes of which haven’t been seen by this country for quite some time: Honduras advanced from their group to qualify for the World Cup (well, actually they only qualified to advance to the next round of qualifying rounds of the World Cup, but the way they celebrated after the win, you would have thought they won the whole thing).
For those of you not following current World Cup play, it takes place in South Africa in 2010 (and don’t worry, the US is doing just fine). I guess I never really understood how intense people get about the world cup (minus a few soccer-playing friends in high school, I never really knew anyone who cared much for how the US did (probably because we always lose)). Anyways, people here treated every world cup qualifying game (mind you, only a game to qualify) as if it were a Superbowl-World Series-Olympics-NASCAR mezcla all rolled into one: shops closed, people came in from the aldeas to crowd around a TV with friends and families, the game was projected (by those with projection capabilities) onto any available wall, and by the time the game rolled around you would have thought that Talanga was a ghost town due to how empty and lifeless the streets were.
That all changed once Honduras beat Mexico 1-0 to classify for the next round. As the ref called for time people throughout the city erupted into celebration—a combination of people yelling\chanting\singing, (unsafe) fireworks exploding, and car horns honking (I would liken the sound more so to shrieking banshees). Before long, those same cars\people\fireworks filled the streets and became mobile, forming a caravan of noise that tore throughout the city. People would periodically jump into\out of this moving caravan of vehicles, and after observing the correct mounting and dismounting techniques for a moment, I followed my host dad’s lead and joined the parade of noise. I’ll try to get some videos up to provide a better idea of the chaos that ensued.
As a final note, the next qualifying round begins in February, and unfortunately, it turns out that the US and Honduras will be in the same group (that’s a lose-lose either way for us volunteers: either the US wins and everyone will be upset with us, or the US loses and everyone will not-so-kindly remind us of this). Only time will tell. I can say that I admire the passion these people have for their country and the people\teams that represent it in worldwide competitions.
For those of you not following current World Cup play, it takes place in South Africa in 2010 (and don’t worry, the US is doing just fine). I guess I never really understood how intense people get about the world cup (minus a few soccer-playing friends in high school, I never really knew anyone who cared much for how the US did (probably because we always lose)). Anyways, people here treated every world cup qualifying game (mind you, only a game to qualify) as if it were a Superbowl-World Series-Olympics-NASCAR mezcla all rolled into one: shops closed, people came in from the aldeas to crowd around a TV with friends and families, the game was projected (by those with projection capabilities) onto any available wall, and by the time the game rolled around you would have thought that Talanga was a ghost town due to how empty and lifeless the streets were.
That all changed once Honduras beat Mexico 1-0 to classify for the next round. As the ref called for time people throughout the city erupted into celebration—a combination of people yelling\chanting\singing, (unsafe) fireworks exploding, and car horns honking (I would liken the sound more so to shrieking banshees). Before long, those same cars\people\fireworks filled the streets and became mobile, forming a caravan of noise that tore throughout the city. People would periodically jump into\out of this moving caravan of vehicles, and after observing the correct mounting and dismounting techniques for a moment, I followed my host dad’s lead and joined the parade of noise. I’ll try to get some videos up to provide a better idea of the chaos that ensued.
As a final note, the next qualifying round begins in February, and unfortunately, it turns out that the US and Honduras will be in the same group (that’s a lose-lose either way for us volunteers: either the US wins and everyone will be upset with us, or the US loses and everyone will not-so-kindly remind us of this). Only time will tell. I can say that I admire the passion these people have for their country and the people\teams that represent it in worldwide competitions.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Mi Cuello
So anyways, I've found that your neck hurts a lot more the second, third, and fourth days after you've been kicked in it then at the actual time it happened. While I still don't think there will be any lasting damage, I feel it's only fair to share the complaining I've been doing with you all (as I honestly believe that the other voluinteers can't handle me talking about it even once more). I have appreciated and will continue to appreciate all your thoughts and prayers on this matter.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Nuestras Mascotas
No house would be complete with a pet or two, and our house in Honduras is no exception. When we arrived, (in addition to cockroaches, mosquitoes, mice, ants, and giant grasshoppers) our 
house came with a trusty, loyal, and useful guard dog named Oso… or at least that’s what we were lead to believe. We quickly discovered that none of words used in the previous sentence had ever or would ever be used to describe our mangy pet. Instead, words like lazy, useless, idiotic, clueless would most likely be used. It wasn’t even so bad that he was dumb (which he was in truckloads), but instead that he was just plain annoying (he would always escape, and instead of coming back when you would call him, would prance (literally prance) just out of reach from you as you chased him down the street with the dumbest look I’ve ever seen on any man or beast before (sorry for the venting there, but it had to be said)). I say this in all honesty as a person who loves dogs (I’ve had dogs since I was born and even worked at the Humane Society for the 4 years I was at college just to have some interaction with man’s best friend): Oso was the worst dog ever. Notice, I said was (don’t worry, we didn’t kill him). We endured as much as we could, but eventually he had to let him go (by this, I mean give him away to a neighbor).
But as a group that collectively liked animals (just not Oso), we couldn’t stand the idea of being pet-less. As such,
we now have a new baby kitten who has already proved his worth by killing a nest of 4 mice. He is very ugly (he doesn’t have much hair and has a really big head), but as mentioned previous he is very useful (and actually fun to play with. I wouldn’t go so far as to call him “adorable” (the machismo Honduras culture wouldn’t let me), but he’s pretty awesome). Due to his startling appearance, we have named him Volidmo in reverance to the dark lord (the guys wanted to call him “Voldimort” while the girls wanted to call him “Minimo” (translation: banana), so we had a compromise). I’ll keep a tally of his kill count as the year goes on.
house came with a trusty, loyal, and useful guard dog named Oso… or at least that’s what we were lead to believe. We quickly discovered that none of words used in the previous sentence had ever or would ever be used to describe our mangy pet. Instead, words like lazy, useless, idiotic, clueless would most likely be used. It wasn’t even so bad that he was dumb (which he was in truckloads), but instead that he was just plain annoying (he would always escape, and instead of coming back when you would call him, would prance (literally prance) just out of reach from you as you chased him down the street with the dumbest look I’ve ever seen on any man or beast before (sorry for the venting there, but it had to be said)). I say this in all honesty as a person who loves dogs (I’ve had dogs since I was born and even worked at the Humane Society for the 4 years I was at college just to have some interaction with man’s best friend): Oso was the worst dog ever. Notice, I said was (don’t worry, we didn’t kill him). We endured as much as we could, but eventually he had to let him go (by this, I mean give him away to a neighbor).But as a group that collectively liked animals (just not Oso), we couldn’t stand the idea of being pet-less. As such,
we now have a new baby kitten who has already proved his worth by killing a nest of 4 mice. He is very ugly (he doesn’t have much hair and has a really big head), but as mentioned previous he is very useful (and actually fun to play with. I wouldn’t go so far as to call him “adorable” (the machismo Honduras culture wouldn’t let me), but he’s pretty awesome). Due to his startling appearance, we have named him Volidmo in reverance to the dark lord (the guys wanted to call him “Voldimort” while the girls wanted to call him “Minimo” (translation: banana), so we had a compromise). I’ll keep a tally of his kill count as the year goes on.
Lago Yojoa
Instead of writing too much about Lago Yojoa, I’ll let the picture do most of the talking for me. Needless to say, this place was (and still is) beautiful. We camped out next to a river for a couple days, cooked food over the coals from the fire (how rustic we’ve become), and explored the area as much as we could.
The lake itself was clearly spectacular. We rented some kayaks and took full advantage of the sights that were before us. As usual, Joe was being an idiot and ruined every picture that was taken of yours truly.The Pulhapanzak Falls, pretty much one of the sweetest things I’ve ever experience
d in my life. Looking at it from this picture, I’m sure you can appreciate the beauty of these falls, but believe me when I say that you gain a much deeper appreciation for its majesty when you’re looking up at it from (literally) beneath the falls. For $5 a pop, we were given a complete tour of the falls complete with an opportunity to jump off 8 meter (not feet) cliffs. It’s hard to see much when you’re being pounded by rapidly falling water (though I’ve never been caught in a snow storm or dense fog, I would most liken it to either of those experiences as at times I couldn’t even see my own hands in front of me)), but suddenly and inexplicably these torrents would let up, leaving you with a view from within a waterfall which truly took your breath away. Best $5 I ever spent.Hopefully I’ve at least helped a few of you to consider traveling south to see these sights and more.
Entrevistas
Over the last couple months I’ve been lucky enough to recieve a handful of interviews at medical schools throughout the country, and I’ve been even luckier to have heard back some good news from a couple of schools (i.e. I’m going to be a doctor (as long as I can get through that whole “medical school” thing over the next 4-8 years (easy))). So who knows, I may be coming soon to a city near you! I’ve also been fortunate enough to meet up with some of you during my travels, and to you I would like to say thanks for either offering me a couch to sleep on or taking the time to meet up with me for coffee. Also, for those of you whose city I haven’t yet been to or wasn’t able to meet up with, don’t lose hope; I hopefully will be making one more trip back to the states (interviews-pending). If that doesn’t work, Honduras is a great place to visit for a weekend, spring break, whatever your fancy (I say this to all of you people with jobs that pay more than 2000 limps a month). Anyways, I’ll keep you all updated on where my future may take me.
Mi Numero Nuevo Nuevo
So my phone broke again (probably had something to do with me dropping and losing it in a puddle for an hour), and thus I have another new number:
+01150432354181
I promise that I will try and let this be my last new number.
+01150432354181
I promise that I will try and let this be my last new number.
Perdon
So again, sorry for the lack of posts. While I could blame it on a number of things: my computer not being returned to me by the (incompetent) staff at BestBuy in Miami (as a personal favor to me, please never shop at BestBuy ever again. Suffice it to say that they didn’t get my computer fixed by the time I left the country (only 5 days late by their own estimate) and then jerked me around to the point where I returned to the store 3 times with no results. I’m kind of bitter); not going to the internet café as I’m trying to save money for traveling; being busy with work and traveling back to the states (for medical school interviews. More details to follow). As I haven’t written or posted in a while, I hope people are still even reading this, but if not, I understand (and if that’s true, then I guess I wrote that last bit just for my own well being).
I decided to jump back on the horse following an eye-opening experience I had recently. I’ll just jump to the punch line and say that I either got roundhouse or scissor-kicked to the throat last night. Don’t worry mom and dad, I wasn’t in a fight (leaving the grand total of fights I have been in at 0), but was rather playing soccer. The reason I don’t know what kind of kick I received was that I didn’t see it happen (I was following the ball) and I didn’t know the words for “roundhouse-kick” or “scissor-kick” in Spanish (I now know to ask whether it was a “una patada casa redonda” or “una patada tijera” (literal translations… probably not right)). Surprisingly it didn’t hurt much at the time, but it is more than making up for it this morning. Anyways, I realized that should some unfortunate accident occur to me, I wouldn’t want to leave you all (my loyal fan base) in the dark about what I was up to. So with no further delay, some updates.
I decided to jump back on the horse following an eye-opening experience I had recently. I’ll just jump to the punch line and say that I either got roundhouse or scissor-kicked to the throat last night. Don’t worry mom and dad, I wasn’t in a fight (leaving the grand total of fights I have been in at 0), but was rather playing soccer. The reason I don’t know what kind of kick I received was that I didn’t see it happen (I was following the ball) and I didn’t know the words for “roundhouse-kick” or “scissor-kick” in Spanish (I now know to ask whether it was a “una patada casa redonda” or “una patada tijera” (literal translations… probably not right)). Surprisingly it didn’t hurt much at the time, but it is more than making up for it this morning. Anyways, I realized that should some unfortunate accident occur to me, I wouldn’t want to leave you all (my loyal fan base) in the dark about what I was up to. So with no further delay, some updates.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Las Cositas
Note: The following post is actually an article I wrote for the Biannual Passionist Newsletter. Before it goes to press, I thought I'd share it with you all.
Friends and family back in the states routinely ask me the same question: “What kind of work are you doing down in Honduras?” A seemingly easy question to answer, yet one that I’ve been struggling to answer myself over these past three months. I find myself telling them of the projects we’re currently involved in, of the seventy-five latrines being built for the community of Corralitos, of the baseball team we coach in town for kids under the age of twelve, of the weekly visits we make to the homes of sick members throughout our community. As I talk about how great these projects are—and they are great—I feel like I’m unable to convey the truth of what our works carry, of the tradition that we as volunteers have now joined.
The true goal of this program is so much simpler than any project, yet in its simplicity I’ve found it to be so much more meaningful. We live alongside the people of Talanga. We are present in the community. We share in their lives, accompanying them through their many struggles and joys. Even saying this, it’s hard to define exactly what this means; it ranges from something as simple as taking the time to talk with the people you pass everyday in the street to humbly accepting food offered by those we visit. In truth, our work lies in the small, everyday actions we decide to make.
To be honest, accepting this way of thinking hasn’t been easy and even now continues to trouble me. By nature, I like to see results in what I’m doing, to take an action and then see the equal and opposite reaction. After weeks of feeling this frustration coupled with my own shortcomings, I came upon this quote from Archbishop Oscar Romero:
“We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that. This enables us to do something, and to do it very well. It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning, a step along the way, an opportunity for the Lord’s grace to enter and do the rest.”
Our work here is at its beginning, and as ambitious and passionate as we all are about creating substantial and noticeable differences in the lives of those we meet, keeping these words in mind will help us through the struggles of the next year. As long as we do something, no matter how small, we will have succeeded in creating an opportunity for change.
Friends and family back in the states routinely ask me the same question: “What kind of work are you doing down in Honduras?” A seemingly easy question to answer, yet one that I’ve been struggling to answer myself over these past three months. I find myself telling them of the projects we’re currently involved in, of the seventy-five latrines being built for the community of Corralitos, of the baseball team we coach in town for kids under the age of twelve, of the weekly visits we make to the homes of sick members throughout our community. As I talk about how great these projects are—and they are great—I feel like I’m unable to convey the truth of what our works carry, of the tradition that we as volunteers have now joined.
The true goal of this program is so much simpler than any project, yet in its simplicity I’ve found it to be so much more meaningful. We live alongside the people of Talanga. We are present in the community. We share in their lives, accompanying them through their many struggles and joys. Even saying this, it’s hard to define exactly what this means; it ranges from something as simple as taking the time to talk with the people you pass everyday in the street to humbly accepting food offered by those we visit. In truth, our work lies in the small, everyday actions we decide to make.
To be honest, accepting this way of thinking hasn’t been easy and even now continues to trouble me. By nature, I like to see results in what I’m doing, to take an action and then see the equal and opposite reaction. After weeks of feeling this frustration coupled with my own shortcomings, I came upon this quote from Archbishop Oscar Romero:
“We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that. This enables us to do something, and to do it very well. It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning, a step along the way, an opportunity for the Lord’s grace to enter and do the rest.”
Our work here is at its beginning, and as ambitious and passionate as we all are about creating substantial and noticeable differences in the lives of those we meet, keeping these words in mind will help us through the struggles of the next year. As long as we do something, no matter how small, we will have succeeded in creating an opportunity for change.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Fùtbol
While dreams of being the next Brian McBride may be a bit far off, I’ve become at least moderately competent at playing soccer with some of the locals. While my best guess would put my skill level at about the age of a local 12 or 13 year-old, I somehow manage to hang with a group of local kids my same age (this is largely accomplished by equally distributing the gringos on each team, and then eventually putting one of us in goal so the team as a whole can have better offensive/defensive pressure (but much worse goal-stopping ability(though I’m actually not that bad of a goalie, minus whenever this one kid (named Cheeky) who plays on the feeder team for the Honduras national team (think world cup) decides to take a shot at me (honestly, I close my eyes whenever put in this situation)))). My stats so far:Goals: 9
Assists: 6
Saves: 8
Como Matar un Pajaro:
Warning: I don’t know how true the following story is about the Honduran culture in general or if the other volunteers and I even understood properly what was being said to us, but the following story is, to my knowledge, truthful in its entirety.
Our story begins as most do: a bird shat on Melissa. It was messy, it was kind of gross, and needless to say, we couldn’t help from laughing. We had been eating in the house of a family in Corralitos, and for a pet they had a small green bird which sat on a peg in the kitchen (which had been poorly placed over the seat in which Melissa had been sitting). Being obliging hosts, they did all they could to clean the shirt. Later in the day, the kids had gotten access to my camera and busied themselves for the next hour or so by taking a picture of any and everything they came across (with most pictures composed largely of their own hands holding the camera). As it came closer to time to leave, I realized that I needed a picture of the perpetrating bird (who could pass on such a rare opportunity to obtain a visual memento of such a memorable occasion). I moved in to get a close picture of the bird and raised my camera to focus in. De repente (suddenly), the entire family jumped from their seats and began yelling at me in unison. Fearing I had done something wrong, I explained that I was only going to take a picture of the bird. Turns out, that is exactly what they had been yelling about. They explained that, if I were to take a picture of the bird, that it would die (looking back, I wish I had enquired more into why they thought this, but at the time all of my focus went into holding back the puzzled look and/or laughter that was waiting to burst free from my being). If anything, hearing this just made me want to take a picture of the bird all the more (to test this theory properly), but respecting their beliefs I abstained from further photography. The next time you take a picture of a bird, just remember that it may be the last thing that bird ever sees.
Our story begins as most do: a bird shat on Melissa. It was messy, it was kind of gross, and needless to say, we couldn’t help from laughing. We had been eating in the house of a family in Corralitos, and for a pet they had a small green bird which sat on a peg in the kitchen (which had been poorly placed over the seat in which Melissa had been sitting). Being obliging hosts, they did all they could to clean the shirt. Later in the day, the kids had gotten access to my camera and busied themselves for the next hour or so by taking a picture of any and everything they came across (with most pictures composed largely of their own hands holding the camera). As it came closer to time to leave, I realized that I needed a picture of the perpetrating bird (who could pass on such a rare opportunity to obtain a visual memento of such a memorable occasion). I moved in to get a close picture of the bird and raised my camera to focus in. De repente (suddenly), the entire family jumped from their seats and began yelling at me in unison. Fearing I had done something wrong, I explained that I was only going to take a picture of the bird. Turns out, that is exactly what they had been yelling about. They explained that, if I were to take a picture of the bird, that it would die (looking back, I wish I had enquired more into why they thought this, but at the time all of my focus went into holding back the puzzled look and/or laughter that was waiting to burst free from my being). If anything, hearing this just made me want to take a picture of the bird all the more (to test this theory properly), but respecting their beliefs I abstained from further photography. The next time you take a picture of a bird, just remember that it may be the last thing that bird ever sees.
Show de LucesShow de Luces
In this day and age, you would think that fireworks would be pretty standard stuff. The Chinese had perfected the art hundreds of years ago, but somehow the proper workings of firework technology never made it here. We learned this the hard way when we set out to see what we thought was going to be a fairly basic and simple light show… we quickly learned how far off our thinking had been. While the fireworks were just as big and bright as any I’d ever seen, they were distinguished by two very noticeable differences: first, the fuses weren’t properly timed, with some fireworks going off mere meters above the heads of the onlookers (and one actually exploding in the unfortunate backyard of a nearby house less than a block away from us (just think about how loud fireworks are when they go off high up in the sky… yea, it was loud)); secondly, the burning pieces of the fireworks oftentimes didn’t properly extinguish, and people would routinely run for cover as the sky quite rained down fire onto anything in its path (trees, cars, houses, telephone poles, babies (okay, maybe not babies, but just about everything other than babies were put the test in terms of fire-resiliency)).
I’ve since heard that a movement is currently being undertaken throughout Honduras to ban fireworks of all sorts (being so unregulated, apparently people are regularly and severely injured by these displays). As people really seem to like lighting them off for all sorts of reasons (birthdays, because the power went out, because they woke up) and at all sorts of times (3 in the morning, during Church, because its dark out), I don’t know how successful this movement will be (as much fun as it was to be under the constant worry of having a smoldering ball of colorful light land on or around my head, I really hope something gets done).
I’ve since heard that a movement is currently being undertaken throughout Honduras to ban fireworks of all sorts (being so unregulated, apparently people are regularly and severely injured by these displays). As people really seem to like lighting them off for all sorts of reasons (birthdays, because the power went out, because they woke up) and at all sorts of times (3 in the morning, during Church, because its dark out), I don’t know how successful this movement will be (as much fun as it was to be under the constant worry of having a smoldering ball of colorful light land on or around my head, I really hope something gets done).
Campaña Marcha y Drama
The other week we were involved in a campaign with the church that took a stand against abuse in all of its forms. While a very serious problem here in Honduras and one worthy of the three days of attention that it was given, I don’t feel it necessary to get into the more upsetting realities and will instead share a couple of stories from the lighter side of this weekend.
Firstly, I was part of my first marcha (guess what that translates too). The other gringos and I lined up in the middle of the march with some people we knew, but due to powers beyond our control (the fact that we were gringos, and for whatever reason, that makes us the hot ticket in town), we were quickly directed to the front (and I mean the very front) of the procession along with the padres and mayor. While Talanga is only a town of 30,000 people (Mayor Roosevelt > Mayor Palin), I was still pretty nervous as we awkwardly alternated between waving at the people lining the streets and raising our white flags. As we went along, we increased our numbers with more gringos (some peace corps were getting oriented in our town that were similarly recruited to our cause). All in all, it was a memorable time.
Secondly and lastly, I made my theatrical debut to the town in a drama. Long story short, this was probably the weirdest thing I had ever seen: the devil beating up on a lost soul using the forces of drugs, alcohol, sex, abuse, and depression to the tunes of My Chemical Romance, with the soul only being saved in the end by Jesus and a choir of angels (it actually sounds kind of normal when you put it like that). I know what you’re thinking, and unfortunately no, I wasn’t Jesus. Instead, I was a bolo… not exactly my first choice. Apparently I did too good of a job (probably my biggest weaknesses), resulting in quite a bit of concern from my host family and assorted friends that I had actually had become a bolo (but after explaining that I wasn’t exhibiting any normal bolo-ish signs (see previous post), they believed that I was just that good of an actor). Before I agree to a roll next time, I’ll have to make sure to ask what I’ll actually be doing.
Firstly, I was part of my first marcha (guess what that translates too). The other gringos and I lined up in the middle of the march with some people we knew, but due to powers beyond our control (the fact that we were gringos, and for whatever reason, that makes us the hot ticket in town), we were quickly directed to the front (and I mean the very front) of the procession along with the padres and mayor. While Talanga is only a town of 30,000 people (Mayor Roosevelt > Mayor Palin), I was still pretty nervous as we awkwardly alternated between waving at the people lining the streets and raising our white flags. As we went along, we increased our numbers with more gringos (some peace corps were getting oriented in our town that were similarly recruited to our cause). All in all, it was a memorable time.
Secondly and lastly, I made my theatrical debut to the town in a drama. Long story short, this was probably the weirdest thing I had ever seen: the devil beating up on a lost soul using the forces of drugs, alcohol, sex, abuse, and depression to the tunes of My Chemical Romance, with the soul only being saved in the end by Jesus and a choir of angels (it actually sounds kind of normal when you put it like that). I know what you’re thinking, and unfortunately no, I wasn’t Jesus. Instead, I was a bolo… not exactly my first choice. Apparently I did too good of a job (probably my biggest weaknesses), resulting in quite a bit of concern from my host family and assorted friends that I had actually had become a bolo (but after explaining that I wasn’t exhibiting any normal bolo-ish signs (see previous post), they believed that I was just that good of an actor). Before I agree to a roll next time, I’ll have to make sure to ask what I’ll actually be doing.
Bolos
A “bolo” is the name that is affectionately bestowed upon the village drunks. In Honduras, people don’t drink; well let me rephrase that: if you are in any way a contributing member of society, then you don’t drink. People don’t drink socially (well, we’ve seem some that do, but they do it so secretly that even the best efforts of NDSP would be hard-pressed to catch them in the act). People who do drink are drunks, nearing the point of general incoherence and debauchery by the time most people are heading to work. As the bolo is something that is regularly encountered here, it’s worth talking about. Beyond this given description, I guess the easiest way to describe a bolo would be to ask if you’ve ever seen a zombie movie (not the recent movies where zombies are adrenaline-driven running-and-jumping athletes, but the older versions where fields of zombies sluggishly drag their feet at a snail’s pace after a single person as they continually grunt “brains” in varying degrees of volume and length (so yea, bolos are basically the latter)). I draw the comparison between bolos and zombies for several reasons:
1.) Bolos are easy to get away from (if spotted from a distance, evading a bolo is as easy as taking candy from a baby (a sleeping baby, that is very small, and not holding the candy with much force)).
2.) I swear that during one of our first encounters with bolos, one went up to Joe offering a hug and getting close enough actually attempted to take a bite of his neck.
3.) Bolos usually hang out in groups (near trash bins), and having spotted you, they will (in unison) slowly shuffle towards you while offering grunts of… well it’s hard to tell what they’re grunting about but it very closely resembles the “brains” chants from classic zombie movies.
4.) Appearance. Nuff said.
5.) Bolos scare me (just as I have an unnatural fear of zombies (though I feel this current fear is much more natural and justified)).
There is one exception to this criteria, and he scares me more than anything has ever scared me. Where most bolos are fairly territorial or otherwise stationary, we have encountered a single subject we defies normal logic, being spotted in the main town as well as several of the surrounding aldeas (some of which are a 30minute car ride away). For his mobility, we have appropriately labeled him as the “mo-bolo” (get it?). Seriously, he is to the old bolos what the “28 Days Later Zombies” are to the “Night of the Living Dead Zombies” (in case you miss that reference, think really fast and aggressive versus really slow and plodding). Usually, mobolo is either wearing no pants and a really long t-shirt or no shirt and pants which he has to hold up (where he gets such constantly changing outfits is only another source of worry).
Note: If I can somehow catch a rare shot of the mobolo on camera, it will definitely be added to this post.
1.) Bolos are easy to get away from (if spotted from a distance, evading a bolo is as easy as taking candy from a baby (a sleeping baby, that is very small, and not holding the candy with much force)).
2.) I swear that during one of our first encounters with bolos, one went up to Joe offering a hug and getting close enough actually attempted to take a bite of his neck.
3.) Bolos usually hang out in groups (near trash bins), and having spotted you, they will (in unison) slowly shuffle towards you while offering grunts of… well it’s hard to tell what they’re grunting about but it very closely resembles the “brains” chants from classic zombie movies.
4.) Appearance. Nuff said.
5.) Bolos scare me (just as I have an unnatural fear of zombies (though I feel this current fear is much more natural and justified)).
There is one exception to this criteria, and he scares me more than anything has ever scared me. Where most bolos are fairly territorial or otherwise stationary, we have encountered a single subject we defies normal logic, being spotted in the main town as well as several of the surrounding aldeas (some of which are a 30minute car ride away). For his mobility, we have appropriately labeled him as the “mo-bolo” (get it?). Seriously, he is to the old bolos what the “28 Days Later Zombies” are to the “Night of the Living Dead Zombies” (in case you miss that reference, think really fast and aggressive versus really slow and plodding). Usually, mobolo is either wearing no pants and a really long t-shirt or no shirt and pants which he has to hold up (where he gets such constantly changing outfits is only another source of worry).
Note: If I can somehow catch a rare shot of the mobolo on camera, it will definitely be added to this post.
Tradición de Cumpleaños
The Honduran people have perhaps the most amazing tradition when it comes to birthdays. It’s succeeds largely due to its simplicity: all you need are (an) egg(s) and some flour. I could draw you a diagram of what happens next, but I think you get the gist (egg first, flour second). Word to the wise: this is definitely a tradition that I will try and bring back to the states.
Como Mucho Perdo Futbol Americano de Universidad
Sorry, but I caught the replays of our last couple games, and I just gotta say I miss being at ND (made worse by the fact that I hear pretty much everyone else has made the journey back to Mecca already this year and has had pretty awesome times). So yea, “Go Irish” and all that jazz, but next time your tailgating have a (brief) moment of silence for those of us lost throughout the world.
Bee en mi Cuello
I don’t know what it is about me (the mesmerizing eyes, stylish hair, amazing body odor), but every insect that is local to Honduras has an uncanny attraction to yours truly. Most people may already be familiar to the love that zancudos/mosquitos have for me (91 bites in one day in Costa Rica (and as a side note, I actually killed a mosquito preparing to bite me immediately after writing this sentence)). The ants here seem to have the same hunger for my flesh (though it seems like this population has it even worse for Mike), moths have flown at me, gigantic grasshoppers have jumped at me, and I’ve been told by Joe several times that my eyebrows resemble a certain bushy species of caterpillar that lives here (confirmed by a few others (but he probably paid them to say it)). Now, we can add to the list bees. When driving down the road the other day at a leisurely 90km/hr, something entered my window and struck me in the neck. My first thought was: I hope that wasn’t a bee that just stung me in the neck (don’t ask me why this was my first thought, I hadn’t seen any bees at this point, and a fly or rock would have been much more logical choice). Unfortunately, it had been a bee, and I soon realized that it had in fact stung me in the neck (thankfully I don’t have the same allergies as certain members of my family). I found the bee, and quickly disposed of him/her/it/him (minus the queen, most bees are guys, right?) out the window. Thinking that the adventure was over, I continued driving. Moments later, something began crawling up my arm. I looked down, surprised to find another Judas on a bee-line (get it?) towards my neck. Wanting some karmic good to build, I let this bee live, though I can’t say I’ll be quite so generous next time.
Perrito en la Pierna de Miguel
So each week, the other guys and I go out live to Talanga on the program Telerevista, reaching the hearts and minds of a people and a place. As previously mentioned, we’ve been continually escalating our involvement on the show. Our latest escapade involved the use of sock puppets to act out a story, but wait… there’s more. Thinking the hardest part of the night had been a particularly hard scene between Miguel y yo where we had to pass underneath the screen while our puppets passed on opposite sides of an ice berg which we then exchanged (intense, I know), we were shocked when a dog made its way onto the set. The dog quickly made its way up the ladder, first destroying several of our popsicle-stick props, then discovering how much it liked the puppet of Miguel (un pinguino (a penguin)), and finally developing certain… feelings for Miguel himself. Watch and enjoy.
Video to come, Courtesy of Joe Runde & Melissa Farrell
Video to come, Courtesy of Joe Runde & Melissa Farrell
Proyectos
So yes, as you can probably tell, we’ve had lots of fun here in Honduras. But while these occurrences are hilarious and worth telling here to you all, they actually only compose a small portion of my time here (don’t get me wrong, I’m enjoying everything I do here, but not everything is as easy to put into words). To let you all know that it’s not all play and no work, here’s some brief insights into the work we do.
Escuelas: I spend most mornings working in a local school. Each volunteer has his/her own school. My school is called “Melgare,” and for better or worse I’ve been assigned to the second grade there. While eventually the hope is that we will help with charlas (small lectures), for now we have basically just been learning Spanish (I’m proud to say that I almost speak Spanish as well as a 2nd grader (that’s not something everyone can say)). For whatever reason, I think teachers just like to have a gringo in the classroom (gives the kids something to focus on other than fighting amongst each other). Also, my rising popularity on the airwaves has caused my teacher to routinely ask me to read during class, but more on that…
Telerivista: This is a weekly television program that we go on to basically read a story to kids, talk about what projects we’re doing, and take phone calls from friends in the community. The other guys and I have begun to take this pretty seriously (at first, we just came up with funny voices for the different characters, but most recently we expanded to titures (translation: puppets (specifically sock puppets complete with backgrounds and props))). We probably have more fun reading the stories than anyone has listening to them, but the jury’s still out on that one.
Beisbol: Coaching baseball. Basically what it sounds like. I think I’ve talked about it in a previous blog, so yea.
Latrinas: A project I’ve really gotten into is the Latrine project in Corralitos, one of the surrounding aldeas. Basically, people lacked adequate facilities to accommodate waste management and disposal, so latrines seemed like the obvious solution. This project in particular has exposed me to some of the… difficulties involved in coordinating a project between local people, government, and a funding organization. While the project has been great, the opportunity it has provided to meet the community has been even greater. Not wanting to play favorites, I find myself always eager to make the hour long drive to Corralitos.
Casa Pasionista: The Casa is actually the reason that the Passionists are in Talanga. Started in the 80’s, this house was made to be a shelter for people suffering from VIH/SIDA (translation: HIV/AIDS). Due to misunderstandings about the disease itself and people who become infected, the house was originally intended to be a place where individuals could pass on in peace, receiving care and companionship. However, with advances in the treatment of this disease, these individuals now can live (relatively normal lives). Oftentimes outcast from their communities and in the worst cases their families, the Casa has now become a permanent home for these individuals. Our presence in the house has little medical basis, instead embodying the spirit of accompaniment by acknowledging their basic human right to live a normal life.
Visitando con los Enfermos: Each week, the other volunteers and I accompany visit the homes of sick members throughout the community. We go to share in conversation, to exchange the stories of our lives. I can only hope that take as much from these interactions as much as I do.
In truth, the goal of our time here is simply to live amongst the people, accompanying them in their daily struggles and successes and hopefully being able to contribute something through this interaction that will be of benefit to each of us.
Escuelas: I spend most mornings working in a local school. Each volunteer has his/her own school. My school is called “Melgare,” and for better or worse I’ve been assigned to the second grade there. While eventually the hope is that we will help with charlas (small lectures), for now we have basically just been learning Spanish (I’m proud to say that I almost speak Spanish as well as a 2nd grader (that’s not something everyone can say)). For whatever reason, I think teachers just like to have a gringo in the classroom (gives the kids something to focus on other than fighting amongst each other). Also, my rising popularity on the airwaves has caused my teacher to routinely ask me to read during class, but more on that…
Telerivista: This is a weekly television program that we go on to basically read a story to kids, talk about what projects we’re doing, and take phone calls from friends in the community. The other guys and I have begun to take this pretty seriously (at first, we just came up with funny voices for the different characters, but most recently we expanded to titures (translation: puppets (specifically sock puppets complete with backgrounds and props))). We probably have more fun reading the stories than anyone has listening to them, but the jury’s still out on that one.
Beisbol: Coaching baseball. Basically what it sounds like. I think I’ve talked about it in a previous blog, so yea.
Latrinas: A project I’ve really gotten into is the Latrine project in Corralitos, one of the surrounding aldeas. Basically, people lacked adequate facilities to accommodate waste management and disposal, so latrines seemed like the obvious solution. This project in particular has exposed me to some of the… difficulties involved in coordinating a project between local people, government, and a funding organization. While the project has been great, the opportunity it has provided to meet the community has been even greater. Not wanting to play favorites, I find myself always eager to make the hour long drive to Corralitos.
Casa Pasionista: The Casa is actually the reason that the Passionists are in Talanga. Started in the 80’s, this house was made to be a shelter for people suffering from VIH/SIDA (translation: HIV/AIDS). Due to misunderstandings about the disease itself and people who become infected, the house was originally intended to be a place where individuals could pass on in peace, receiving care and companionship. However, with advances in the treatment of this disease, these individuals now can live (relatively normal lives). Oftentimes outcast from their communities and in the worst cases their families, the Casa has now become a permanent home for these individuals. Our presence in the house has little medical basis, instead embodying the spirit of accompaniment by acknowledging their basic human right to live a normal life.
Visitando con los Enfermos: Each week, the other volunteers and I accompany visit the homes of sick members throughout the community. We go to share in conversation, to exchange the stories of our lives. I can only hope that take as much from these interactions as much as I do.
In truth, the goal of our time here is simply to live amongst the people, accompanying them in their daily struggles and successes and hopefully being able to contribute something through this interaction that will be of benefit to each of us.
Cellular Perdido
Being the very responsible and accountable aspiring physician that I am, during my time in the states I lost my international phone. No worries, as I was able to buy a new phone and charger for the less than $10. As awesome as it was to spend 1/10 of my monthly stipend on this phone, it’s even more awesome that now I have a new number. In case anyone back in the states actually did want to give me a call, here’s the new number:
+01150432367159
Also, it only costs me 10cents/minute to talk to the states, while to call me it would cost you $1.50/minute. So yea, basically, if you want to talk call and let me know who it is and then hang up so I can call you back.
+01150432367159
Also, it only costs me 10cents/minute to talk to the states, while to call me it would cost you $1.50/minute. So yea, basically, if you want to talk call and let me know who it is and then hang up so I can call you back.
Lo Siento
So sorry I haven’t posted in a while. Things got pretty crazy over the last month (projects taking off (more to come), making a trip back to the states for medical school interviews (hopefully those went alright), and the fact that my computer was slowly being taken over my the blue screen of death (it is now completely taken over (and with no foreseeable way of fixing it I plan on holding a 9 day ceremony in its remembrance))). So that being said, here’s some more “goodies” (I hate how bad my English has been getting with the more time I spend here) from Talanga. Enjoy.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Himno Nuevo
“Dimelo.” Basically the top song in the house right now. I liked the English version, but the Spanish really brings it home. Check it out if you can on YouTube (it’s by Enrique):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RagiA5Grh5s
Avispas
The house we lived in was left to us in a state of unorganized chaos. While I would like to say that all of my time here has been for the betterment of others, a small bit (unfortunately) had to be set aside for “personal cleanliness.” We threw out a couple truck loads of junk, reorganized kitchens and offices, and then descended upon the bodega (fancy way of saying tool shed (but not really a tool shed, more of a storage closet (that is part of the house, but outside))). So anyways, the bodega had never before been organized. Over the last few years people had just thrown stuff in there, with no order, and no general cleaning. Thanks to an opening in the bodega which connected to the street, there was also a good two years’ worth of dust accumulated on any and everything. We had cleared everything out of the bodega, swept and cleaned it, and were beginning to put things back in when we were visited by Fatima (VIP to know in Talanga). Now, mind you, we had been moving around the bodega for at least a good 1.5 hours (probably more), and after 15 seconds in the bodega,
Video Courtesy of Joe Runde
Chancos
Basically, just watch the video (as a side note, it should be said that we were following (sometimes chasing) this group of pigs for about 4 blocks)
Video Courtesy of Joe Runde
Tarantula
A few days ago we drove in to Talanga pick-up the final two volunteers from the airport. On that very same night as we prepared to go to bed, we were startled to hear Mike calmly proclaim that there was a gigantic spider above his bed. Upon further collaboration and conversation, we agreed that there was, in fact a fairly-sized tarantula above Mike’s bed. One thing lead to another, and we now have a new mascota (pet). The video is very Crocodile hunter-esque.
Video Courtesy of Joe Rune
**As a side note, a week later we ended up (after much persuasion from the locals) killing the tarantula (by chopping it in half with a machete (by yours truly (video to come)).
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Billy Madison
So we’ve started helping out at the local schools (and by helping out, I mean being helped out (to learn Spanish (from, in my case, 2nd graders))). Basically, every day I go to school I feel more and more like Billy Madison (it’s gotten to the point where the kids will ask me why I’m not doing the homework (I tell them it’s because I already have all the answers to check their work with)). At the same time, I feel like some sort of freak show (“The Amazing Gringo”) as kids will stare at me and then quickly turn around when I ask them what’s going. It is fun playing with the kids, but their favorite game is chase the gringo (basically what it sounds like). If nothing else, I should be able to talk as good as a 2nd grader by the time I’m done here.Muerte
The people here have a very different way of dealing with death than what I am used to. Rather than fearing and avoiding the passing on of a person, the community embraces it entirely. The other night the other volunteers and I had a meeting scheduled with several prominent community leaders. We arrived to the meeting only to discover that it had been canceled due to a severe illness in one of the elder men of the community. The house was nearby, and we were invited to accompany the locals on what turned out to be their last goodbye to this man. Maybe it’s the nature of living in a small town, maybe it was testament to the strength of the Church here, but for whatever reason, we arrived at the house to find it overflowing with people. It was so full inside that people were standing or sitting wherever there was room in the street, filling up the block in either direction. Both the young and old turned out in equal measure, and each group was equally filled with tears and grief. Each person was given their turn to sit bedside and say goodbye. The next day, we heard that he passed away peacefully. Passing by the house later that day, I was surprised to find that the crowd of people had not yet dissipated. If anything, it had grown. Once night came, a fire was lit in the middle of the street to serve as a beacon to those passing that a death had occurred, and the crowd grew yet larger with those who had to pay their respects. In Talanga, the people practice very unique ritual following a death. The family of the deceased builds an altar and hold a 9-day service, providing food and drink to any person who enters. The amount of people present slowly dwindles, but during this time the body is presented and buried, and for several days after the burial the pray and celebration continues. I had the opportunity to experience the final day of this service in another household, and what I observed was that not a single person there seemed sad. I knew from seeing the beginning stages of this process that there had most definitely been tears earlier, but it amazed me how much they had healed from what happened. By addressing death directly, by facing it and embracing what it means, and by getting such amazing support from the community, the people here are almost comfortable with it. They celebrate a life for what it should be.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Beisbol
I coached a baseball team today (I don’t know if it’s fair to call what I did coaching (it’s hard to coach kids who are better than you are at what you’re coaching them at (I’m not very good at baseball if you’ve never had the chance to watch me in action))). So really, it was more like a threw a ball to (or close to) some kids so that they could catch/hit. Somehow or another, while my attention was focused elsewhere I got hit in the back of the head by a ball (which was much softer than an actual baseball). Thinking this was o-so-hilarious, the kids spent the rest of practice throwing fastballs at/around my head and body area when I wasn’t looking (and though they were only 12 or 13, they threw a lot faster than I could (which, based on my lack of skill in baseball, isn’t saying much (but still more than nothing)). Don’t know if I’ll continue with the baseball coaching or not....
Lo Estallar
Most everyone I meet here knows the same handshake (which is actually awesome). It’s simple, but effective: you begin with a side high-five, pull back, and finish it off with a fist pound. While already a modern marvel, I’ve decided to combine our two cultures by introducing the “blow up” (as it’s known on the streets) to the kids here (for those of you not familiar, this act involves opening your hand with an explosive motion following a fist pound (as if the collision of fits created some sort of unstable reaction)). So far, I’ve only had the opportunity to follow the effect of this addition in a single child, but the success of this subject (Subject X or Sylar) is promising for the spread of this phenomenon.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Exterminación del Piñata
Two things I realized pertaining to piñatas: one, a Honduran child is at least ten times more excited about the prospect of a piñata than every other child I’ve seen prepare to break one open (combined); second, a Honduran child is entirely capable of and willing to (more wanting to) utterly and completely destroy a piñata if given the chance. Like the mountain cat, I wish I had made a video of this event transpiring (I really need to start carrying a camera with me), but for lack of better medium I will attempt to briefly describe the event in words.
The target of the children’s attack was a big red dog (see: Clifford) piñata. The ETA (estimated time of attack) was set to be at the end of the group meeting, but this didn’t stop the children from throwing balled-up rope/pens/babies (maybe not that last one) at the highly, and somewhat ominously, hanging piñata. Before long, it was piñata time. It quickly became apparent that the kids couldn’t do much damage when blindfolded (we made it through the entire line-up with hardly a noticeable dent), so the blindfolds were taken off. This lead to greater contact being made, yet still the piñata persisted. Soon, two kids would join the atta
ck together, and de repente (translation: suddenly) the entire mob descended on the piñata like a pack of ravenous wolves onto a big red dog named Clifford. While the bat is the normal weapon of choice for piñata-breaking, these kids preferred to get close and use their hands. Children began jumping onto the piñata, and after two or three of them got a hold, Tyler (the volunteer who was operating the up/down functioning of the piñata) was unable to pull the thing back up despite throwing his entire wait into it (he was literally hanging from the rope). At that point, poor Clifford knew his time had come. He was ripped from limb to limb, creating a mess like I had never before seen as pieces of his body were cast aside in a frantic search to obtain more of his delicious and sweet insides (some of the candy was actually really good (especially this dulce de leche sucker with a coco filling)). Wherever Clifford is now, I hope that it may be a happier place.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Veinticinco Personas en un Carro
The volunteers here drive a rugged manual-transmission Toyota Tacoma (see: river crossing video). It has four doors, can fit 5 comfortably in the cab (6 if someone wants to straddle the gear box), and is made complete by a regular-sized truck bed. Still, The other day, these physical limitations did nothing to prevent us from fitting a total of 25 people (3 of them babies) into/around/on Linda (el nombre de carro (our car is kind of like the village bicycle...)). More shocking still was when we were told that this wasn’t the record (apparently Linda really liked to get around back in the day, one time taking on 28 passengers in a single going. We’ll see if we can’t bring back those glory days during our time.
El Gato De Montaña
So the other day we visited another aldea called Terrero. The drive there lasted about 50 minutes (needless to say it is one of the less accessible aldeas) and most closely reminded me of one of those amusement park rides where you’re on an African safari or running away from a T-Rex in Jurassic park (minus the souvenir photo of course) due to the sloped and often rocky roads we were on (we live in the mountainous/rocky part of Honduras (not to be confused with the jungle/beach part)). So after a rough and bumpy ride, we made it to this aldea and met some pretty amazing people (as a side note, I also received a new nickname, “aldío” (translation: “squirre”), from a little girl (I’m not sure how, but I’m pretty sure Joe had something to do with that one). Around lunch time we stopped in at this one house full of kids to say “hola” (sorry for the long introduction, but I had to set the scene).
After sitting and talking for some time, we noticed what appears to be an animal head on top of the gate we entered through. Upon futher inquiry, we learned that it was, in fact, the head of a small wild cat (apparently it had been attacking their chickens, so they “killed it with a rifle” (translated (I know Giff will like that one)). About the same time one of the boys, Anderson (strange name, I know (especially when you pronounce it with a Spanish accent)), walked up to a girl near us with his hands behind his back. Before any of us have chance to warn the unsuspecting girl,
Again, the people in
Friday, July 25, 2008
Pica de Insecto
No one will be shocked to hear that mosquitoes love me here (just like they love me everywhere else I go). While their love for my sweet-smelling skin and delicious-tasting blood is the same, there has been something new. As you can see above, I had a pretty adverse reaction to one of the many bites I’ve received so far. While this is the only instance of this reaction (so far), I haven’t counted out the possibility of Dengue or Malaria (or something really cool that I haven’t even thought about) yet. I’ll keep you updated on what happens with this bulbous/squishy/yellowish/itchy/mountainous bite.
Simon y Garfunkel en Iglesia?
I don’t know what the song was (it was in Spanish (and I obviously don’t speak this language (so well (yet))), but at one point during mass today the entire Church joined together in a song to the tune of Simon and Garfunkel’s classic “The Sound of Silence.” I doubt it was a straight translation...
El Mamut Song
Pretty much, this is the best song I've ever heard (read the lyrics, and imagine it to a tune that is quasi-"Blue Moon"). You have to hear it to appreciate it, so I’ll get on making a recording available.
Contacto Informacion
In case anyone wanted to send me anything (fan mail, candy bars, comics, DVDs of hit TV shows or movies, babies, sun screen, vibranium shields, horse feed, etc...) or give me a call, here would be the best ways to get in touch
Address
Sean McGarvey
Iglesia Catolica
Volunatrios Passionistas
Bario Centro
Talanga, FM
Phone
01150432527854
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Una Tormenta
Yesterday we were visiting one of the aldeas (think smaller village in the surrounding area) to meet the locals, get some lunch, and attend a liturgy where we would be introduced. We went around to visit all of the houses, and While the people here may not have much at every stop they would offer us cafe and comida. Culturally, it's rude to turn down such offers, so the other volunteers and myself drank cup after cup of coffee and ate what was handed to us (note: when I say 'coffee,' don't confuse it with the stuff you can get at Starbuck's (on a side note, please boycott Starbuck's and all it's owner stand for). This coffee most closely resembles mud in its consistency and tastes very sweet due to the mounds of sugar added to it (I think it''s kind of good)). It's the rainy season, and unfortunately for us as we were saying our goodbyes one of those tropical storms you always hear about decided to strike.
I've never been scared of trueno or relampago (thunder or lighting)..... or at least I hadn't been until I felt and saw both no less than a football field's length away. The lightning actually looked kind of rounded as it came down (it probably wasn't, but the flash was so bright that it seemed that way anyways), and the thunder sounded like a bomb had gone off (not that I would know what that sounded like..... but you know what I mean). In total, the storm couldn't have lasted more than 30 minutes, but the torrential downpour was enough to transform a small stream trickling across the road into an impassable river (or so we thought). After waiting for a few hours (in which time the river only went down a foot or so) we decided it was safe enough to cross (actually, we were just really bored and wanted to get home. Plus, another truck had just (barely) made it across so we thought we'd try our luck). Enjoy:
Video Courtesy of Joe Runde
I've never been scared of trueno or relampago (thunder or lighting)..... or at least I hadn't been until I felt and saw both no less than a football field's length away. The lightning actually looked kind of rounded as it came down (it probably wasn't, but the flash was so bright that it seemed that way anyways), and the thunder sounded like a bomb had gone off (not that I would know what that sounded like..... but you know what I mean). In total, the storm couldn't have lasted more than 30 minutes, but the torrential downpour was enough to transform a small stream trickling across the road into an impassable river (or so we thought). After waiting for a few hours (in which time the river only went down a foot or so) we decided it was safe enough to cross (actually, we were just really bored and wanted to get home. Plus, another truck had just (barely) made it across so we thought we'd try our luck). Enjoy:Video Courtesy of Joe Runde
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Estoy aqui
Hola y bienvenidos a mi blog. I’m not really sure how these things work, but I figured that it was either tell people about what I’m doing in mass e-mails or do this (and this looked a lot cooler (well maybe not cooler, but definitely more interesting)). So where to begin....
I arrived in
The next day we made the trip to my new home for the next year: Talanga. Talanga isn’t a large city by normal standards, but somehow this city and the surrounding area comprised solely of one-story houses have a population of around 30,000 people (thank you Wikipedia). The town has one (partially) paved road, and a bunch of other roads that are not-so-paved (from what I hear, they’re a mud pit in the rainy season and a dust cloud during the dry season). I’ve already seen that people use horses and ox-drawn carts for transportation about as much as they use cars. The natural city-dwelling animals include dogs, chickens, and on occasion pigs (I should also mention the mosquitoes who seem to greatly outnumber both man and animal alike (also, I’ve found that I’m just as delicious to mosquitoes here as I was back home (though not as delicious as I was in Costa Rica (though I am well on my way to surpassing that 91 bites received there))).
Pretty much, the last few days have consisted of last year’s volunteers parading us around town, introducing us to the locals, and translating for us what is being said (the accent is.... muy dificil para entender). The volunteers I’ll be living with for the next year are amazing and fun people (minus Joe). In order of a
ppearance, there is: Joe Runde (don’t know why I’m spending another year with him), Lauren Mahler (a registered nurse from Massachusetts, which turns out is only a commonwealth and not a state at all), Melissa Farrell (another registered nurse from Joe’s neck-o-the-woods in Iowa), and Mike Dubiel (a wandering spirit (you really need to meet this guy to understand) originally from Cleveland who most recently has been living in El Paso as a volunteer) (as a side note: the final two volunteers will not be arriving here until el 1 de Agosto in case you were wondering). During these many introductions, there is one constant that I’ve begun to notice: people cannot for the life of them pronounce my name.
Instead of people saying “Shawn,” I’ve gotten everything from “Shone” to “Jon” to “Chang” (that last one seems to be particularly popular amongst the kids, who asked me if my name was “
Beyond that, I’m just starting to get introduced to the different projects that are available to us (but I’ll save this for another post). Hope all is going well back in the states (this group missed the introduction of the iPhone, so I can only imagine the magnitude of changes that will happen while I’m out of country). Hasta Luego!
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