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.
Monday, September 29, 2008
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
