The Lazy, Photos-Only Post

If it's true that pictures are worth 1,000 words then this is my longest post to date. Truthfully, I'm too lazy to write a legitimate blogpost but too stubborn to not post on my schedule. Compromises must be made.

Here's the proof: I made it to the Pacific Ocean. From left to right Sarah, me, and Marvin pose after we entered the clear, warm water.

Here's a great picture of me and Paola. She is married to Marvin and has let us into her world of amazing work with the people in Vallecillo. She runs meetings and teaching personal finance lessons to people who can't read. She also likes to go to the mall.

This beaming woman is Marvin's mom--Aida. We met her when she visited Marvin in San Isidro a few weeks ago but didn't get to spend much time with her because she only stayed for a day. Luckily we stayed at her house in Tegucigalpa on Saturday night on the way back from the Pacific Coast.There's Doña Aida again, along with her husband and her 3 newly adopted "nietos" (grandchildren).

Here was one surprise benefit of staying at Marvin's family's house in Tegucigalpa--their rooftop deck. What seemed like a regular house in a regular neighborhood turned out to be one of the most breathtaking views of my trip. This is looking into the city at night.

And here's the same scene, but the next morning.

Since this was my last week in San Isidro before coming home it meant a lot of sad goodbyes. Sad goodbyes also meant great photo ops. Here's me with my Honduran abuela, Doña Hilda.

You might remember Darlin Giselle from an earlier post (she's the girl with "sangre mala"). Here she is on the night before I left.

The Dried Grass Post

I have to admit, out of the five schools that we volunteer with, that El Encinal is my favorite. The teacher, the students, and the aesthetics of the setting all combine to make it stand out. Cristina, the teacher, is in her late twenties, but (when she’s only talking to us) likes to act like a teenager. I knew she was unique when she asked my compañera, Sarah, to teach her all of the “bad” words in English (to Sarah’s credit, she declined). For proof of Cristina’s fun-loving personality here's a picture of her and Sarah from yesterday.

On Tuesday, the “cipotes” (kids) of El Encinal were preparing for the “Día de Lempira” (Lempira Day) celebration coming up on Friday. We provided the performance material; Sarah used her free time to write a short play about Cambio Climático (Climate Change) and Cristina wanted her students to perform it. Furthermore, Sarah and Rebecca wrote a song to sing at the end of the play. I was skeptical about the entertainment or educational value of the play and song but I was proven wrong on Tuesday. Teaching the song was some of the most fun I’ve had teaching in Honduras. I’ve gathered in the past 6 weeks that songs are a much bigger part of the primary school curriculum here than they are in the United States. I imagine it’s because songs are easier for these students to remember. Trust me, when teachers have to work with six different grades and about 30 different learning styles in one classroom they can use all the teaching shortcuts imaginable. I also enjoyed El Encinal on Tuesday because the “varónes” (boys) and I practiced walking on our hands together. I won’t claim to be able to go more than 3 steps but here’s a picture of my effort.

Three of the schools we work with have been preparing all week for this Día de Lempira celebration. Lempira is the Honduran equivalent (at least by some measures, and I’m not inviting anyone to quote me on this) of George Washington. He can be found on the 1 lempira bill and is a famous native hero who led the fight for Honduran independence from Spain. Thursday morning was spent helping to set up the stage for the performances and was notable for three reasons. Most importantly, I discovered that dried grass must have been extremely important to Honduran native people because that was our Main Decorating Material. Secondly, the teachers didn’t have a Plan B if it rained before the celebration. Noticing how fragile and unprotected the decorations seemed to be, I asked a teacher what would happen if it rained. Her answer—“Se destrozado” (Everything will be destroyed). Not knowing how to respond, I took a break from hanging dried grass to survey our work. I’m not sure what effect the set designers were going for (other than, perhaps, something that would stand up) but it struck me that the stage would be constructed so as most people in attendance couldn’t see what was happening.

Then, today, it happened. All the preparation—the awkward stage construction, the bags and bags of dried grass, and a climate change play complete with song—culminated, like many other Honduran culminations I’ve experienced, with a wait. The 9 am program finally started with a parade of the students in their native costumes at 10:30. Seeing the students dressed up as “indios” (Indians) and “caballeros” (a cross between gentleman and cowboy) was my biggest surprise of the morning. I knew that plays, dances, and dried grass were all involved but no one told me costumes were included too! Here are the “indios” from the primary school at Aguablanca:

The celebration ended with the performance of the climate change play and song. It didn’t really fit in with the whole spirit of the event but neither did the kindergartener’s performances of Ole McDonald Had a Farm and the Hokey Pokey. After getting back to San Isidro we held a “Día de Limpia” (Trash Clean-Up Day), and that meshed nicely with the climate change play. It took 25 kids about 30 minutes to fill all of our collected plastic shopping bags with trash from the streets and around the school. Here are the students (hopefully) realizing that litter doesn’t pay when the gringos make you pick it up and entice you with candy.

One last note before the shout-outs—we had a productive and exciting scheduling meeting with Marvin on Tuesday night. This weekend should be one of the coolest yet. Tomorrow, if all goes as planned and it certainly may not, we will be traveling to the Pacific Coast, taking a ferry, and relaxing on the pristine beach of an undeveloped island. If this works out it will be my first ever trip to the Pacific Ocean. This week’s shout-out victims are two of my favorite professors at UNC who both made this trip possible with financial contributions. Dr. Maisch donated, and also taught me Spanish for the past two semesters. So, he made this trip possible on a number of levels. Dr. Richards, in addition to donating, taught my sophomore seminar on American poetry last semester and unintentionally provided me with summer reading because I brought our textbooks from that class with me. Thanks to both of you and I look forward to seeing you at UNC in the fall.

The Bus, The Greenhouse, and The Doldrums

I wasn’t convinced we were going to leave Yorito on Monday until we boarded the bus, and even then I wasn’t sure we were going to make it all the way back to San Isidro. To travel back we needed to catch two converted school buses. Take the first bus at 9 am from Yorito heading towards Tegucigalpa. Get off before Tegucigalpa (that’s where tens of thousands of protestors are causing ruckus) and catch a second bus that’s returning from Tegucigalpa to San Isidro at 1 pm. What appears to be a flawless plan was only disrupted when we arrived at the second bus stop at 1:40 pm. The intervening 40 minutes kept me busy with seven phone calls and a lot of frantic pleading. Thankfully enough, it worked.

The bus driver and almost one hundred bored Hondurans were sitting under whatever shade they could find around the barren bus stop when we finally made it. I tried to make obvious both my embarrassment and gratitude to the waiting bus riders but I think the subtleties of my facial expression were lost as the crowd of bored Hondurans stormed the second bus. My curiosity about this swift shift from shade mongering to bus stampeding was satisfied when we entered the bus to discover that all the seats were taken and that the only option was for us to sit on plastic stools in the middle of the aisle. The 3 hour ride from where we boarded the second bus to San Isidro wasn't comfortable but how can you complain when that many people are waiting on you for more than half an hour?

* * *

Since returning to San Isidro, I've tried adjusting back to life as it normally is—meaning I rarely know what's going to happen the next day. I was pleased on Wednesday when we had the opportunity to help construct a greenhouse behind the school at Las Quebraditas. Construction in the mountains of rural Honduras is much different than construction in my backyard in rural Luray, Virginia. After surveying the land with rope and a tape measure, we dig. A lot. The holes are dug with a tool named a “barreta”— a sturdy stick with a flat piece of metal attached to one end. Wooden posts are placed in the holes and the dull end of the “barreta” is used to pack down the soil around the post. After we got all the posts in the ground we realized we didn’t have enough plastic to cover the greenhouse. I’m told we can finish next week. Here’s a picture of what we managed to accomplish with 15 people in 4 hours. If next week goes as planned I’ll include a shot of the final product.

Despite how much I enjoyed building the greenhouse the majority of my week was spent stuck in the doldrums. After returning from Yorito I didn’t feel like I was going to be able to readjust to the San Isidro lifestyle and be happy again. I seriously considered requesting a transfer to another region for my last two weeks in Honduras. I talked, though, with Rebecca, Sarah, my mom, and Diana (a group leader stationed in Yorito) and decided to face my doldrums head on instead of trying to escape my poor attitude. After 3 exhausting days of dreaming of a transfer, I decided to take ownership of my experience and can report that mission is accomplished. Today, I took an active role in teaching in El Encinal and accompanied a FIPAH staff member to observe the first of her personal finance lessons for a group of farmers in La Vereda. This picture from the El Encinal classroom captures my new-found upbeat attitude.

As usual, shout-outs before I call it a night. Tonight’s shout-outs are a recycled pair but the occasion merits it. By the time my mom reads this post on Saturday it will be her birthday. Congratulations Mom! I’m sorry I can’t be there for your birthday but we can go to the Wrangler’s game when I get back to make up for it. This Sunday is my parent’s 23^rd anniversary. Thanks to both of you for supporting be all throughout the trip. I know it wouldn’t be the same if I didn’t know I was coming back home to you two at the end of it. If you thought the first 23 years were great, strap on your seatbelts for the next 23.

The Feria, The Coup, and The Curfew

The day after I posted the last blog we traveled to Yorito (another rural community in Honduras, though exponentially larger than San Isidro) to visit with our friends while Marvin was out of town. We went by bus—and by bus I mean a converted yellow school bus that was shipped here from the United States. After seeing these buses criss-cross Honduras, blasting reggaeton music and navigating treacherous pot-holes, I had understandably built up a strong desire to ride one. Wish granted. On Saturday we struggled to get up at 4:15 am to drive to Talanga where we boarded at 7:45 am. Five bumpy hours later we arrived safe, but a little dizzy, in Yorito, the adopted home of our compañeras Diana, Rachel, Anna, and Jaki. I entered their apartment triumphant because of my successful journey but somewhat intimidated because I hadn’t used indoor plumbing in over a month.

Your typical Sunday in Honduras is a day of rest—the people try to only do absolutely necessary work. An atypical Sunday sees the President arrested and deported to Costa Rica. The first news reports indicated that the “coup”—as some were calling it—was relatively calm with all demonstrations and potential for violence confined to the metropolitan areas. The situation could become volatile with the impending return of the ousted President this weekend but we aren’t nervous and are keen on any developments.

We came to Yorito primarily to engage with the FIPAH youth because they were hosting a Feria de Semillas (Seed Festival) to show off their hard work to the community. The youth prepared hundreds of varieties of seeds to display in hand-made clay pots but I—for some reason—was interviewed by a man with a microphone pack who projected my voice for the thousands of Hondurans in Yorito for the festival. He asked me what I was studying and I informed him I was an English major. He proclaimed (in English and with a hilarious Spanish accent), “To be, or not to be, that is the qiston!” That night, while the rest of the country (literally every other city, town, or village) was under a curfew—Yorito was allowed to carry on with its party to honor San Pedro (Saint Paul). As I tried to fall asleep around 10:30 pm, my conservative side wished the curfew had been extended to Yorito because fireworks and music vibrated our walls until 3 am. Hondureños might not party often, but they sure don’t call an early night when they do.

On Tuesday we got to see the festival-free Yorito—calm and as sparsely populated as the number of houses would suggest. Luckily, Doña Francisca arrived in the central park to sell baleadas even though all of the visitors who had been in town for the festival were now gone. Though I’ve known Doña Francisca for less than a week, she’s the person I’ll miss most when I leave Honduras. She sells her baleadas 6 days a week for 6 lempiras (32 cents) each. Her typical baleada consists of: a homemade corn tortilla that she cooks on a pile of coals when you order it, refried beans, queso, and chismol (pico de gallo) that she prepares daily. Heaven. The picture at the top of this post is me with my new friend Doña Francisca and with my new love, a baleada.

After my original departure date of Wednesday was moved back to the coming Monday, I have invested fully in the teaching and other work of the 4 Nourish International volunteers in Yorito. They teach English with the Educatodos program that offers alternatives to students who can’t afford to pay for uniforms and books. They also offer computer classes at the FIPAH office. Observing computer classes here has inspired me to start similar classes with the older children in San Isidro.

The remainder of the week has been relatively uneventful compared to the coup-and-fiesta-filled long weekend. I’m looking forward to getting back to San Isidro and to implement new teaching techniques. One simple example: when getting the students to repeat words back to you in English it’s incredibly helpful to ask them what the word means in Spanish and, moments later, asking them what the Spanish word is in English. It helps them recall the word later.

With the precarious political situation and another day of traveling coming up next week, my post next Friday should be as event filled as this one. Until then, shout-outs! Mr. Way, who along with his wife, generously donated to my fundraising efforts in advance of my trip, also called my mother when he learned about the coup to check on my safety. Hearing that people in the States are keeping me in their thoughts motivates me to work harder. I know I can make a positive impact on the communities that I feel blessed to know and live in.