Sentarse: To Sit (Oneself)

Today I sat. We were in the 'parque central' in Comayagua and there was a beautiful fountain in the center, trimmed on each block by brightly colored cement edifices in a quaint, (Honduran) colonial fashion. The kind of place where little children walk around sticky-fingered with ice cream.

As the breeze flitted across my sunscreen-slicked gringo skin, I couldn't help but smil. My ears were lit with the brusk syncopation of music I am too young to have known at the time of its birth, but nonetheless feel as though i were some long, misplaced, part of myself finally coming home.

Something of the scene spoke such deep peace into me. I couldn't say, in certainty, how long I, or any of my companions on that trip, were sitting there. I know only that I sat and hummed, sung and sipped, talked and wondered until I had taken my fill of the stillness. Such beauty it was, to simply, be. When I was done being, I got up.

 

 

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Jugar: To Play

Culture clash and field day bash. "Los Olimpiadas" were a daunting task, both in the literal obstacles that were there to be faced, as well as the successful working of two cultures together in a time where the stakes are high. There were around 2.5 weeks of meetings leading up to los olimpiadas. Most of those meetings were vastly unproductive, all of them started at least 30 minutes to an hour late. None of them were stress free, and a few of them were fun. Each team had the task of creating: a banner, mural, mascot, t-shirt (one for each person), and dance, rolled into a presentation. Each team received about $40 (which goes a long way farther here than in the States) and had close to 30 people (though many of those people absent for some/few/all of the meetings. Not surprisingly I was in charge of making the musical remix and the dance. While our team may have... struggled in completing all of our tasks in a timely/impressive fashion, we all had fun, and our presentation managed to fall (somewhat) together by the time we were on stage that Friday night.

Though I don't have a video of the dance yet, I will work on getting one up. No promises though, youtube is highly inaccessible and I so far have no way of getting videos on my blog. Here are some photos of the night of presentations:

Saturday commenced the actual games including but not limited to:


volleyball, long jump, tug-of-war, many-many relays, soccer, obstacle course, and more.

While our team had little in the way of thrilling victories, here are a few ideas of our day!

 

What really made los olimpiadas difficult was the culture shock I experienced during the weeks of preparation. My preferred work method is to A) be on time always and B) not leave everything to the last minute. These are rare things to experience on ANY team during the season of olimpiadas. I, along with many volunteers, was immensely frustrated by the constant confusion of meeting times, everyone arriving 30/45/60 minutes late, everybody panicking and doing things last minute, the multiple changes to the number of people in my dance (on the day of the performance) and the general relajo (chaos) that is involved with this larger-than-life day.

I found myself being so angry about the stress that this all brought on and feeling upset that the people I was working with couldn't just see and do things my way. I struggled because I didn't want to feet that way, but I did. Somehow beyond (in my mind) all odds, our performance was more or less successful, everything was made, and all had fun. While I still don't see eye to eye on the mode of completion I do have to praise the Honduran ability to simultaneously all know when something important is happening, and where, regardless of what the official schedule says, as well as the Honduran ability to make beautiful, artistic banners, mascots, etc, out of materials I would never have thought to mold to my will. I can't say that I am at peace with everything yet, but I am trying very hard to appreciate what new insights and perspectives this culture here in Honduras has to offer.

 

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Echar de menos: To miss, regret the absence of...

Echar is an interesting verb complete with many potential translations. It can mean: to cast, fling, hurl, pitch, or throw. Echar mano a- holds the significance of to grab. Echar raíces is to take root. Echarse- to lie down, rest, stretch out (oneself). There are so many unrelated ideas thrown together like heaping laundry into this verb echar. It is a fitting commencement for my first corralled thoughts on a certain type of home-longing.

Approximately two months ago I flung myself far from comfort and all definitions of the word home that I had ever gathered unto myself. I hurled myself into the unknown, mountain-edged mystery of the open, green brazos (arms) of Honduras. In my casting off of America I have shed myself of many once-dear, unquestioned lifestyle norms. I am begun, anew, in a strange homeland of a people with need wrapped around their bones; where I fit in no more than a clean mall, or well-built home. Absence is one of those things I carry with me. A lacking of the old familiar replaced by the brazen new.

As I navigate this strange, exciting, troublesome sea of foreign, I sometimes find myself angle or knee deep in this still pool of regret (one or twice it was waist deep). I am missing the pieces of myself growing in Portland, California and elsewhere. Sometimes I wake up in the morning, and if I don't think or open my eyes, I am back home in the little loft-of-a-space I called my room in my parents home. Sometimes I look at the green pines of Honduras and think, if I count to ten maybe I'll be in the mountains of Lake Tahoe and I'll turn around and see the beautiful woman I walked with four days before I threw myself, wildly, into the tortilla-wrapped newness I am beginning to see as 'home.'


In my dreams I mosey down 23rd street, dressed in a hat from my favorite shop, licking a crumb of cheesecake off the corner of lip from Papa Haydn's.

When I am alone, I sing, in a loud, native tongue; I breathe in an unused technique, fill my lungs with sweet, syllabic English, and exhale a timber of a less-understood love.

When I cook, I fill my ears with the syncopated music of my father and his hand are next to mine, dicing onions, and his voice wafts in the warm light of my new (cockroach infested) Honduran kitchen, with the gentle advice of having the patience to not cook with to much heat. "Plus, the music lasts longer that way son."

Voy a echar raíces aquí, in este país, con esta gente, en este idioma. Voy a construir una casa de madera y canción, en las montañas verdes de este lugar. Voy a amar, enseñar, cultivar, y reír con niños. Voy a aprender yo mismo, escribir yo mismo, y cantar yo mismo para el año próximo.

....and I hope it is not without a touch of grace...

(I am going to take root here, in this country, with these people, in this language. I am going to build a house of wood and song in the green-lined mountains of this place. I am going to love, teach, grow, and laugh amongst children. I am going to learn myself, write myself, and sing myself for the next year).

A todo, les echo de menos.

Doesn't that sound just a little bit like the regret of your absence is etched into my personhood.... it does to me.

 

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Necesitar: To Need

What is need? What is necessary for having "quality of life." I have seen some things in Honduras that, before coming here, I would not have considered to be worth living for, yet here they are. People living amidst mountains of garbage in shack houses or drinking dirty water and eating coffee for breakfast and soda for dinner. Honduras has made me reconsider what I consider life necessities. Here is a quick list of things I have learned to live without (or infrequently).

 

Hot showers (haven't had one since coming her)

Meat (maybe I have eaten it 20 times in 2 months, which is quite luxurious)

Internet everywhere (always gotta walk for it, doesn't always work, another luxury item)

90% of everything I have ever owned

34/35 ties

Air conditioning

Dishwasher

A kitchen that could pass a health code inspection

A dryer

 

Even accounting for things I have foregone, I still live a life of intense luxury. Honduras forces you to come to terms with the excess of life, and to notice what things shouldn't be considered excess. The kids work with don't ever get hot showers, rarely meat, never privacy. The kids I work with are some of the happiest people I know. Who is to say that they are lacking anything, maybe I have just fished shedding everything I have never truly needed. (Still pretty unlikely).

Still. Honduras is pulling the plank from my own eye, as gently as my students remove a Jenga block during one of our games, for fear of leaving nothing standing. Who knows where I will be in a year, well besides still in Honduras. Yet one thing is certain, I am changing more, I am needing less. And I just might be liking it!

 

Post Script: Here are some photos of our private swimming pool and the path to get there!

 

 

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Trabajar: To Work

A natural question in the midst of this grand adventure, some of you may be wondering what exactly I am doing. My exact job is working in the school as a tutor for 5th and 6th graders in Math and Spanish. If you know me you should be laughing... En serio, I am going to be helping kids with Spanish (and math) which believe it or not I am just above slightly qualified.

I received a classroom that once in a while is used for speech therapy, though that has yet to happen, where I can tutor and have my own (highly decorated, per Honduran norm) work space. I just finished my first week working with kids solo, and would pay anything to hear myself with Spanish ears; I wonder how awful it is....

I foresee a potential for much gratification throughout the year. Though the students can be frustrating I can't tell you how wonderful they can be. I also work in the same area where the little "chiquitas" go to school. Where else in the world would a little girl, like five year old darling come run and jump into my arms all giggles and smiles. Where else could I give her a kiss on the cheek and tote her, laughter and all, into her next class saying: ¡Hola prof.¡ Tango una guapa estudiante para la clase de música. Which in gringo Spanish roughly translates to: Hey teach, I've got a cute little student here for class.

Sometime I look at the sky or the laughing eyes of Darling (the aforementioned 5 tear old) and think to myself, this is Honduras.... this is my life. The one God chose for me. The one I claimed for myself. A veces me parece (sometimes it seems to me) I am living the stuff that dreams are made on.

 

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