It's been a busy couple of months here in San Pedro. We are preparing for our first major learning tour, comprised of youth from the Canadian Food Grains Bank who will be spending two weeks studying food security issues in Honduras. We'll take them all over the country, from Tegucigalpa; to El Cajón near Lago Yojoa; to Azacualpa, Santa Barbara; and, finally, San Pedro Sula. We'll visit a clothing factory, the world's largest Tilapia exporter, farm projects in the mountains, a women's rights organization, the Canadian International Development Agency office, and much more. We'll also probably be incomunicado for a while.
Here are two photo albums of some highlights from the last month:
Click here for pictures of our good friends Joel Cano and Vanessa Flores at their wedding on the beach.
Here are some pictures of our first work and learn team, five folks from First Mennonite Church of Bluffton. We spent most of the week assisting with various building projects at the Mennonite Church in La Lopez Arellano, just north of San Pedro Sula.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Monday, February 4, 2008
Searching for food and dignity
In the mountains outside of Tegucigalpa there is a community that lives among the rats, cows, dogs, gang members, drug addicts, alcoholics, and glue sniffers in the municipal dump. Every day hundreds of trucks dump waste from all corners of the city, and children fight the buzzards for scraps of food, and each other for bits of metal or plastic to recycle for a few lempiras. The scene is almost unimaginable. A man approached us and opened his shirt to show how cancer had eaten away part of his chest; an 8-year-old girl in a camouflage hat was the dirtiest human being I have ever encountered; a young man with a few teeth hanging on giddily played for me the harmonica he just found in the piles of trash.
No human being should ever have to be subjected to this sort of undignified existence.
The hope in the midst of this chaos is a school called Amor, Fe, y Vida -- Love, Faith, and Life. For seven years, Jeony, a mild-mannered Methodist pastor with a huge heart and a head full of dreams, has developed a school for the children who live in and around the dump with hopes of sending them on to something better. The hope is that they will at least graduate from sixth grade, the mandatory level of schooling for Honduran youth. At least a few have graduated from high school and have gone on to technical schools. Jeony hopes many will go on to university and come back to help teach others who call the dump their home. Above all, however, they hope to teach the kids that they are loved by and are dignified through God
There is no way to sum up what we saw today in a few paragraphs. But swirling around in my mind is the haunting call to action Joeny left us with. He said that his years working at the dump have taught him that there is a difference between pity and compassion. Pity means you get back in your car, go home to your warm house and forget what you saw, or consider it a hopeless cause. Compassion means you ask every day, "What more can I do?" If nothing else, there is always prayer. He said that before he started with the people at the dump he didn't have anything to pray for after 15 minutes or so of devotions. Now he has over 1,000 reasons to pray -- all the people who call the dump their home.
Joeny's project is documented here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fWn4zkND0mc
No human being should ever have to be subjected to this sort of undignified existence.
The hope in the midst of this chaos is a school called Amor, Fe, y Vida -- Love, Faith, and Life. For seven years, Jeony, a mild-mannered Methodist pastor with a huge heart and a head full of dreams, has developed a school for the children who live in and around the dump with hopes of sending them on to something better. The hope is that they will at least graduate from sixth grade, the mandatory level of schooling for Honduran youth. At least a few have graduated from high school and have gone on to technical schools. Jeony hopes many will go on to university and come back to help teach others who call the dump their home. Above all, however, they hope to teach the kids that they are loved by and are dignified through God
There is no way to sum up what we saw today in a few paragraphs. But swirling around in my mind is the haunting call to action Joeny left us with. He said that his years working at the dump have taught him that there is a difference between pity and compassion. Pity means you get back in your car, go home to your warm house and forget what you saw, or consider it a hopeless cause. Compassion means you ask every day, "What more can I do?" If nothing else, there is always prayer. He said that before he started with the people at the dump he didn't have anything to pray for after 15 minutes or so of devotions. Now he has over 1,000 reasons to pray -- all the people who call the dump their home.
Joeny's project is documented here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fWn4zkND0mc
Friday, January 25, 2008
Help take a bite out of crime
In the last two weeks I have had two run-ins with the Honduran police, a jumpy bunch, if I do say so myself. First, early last week after dropping off a group from Bluffton, Ohio, at their hotel, I was pulled over less than half a block from our apartment after apparently stopping at an intersection where there was no stop sign. Guilty as charged, I'll admit, if that is a crime. Actually, it was more of a rolling stop in fear that the car speeding towards me on the cross street was not going to observe his stop sign. Anyway, four young motorcycle cops (one of them 20 -- I asked him, much to Amanda's chagrin) with machine guns stopped me and asked me in quiet, quick Spanish for my license, which I handed over. And my passport, which I did not have on me. Apparently this is a worthy crime in Honduras, and, as one of the cops reminded me, if a Honduran in the states was caught without a passport he would be deported immediately. So we waited in silence. And waited. Stared at the sky. Waited. After fifteen minutes, with a few failed attempts at small talk, they said the were going to forgive me this time. They let me drive the half a block to my house, watched as we pulled in to the gate, and sped off to catch other criminals.
Then two nights ago, after a nice dinner with the same group in the swankier part of town, I was caught heading the wrong way down a dark street that suddenly became one-way. A truckload of policemen was right there, as if waiting for a confused gringo. Another young cop took my license and asked me to exit the car to talk with his supervisor, who explained to me that he was going to write me a ticket, like they do in the states. I accepted my fate and asked to clarify exactly the process. According to the Honduran book of traffic laws, if a driver is caught violating a traffic law, the police officer is to withhold the driver's license, and the lawbreaker must go to the bank to pay the fine to reclaim his license. This police officer, however, told me that it would be easier to just pay the fine on the spot so I don't have to stand in line at the bank. I told him that I would prefer to pay at the bank, as that is the proper way. He used a different tack. "Well maybe you'd like to help us pay for the gas for this truck." Again, I told him I'd prefer the bank option. Somehow I maintained my composure, and actually spoke fairly decent Spanish, while the young cop on my right was carelessly swinging his machine gun back and forth. After looking at my license a little longer he told me he would forgive without a ticket. I thanked them, stepped back into the car, took a few deep breaths, and took off towards the hotel.
Obviously, in each situation the police officers were hoping for a bribe, affectionately called a mordida -- literally a bite. People here live in fear of the police. My luck has been due largely to the fact that I'm a gringo, and the police and I both know that this entails certain leverage. An average Honduran does not have the luxury of reporting abuse to the most powerful embassy in the world. What would it do to your psyche to know that reporting a crime is useless, because many of the police have been paid off by the criminals? Corruption at this level contributes to what I would call anarchy -- lawlessness, caused by the fact that there is no one to turn to. In these instances I have merely tasted the fear immigrants in the states feel towards the police, not to mention the anxiety that Hondurans feel on a daily basis.
Then two nights ago, after a nice dinner with the same group in the swankier part of town, I was caught heading the wrong way down a dark street that suddenly became one-way. A truckload of policemen was right there, as if waiting for a confused gringo. Another young cop took my license and asked me to exit the car to talk with his supervisor, who explained to me that he was going to write me a ticket, like they do in the states. I accepted my fate and asked to clarify exactly the process. According to the Honduran book of traffic laws, if a driver is caught violating a traffic law, the police officer is to withhold the driver's license, and the lawbreaker must go to the bank to pay the fine to reclaim his license. This police officer, however, told me that it would be easier to just pay the fine on the spot so I don't have to stand in line at the bank. I told him that I would prefer to pay at the bank, as that is the proper way. He used a different tack. "Well maybe you'd like to help us pay for the gas for this truck." Again, I told him I'd prefer the bank option. Somehow I maintained my composure, and actually spoke fairly decent Spanish, while the young cop on my right was carelessly swinging his machine gun back and forth. After looking at my license a little longer he told me he would forgive without a ticket. I thanked them, stepped back into the car, took a few deep breaths, and took off towards the hotel.
Obviously, in each situation the police officers were hoping for a bribe, affectionately called a mordida -- literally a bite. People here live in fear of the police. My luck has been due largely to the fact that I'm a gringo, and the police and I both know that this entails certain leverage. An average Honduran does not have the luxury of reporting abuse to the most powerful embassy in the world. What would it do to your psyche to know that reporting a crime is useless, because many of the police have been paid off by the criminals? Corruption at this level contributes to what I would call anarchy -- lawlessness, caused by the fact that there is no one to turn to. In these instances I have merely tasted the fear immigrants in the states feel towards the police, not to mention the anxiety that Hondurans feel on a daily basis.
Friday, January 18, 2008
"Ese no es espaguetis" (This is not spaghetti)
I thought this story would be worth sharing...
The other evening we walked home from the office after a long day of orienting, translating (mostly Andrew), and traveling around the city with a group of folks visiting from a church in Ohio. We were pretty tired, didn't have much food in the fridge and so had decided to just eat out for a change. It wasn't until we'd already reached the large blue wall topped with razor wire surrounding our apartment that we noticed the family sitting inside their truck parked out front, waving and smiling at us. It was our new friends, Román and Delmy and two of their four small kids, Aby and Román (junior - otherwise known as Románcito - possibly the cutest kid ever). They live about 30 minutes away and had been parked out front for over an hour waiting for us to get home. We felt pretty honored - so far friend-making and hanging out with Hondurans has been slow to happen, besides the casual meeting people that happens at church. It's hard to know how to get to know people better when the formal inviting people over for dinner or out to do something doesn't seem to happen as much in this culture. So we'd finally been "dropped-in" on and we were pretty excited.
We rushed to invite them up to our apartment and do all the right things - including running out to the nearest pulperia to buy sodas since all we usually have around is water. I thought it would freak them out if Andrew were to help me cook so I knew it was up to me - what to make? My choices were beans and rice or pasta. I chose pasta, since making beans and rice for Hondurans is just too intimidating - surely they would not be impressed with my gringafying of their native cuisine. So I whipped up the usual veggie marinara sauce that I usually make and some bow-tie pasta, the only kind we had around. In the process I made the dire mistake of telling the kids, who were watching me with great interest, that I was making spaghetti.
Finally I had it all together, served in a bowl, Honduran-style with toast stacked on a little plate. Plastic chairs were pulled in from outside, small children were put on cushions so their chins were at least even with our awkwardly-tall table, when I noticed Románcito was sitting there looking pretty devastated. He whispered to his dad "pero ¿dónde está la comida?" (but where is the food?)
His father kindly tried to explain that the strange looking geometrical blobs covered in red stuff mixed with distateful vegetables was actually made out of the same thing as his beloved noodles. And that the sauce was actually not that different from ketchup. I couldn't help laughing as the poor little guy wrinkled up his face, examined a few bow-ties up close and almost broke out in tears. Actually everyone got a pretty big kick out of it (excluding Románcito - who eventually did eat toast and cheese, but only after his sister assured him that it was, in fact, real cheese), and despite making a small child cry with my cooking I felt really good about the evening. In a small way it felt like we'd finally arrived. And it made a last impression - his parents later told us that the next morning at breakfast little Román said, "Amanda no me dió espaguetis..." (Amanda didn't give me spaghetti)
The other evening we walked home from the office after a long day of orienting, translating (mostly Andrew), and traveling around the city with a group of folks visiting from a church in Ohio. We were pretty tired, didn't have much food in the fridge and so had decided to just eat out for a change. It wasn't until we'd already reached the large blue wall topped with razor wire surrounding our apartment that we noticed the family sitting inside their truck parked out front, waving and smiling at us. It was our new friends, Román and Delmy and two of their four small kids, Aby and Román (junior - otherwise known as Románcito - possibly the cutest kid ever). They live about 30 minutes away and had been parked out front for over an hour waiting for us to get home. We felt pretty honored - so far friend-making and hanging out with Hondurans has been slow to happen, besides the casual meeting people that happens at church. It's hard to know how to get to know people better when the formal inviting people over for dinner or out to do something doesn't seem to happen as much in this culture. So we'd finally been "dropped-in" on and we were pretty excited.
We rushed to invite them up to our apartment and do all the right things - including running out to the nearest pulperia to buy sodas since all we usually have around is water. I thought it would freak them out if Andrew were to help me cook so I knew it was up to me - what to make? My choices were beans and rice or pasta. I chose pasta, since making beans and rice for Hondurans is just too intimidating - surely they would not be impressed with my gringafying of their native cuisine. So I whipped up the usual veggie marinara sauce that I usually make and some bow-tie pasta, the only kind we had around. In the process I made the dire mistake of telling the kids, who were watching me with great interest, that I was making spaghetti.
Finally I had it all together, served in a bowl, Honduran-style with toast stacked on a little plate. Plastic chairs were pulled in from outside, small children were put on cushions so their chins were at least even with our awkwardly-tall table, when I noticed Románcito was sitting there looking pretty devastated. He whispered to his dad "pero ¿dónde está la comida?" (but where is the food?)
His father kindly tried to explain that the strange looking geometrical blobs covered in red stuff mixed with distateful vegetables was actually made out of the same thing as his beloved noodles. And that the sauce was actually not that different from ketchup. I couldn't help laughing as the poor little guy wrinkled up his face, examined a few bow-ties up close and almost broke out in tears. Actually everyone got a pretty big kick out of it (excluding Románcito - who eventually did eat toast and cheese, but only after his sister assured him that it was, in fact, real cheese), and despite making a small child cry with my cooking I felt really good about the evening. In a small way it felt like we'd finally arrived. And it made a last impression - his parents later told us that the next morning at breakfast little Román said, "Amanda no me dió espaguetis..." (Amanda didn't give me spaghetti)
Thursday, January 3, 2008
San Pedro turned cold overnight on Tuesday. I´m sitting here in the MCC office actually wearing a sweater AND socks - it feels a little like Goshen in October.
I´m suffering from some post-friend, post-Christmas, post-beach blues. We had a really great Christmas, made special by an overnight visit from our friends Maria and Josh, and celebrating Christmas eve with Marcos and his family.
The infamous Tasara Redekopp, former roommate and Goshen College amiga, arrived on the 27th for our first official more-than-overnight friend visit. We had a fabulous time giving her a 5-day mini tour of Northern Honduras; spending a little time exploring San Pedro, bussing out to the beautiful beach in Tela for two nights, then heading south near Lago Yojoa to spend New Year´s Eve (and Maria´s birthday) with other MCCers Callie, Caleb, and Josh and Maria at their farm in El Cipres. Click here to see a few more pictures (we hope to add some of Tasara´s soon). We ate a lot of good food, Tasara soaked in some much needed vitamin D and even bought some art.
We decided to take a tour boat out to Punta Sal, a national park outside of Tela. The day-long trip included a big fried fish lunch, complete with tajadas and beans and rice (typical north-coast fare). When Andrew made reservations for us over the phone he thought to mention that Tasara is a vegetarian and wondered if they had vegetarian options. Alex, who we met later and turned out to be our tour-guide, paused over the phone and then said, "what they will do Andres, they will give you the plate, and take off the fish." Another highlight was when Tasara and I were having trouble getting back on to the boat in thigh-high water that was getting choppier by the minute, and Alex tried to heave Tasara log-throwing style onto the boat. Marvin, the boat capitan who was much blessed with impressive muscles, saved the day and literally swept us off our feet, and before we knew it we had both been deposited safely inside. There was much cheering. There was less chearing on the jarring boat ride back when Marvin continued to go top-speed through the choppy waves and I had to hang on for dear life.
I´m suffering from some post-friend, post-Christmas, post-beach blues. We had a really great Christmas, made special by an overnight visit from our friends Maria and Josh, and celebrating Christmas eve with Marcos and his family.
The infamous Tasara Redekopp, former roommate and Goshen College amiga, arrived on the 27th for our first official more-than-overnight friend visit. We had a fabulous time giving her a 5-day mini tour of Northern Honduras; spending a little time exploring San Pedro, bussing out to the beautiful beach in Tela for two nights, then heading south near Lago Yojoa to spend New Year´s Eve (and Maria´s birthday) with other MCCers Callie, Caleb, and Josh and Maria at their farm in El Cipres. Click here to see a few more pictures (we hope to add some of Tasara´s soon). We ate a lot of good food, Tasara soaked in some much needed vitamin D and even bought some art.
We decided to take a tour boat out to Punta Sal, a national park outside of Tela. The day-long trip included a big fried fish lunch, complete with tajadas and beans and rice (typical north-coast fare). When Andrew made reservations for us over the phone he thought to mention that Tasara is a vegetarian and wondered if they had vegetarian options. Alex, who we met later and turned out to be our tour-guide, paused over the phone and then said, "what they will do Andres, they will give you the plate, and take off the fish." Another highlight was when Tasara and I were having trouble getting back on to the boat in thigh-high water that was getting choppier by the minute, and Alex tried to heave Tasara log-throwing style onto the boat. Marvin, the boat capitan who was much blessed with impressive muscles, saved the day and literally swept us off our feet, and before we knew it we had both been deposited safely inside. There was much cheering. There was less chearing on the jarring boat ride back when Marvin continued to go top-speed through the choppy waves and I had to hang on for dear life.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
El Apartamento
We spent all of yesterday making and hanging curtains. It literally took us all day because Andrewhad to drill into the concrete wall to hang them - something that seemed to get harder and harderover time. Either the concrete was getting more and more solid, or, well.... that must be it. Click here to see the promised photos of the apartment which we love dearly. I must say, I think the challengeof getting out, speaking Spanish, meeting new people, and feeling totally acclimated here would be much easier if I didn't like being home so much.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Christmas Greetings!
Andrew and I are gearing up for our first Honduran Christmas in a few days... it's really hard to believe that Christmas is coming when it's so hot and, well, un-Christmasy around here. December was a busy month for us, as we continue to adjust and find more things to do. Our apartment really is feeling like home (I promise to post pictures soon) and we've been able to have people over for dinner a few times which makes it feel even more like home. I was pretty sick yesterday, just a 24-flu thing, but didn't even mind too much because it gave me the chance to just lay around the house and enjoy some hours of quiet by myself.
This past weekend we went with the whole MCC team up to Cerro Azul Meambar National Park which is right by the biggest lake in Honduras, Lago Yajoa. There are ten of us MCC workers in Honduras (along with 2 small kids) and we have team meetings three times a year where we can get together, relax, share some stories, and get a few games in. The park was beautiful and my first experience being up in the cloud forest. It rained the whole first day we were there and was actually pretty cold (we did a lot of sharing of the few meager warm clothes a few of us had brought). The second day cleared up a bit and a bunch of us went on a 4 hour hike up the mountainside... we went up among huge ferns and tropical plants that I'd never seen, and stopped by a big waterfall on the way back. Pretty idyllic - plus it met a serious hiking craving that I've had for a while. We often go on the "coke sign hike" - the paved, urban hike up to the huge coca-cola sign on the hillside facing San Pedro Sula; but there really isn't any substitute for getting away from the city and on a "real" trek. You can check out our pictures here.
We'll be celebrating Christmas with MCC friends Josh and Maria - the other childless, host-familyless couple here in Honduras. Although we're surely going to miss family and friends from home, I'm excited to celebrate Christmas in new ways... for instance: Andrew and I will be performing in the Christmas choir at the local mennonite church on Christmas Eve. Always a real treat. We've had 3 performances so far and we just keep getting worse. I really can't say why. After that, we're heading to Marcos' house for Christmas Eve tamales. Marcos works part-time at the office here and is a favorite of mine - he has daughters my age and feels kind of like a Honduran dad figure. His youngest daughter told us we're going to wait until EXACTLY midnight to eat our tamales - we'll see if I can make it. It feels good to be included in their family Christmas, and I really do feel blessed to be here right now.
Merry Christmas!
This past weekend we went with the whole MCC team up to Cerro Azul Meambar National Park which is right by the biggest lake in Honduras, Lago Yajoa. There are ten of us MCC workers in Honduras (along with 2 small kids) and we have team meetings three times a year where we can get together, relax, share some stories, and get a few games in. The park was beautiful and my first experience being up in the cloud forest. It rained the whole first day we were there and was actually pretty cold (we did a lot of sharing of the few meager warm clothes a few of us had brought). The second day cleared up a bit and a bunch of us went on a 4 hour hike up the mountainside... we went up among huge ferns and tropical plants that I'd never seen, and stopped by a big waterfall on the way back. Pretty idyllic - plus it met a serious hiking craving that I've had for a while. We often go on the "coke sign hike" - the paved, urban hike up to the huge coca-cola sign on the hillside facing San Pedro Sula; but there really isn't any substitute for getting away from the city and on a "real" trek. You can check out our pictures here.
We'll be celebrating Christmas with MCC friends Josh and Maria - the other childless, host-familyless couple here in Honduras. Although we're surely going to miss family and friends from home, I'm excited to celebrate Christmas in new ways... for instance: Andrew and I will be performing in the Christmas choir at the local mennonite church on Christmas Eve. Always a real treat. We've had 3 performances so far and we just keep getting worse. I really can't say why. After that, we're heading to Marcos' house for Christmas Eve tamales. Marcos works part-time at the office here and is a favorite of mine - he has daughters my age and feels kind of like a Honduran dad figure. His youngest daughter told us we're going to wait until EXACTLY midnight to eat our tamales - we'll see if I can make it. It feels good to be included in their family Christmas, and I really do feel blessed to be here right now.
Merry Christmas!
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