Mud, Guatusas, and Socialism

For the four or five people who actually read this blog (two of them being my parents), you’ve probably already heard most of this. I tend to forget just about everything, and can only remember a handful of stories at a time, repeating them over and over to whoever will listen. So if this all sounds familiar, just give it a quick scan and go back to facebook.

Back in December, another one of the missionaries, Kevin, and I, went home on vacation with one of the Honduran staff here at the Farm, Dynia. She lives in Patuca, a town on the southern side of the country, not far from the border with Nicaragua. We hopped on a bus from Trujillo at 5am, and for the next seventeen hours fought  dirt roads in the heart of the rainy season. About three or four in the afternoon, the bus finally fell victim to the forces of nature, and all fifty or so of us had to get off while they called a front end loader to pull it out of the mud. For the next hour or so, this strong piece of Caterpillar engineering, with tires balder than Samuel L. Jackson’s head, attempted to pull us out. Meanwhile we’re standing in the rain, wondering whether or not we’ll make it there before midnight. At one point, another car came up, got stuck in the mud as well, and being the gentleman I am, decided I would help push it out. God, having the sense of humor that He does, repaid my good deed with mud being slung all over my jeans and nice shirt from the spinning tires. But then again, maybe I should’ve seen that one coming… By the time the Cat is able to pull the bus out and we made it to town, the moon was starting to rise. We finished the adventure with a half a mile trek through mud up to our calves and suitcases over our heads, and Kevin falling over every five minutes, before eventually reaching Dynia’s house. The town had no electricity and the house had a dirt floor, but I have never felt so welcomed in someone’s home. I think they killed half the chickens they owned in order to serve us meat at every meal. Some might say, however, that Dynia’s uncle, Mando, was the most hospitable of all. Mando is a farmer, and our time in Patuca coincided with the beginning of the corn harvest. Kevin and I woke up one morning, had a breakfast of chicken, beans, and five or so corn tortillas, then walked over to Mando’s house to see what his family was up to. His wife was grilling some corn, and we eagerly accepted the invitation to eat an ear. It was delicious, and so they offered us another. Now it’s a little rude in latino culture to turn down a gift when offered, so we obviously said, “Yeah, we’d love some more!” Then they offered us a third. “Great!” we said through slightly gritted teeth. By now my stomach is starting to rebel. Then a fourth. “Uhm… eh… well… okay,” remembering that other than a priest back in the 90s, we’re the first white people to ever come to this village, so we better make America proud. Then a fifth! At this point I’m not sure if this is called hospitality or a sick joke, but finally we said we’d take it with us so we could eat it back at Dynia’s house, secretly planning to ditch them somewhere in one of the patches of knee high mud. I, personally, didn’t want to see corn of any sort for the next year, and Kevin literally became sick. I think he was still puking up corn a few days later…

       Their humble abode.                         Dynia cookin up some good chow.               Backdrop of their house.

 Another exciting thing that happened around the same time was that I became the proud owner of a baby guatusa. A what? A guatusa! In English they’re called agoutis, but since you’ve probably never heard of that name either, we’ll just stick to the Honduran term. It’s a rodent, kind of like a mix between a guinea pig and a rabbit, and weights around ten or twelve pounds as an adult. The story is that one day, I was talking to my friend Marcos, one of the Honduran maintenance workers, and we were discussing how people down there often have wild animals for pets. So I told him that if he ever found a baby animal while he was out hunting in the mountains, to bring it down for me. And a few weeks later, I’m the proud owner of a baby guatusa. She was definitely very latina and very sexy, so we named her Shakira, and made a cage for her. She eats just about any fruit you can find, a few vegetables, and loves nuts. She’s actually the only known animal that can open a Brazil nut! (yeah I don’t know what that is either) But since I’ve been on vacation back in the states,

Shakira with her game face on.

the other volunteers have found out she loves Cornflakes more than anything. I bought a cat leash here in the states, so soon I’ll be able to take her around the Farm, to class, and to morning prayer. I’m pretty sure St. Francis would’ve loved to have a guatusa with him in the chapel during prayer, so I don’t wanna hear any complaints from the nuns. No doubt Shakira will be a faithful friend to the volunteers for many years to come. In fact, they say guatusas can live for twenty years in captivity. But then again, I just might smuggle her back to the states with me.

The last part of this blog has a different tone. At the risk of sounding like a self-righteous young American who’s spent time abroad, I’d like to throw out some thoughts I’ve had lately about material poverty. I’m giving fair warning through, my dad’s been calling me a socialist for a few weeks now, so if you don’t wanna hear my idealistic rants, you should go now. Spending time in rural Central America has made material poverty a very real concept for me. Instead of the poor being starving Africans on tv or people I heard about at mass, the poor are the kids I have in my English class, or the friends I’ve made in the surrounding communities. I know that there are kids in my classes who go without meals, or that eat meat once every blue moon. One of my good friend’s family members recently got very sick, and the family had to sell two motorcycles and a property they owned to pay for the treatment. Another friend is planting as much as he can on a little bit of land beside his house, and fishing when possible to try to put food on the table for his large family, now that he doesn’t have a steady job. I met a lady in one of the mountain villages who walks five hours roundtrip to town a couple times a week to wash clothes for a woman there. I asked her why she doesn’t take the bus and she replied, “I only get paid 100 lempiras (5 dollars) each time, and the bus tickets would cost 40 (2 dollars).” Sick people often come in our clinic without the money to pay for the treatment they need in a hospital. And here I am with money in my bank account, wondering if helping these people out would be “sustainable,” or if I might need that money for retirement some day. I don’t give because one day I just might need that money, and I’ll be glad I saved it. But the thing is, they need it today. All my life I’ve heard the stories about Jesus telling the man who had fulfilled all of the commandments to give everything to the poor, or the woman in the temple who gave the only two cents she had, and I’ve thought to myself, sure I’ll give, but first let me get a house, a car, good health insurance, a healthy 401k, some investments, and enough money to go out with my friends on the weekend. Then I’ll give a few bucks to feed the hungry. But since I’ve had sustainability on the mind anyways, one thing is for sure: my type of lifestyle is certainly not sustainable. The whole world cannot live like middle class America, the earth simply does not have enough resources. Therefore, because I am financially and materially secure, someone else will live in poverty. Not everyone can be rich, one has to be a result of the other. I did a quiz online, and based on my salary when I worked on cargo ships, I was of the richest 0.5% of the world. Sure I call myself middle class America, but I’m certainly not the middle class of the world. The stereotypical “good Christian” avoids the big three: alcohol, drugs, and sex. But when I look at the gospels, Jesus seems to do a lot more talking about the rich and the poor than he does about these. Maybe for the past twenty years I’ve just conveniently skipped over the parts that threaten my comfortable lifestyle.

So what is the answer to global poverty? I’m not sure. Should I forget the retirement fund and give all my money to others? I dunno. But I do think it is a question that we ponder far too little. And if I had happened to be born in rural Uganda, Bangladesh, or Honduras, it would definitely be something I’d think about far more often.

Ok, dad, that’s the end of my socialist rant for today.