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.

It's Not November Anymore, But Maybe Still Interesting...

Tied in a hammock strung from the ceiling. This is normal.

The month of November has a notorious reputation here at the Finca del Niño. Whenever I came in the front door of the volunteer house this past month, complaining about something, the replies normally sounded something like, “Well, it is November after all...” For one reason or another, that month seems have a corner on the market of exciting events here. Not all of them necessarily bad (although some definitely are), just things that get your heart pumping and your blood flowing. So for this blog entry, we’re gonna do a quick rundown of some of the more notable events that got the adrenaline flowing in November.

Number one. Honduran presidential elections. Back in 2009, Honduras decided to make its most recent big break into the world spotlight by staging a coup d’ etat, ousting then current president Mel Zelaya, letting the military control for a while, having an interim president, and eventually choosing the conservative Porfirio Lobo Sosa, or Pepe Lobo for short. Lobo, by the way, means “wolf,” in Spanish, so electing him was for sure a good choice. It would be like if our president was named Obama Sabertooth-Tiger. Legit. Finally, we might get some respect from North Korea... Anyways, in the past few years, most people would probably say Honduras has steadily gone downhill. Not to say that life was rosy before, or that it’s the president’s fault that Honduras is struggling, but I haven’t heard anyone lavishing praise on the current government. Unemployment is raging, petty crime is high, and it can now claim to have the highest murder rate in the world. Beautiful. So everyone’s been pretty invested in these elections. The problem is that this “everyone“ includes the gangs, the drug traffickers, and every sort of low life looking for money and power. There were eight political parties with a presidential candidate this year, and five of them newly formed this year. One of these candidates also happened to be the wife of the president who was ousted in the coup a few years ago. Surely she just happened to have her own political ambitions, right? Every week in the newspapers there was some new ridiculous story. One drug trafficking gang says they will kill one of the candidates if they don’t pull out of the race. The daughter of the ex-interim president (that took power after the coup) had her car shot multiple times as she’s driving down the street. A candidate vowing to make a huge military police and claiming, “I will do whatever needs to be done to return the peace to the people of Honduras.” That doesn’t sound like Hitler or Mussolini at all. One candidate claiming the supporters of another are going to vote early on election day, then take to the streets and harass and threaten the people so that they won’t go to the polls. One candidate claiming  that if they don’t win, they won’t accept the results, and take to the streets rioting. Candidates for mayor or department representative have gone into hiding or have fled the country after threats on their lives.  You know, just normal, everyday stuff. So on November 24^th, the day of the elections, we were all listening to the radio to see what would happen. And by a miracle of God, things went rather smoothly. There were no full out riots, no huge claims of fraud (although there were definitely a few floating around), and at least for now, no murdering of presidential candidates. The conservative candidate received the most votes, and barring something crazy, will be taking office at the beginning of this next year. So with that being said, here’s to change, and to the next four years being better than the last.

Number two. La Gran Inundacion de 2013, or the Great Flood of 2013. Rainy season in coastal Honduras is supposed to be three months of semi constant rain, starting around mid October and lasting through the winter. But this year it didn’t start off so strong. A few clouds, a little bit of rain, but nothing worth writing home about. And by the end of November, we were starting to wonder if this “rainy season” would ever come. Well it did, and it came with a vengeance. The Tuesday night before Thanksgiving, around 9:00, it started raining. And it rained pretty good. It then continued to rain Wednesday, accompanied by heavy, heavy winds. It also rained Wednesday night. And Thursday. Thursday night. Friday. Friday night… Catch my drift? For more than 72 straight hours it never stopped raining. Rivers that normally only have a few inches of water going over them at the crossings, rose up to three feet or more. The ocean was muy enojado or “very angry,” as they say down here, and rose up to where the waves were lapping up into the walls of our chain link fence. Three of the older children that work in town got stuck there because they couldn’t cross the rivers, and ended up staying at the house of one of the Finca school teachers until the rivers went down. A Mitsubishi truck tried to be brave and cross one of the rivers, but underestimated it’s power, and got swept several hundred yards downstream before running up on the shore, giving the people inside a chance to escape out the back window mostly unharmed. Full grown, gigantic trees got blown over. The first of which just happened to come down as I and another volunteer were directly under it… Wednesday morning we were walking back from the beach back to our house when suddenly we hear the cracking of limbs behind us. We look up to see a huge Nansi tree slowly coming down right on top of us. We take off running for our lives and jump on the front porch of our house as the tree crashed to the ground, not fifteen feet behind us. I think I might have accidently taught the kids some new words that day, as I was screaming expletives at the top of my lungs. Trees weren’t the only things falling either, as many of ours and the neighbors crops got blown to the ground and ruined. I planted a few plantain trees next to our house about a year ago, and I have religiously water and fertilized them as if they were my own children since that time. In the matter of a few hours of wind, the tallest, most beautiful one, which was just starting to put off a great cluster of plantains, was broken in half like a matchstick. Honestly though, I have little to complain about, as some of our neighbors had entire fields of crops destroyed. By the end of Friday, large portions of the Farm were underwater, and we even had to put sandbags around the door of the food storage room. The school, the front gate, the storage building, one of the houses, and the yucca crop all had several inches (in some places six or eight) of standing water. Tree limbs everywhere. All kinds of trash washed up on the shore. I believe the Farm has never been dirtier in my time here. But I must say, it was a really impressive storm. Driving rain, howing winds, crashing trees, threats of flooding, swept away cars, and running for your life. I must say, I’ve been waiting a year and a half for one like that. 

Lots and lots of water...

Number three. La despedida, or the leaving of the old class of volunteers. Every year around this time the oldest class of volunteers returns to their respective homelands. As I decided to extend and do a third year, the class that left was the class that I came into the Finca with. Some will be looking for work, some heading to graduate school, and Kevin just plans to sit on his couch and watch TV for a couple months. But when they left a couple weeks ago, it definitely left an empty feeling around the house and around the Farm. We’ve had 19 volunteers in total for the last couple months, and now we have 11. It’s a big change. For me personally, my best friends and closest confidants here at the Farm were in that class. One story I’d like to share, that I will always remember from my time with them, was one night about a month back. It was a Monday night, and we had just recently done our annual volunteer house talent show, which normally includes, singing, disco, interpretive dance, and bilingual rapping. Most of us were sitting around in the living room afterwards, still playing a few songs on the guitar. Throughout the past year, another volunteer, Erin Lucia, and I would often play together. Since I can play guitar but sing like a frog, and she can sing like an angel but not play guitar, we made a good combo. With Erin leading the vocals, me on guitar, and the rest of the community forming the chorus, we laid down some great renditions of Hootie and the Blowfish and Jack Johnson. Then, as we were doing a real inspiring version of American Pie, the electricity goes out. Pretty normal down here, so all that really meant was that the night just got more romantic as we lit up some candles and kept singing. Eventually we moved on to some praise and worship songs. As we played How He Loves by David Crowder, something special could be felt in the air. I closed my eyes and listened as the voices flowed together with the guitar, just like old dance partners, each one knowing exactly the others next step. I felt surrounded by the music. Enveloped by it. It was coming forth from me, joining with the other voices, and wrapping all around me. We were in the presence of intense beauty. In the presence of God. In 6am morning prayer every day or Tuesday night rosary, I often don’t feel the presence of God. But that night, surrounded by some of the finest people I know, being part of some of the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard, I felt closer to God than I have in quite some time. As the song finished, we all sat in silence for a while. The only noise was the sound of the strong ocean waves pounding against the shore. Even nature joined in the chorus. 

David, Haydee, and I watching a parade in the Finca.

So with that though fresh on my mind and heart, I bid adieu to the class of 2013, and wish all of you the best of luck in the future. And if you get the urge to come back to your old stomping grounds this next year, we’ll be here waiting for ya. With a poorly functioning government and life threatening rain storms, but also with a lot of good times to share.

One last note, not related to anything above in any way, but something worth sharing. By the end of 6^th grade English class this year, we were getting a little bored with new vocabulary and practicing the “to be” verbs, so we decided to make a Bob Marley music video. We haven’t signed with any record labels yet, so I’m still free to show the video for free. Click on the link below and check it out.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t3TRf0_vHj0&feature=youtu.be