Everyone has their reasons for joining Peace Corps. I, of course, had mine too, mainly which involved furthering my Spanish skills. This week though, I have found another reason. A reason to be here, a reason to stay, and that is the Peace Corps Family. I never really imagined all the wonderful people that I would meet and grow to love during my time here in Honduras. These people are keeping me going right now and have lifted my spirits and thus my desires to keep sticking out this whole experience, despite the crappy days along the way.
After almost two months of captivation, we were finally allowed to travel this week for Thanksgiving. I decided to venture out East to the true Wild West of Honduras, Olancho. I would venture to say it was one of the best Thanksgivings I have ever had and the 3 buses, 9+ hours of travel (each way), and hot, humid weather was well worth the trip.
I went to visit my first family I lived with during FBT in Talanga, and it was amazing. They spoiled me rotten: cooking my favorite foods and taking me to Teguz to see a movie! It was nice to be in their company and feel loved. I really miss and love them all.
You don’t really realize how much you have changed and adapted to the slow life until you leave it for the first time. Even in two short months, I have become more a part of my little pueblo than I imagined. Leaving my little site in the mountains for the first time was closely accompanied by a dose of culture shock. I got off the bus in the capital and immediately freaked out. There were people and cars everywhere and I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t talk to people the same way I do in my site. I stumbled around and I finally decided to make my way to the mall (mistake). I was completely overwhelmed at the cost of things and the amount of them. It’s almost like where I live time stands still, there’s no technology, and the real world is a figment of my imagination. Not in the capital. Technology changes in the blink of an eye and life has kept on going for the rest of the world while I have been stuck in a time warp. What will coming home be like? I went to eat sushi though, and it was incredible, even though I ate it alone.
I met up with some other H15 friends and we headed out to the Wild West (East) on Wednesday. We got the tour of Catacamas, ate baleadas (basically an awesome quesadilla on a flour tortilla with beans and not the same kind of cheese) in the park (my fav!), and drank a bottle of wine together. Just when you think you’re going to go crazy living in your little pueblo, you get this group of awesome friends to be normal with for a few days and you are renewed because they know and understand your struggles because it’s their life too. It feels good for someone to understand your crazy Honduran life. We sat around playing guitar and singing songs and it was wonderful. I’ve missed music in my life. The best thing about these Peace Corps get-togethers is bed-time. Where do 15 people sleep in one house? Well, on colchones (mattresses) and sleeping bags on the floor of course. It feels just like a middle school church lock-in and we get to stay up late talking and laughing.
Turkey day was spent just like we were at home, complete with the Thanksgiving Day Parade and a whole turkey. We held hands and some prayed before eating and it was really cool to be in this circle of people from all different religious backgrounds being thankful. It’s such an amazing thing to be apart of such an eclectic, beautiful, interesting, and talented group of people. I can’t even describe it to you. Just something you have to experience. There were also some Germans that came to eat with us, which added an even different dynamic to the group. After dinner, we sang Christmas carols and for an evening, I felt like I wasn’t in Honduras.
I made the long trek back “home” yesterday; 3 long bus rides for a total of 11 hours. I live in another country really. The last hour and a half is uphill and the weather was terrible. The dirt roads were mud and we spent the last 20 miles sliding around in the bus. At one point it was so bad, the bus driver made us all go to the back of the bus to give the back tires more traction. I prayed a lot on this viaje home. It was a good 25 degrees cooler here with rain and wind from Hades. I don’t love the weather in my site, but my spirits are lifted and I know I can keep hanging in there because I have these awesome friends all over the country and it’s worth it to me to share experiences like this Thanksgiving with them.
I am thankful.
Oh! and today is election day! Be thinking and praying for Honduras as this crucial day has finally arrived and hopefully things will finally begin to look up.
Enjoy some pictures from Thanksgiving!
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Two weddings and a funeral, or just a funeral.
I went to a funeral today.
After only 6 weeks of being here, I have already attended my first funeral. I wonder how many of these I will see in my two years here. The 64-year-old woman who died yesterday was a grandmother to two girls that I play soccer with. That was the only reason I decided to go, that, and community integration.
We got to the funeral kinda late (story of my life), so we stood at the door just listening. The whole little Catholic church was packed full. She had 6 children and no telling how many grandchildren. I counted about 11 at first glance, but I’m sure there were more. Small families don’t exist here on my little mountain. They sang a little and said some prayers, but they didn’t really say much about her life. I don’t know if this is normal or not, but it felt pretty impersonal. After that, a group of about 8 men carried out the atud (coffin) on their shoulders. It was merely a grey box. The family followed, wrapped in each other’s arms, sobbing, and holding candles and flowers. We followed the coffin down the hill to the cemetery, through the mud left behind from the previous 4 days of rain from hurricane Ida. (Today was the first time we’ve seen the sun since last Wednesday.)
Areli, my friend from the soccer team, turned and saw me with tears running down her face. I immediately teared up too and had to hold back a sudden flood of emotions and I’m not really sure why. I forced a smile and continued in file with the rest of the community. The woman’s name was Maria. She was an active member of the community, the church, a midwife--delivering lots of the children of S.A.--and also a member of the women’s group with whom I bake bread, which I didn’t know about until today. She also was Lenca (the indigenous group here).
As I have mentioned before, Lenca are a very tiny people. So with Maria’s whole Lenca family and then the mostly Lenca community, I felt pretty out of place. Picture about 200+ tiny, dark-skinned, black hair to their butts people following a coffin down the hill with a seemingly tall, fair-skinned, redhead, blue-eyed girl walking right in the middle of them. Sometimes I just feel so out of my own skin here, and today was no exception. I’m sure I looked ridiculous, but probably not as ridiculous as I felt as I tried hopelessly to blend in--a lost cause.
When we got to where she was to be buried, the men tried to lower the coffin by hand into the shallow hole that had been dug this morning without much avail. The had to find some rope and awkwardly lowered the box into the grave between two mango trees. There was a small band with a guitar and a violin that sang our way there and many hail Mary’s were said as the men struggled with the atud. They finally got it in place and then all the sudden, they started mixing cement, threw in some rebar, and began putting the cement over the grave right then and there. It was awkward and strange, but someone told me as we were leaving that’s how it’s done when the family doesn’t have very much money. The cement is even a step up in a cemetery where most graves are dirt and a wooden cross. To have a service do all that stuff for your family, complete with grave-side chairs costs and is rare.
I guess that’s what community integration is all about. I think I’d rather go to a wedding next time though.
Sorry for the gloomy post, but I just wanted to share with you what I experienced today.
After only 6 weeks of being here, I have already attended my first funeral. I wonder how many of these I will see in my two years here. The 64-year-old woman who died yesterday was a grandmother to two girls that I play soccer with. That was the only reason I decided to go, that, and community integration.
We got to the funeral kinda late (story of my life), so we stood at the door just listening. The whole little Catholic church was packed full. She had 6 children and no telling how many grandchildren. I counted about 11 at first glance, but I’m sure there were more. Small families don’t exist here on my little mountain. They sang a little and said some prayers, but they didn’t really say much about her life. I don’t know if this is normal or not, but it felt pretty impersonal. After that, a group of about 8 men carried out the atud (coffin) on their shoulders. It was merely a grey box. The family followed, wrapped in each other’s arms, sobbing, and holding candles and flowers. We followed the coffin down the hill to the cemetery, through the mud left behind from the previous 4 days of rain from hurricane Ida. (Today was the first time we’ve seen the sun since last Wednesday.)
Areli, my friend from the soccer team, turned and saw me with tears running down her face. I immediately teared up too and had to hold back a sudden flood of emotions and I’m not really sure why. I forced a smile and continued in file with the rest of the community. The woman’s name was Maria. She was an active member of the community, the church, a midwife--delivering lots of the children of S.A.--and also a member of the women’s group with whom I bake bread, which I didn’t know about until today. She also was Lenca (the indigenous group here).
As I have mentioned before, Lenca are a very tiny people. So with Maria’s whole Lenca family and then the mostly Lenca community, I felt pretty out of place. Picture about 200+ tiny, dark-skinned, black hair to their butts people following a coffin down the hill with a seemingly tall, fair-skinned, redhead, blue-eyed girl walking right in the middle of them. Sometimes I just feel so out of my own skin here, and today was no exception. I’m sure I looked ridiculous, but probably not as ridiculous as I felt as I tried hopelessly to blend in--a lost cause.
When we got to where she was to be buried, the men tried to lower the coffin by hand into the shallow hole that had been dug this morning without much avail. The had to find some rope and awkwardly lowered the box into the grave between two mango trees. There was a small band with a guitar and a violin that sang our way there and many hail Mary’s were said as the men struggled with the atud. They finally got it in place and then all the sudden, they started mixing cement, threw in some rebar, and began putting the cement over the grave right then and there. It was awkward and strange, but someone told me as we were leaving that’s how it’s done when the family doesn’t have very much money. The cement is even a step up in a cemetery where most graves are dirt and a wooden cross. To have a service do all that stuff for your family, complete with grave-side chairs costs and is rare.
I guess that’s what community integration is all about. I think I’d rather go to a wedding next time though.
Sorry for the gloomy post, but I just wanted to share with you what I experienced today.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
