The Blessing of a Bus Accident

I did not see the bus coming. When crash imploded from the left side of the car, glass came flying across my vision. The shards were moving in slow motion but my mind raced in instinct- cover my face. When the accident was over, I was terrified to look and see what had happened to the other two passengers: two Catholic priests, one from Mexico and the other from Uganda. My vision was sharp- it seemed to outline everything in front of me in harsh black. I saw the hard terror and shock in the eyes of the priests-but they were not injured. Looking over the shoulders of the driver, I stared through the ragged wreckage of broken windows in to the looming face of a sinister charter bus that had just t-boned us. What I saw clearly was everything that should have killed the three of us in seconds, but somehow had not. We had been joking the entire ride about the Mexican priests’ “abuelo (grandfather)” driving style, and how I had not worn a seatbelt in over five months.  

As I opened the truck door, I knew I was stepping out into Honduras. That meant settling the accident would involve blaming, bickering, staring from passers-by. It would not involve the law, insurance or rationality. If we had been injured, we were at least an hour away from a hospital. Passengers from the bus clung to the doorway, peeked out of the windows and eventually poured from the bus to get involved in gossiping and blaming. Honduras never faltering from the machisimo culture, I actually even got hit on within minutes of getting hit by a bus.

Somehow the fighting ended as quickly as it started. I am guessing this is because the bus driver’s anger quickly subsided when he saw that that he had hit two Catholic priests dressed in full on black, white-collar garb. When I got a ride up to the volunteer house and walked in to tell my tale to my friends, I started crying. I couldn’t stop thinking about how we should have been seriously hurt, perhaps even killed. It did not really make sense- I just knew we were SO indescribably lucky.

June was a VERY busy month of visitors: a week- long visit from Fr. Luta, a young Ugandan priest who came to visit from my family’s parish in Spokane; a day-long trip from Sarah, one of my very best friends/high school sister (and her two soccer buddies), and a two-week stay from a lovely parasite. It was SO awesome to have a change of pace..almost every single day.

Honduras was quite the experience for Father Luta and for the kids who jubilantly welcomed this anomaly of a priest: young, African, fun, and an Olympic-like soccer player. For him, “developing world” is not new- dirt roads, stores that subsist only off of selling Coca Cola and phone minutes, inherent poverty, HIV/AIDS. Kids not only flocked to, but truly listened to every single word that he spoke, including the teenage girls that I work with (oh yes, he also is a visitor that speaks fluent Spanish). Father Luta was both shy and a rock star. One night I went to “rescue” him from the home of 12-14 year old boys after an afternoon of playing futbol.  I found him wearing his soccer clothes, laughing so hard with the kids, teaching the boys how to say a prayer in his native Ugandan tongue before dinner, and then captivating the entire home with stories, videos and photos from his homeland.  The next night, I brought him to the lovely home of “Hermanas de Jesus”, where he not only charmed “my” girls with the same cultural exchange, but also truly wowed them with an intimate story about how HIV/AIDS has affected women in his own family. It was the first time I had seen them listen, swallow a story and even change (if at least momentarily) from an adult reminding them of their incredible opportunities as girls in Honduras: education, healthcare, smart personal decisions, etc.

In Padre Luta’s “priest garb”, people reached out to him in an entirely new, hopeful, and trusting way that I had not known before in many Hondurans. A day spent in his presence, was refreshing and inspiring- he did not come to NPH to “preach” or even do “work”. He came to spend time, to reach out, to serve and to share his story-and the people loved him for it. One morning, DeeDee (the community outreach volunteer who helps run the “Comedor Infantil”) brought Father Luta to the impoverished, dangerous part of Talanga that she works in to provide food, medical care and support. We hitched a ride with the Social Work office who was visiting a family in the same neighborhood, one that had reached out for help. Somehow, Father Luta got invited on the Social Work visit and spent the morning with the grandparents who struggled with health, finances, and caring for their mentally challenged daughter’s children: two 3-month old premature, undernourished twins, and their 4 year old sister. Father Luta heard their story, saw how they lived, and then witnessed the often “catch-22” opportunity and difficulty that is bringing a child to NPH: sadness in separating them from their lives and families, overlapped with hope in providing them with health, education and stability. A few hours later, we were bringing the three children back to the Ranch where they have since become a part of the “family”.

When he finally left NPH after an exhausting but awesome week, the community was genuinely sad to say goodbye, as was Father Luta. The kids already can’t wait for him to come back…

Sarah on the swing in our volunteer house

Sarah’s visit was more of whirlwind. One day I got an email and it said-“ I want to come see you TOMORROW”. She had been doing a water filtration brigade in another rural part of Honduras. Most days I look forward to chocolate, running or a nice rum with volunteers.  Oh man- I don’t know if anything is greater than seeing a best friend’s face randomly appear in the back of a hitchhiked truck- especially miss Sarah Dean. In her day on the Ranch, I gave her the typical tour, brought her and her friends to play cards with the girls in my hogar, laughed at their reactions to the teenage girls, ate plantains with them, looked at all their pictures from the water project, and got SUPER jealous of the 2 week backpacking trip they had ahead of them, including beach time. Not to lie, my heart started pumping in fear at the idea of these brave gals traipsing across Honduras with only “hola” in their vocab list: my hyper-active/obscenely morbid imagination played out their deaths at least three times over (thank you Emergency Room mother).  I gave them typical, completely unclear directions from the Ranch and around Tegucigalpa so they could continue on their cross-Honduran voyage: “turn right by the fruit cart”, “when you see men who look like pimps”, “to the left of the row of women selling tortillas”. Within two hours, I had the first phone call I feared: they got lost, they bought the wrong bus tickets, and they needed me to make a hotel reservation. Somehow, Sarah’s luck always comes through-the rest of the trip was quite an adventure..I wish I could have GONE!!!!

JULY..a month of transition/culture shock on my end



Dancing!



My dreams of burgers and beer were finally realized-I got to hug my Nana, tube with my sisters, eat my Dad’s bbq, have huckleberry drinks with my Mom, see Sarah (again), go to Emily’s wedding and even get Bryan to DANCE! Going home felt like I had never been away, or even like I had not even done anything different in the last half year. I showed everyone pictures, but Honduras seemed so far away. I tried not to reflect too deeply while I was home- my goal was to maximize each day with my family. Feeling safe, breathing fresh Priest Lake air, not feeling the pressure of cultural norms (mainly dress), and relishing in the personal freedom: it was like jumping off a cliff in to a lake, watching fireworks, dancing barefoot at a wedding, sleeping in, screaming on a tube with sisters, and the rush of remembering being alive and adventuring-because that’s what I did.  



Nana I miss you EVERY DAY



Congrats EMILY and Chad!!



I dream about huckleberry pie

I love him

Leaving home and then coming back were both individually hard things to do. It was not any easier to leave the second time- I always think about what I am missing out on, who I could be spending time with, what I should be there for- especially when it comes to my younger sisters and my older grandparents. The time-old question: should I really be off working with other people when the people who matter most are the ones I leave behind?

This reflection really made my first days back in Honduras harder to return to “normal life”. But it also made me see how many special relationships I had grown at the Ranch. It made me indescribably happy to throw three boxes of girl-scout cookies on the kitchen table in the volunteer house. I think some may have been harmed in the 2-minute clawing to take down those precious Tagalongs and Samoas-we now more resemble vultures than people. I loved running back in to hogar to the teenage girls I admittedly missed, and having them run to me with hugs and questions about home. I think seeing that I “came back” for them gave me about 100 extra trust points.

Hermanas de Jesus: ooooh how I missed them

There are the moments when all the experiences, the reflections, the goals and the people collide-they make sense. One volunteer who has lived abroad several times, reminded me how it’s a good trait to develop while away-you learn to truly appreciate who you have back home and WHY, and you can bring it to your daily life no matter where you are. My girls were captivated by an hour long slide show of my trip home: they thought my sister Katharine is actually crazy, they love Olivia’s glasses, they can’t believe how beautiful my mom is or how young my Nana is, and they were as excited about Bryan in his suit as they are for magazines with Justin Bieber. I had so many stories of “good ol America” to share with the volunteers, that it made some of them homesick. Also exciting, there were new volunteers to meet (who arrived while I was gone), and old volunteers to say goodbye too (I already miss them).

This switch over is a reminder to not worry about where I am-this year really is transitional, fleeting, and opportunistic. But everyday there are loved ones around me, I see people inspire others, I see new opportunities given to children, I see people seeking adventure, I may even escape harm in a car accident…and every day I can make the most of that.

I apologize for the LONG LONG delay..I hope to post another blog next week. I already have so much to share. As always, I love getting emails, LETTERS, and even visits!

Best wishes, love, and hugs,

Hailey

Kath's ridiculous dog, Lily









Living in Community

 “The most terrible poverty is the feeling of loneliness, and the feeling of being unloved”-Madre Teresa

 Nothing can compare to hearing “I love you”. Its joy easily surpasses eating my fantasy meal of juicy buffalo burgers, fresh berries and cold microbrew beers, which flavor my dreams every night.  It exceeds the rush of buying a plane ticket to come home to visit for my cousin’s wedding (Yes I will be home July 2-10^th!). And the other night, a girl in my hogar gave me a hug and in a glimpse of vulnerability she said it: “I love you Holly”. In a house of teenage girls, where blunt guffaws are ruthless punches of crude Honduran jokes, curses and demands to be left alone, these words are gold. More than “I love you”, underneath her words whispered the truth of what she also meant: “I trust you to care about me”.

And for a moment I could not see anything but happiness- I felt connection, friendship and a part of the community. It was not only the idea that she loved ME, although I certainly was overjoyed to hear it, but it was the idea that she loved at all. Never have I learned more about the complexity, delicacy and fear of love, than in my daily life over the past five months with hundreds of orphans. This lesson is not one necessarily defined by positive encounters-it is more tasting the undertones of frustration and sadness that so many children suffer the burdens of their pasts and reject offers of companionship. In the face of trying to be a “sister” to 24 young teenage girls, I have found struggle, and this struggle has shown me just how selfless love must be.

I see a different side of love by recognizing its challengers, and even traitors: abuse, death, abandonment, loneliness, and its co-pilot effects: anger, grief, aggressiveness, self-isolation, rudeness, etc. For many of the kids, despite being so young, their innocence is marinated in disappointment. They reject the youthful idea of love and instead turn to “self-preservation” mode. And it makes sense- for them love has meant weakness, vulnerability and pain. When a girl in my hogar won’t talk to me, EVER, I know I can’t take it personally. I see right through her snug, calloused shell of anger and fear-she has instinctually separated herself from the threat of even more hurt than she has already experienced. In times like these, I have challenged myself to find peace in the most basic form of love and service: solidarity. The act of being, living..simply accompanying others.

So sometimes all I can do is be here:  I haul my mattress at 3 am to the buses for a spring break camping trip with the girls, I wake up at 3 am for Easter Sunday mass, I smile even when the girls tell me not to talk to them and then the next day when they want help with their homework, I pretend the day before did not even happen. I drink the tap water because that’s what the kids drink, I have learned just how rico beans can be, I listen to the other volunteers when they have hard days, and though these sentences all start with “I”..I am really working to make sure that success is not only defined by what “I” do, because I have increasingly learned that individuals do not do well alone, and shouldn’t be left alone even if they want to be. Though solidarity is a pure form of expressing companionship for others, it is hard to admit to yourself that sometimes you can’t do any more than just be here.

Two weeks ago, a 10 year old girl named Stephany fell and ripped a hole through her face. She was sent to the public hospital “Hospital Escuela” in the city for emergency plastic surgery. Our clinic was understaffed, so I went to spend the entire day with her in her hospital room. Spending a day in a developing country public hospital is its own experience: it is there that the suffering of the poor is as its peak of despair, and the inefficiency of a third world country just keeps feeding on itself. It is sweaty, it is poverty, it is the fear that a person may likely die waiting to be seen by a doctor, it is crowded and smelly and dirty- everything a hospital should not be.

But my day with this girl, who had no family to be there with her, was much more personal. While I tore bread in to small pieces that she could eat through her swollen lips, carried her IV bag so she could use the public bathroom, helped her shower even though she didn’t want to, and hunted down the doctors to force them to change her face bandages and keep us updated, I felt with Stephany just how alone and scared a kid without family could be in this world. She was depending on ME to tell her that it was ok- to feed her even.  But I knew that she was not allowing herself to hope for anything else, she had no expectations of being cared for.  She was silent, afraid and felt completely alone and small.

Of course I thought of my mom- the supreme source of all medical knowledge and foundation for my family during times of crises…and for pretty much everyone else who knows her. If I were in the hospital, my mom would make sure that my care would be immediate and top-notch, she would squeeze my hand when an IV punctured my skin, she would bring me books to read and tell me that I would get better, and I know that she would bring me a drink and a treat- that’s just what my mom does. So that’s what I did- I wanted Stephany to know she DID have family- it was me.

Here the idea of community grows even larger- my mom is part of this community, my entire family is. I give to Stephany what my family shared with me- love. I share because I learned from them first-hand that family is who is there for you. I have a mom, a dad, grandparents, siblings even, who are my family because they are there for me and I am there for them. It has nothing to do with blood relation. Family is who you share with, who you give your love to. Community. . For many of the kids at NPH, the bonds among siblings are sacred. It is incredible to see how much siblings protect and love each other- some of them have even been raised by their siblings before coming here. Photos they have of their siblings are prized possessions, they save any extra food to share with their siblings, and there are unspoken, intangible support networks among the family members. My hope is that when the girls of Hermanas de Jesus are 23, they will know that they were loved too while they are here, even if they do not think of me, because they are.

I had my first official visitor from home! Bryan saw what is hard to explain via blog, phone call, and I know will be just as hard to explain in person. He even managed to make 24 girls fall in love with him in just a few nights just by brutally teasing them and throwing them over his shoulder- they were actually giddy around him. I think the tia was too. They laughed hysterically trying to teach him dirty Spanish words, shared their treasured mangos and smiles with him, and took over 150 pictures of themselves and with him in just 45 minutes. Having a visitor was an awesome reminder to bring energy to everything I do… I think it was an awesome experience for him too. At first, I think it was a shock to be surrounded by so many kids all at once. It was hilarious to watch 6’3 Bryan twirl in circles with 2^nd graders in a Motessori English classroom.  And in seconds of entering the classroom he was a magnet to little kids who all wanted try on his flip-flops that were six times the sizes of their feet.

On our way to the Ranch, we spent time in the dingy cesspool of Tegucigalpa where we got sick eating tons of baleadas, and I was still recovering from eating an entire bag of candy that my family sent with him. He laughed for 20 minutes straight when he saw a typical Honduran construction site: scaffolding made of a huge sagging beam supported by 2 chairs on each end. He found how hard it is to NOT drink pop here. We went to “La Tigra” a national park, and got laughed at by a fat, wrinkly Honduran shopkeeper woman after we bought cokes from her and then provoked her chickens and almost lost our eyeballs. We went to the “Comedor Infantil”, which is like a children’s soup kitchen in a very poor town, and were reminded just how lucky we are to have food and water. I gave Bryan the grand old tour of the Ranch: the farm, the hogares, the huge dam where we go swimming. He even made friends with the kitchen lady-something I do not think I will ever manage to do. We ate chicky’s, we toasted with Nicaraguan rum, we spent evenings with all the volunteers- overall Bryan got a small taste of daily life.

Daily life here is unique for every person. I love living with 16 volunteers from around the world, all with completely different jobs: physical therapists, tutors, teachers, caretakers, nurses. Everyone’s sacrifices, joys, experiences, struggles, and perspectives come out around our kitchen table every night when we come home. And over the past few months, some of the coolest, most opinionated, diverse people I have met have really become awesome friends. And when I see a friend spend a night at the hospital on the floor to be with a kid, I see a friend spend her entire day taking care of a special-needs child who screams and runs away (and then she still wants kid), I see a friend come home glowing because they tutored a kid who passed a test, I am reminded how much people DO care, how hard people can work, how much people can do. As my community grows, I continue to push the boundaries of how I participate in it. Be they language barriers, cultural barriers, social barriers, intellectual barriers.. But I continue to remind myself that often one of the strongest actions I can take in a community is be in solidarity with it, to be open to it.

Hugs to everyone back home. I miss you all so much :D I really promise to be more diligent about writing. Can’t wait to come home in a month!

Pictures




Hand washing

 


Waiting outside the surgery center

 

Moms




Pulse



She didn't like my cooking, but she had a really awesome kitchen



Photo Friendly

Before living in Honduras, I did not know that there is a garbage dump for the washed up, overplayed and often never played music from the United States. It is where the one-hit wonders, the obscure music of musicians trying to make a come-back and the songs we never want to hear again, go to die. It is called the Honduran bus system.  I especially encountered this “musical residue” phenomenon last week, when I was coming back to the ranch from Tegucigalpa late on a Saturday afternoon- a terrible idea. Saturday’s are everyone’s day to venture in to the cesspool that is Tegucigalpa to cash checks, go grocery shopping, buy black market DVDs, overeat baleadas, etc -this is what I go for anyways.

 Catching the bus out of Tegucigalpa back to the local towns and villages is not for the weak. Most buses are standing room only, if they are not already too full to stop at all. I have seen little old bitties sprint with surprising agility, tortilla baskets slung over their gnarled leathered appendages, covered in floral print skirts, to the front of the bus line. Then they calmly take a seat and pretend that they were not just elbowing the other passengers. While I was waiting, two buses had already passed us and I was in full on ninja mode: I would not miss another one without a fight. Yeah, I totally had my Buck knife in my bag- thanks dad- Christmas present will really come in handy taking out old Honduran village ladies on public transportation.

After I completed a 100-meter dash to the front of the bus line (picture crazy flying freckled grinka with backpack and grocery bags rushing through an impatient crowd of Hondurans), I was braided into the bowels of the sweaty, heavy old school bus. Pushing, grunting, squishing, yelling, held up only by the tired destroyed bus seats and the shoulders of my fellow passengers, three butts pressed into me from all sides, knowing that my new loaf of bread was a limp grain patty under the elbow of that angry obese woman next me..and I would not be able to move for an hour. For about half of that ride, I was pushed forward into standing at a forty five degree angle. I am sure that lucky woman who did have a seat didn’t mind that my chest was in her face. Letting a passenger off from the back of the bus was like a communal passing of a human kidney stone.

While travelling on this bus,which is so uncomfortably full that it absolutely could not fit one person more person, I hear this at perfect comical timing and high decibel: “what if God was one of us? Just a slob like one of us?”.  HA- the horrible 90’s song that everyone knows the words to, but no one really likes. I thought we pushed that song to the Delilah radio station when I was in 6^th grade. Apparently we condemned Hondurans to listening to it as well. Next on the bumpin’ playlist: “Video killed the radio star”, “Hey Mickey”, “YMCA” and a random Doobie Brothers song… I can only imagine the insanity that my Nana would feel on this bus ride, while her Honduran grammy counterparts seem perfectly contented with the dance club-level volume.

Almost three months in to my Honduran adventure, this sweaty, chaotic bus ride seems “normal”. So does watching the girls in my hogar capture enormous beetles and shake them like toys to make them croak. So does watching the girls drop all their unwanted food, drink, spit, on the kitchen floor as if they were camping, because they know the stray dogs will come in to feast and one of the chores is to mop the floors every night anyways. So does eating soup with five pieces of potato, rice and two bones. So does the fact that I am well in to my third bag of powerdered milk. “Normal” has become so many things that I never expected. Like not caring when I find a cockroach and its defecation in my coffee pot.

At this point, I finally feel settled in to working at and living on the Ranch. I absolutely love my job! The best part about it is that it’s dynamic: every day I can choose to do something different, and with my camera I can pretty much go anywhere (classrooms, clinics, events, hogares, etc). Two weeks ago during a visiting surgical brigade, I was able to spend half the day at the surgery center, talked to patients, scrubbed in on surgeries and took some awesome orthopedic surgery pictures. Yesterday I travelled to nearby village with our NPH clinic to photograph their medical and dental consultations. Another volunteer and I went to a local woman’s home to make lunch for the group- I have never been so aware of my meager cooking skills. She openly laughed at me for my soft, pale hands- palms of which I burnt red grabbing every single tortilla hot off the fire. Her house was a tribute to the Honduran culture: it is not what you have (or do not have), it is how clean you keep it. A well respected Honduran woman has superb mopping skills (oh yes, there is an art to wringing out a mop). She also always keeps her hair perfectly gelled and combed into place. Obviously I would fail miserably as a Honduran woman.

My most vivid job experience so far: taking a single family photo of a father and his two young daughters, Jayme and Kelin. The very night that I took the photo, the father died of asthma complications. When I heard the news, I flipped my camera on and found the picture I had taken of them that day at the ranch Father’s Day celebration.  I felt sick staring at the faces of the family. During the picture, the dad had been telling me how proud he was of his beautiful girls. The girls, some of my favorites on the Ranch, were so proud of him that they even had me take a picture of their “Bapi” by himself.  I thought back to the night before that, when 8-year old Kelin and I ran for twenty minutes hand in hand, on the girls’ hogares “work out” night. She was blissfully innocent in her purple pajama set, running in the dark and laughing. Two days later, the printed photos were propped up next to his coffin at the funeral. The family clutched them to their chests, as they sobbed next to the grave. When I gave them copies of the pictures, two of his family members gave me a big purple, flowery headband as a thank you.  It was humbling to have taken the only family photo that the girls would ever have with their dad. I know how important family photos are- at funerals of my family members I was blessed to have slideshows of photos of their lives. I can’t imagine having just one photo.

Every day is a reminder of why I love to take photos. Pictures are sacred here.

For anyone interested…here are the links to some of my articles for NPH….

About the surgical brigade:
http://www.nph.org/ws/page.php?path=news/archive/2011/honduras/seventhsurgicalbrigade.php&lang=en

About cooking family dinners:
http://www.nph.org/ws/page.php?path=news/archive/2011/honduras/Proyectofamiliar.php&lang=en

About a community outreach project:
http://www.nph.org/ws/page.php?path=news/archive/2011/honduras/ComedorInfantile.php&lang=en

About a kid on the ranch:
http://www.nph.org/ws/page.php?lang=en&path=homes/honduras/children/rodolfo.php

Making Adjustments

Last night, I finally hung up a bug net. I didn’t do it to prevent mosquito bites (Although I should have been protecting myself from them for the last two months). The cost of my laziness:  I have willingly offered myself up as a midnight snack to blood suckers, literally been EATEN alive. But one Honduran creature is too much to bear. The “ron-ron”, is a small beetle-like organism that relishes in being obnoxious. It will hone in on its target, scream loudly like it’s a Soviet missile, launch itself on its victim and then bounce off. The thing about “ron-rons” is that they are not even scary or gross. They are infuriatingly annoying and stupid.

The night I decided to hang up my frilly lace bug net (a hilarious treasure I found on the “free table”), five “ron-rons” attacked me. The first incident was mildly comical. I was innocently sitting at a bonfire. My predator gave out its warning call, bee-lined for my ponytail and bounced off on to its back, too dumb to turn over. I took great satisfaction watching it squirm on its back, brewing in its lowest level of intelligence. Minutes later, the second one seriously aggravated me. I couldn’t believe how ridiculous these bugs were! Bugs 3, 4 and 5 chose to lay siege on me in my bed while I was in varying stages of sleep. I was absolutely infuriated.

Anyone who knows me can only imagine my series of unintelligible rages that took place towards these bugs, especially the vermin (let’s call him Paul) that chucked itself on my sternum right as I dozed off. Sheets were thrown into the air, limbs launched out of bed, lights slammed on, probably a ferocious retaliation call flew into the air… All I will say is this: the three bugs are mysteriously missing from the “ron-ron” community. There may or may not be traces of their bodies smeared on the back of my Spanish-English dictionary.

Hanging up a bug net feels like the first physical step that I have taken to call NPH “home”. It has been difficult to feel completely settled when I am still living out of my suitcase. Due to construction in the volunteer house, it has been two months and counting in the visitor dorms with six other girls. Over the last week, I have been increasingly aware that “I am here”. This is not a vacation; this is my life and community. It is difficult to find a natural transition from being an outsider, visitor, and grinka, to participating as a defined and respected member of the NPH family. Being told not to buy street food is easy when you are a tourist, but as a Honduran resident the laws of living are different. This is my current waging battle: not just observing, but creating an identity.

One of the most glaring obstacles, especially in my hogar, is the clash between my lofty goals as a volunteer and the stereotypical expectations of what it means to be white. To girls who have been raised by the generous donations of their far-removed sponsors, a white person can often mean “stuff”. A padrino (sponsor) implies money, luxuries, receiving (However, I am NOT in any way discounting the value of sponsors- many kids consider their sponsors as family). A week-long NPH visitor means coloring books, toys, new clothes, even actual gifts off their backs, wrists and fingers. How is a white person who is not leaving any time soon, who does not give from far away, who admittedly does have a laptop, an ipod, a dishwasher, a FAMILY, supposed to fit in to this stereotype? To a white person, living in community can often mean the giving of things. Things are good, especially when there is so much to give: the kids need clothing, they thrive on music, soccer balls provide hours of entertainment and scented lotion makes them feel special and beautiful. But I have not quite decided where my obligation lies..

But it is tough to go to my hogar every night, excited to make friends with the girls, only to have them ask for my bracelet, to demand my water bottle, to command me to bring my laptop the next night, to not even say “please” when they tell me to give them my chapstick that I had shared with them. There is a blatantly blurred distinction among what it means to share what I have, give what is needed, all the while maintaining a positive presence. Beyond being a presence, I want to be an engaged participant with my hogar without having to resort to giving “stuff”. I was feeling especially discouraged about this issue last night when a girl in my hogar told me I am selfish, egotistical and do not like to share my stuff. Only ten minutes before I had given what I considered a meaningful, thoughtful gift to two girls who had birthdays. I had decided that instead of bringing a cake, which can easily be inhaled within two minutes by 24 girls, I would give the lasting gift of a photo to each girl on her special day- any photo that she wanted. I went to bed confused about my role at NPH Honduras. How am I supposed to give?

Today I found a renewed sense of solace in an external hard drive. In my office, I was going through a file of years worth of old pictures, stored by past Communications Officers. I found a file from 2003 called “Social Work cases”, named for the NPH office that works to find and bring local kids to the ranch from horrendous circumstances. Hidden inside were intimate glimpses, caught on film, into the seemingly secret, hushed pasts of many kids who are on the ranch right now.

One girl was from my hogar. Although I recognized her by the crazy curly hair, she did not have the same lively smile that defines her face today. In the photos, she is filthy and naked except for a pair of dingy underwear.  Her face is covered in bruises and snot. Standing in front of a house made partially of cardboard, she looks terrified. She has a sister in the picture as well.

 I felt sick to my stomach experiencing the living conditions and treatment of a severely physically handicapped boy, via photo. The pictures reveal severe malnourishment and abuse in his home. I remember seeing him in person at Casa Angeles, the NPH special needs home. He is 23 years old like me. His name is Kevin, like my uncle who also had physical disabilities as a result from Marfan’s Syndrome. But his family was ashamed of him- they treated him like a dog. He slept, mangled body curled in on itself, on filthy cardboard.

To see a person’s story is so much more powerful than to just hear it. The photos showed me their pasts and I felt an instant connection to them, I wanted to show them that I could care about them. This was a clear reminder “sharing is caring”.

Around the same time, I also received a very wise e-mail. It reminded me that “they miss their families just like you miss yours, find a way to relate to them”. EXCEPT: I still have a family. Deep down, I know that part of why I am struggling with how to share, is because there is an underlying guilt of having so much to share.  Every day is a reminder that it is just not fair that I have parents, a car, health, an education, intangible and unconditional love.. Simultaneously, I watch the side effects of hundreds of kids who grew up with the exact opposite.

Admittedly, I am here to offer what I can. But as in everything, balance is key.  I want to construct a purposeful sharing: I do not want to give my possessions because kids want something or I feel guilty. I hope to share little things and experiences, like making bracelets or doing yoga classes, and over time build a concept of sharing that demonstrates being cared for, being related to. Looking back on my childhood experiences, I remember how awesome it was when my aunts gave me nail polish, when they got me magazines, or shared special treats with me. But the best part was that their gifts often involved spending time with them, and revealed how much they knew about me.

I can’t completely destroy a stereotype: to many, white people are walking dollar bills to be taken advantage of.  I can work to construct an understanding of what “sharing” means; so that when the girls in my hogar receive gifts, they understand that they are given in love. Hopefully, the more NPH becomes “home”, the easier this will be! On a less heavy note.. I am having a blast! I have even come to the point where I look forward to a nice meal of beans…

I am sorry that it has been a while since I put up a post- I have mostly just been getting settled in my job! More to come soon..Hugs to everyone back home :)

The Cross-Cultural Phenomenon of the Female

*Let me preface this post with a humble apology to my mom for my
difficult teenage years. *

A week and a half ago I received a slip of folded paper from the
Volunteer Coordinator. Scribbled inside was my assignment for "hogar",
the group of kids that I would be spending the next year of my life
with, every night and weekend. To best understand what an "hogar" is,
think of the division of cabins at a summer camp: boys on one side,
girls on the other, and from there each flank is sub-divided by age
and maturity level. Every hogar's name invokes a different religious
reference: San Francisco, Estrellas de Belin, etc. The group of eight
new volunteers had spent the previous two weeks on a "tour de
hogares", sampling a new group of kids each night to see where we fit
best.

One evening I spent an hour giving piggyback rides to 4 and 5-year old
girls in the baby house, Casa Suyapa. It was a simple form of pure
entertainment: load one squirming hobbit on my back, sprint across the
sport court as fast as I could with a trail of screaming girls behind
me, switch passengers at the other side, and repeat. I spent an entire
Saturday with 7 and 8-year old boys, doing chores with them, showing
them the Michael Jackson moon walk, watching them learn how to goop
their heads up with tubs of green hair gel, and playing with toy
trucks. Throughout the various hogares I have played soccer in the
hallways, shoveled manure, loaded up toothbrushes with toothpaste,
gone to mass, received about 1,000 hugs, constantly tested my Spanish
comprehension and have near defeated my fear of acquiring lice.

During my past few weeks in hogares, this much is obvious: there is a
distinct linear equation that relates a kids maturity level with how
hard you have to work to make them like you. The older the kid, the
harder they are to please. Twirling a 16-year old girl around by her
arms would just not incite the same ecstasy that it does for a 3-year
old girl, one that LOVES you just for hugging her. I kept this in mind
when I opened my paper that read: "Hermanas de Jesus", or "Sisters of
Jesus". The title of the hogar for 13-14 year old girls! My first
thought was to hope that the name of the hogar was not assigned in
irony.

Flash forward a few hours later. I am a nervous wreck with thoughts
like "I really hope they like me", "I don't know if I should wear this
shirt", and "what should I say?" making me feel like I am also a
teenage girl, about to go on a first date. In Honduras, appearance is
everything, and I was certain that this norm would only be amplified
in a house of teenage girls. Even worse, the new volunteers are still
grasping to understand what "looking good" means to Hondurans, are
still living out of our suitcases (read: wrinkly clothing) and most of
us did not bring our skinny jeans (THE "it" clothing staple to have on
the ranch). My family members remind me that the kids "will be so
excited to have me as a volunteer". I am definitely eager to finally
get my own group of girls, especially one so close in age to two of my
sisters. But my teenage years are not so far behind me: I do not have
golden anticipations of the girls jumping up and down upon finding out
that I am assigned to their hogar.

Here is my entrance: I muster up a faux aura of confidence and walk
into the girls' house to find them watching a Jackie Chan and Owen
Wilson movie. Half of them don't turn around. The other half dart
their heads back, look me up, down and back up again, ask if I am the
new volunteer and then return to the movie. Not so bad! Throughout
dinner and the next two hours in their home, I quickly learn that
initiative and persistence will get me far. Most girls grab their
dinners and go off to eat on their own. If I want to get to know them,
I have to follow and sit with them, like the awkward new kid at school
who wants to make friends (except add a language barrier). How do you
get them to understand that you want to be friends but still maintain
dignity? I suddenly miss the little babies in Casa Suyapa who clamored
to eat their pancakes next to me in a circle.

Constant reminders of "what it was like when I was in their shoes" pop
up in my head and I hope that I am playing it cool. I am pretty sure
that even though they did not actually invite me to sit with them to
eat beans, they secretly want me to hang out with them and are just
too "cool" and insecure to ask. This is at least what I am hoping for!
I am eternally grateful for the girls who did greet me with hugs. Some
even asked my name: I never would have thought that this question
could be so welcoming- they want to know who I am! A few who talked to
me told me that my earrings were "bonita". Most were referring to me
in conversation as "gringa" or "voluntaria". At least I was on their
radar. By the end of the first night, I accept that making my place in
the hogar would clearly be difficult at first. I tell myself that
although the older girls require more effort to establish
relationships with, that in the long run those connections may be more
meaningful. Fortunately I always love a good challenge.

Over the last two weeks, I have made noticeable progress with
"Hermanas de Jesus". At least that is what I think it is called when
several girls name a white kitten, with no eyes and an umbilical cord
still attached, "Holly", which has become my Honduran stage name. I
will never forget that first night when a group of girls told me to
come sit with them in their room: it was like the nerdy kid in the
"Sandlot" with no baseball glove getting invited to play with the
team. I finally saw their crazy, loving sides: two girls put their
heads on my legs, one girl braided my hair, and they all were dying to
know if I knew Justin Bieber, Taylor Swift, Rihanna, Avril Lavigne,
Miley Cyrus or the Black Eyed Peas. I felt an enormous rush of
happiness as they shouted "Holly!" and bombarded me with questions
about how many siblings I have (they can't BELIEVE I have nine
"hermanos", almost ten), if I liked Honduras, why I came to NPH, if I
have a boyfriend and if he is "guapo" or handsome (you are lucky I
said "si", Bryan, or you would get eaten alive when you visit).

Initiative and humility are my weapons of choice to making myself a
part of the Hermanas family. If I start an impromptu karate match,
join a soccer game, bring paper and crayons to hogar to make
valentines or tote my camera around, I get the best reactions from the
girls. Nothing is more thrilling for them than seeing a picture of
themselves flash across the screen of my camera. It is near suicidal
to carry it with me: pulling my camera out guarantees physical assault
and cries of, "HOLLY! FOTO! FOTO!".

There have been moments, and will be many more, when I feel like a
stranger in the hogar, when the girls are grumpy or frustrated, or a
girl who I was good friends with the previous day does not even want
to talk to me the next night. It is during these times that I draw on
the example of my mom, who takes parenting with stride, strength and
humility. Although I do want to be well liked, I am not here to be
popular. For teenage girls, whose lives have witnessed such hardship,
loss and abandonment, the best that I can do for them is to offer my
unfaltering and unconditional presence and support. I know this will
mean that I have to choose to let things roll off my shoulders, to be
patient, and to continue to reach out to girls even when they don't
reach out to me. Oh karma!

Fortunately, I come well equipped with an endless stash of fun and
random activities in my back pocket from girl scouts, being in a
sorority, and years of being a big sister. Sometimes, it is comical to
see uncanny similarities between these girls and American teenagers.
It seems that chicks everywhere are crazy, uncertain, loving,
difficult and a fluid roll-coaster of emotions and fun. These girls
are not so different from the friends I had at their age, my sisters
back home, and who I was only a few years ago. As almost all girls do,
they love to laugh, to have fun, to make jokes, share, and especially
to feel important and loved. I look forward to many nail painting
sessions, handstands, American celebrity gossip sessions and
choreographed dances. If only I had my plastic blow up chair,
Backstreet Boys CD, and karaoke machine from 8th grade.

n.b. I am always open to suggestions for fun activities!!

An Ode to Sugar

I should have moved to Honduras when I was 6 years old: a land where adults more commonly force-feed sugar to children than vegetables.  Imagine a 10-gallon pot of fresh hot coffee, brewed over an open fire, saturated with so much sugar that some cannot even dissolve into the liquid. Then, picture caretakers ladling steaming servings of caffeine and concentrated sugar into individual cups for over fifty 4-10 year olds… to imbibe before bedtime! The kids LOVE getting coffee, a special and rare dessert that I would have surely clamored for myself (and still do- every single day).

But sugar is not so much of a treat as it is a cultural staple. How easy it would have been for me as a youngster here: instead of having to bike ride to the store to buy candy and sneakily eat my 2 bars (because that’s what a dollar USED to get you) at the neighborhood park, I could just drink a glass of milk. Oh yes, our fresh milk (which goes amazingly with oatmeal by the way), it is delectably sweetened with sugar. I do not think I have once seen a Honduran drinking water- usually just a type of liquid sugar. Pepsi, easily more popular than its Coca-Cola counterpart, is the clear beverage of choice. I would imagine a Honduran “Department of Health” notice to read: Make sure to get your recommended 8 glasses of Pepsi per day.

Sugar has infiltrated my intake as well. With my bean, rice and tortilla diet, I have started to crave food like never before: I dream of burgers, love discussing in detail the ultimate meal (usually involving steak), and relish every scoop of peanut butter from my 5 dollar jar (an import: JIF)! Since the gastronomical differences keep me from satisfying my cravings for variety, for Doritos, for burgers, for iced coffee, I have resorted to sugar: Pepsi, little cookies called “Chicky’s” (shortbread half-covered in chocolate), and also the rare American food finds like Snack Packs of chocolate pudding, or melted Snickers bars! A meal for me goes like this: I sprint to the kitchen with my food gear hoping for something new. I eat a plate of beans with a side of montequilla (a typical cheese product that’s a combination of cheez-whiz, cream cheese and sour cream). My stomach growls for mashed potatoes, chicken nuggets, and chocolate ice cream. I feed it Pepsi, Chicky’s and more beans. Sugar is my catch-all solution to such frequent cravings.

But, as my mother and dentist taught me, sugar is not paradise. There is a darker side to this “dulce” phenomenon: terrible lack of nutrition, cavities, diabetes. Unfortunately, many poorer Honduran families, forced by economic circumstance, view sugar as the salvation to providing substantial meals to their children. Such Honduran kids are fed lollipops instead of beans and rice. In a country where sugar and coffee may be grown in the backyard, it is both cheaper and to send a child to the “pulperia” for a Pepsi or sucker than it is to feed them a dinner, let alone a well balanced one. Thus we have: malnutrition, stunted growth, rotted out teeth. When I first got here I felt pity for the living conditions of the kids on the NPH ranch. But as I continue to learn the nature of their families, and even their DIET, I realize that beans, eggs, and rice are a feast. One of my fellow volunteers came here to work at an NPH outreach program: the “Comedor Infantile” where young kids can come for a hearty meal each day. The kids at NPH are guaranteed sustenance 3-times daily. Ah perspective!

While I have started to tolerate my “rico” plates of beans, I know that sugar is definitely an element of Honduran culture that I can easily adjust to! Hail to Chicky’s!

Note to Nana: I have been diligently taking my vitamins. Also, every week we fill a wheelbarrow full of produce from the hortaliza here: lettuce, tomatoes, melons, oranges, mangoes, platanas, and on lucky days, avocados!!

Bug Showers

Today I walked into my room to find three girls screaming from the showers. An enormous centipede had come out of the shower spout on to a roommate mid-shampoo session (to clarify: mid-freezing cold body-clenching shower experience). There was a time when I feared small spiders. Nothing was worse than spotting a quarter sized eight-legged creature from across the room.

Now late at night I sit in bed and suffer through the chronic apprehension of insect attack. Mosquitos and spiders are the least of my worries, although the tarantula is still surely on my radar here. Each day the old volunteers and employees enjoy regaling to us a new type of bug, watching us squirm and ask if that species could possibly be real! One type of bug burrows into the skin of your scalp, lays its eggs under your hair follicles and happily departs, leaving you with a glowing taut infection of bug eggs on the head. Only an intense milking of the larvae will rid you of birthing them via hair follicles. This type of bug, the scorpion and Dengue Fever mosquitos terrify me: I live in constant fear of what tiny terror will be my downfall. But it gets worse...I would think that I would only find in scientific fiction a bug that engorges on a chunk of your face skin, defecates on the wound, which YOU then unknowingly scratch into the wound and infect yourself with a parasite. This parasite does not cause typical digestive problems, nor does it cause immediate side effects. This parasite waits SEVEN to TEN YEARS inside your system to finally spring heart disease on you! Fortunately you can get tested for the parasite if you have a large bite on your face...so I do not plan on death by heart disease by age 33.

Never fear: I am well-equipped with bug spray, a nurse as a roommate, an on-site clinic and an intense dedication to ward off any insect looking creatures. The other night, I definitely leaped out of my top bunk in the dark (headlight securely on), sprinted across the room and destroyed an enormous spider with my handy (and apparently multi-purpose) Spanish-English dictionary. Part of me was quick to the offense because my roommate was in a panic after spotting it in the shadows, but also it creeps me out to imagine these creatures crawling over me while I innocently dream of chocolate.

Perhaps I have learned my true calling. Hailey the exterminator.

Perspective and Chicken Feet

SALUDOS AMIGOS Y FAMILIA!!

I am at loss for words to describe my few weeks at el Rancho Santa Fe
in Honduras. Aside from basic orientation of the organization, ranch
and honduran culture, I have spent the last week constantly
challenging my language skills, my stomach and most importantly my
perspective. I am still not mentally prepared to eat a bowl of chicken
feet, kidneys, heart and liver (a soup called menudo served about once
every 2 weeks)!

But this is what I came here for: to LEARN, to push my understanding
of the world and of people, to give as one person in a huge
organization. It is incredible to learn the entire network of the NPH
organization. The intricate processes, crucial offices and support of
people that it takes to make NPH Honduras function well on a daily
basis is astounding: social work, the kitchen, la tortillaria, the
farm, the projects office, donations, volunteer medical brigades...

My own perspective, and even desire to volunteer and work abroad, has
been almost entirely molded by studying and reading about the
developing world.. but this is my first experience of LIVING the
developing world. Coming here, I knew that communication back home
would be difficult, I knew that I could potentially face theft, I
understood that there would be an initial language barrier, and I was
aware of the living conditions. But it is the small minor details of
living and working here that excite me, challenge me, and teach me the
most. It is difficult to recount my entire first two weeks but here
are some moments/fun facts about Honduras that especially stick out to
me!!

- FOOD: the hondurans LOVE beans, rice, and to put lard in EVERYTHING
they cook. One of the most difficult adjustments has been to accept
eating the same thing almost every day, to not being able to get much
meat off the chicken bones, and to swallowing food with a smile.
Fortunately when we were served menudo one night, a girl in my hogar
was JUMPING up and down for my chicken feet. I tried not to laugh as I
happily passed off the chicken feet to her, and watched as she slurped
on those chicken toes! I MISS CHOCOLATE, steak, hamburgers. One of the
new volunteers here even dreams about food every night! One of our
favorite things to talk about is FOOD. At the grocery store about an
hour and a half away you can buy a few "american things": stale
snickers, peanut butter, pesto powder.I definitely dropped 7 US
dollars for a back of fun size snickers.. and do not regret it.

- To do ANYTHING here requires much time (especially for
transportation) and concentrated and deliberate effort. To get food, I
need to take two different buses to the city and can only purchase
what I am able to carry back. Simple tasks just as grocery shopping,
mopping and even flushing the toilet remind me how easy and mindless
these activities are at home: everything is instant, disposable and
almost always WORKS.

- The other day I spent an entire day working as the tia (caregiver)
for Casa Emmanuel- a group of 8 mentally and physically challenged
boys. They had a group chore to do in the afternoon and tried
explaining to me in Spanish what we would be doing. With my beginning
level of Spanish I understand that we would be going to the "granja"
or farm, and we would be putting something in sacks. Next thing I know
we are wheeling into the cow pasture with shovels, I am standing in a
field of cow poop with Casa Emmanuel, shoveling manure into massive
bags for compost. I did NOT want to show weakness or disgust at
getting poop all over my toes so I dove head first into my job and
could only laugh to myself the whole time.

- Yesterday we went to Talanga, a nearby town, to visit the Comedor
Infantile, which is essentially a soup kitchen for impoverished local
children. It was an insightful opportunity to see the typical living
conditions of many Honduran poor, from which many of the NPH kids come
from: oxen wandering the destroyed streets strewn with garbage, mud
wall and metal roof shacks, a dirty river for washing clothes and the
clear signs of malnutrition and poor health. Although I witness the
effects of poverty and neglect at the ranch, the opportunity to spend
time with the kids at the Comedor Infantile emphasized how fortunate
and secure the NPH kids truly are. Many of those Talangan children
only eat meals when they come to the kitchen, have rotted out teeth,
do not wear shoes and have incredibly stunted growth. It made me
grateful to even have beans and rice for every meal.

-CELLPHONES/MUSIC: Honduras just got hooked up to cell phone networks
within the last 5 years.. its SOOO cool to have a cell phone and to
blast reggaetone music in public everywhere. Cellphone etiquette does
not exist so everyone always answers their phones mid-conversation. I
am currently sitting on the internet porch and a group of NPH kids
just just pulled up, whipped out their stereo and pushed the volume
up to full force.
Even on the bus ride to Talanga the other day, I felt as if I walked
on to a music video bus: the bus driver was blasting Ludacris tunes.
Hondurans love LOUD music: rap from the United States, cheesy love
songs from the 1980s and Honduran punta music.

I have many more stories, thoughts and ideas to post soon! I send all
of my love back home: I am so grateful for everyone's thoughts and
support. I hope to be more consistent in posting but the internet
always shuts off when I finally have time! Please do send e-mails- I
LOVE GETTING THEM!! haileyrad3@gmail.com

Adios,
Hailey