Amelia Goes To Honduras

Amelia Hangs Out At Home

2006-05-30T11:57:00.000-04:00

Well, friends, I have been back in the States for 3 months now. I have a car, a cell phone, and a new apartment (well, I will, in 2 weeks!). Ameliagoestohonduras is much more interesting than Ameliahangsoutathome, so I am no longer updating this blog. It's all here, so if you want to read the account of a half-crazy gal in Honduras for 14 months . . . well, have at it. Otherwise, you can always keep up with me here: http://www.myspace.com/amelibedeli

Thanks to all the people who survived and rejoiced along with me during my time in Honduras. Thanks for reading!

Can you believe I will miss the taxi drivers?

2006-02-23T09:41:00.000-05:00

It´s over.

In a couple hours, Hannah and I are heading to the airport. A few hours later, if all goes right, we´ll be taking off from one of the shortest runways in the world, leaving behind the people and places who have been our family, our world for nearly 14 months.

A lot, of course, is running through my mind. How I will miss buying bags of dripping pineapple!And hiking through the woods to La Venta! And tucking in my little Casa Suyapians every night! And the things I won´t miss: the old fat ugly men´s unsolicited "compliments" on the street, mangy dogs, persistant taxi drivers, Ranch food.

But you know what? I actually may miss those things too. I´ll miss everything--the good and the bad are, together, what made this experience. The good wouldn´t be the good without the bad. Everything worked together to make this year what it was and I wouldn´t change it. How can I begin to see everything that I have learned, every way in which I have grown?

As I fly away from the Ranch, from Tegucigalpa, from Honduras, I know that this has been the best year of my life, the most worthwhile, one of the hardest and, simultaneously, the most beautiful. I am deeply grateful and very proud. I never thought I could do this. Then, as I realized I could, I never thought I would be so touched by the children of Rancho Santa Fe and make friends who will be my friends forever. I was wrong. I did this. And was changed in the process.

Now, I know, you might be thinking how clichéd and, for lack of a better word, cheesy, I am being. But I find myself truly overwhelmed by leaving, by these experiences, by going home and staring over. I hope through these powerless words and trite attempts at expressing myself, you can understand a little bit of the confusion and montón of emotions.

I am leaving. That´s settled. How I feel? Not so settled. But ready and excited for whatever follows.

Waiting for the rain

2006-02-13T12:54:00.000-05:00

Well, everyone. I did it.

This past Saturday, after receiving wooden plaques, a standing ovation, and many, many hugs, the 7 other departing volunteers (Hannah, Fritz, Lukas, Michelle, Annie, Simone, and Josi--they all deserve to be mentioned) and I piled ourselves and our luggage into the Ranch´s brand-new micro bus and drove off, sappily enough, into the sunset. No one spoke the entire way to Tegucigalpa. The Gipsy Kings tape played, the Padre drove, and we all stared out the window, at the expanse of drying fields, of the shadowy mountains. I don´t know what each one was thinking, but I suppose it was something about the immensity of this past year and the odd combination of sadness and joy involved in leaving.

I have said goodbye many times during the past weeks and I have been feeling the tired inadequacy of the word. Why is it that we say "goodbye" for everything? If we leave a room for a few minutes we say it. If we go on vacation, we say it. If someone dies, we have to say it too. By the end of my 6th or 7th despedida (going-away party), I stopped using the word altogether and starting thinking seriously about sneaking off the ranch and not having to bid farewell to anyone else.

But I stayed, I said goodbye without actually saying "goodbye" and now I find myself 8 hours away from the Ranch in La Ceiba in the pouring, oh-god-stop-pouring, rain. Hannah and I got up early (well, no, we just never slept after getting in from the club in the early morning) and made the 7 hour trip up to La Ceiba intending to catch a 4 p.m. ferry to Roatán, one of the Bay Islands. We made it with time to spare, spend 100 lemps ($5) to take a cab to the dock outside of town, only to find out the ferry had left early due to the weather. It is still raining, so here we are, catching up on email and television in a dingy hotel (but clean and safe, Mom) in La Ceiba while we wait for the rain to stop.

Fortunately, we don´t fly out of Tegus until the 23rd so we´re not in a hurry and we´d rather be here in Ceiba than on Roatán where everything from hotels to beer is double the price. We are perfecting the art of budget travelling--we already have located the 16 lempira beer and the baleadas and the pupusas. So, we should be set for a few days. When the rain clears, we´ll smother our whitening selves in sunscreen and hit the beaches of Roatán. ¡Que pare la lluvia!

So, that´s that. The rain falls, I have said my goodbyes, and I am catching up on Desperate Housewives and Grey´s Anatomy and waiting, waiting for this rain to stop.

Revenge of The Gringas

2006-02-05T11:18:00.000-05:00

Yesterday morning, Jen, Hilary, Hannah and I decided to go to Tegus to run some errands. A bus comes by, we get on. As happens quite often, there are no seats. So, we move to the back of the bus and stand. Immediately some guys in the back start to harrass us. Now, keep in mind that catcalls, marriage proposals, and "I love you´s" are part of our everyday life. We didn´t catch everything that was being said, but it went beyond the normal and we all started to feel really uncomfortable being on the bus. So uncomfortable that we decide to get off after only 10 minutes of the 45 minute trip to Tegucigalpa.

We rush up to the front of the bus and tell the driver we want to get off. He gives us a funny look, wondering why we would be getting of at a gas station in the middle of nowhere. We tell him that the men in the back have been bothering us. He shrugs and suggests we just stand up front. No, we tell him, we want to get off.

They let us off, making us pay way too much for the 10 minutes we rode the bus, and leave us on the dusty highway about 5 or 6 kilometers from the Ranch. As we stand there fuming and the bus drives away, I realize something is wrong. Something is missing. My backpack!

In our panic to get off the bus, I had forgotten my backpack on the overhead rack. Fortunately, I never put my bag on the rack if there is anything valuable in it. This time, it was nearly empty save for some toilet paper and my water bottle. Still, considering the circumstances, I was angry at myself, angry at the men who had bothered us, angry at the bus drivers for not caring and overcharging us. Now, on top of it all, someone was going to get my backpack. I tried to shrug it off. Apparently, I am not so good at shrugging things off and as we zoomed away in the back of a pick-up truck, I was still pretty pissed about the whole thing.

We are making good time in our jalón and Hilary has the bright idea that if we pass the bus we had been on, we can intercept it at Cerro Grande and I can get my backpack. This hinges, of course, on us actually being able to pass the bus. So we wait and watch and as we get near Cerro Grande, where we will get off, we pass the bus!

Yes! I can get my backpack and make things right! I am feeling pretty good until the doubts creep in. I think, will the bus really stop for us? And if it does, what will those men do or say to me when I have to get back on to get my backpack? We start to get a little scared.

As we round the bend to Cerro Grande, we pass a police roadblock which gives us another idea. Why not try to find a police officer to be with us while we stop the bus? (Sidenote: The Honduran police are not known for their moral conduct and willingness to help, mostly they are known to be corrupt and looking to make money from bribes. So we´re not sure what we are really getting ourselves into. But we´ll give it a try.)

We jump out of our jalón in Cerro Grande, thank the driver, and immediately (we know we have only about 5 minutes before the bus passes by) look for a police officer to help us. There aren´t any. But suddenly, we a police truck drives by filled with 4 Police Officers in blue camoflauge carrying machine guns and starts to turn. We flag them down, yelling "ayuda! ayuda!" (help! help!). They stop, mid-turn, and Hannah and Hilary run over to them. Jen and I stay on the side of the road, waiting for the bus. Hannah explains what happened, how we want to stop the bus but are afraid it won´t stop, afraid of what the men will do if it does stop. The police turn their truck aaround and tell us to get in. Apparently, we are not going to just wait for the bus, we are going to intercept the bus.

As we start to get in, I see the bus. I tell the police and one of the guys, gun in hand, jumps out into the road, in front of the bus and motions for it to pull over. I rush on, the bus is now filled with people, push past them all, get my backpack which is right where I left it.

The police didn´t do much, admittedly. They checked the papers of the bus drivers and mostly just stood around with their big guns and looked intimidating. But I got my backpack and a little bit of justice. I have no doubt that both the bus drivers and the digusting men in the back of the bus had a bit of a scare when they saw us 4 gringas with 4 armed police officers flagging down the bus. Maybe they will think twice next time they mess with gringas.

Reality of Leaving

2006-02-03T08:39:00.000-05:00

It is 5:30 in the morning. I got up 45 minutes ago and made my way through the dark with a cup of steaming coffee, past the homes of the older girls, all still sleeping, to Casa Suyapa.

Today, February 3, is the day of Honduras’s patron saint, The Virgin of Suyapa. During this year, I have learned that Hondurans like to celebrate things by getting up early, singing, and setting off fireworks. So we got up.

The Padre was there and after we sang, gathered around a lit image of The Virgin of Suyapa, the sky black and full of stars, he read us the Biblical account of Jesus turning water into wine. In the story, it is Mary who tells the people at the wedding, Do what he says. Even though some of us may have lost our mothers, the Padre went on to say, Mary is our mother. She cares for us and prays for us until we are reunited with our earthly mothers.

There were no fireworks this time and the children are now back in bed. I should be, too, but I am not sure if I can sleep. Standing there with those beautiful children, children who have been mine, or have felt like mine this year, I felt like a mother. And how does a mother leave her children?

Well, I am leaving. Whether I like it or not. These last days have been the fastest days of my life. Every one gets harder because it brings me closer to that moment we all will stand at Mass and say goodbye and then get in a van and leave.

Every day, I understand the reality of leaving more and more. Yet, I barely understand it. It is only in moments like this, standing in the courtyard of Casa Suyapa, with my arms around Marisol, that I get these flashes of exactly how much it will hurt to wake up underneath my down comforter instead of this scratchy, thin blanket.

Eating (plantains), Drinking (wassail), Being Merry (very)

2006-01-23T19:53:00.000-05:00

Today is my birthday. My second in Honduras. It doesn’t seem quite fair that I came here a young gal of 24 and leave a wizened woman of 26. Well, maybe not so wizened. Anyway, hostess that I am, last night we rang the devastatingly big number of 2-6 (and I know I’ll regret complaining about this when I am older) in style with a bonfire, wassail, 125 homemade mini pizzas, and lots of friends to eat them.

We (Hannah, her friend Raya, and I) spent most of the day yesterday preparing for the party: making pizzas, carting boxes of wine for the wassail, hauling firewood. We managed to fit in making a homemade lunch–Honduran style. We fried up a bunch of ripe plantains that were blackening in the Casa Personal kitchen, heated up some beans, made a batch of chismol (a salsa of tomatoes, onions, green peppers and lime juice), and blobbed some mantequilla (a liquidy soury creamy type substance) on our plates. Yum. We do a pretty good plato tipico.

The party started early, around 7 p.m. and ended just into the first hours of my real birthday. Everyone was there, including the 11 new volunteers (who just arrived a week ago) who had ventured into Tegus for their first time that day and brought me back a bottle of champagne as a present. It was wonderful to be surrounded by friends–old and new, stuffing our faces with pizza and downing the hot, sweet wine. Annie, Michelle, and Francie made me green and gold heart-shaped sugar cookies. The Padre made flan. We ate, drank, and sang songs to which nobody, ever, knows the words.

This morning, I woke up at 8 to a knock on my door. It was my next door neighbor Shannon apologizing for waking us up and telling us that school had been cancelled (due to a transportation strike, now resolved, in the city). I felt like a kid on a snow day. I think I was actually happier than a kid on a snow day! No school! We took advantage of the morning by doing more eating (making a breakfast of pancakes with lime and powdered sugar and scrambled eggs) and drinking (just coffee).

The afternoon was more eating and drinking. We walked through the woods to La Venta, the nearest village, to eat and drink a beer at a roadside restaurant, Gabriel’s. When we got back we cracked into the cake (a delicious, incredible thing from Pan Y Más that Shannon and Jen got for me and--even more impressively--successfully got back to the Ranch in one, gorgeous, chocolate piece).

Then I got to feeling sick. Big surprise, huh? All that eating, drinking, and being merry caught up with me, I guess. So, here I am, holed up in my room for the night, reflecting on another great birthday in Honduras.

My sister reminded me today (as I was panicking that I went from 24 to 26 during my 13 months in Honduras) that the wonderful thing about having celebrated 2 birthdays on the Ranch is that I spent my entire 25th year of life here. I am proud of this year and it makes me happy to think that whenever I think back to being 25, I will think back to children begging to be cuddled, green bottles of beer filling the table in La Venta, friends who will check your hair for lice without complaining, and the way the rain sounds when it hits the red tile roof of my little room.

Happy birthday it was.

The last days are the hardest days

2006-01-15T11:19:00.000-05:00

Exactly one year ago today, I was standing in a bus stop in Comayaguela (the city across the river from Tegucigalpa), greasy from traveling, too nervous to be nervous. I remember that first day vividly: Elizabeth meeting us at the bus stop, eating enchiladas and drinking pineapple licuados in a Mediterranean restaurant, rushing through the crowded streets of Tegus, backpacks clutched to our chests, cramming ourselves onto a bus, driving 45 minutes into what seemed like nowhere, walking up the dusty road of the Ranch, thinking what the hell am I doing and how am I going to do it?

Well, friends, somehow I did it. Today, I celebrate what is, for me, a huge accomplishment. I have been living here in Honduras, on Rancho Santa Fe for an entire year. A year! Those words make me want to open my door and scream it into the mountains. I never thought I could do it. I had told my father, only a month before I applied to NPH, that there was absolutely no way I could live abroad for a year. I don’t know what changed, I don’t know how I did it, but I did it.

This morning, I looked back in my journal to see what I had written during my first days here on the Ranch. My attitude then was much as it is today, one of amazement and gratitude. On those first pages of my now-filled journal, I found this poem I had written based on Poem in Thanks by Thomas Lux.

Poema de Gracias

Lord Whoever, thank you for the bus
that takes everyone, these bricks
and banana trees, the bananas in
the kitchen,
the wind–both the cruel and the warm
of bamboo, mountains, and faraway sea.
For Wilco playing a few doors away,
the compost bin,
the brownish water
brownish: thank you.
Thank you, Lord, coming for to
carry me to Honduras, where I’ll
cry it out, Lord, where I will
listen and teach, Lord, thank you
for the vultures in my yard.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first days on the Ranch were beautiful, filled with clear, cold nights and sunny afternoons. I remember being filled with joy, a joy that was so real I could feel it in my muscles and bones. It was thrilling to be beginnning an adventure.

That thrill ebbed and flowed during my year. Sometimes, it hid and I doubted I would ever see it again, but I always did, it always came back. The thrill is back again and in so many ways I feel I have come full circle; the beginning of 2006 is an ending of something very important and dear to me, but at the same time, a beginning of the next adventure, whatever that may be.

I am excited for what's to come, but I am also facing something very sad. 4 weeks from today, I will be gone from the Ranch. The new batch of volunteers are already here, experiencing breakfasts of beans and boiled plantains for the first time, braving the cold showers, learning how to wash clothes in the deep cement sinks. They will be the ones who fill our jobs and hogars. They will be the ones to build bonfires and who will walk across the dam to La Venta in the dark to drink warm beer and carve their names in the table. They will be the ones to tuck my children into bed and to pick them up when they have fallen and to go home every night with smudges on their blue jeans from little arroz-con-leche-covered hands.

The thrill of adventure is back, but that doesn’t make it any easier to leave.

Night is falling on the Ranch, the New Year has started, and I am wondering what will be for dinner

2006-01-05T18:35:00.000-05:00

It has been a confusing (although not bad) start to 2006--confusing for lots of little things that don´t warrant a mention and some big things (leaving the ranch in a month, graduate school, finding my place somewhere, turning 26, trying to decide which Shins album is the best) that it´s probably okay to worry about a bit. I came down to the internet lab to write an entry, to sift through these things that seem so irritatingly confusing that I wonder if they are really confusing at all, but I just can´t do it. So, instead, here are a couple pictures from New Years.

The Ranch as it looks every day around 4 p.m.
The bonfire New Years Eve with all the children.
Fritz and Francie in the Hortaliza, New Years Day, early morning.

(Um, and nothing confusing is represented in these pictures, in case you were wondering.) Happy 2006.

Christmas on The Ranch

2005-12-27T12:42:00.000-05:00

Kids from Casa Suyapa sharing their own gifts with children in a nearby village.

Christmas morning in Casa Suyapa.

We spent the night with our mattresses on the floor, doing more jumping and laughing than sleeping. The kids got up early to see what Santa had left during the night. After breakfast, we hiked for about 45 minutes to La Venta Vieja, a nearby village. There, the kids shared some of the few presents they received with the children of the village.

Ruth looks out into the dark December night, wondering what Christmas will bring.

Unexpected Christmas

2005-12-21T09:46:00.000-05:00

Christmas comes to everyone, everywhere, I suppose. Although, it´s hard for me to believe as I think about the things that have always framed my Christmases: family, cold air, snow, the smell of pine needles warmed by Christmas lights, piles of presents under the tree, the white-lit angels swinging from above on College Avenue, colorful cookies, long-distance phone calls, Christmas cards, blueberry muffins, Claymation Holiday specials on TV, clear starry nights.

For the first time in 25 years, I am not celebrating Christmas surrounded by my entire family, I am not going to shiver in the car on the way to the Christmas pageant, I am not going to have coffee beside a lit Christmas tree with carols playing on the stereo or look out onto an empty, still street and imagine everyone else like me, tucked into their decorated houses, having Christmas.

Part of me wants to mentally skip Christmas this year. How can it be Christmas here, away from the snow, my family, my friends who live in far-away places who will be home and drinking Blue Moons with thick orange slices at Jim´s on Christmas night? How can it be Christmas when I don´t know any of the Christmas carols or traditions?

The truth of it is, I know it is Christmas. I know that Christmas comes to Honduras. I know that Christmas isn´t about snow on the ground or stockings hung on the fireplace. I know the Christmas story didn´t take place in a sleepy, icy Wisconsin town. But can I believe it?

Christmas does come everywhere, but we all see Christmas in our own ways, framed by our families, our climates, our songs, our traditions, our joys and sadnesses. In my rather self-absorbed pondering, I realized I am forgetting one thing . . . the unexpected.

The Christmas story is full of the unexpected: trusting to find shelter, following stars, giving presents to people you haven´t met, leaving your flocks in the fields. This year, may I--and you and all of us-- celebrate the unexpected!

I don´t know how Christmas will happen to me this year or to you, but I send my wishes for a very happy and meaningful one.

I need a real vacation

2005-12-07T17:01:00.000-05:00

Monday was the start of cursos vacacionales, or vacation courses. Our regular school year ended in early November which makes right now sort of like summer break. Except that we have 500 bored kids, no swimming pools, no summer camps, no lemonade stands. The answer to this is more school--but fun school with classes like handicrafts and drama.

Hannah and I are teaching two classes together: Drawing 2 and Painting 2. We have classes of 25 kids each ranging in age from 7 to 17. Thrown in the mix are up to 5 special needs kids in each class. Now when I say, "special needs," we are talking about kids with severe problems. Autism, Downs Syndrome, wheelchairs. The non-"special needs" kids have needs of their own as well. We have kids with ADD, ADHD, kids who can´t read, kids who can´t sit still, kids who steal, kids who don´t come to class, newly arrived kids who ask us for money. If this doesn´t sound chaotic enough, please imagine trying to teach drawing and painting with a few boxes of crayons, some cheap markers, 3-inch long colored pencils, and computer paper.

The classes last for 80 minutes, more or less, depending on when they decide to ring the bells that day. However, our second class, with the most trying kids, lasts for 100 minutes, the last 20 minutes being designated for chores. We are still trying to figure out where 24 kids should stand while one of them mops.

An abundance of supplies
for 7 weeks of class
with 50 kids.

Yesterday, after class, seeing as a pack of computer paper only lasts so long, Hannah and I went into Tegucigalpa to buy a few supplies (with our own money, of course) for our class. After running around looking for deals on posterboard and pastels, I had an out-of-control headache and was threatening murder at anyone who happened to brush into my supply-filled backpack or grocery-bag-filled arms. At the persuasion of my friends, I decided should probably reconsider murder and settle for something less criminal, lest I change my blog from ameliagoestohonduras to ameliagoestohonduranprison. We decided on beer and stopped at the Salva Vida bar that is conveniently on our way out of the city.

Two beers, two bags of water, and 4 Advil later, I was back to my pleasantly-fiesty (as opposed to my violently-fiesty) self and we broke one of our own rules and hitchiked back to the Ranch after dark. Luckily it was a safe and beautiful ride. We watched the sky darken into purple and then black. Fireflies were lines of light as we flew by and the Christmas lights on the little plaster houses broke through the dark air like jewels.

Once back at the Ranch, we skipped hogar (concerned about beer breath and a possible resurgence of anti-child emotions) and stayed in, eating fried chicken we bought from a roadside stand and watching season 3 of Sex and The City.

Today was another day. Exhausting, yes. But better than yesterday. And yesterday was better than the day before. If this trend continues, well, I just might survive. Then, after these so-called "vacation" courses, I´m planning on a vacation all my own.

Coming Home

2005-11-29T19:40:00.000-05:00

I am back in the beautiful country of Honduras after 10 days in the U.S. While it was a lovely time at home, I feel calm and blessed being back here. However, the last 48 hours weren’t so calm. Let me tell you about them. But, first a couple pictures from home. First is of College Ave and the second, me and The Boot at Old Bavarian.

Monday, November 25____________________

12:00 a.m. (midnight) Leave via car, Dad driving, for Chicago’s O’Hare Airport. Dad always asking us if we are asleep just as we are falling asleep.

2:45 a.m. Arrive at airport. Goodbye to Dad. Try to sleep until 4 a.m. when the employees arrive and we can check in. Lots of people sleeping in baggage carts which is kind of cute. There aren’t any open for us, though.

4:15 a.m. Check in. Find gate. Find McDonald’s, which doesn’t open until 5 a.m.

5:05 a.m. First in line at McDonald’s. Eat our Combo #1s. Wait for plane. Airline employee (who we’ve overheard telling people multiple times that it is her day off) makes periodic sarcastic announcements.

6:25 a.m. Leave Chicago, change planes in Miami. Eat an Italian sandwich in Miami ordered in Spanish.

1:30 p.m. Arrive in Tegucigalpa on one of the shortest runways in the world, miraculously on time.

1:50 p.m. Ditch our illegally transported meat (ham sandwiches) in the Tegus airport bathroom.

2:30 p.m. Finally get our luggage. Dammit, something is missing!

3:10 p.m. Get done waiting in a long line, talking to the airline people about the luggage. Go through customs smoothly. (We could have brought the ham sandwiches. Unless the X-ray machine was on the Ham Sandwich Setting.)

3:15 p.m. Finally outside of the airport amidst the crowd of people trying to get us to change money, take our bags, drive us somewhere, or just bother us. We are scanning the parking lot, looking for one of NPH’s vehicles when a not-so-tall man starts waving his hands in front of our faces. I was about to tell him we didn’t need a taxi when . . . Mauricio! A Ranch employee, there to get us. He says, “I know I am really small, but I am here!” Slightly embarrassed, we follow him to the car. He tells us he needs to run an errand in the center of Tegus and then we’ll head back to the Ranch.

3:40 p.m. After a few random stops, we arrive in the Center. We check email, eat baleadas, go grocery shopping.

4:40 p.m. Meet Mauri back at car. Whew! Finally, we’re heading to the Ranch.

4:41 p.m. Mauri asks us if we don’t mind him running another errand before heading back to the Ranch. Hesitantly, we agree. (Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!)

5:00 p.m. Driving around Tegus

6:00 p.m. Driving around Tegus. I crawl to the back of the van, listen to my iPod, and try to remain calm and not say mean things to people (meaning Mauricio).

6:45 p.m. More 5 hours after arriving in Tegucigalpa, we finally start the drive back to the Ranch. Mauri sings and whistles along to the radio, trying to cheer us up. Asks us if we like it. Hannah lies. I am too annoyed to say anything.

7:20 p.m. In record time, with the speedometer reaching 150 (which we hope is kilometers per hour, not miles) we make it back to Rancho Santa Fe.

7:30 p.m. Unloading our things in the balmy night, beneath a clear sky filled with so many stars they become blurry. The air smells clean–it is as if we have fallen asleep on a still, winter night and awoken to spring. Despite the thrill of sweet-smelling air and a romantic sky, we are terribly crabby and say a rushed goodbye to Mauricio, secretly hoping we never see him again.

8:30 p.m. Friends come to say hello, bearing gifts of alcohol. We show pictures, tell stories, listen to stories.

10:30 p.m. This day, unbearably long, is over. After checking for bugs, we crawl into our crappy beds (Hannah’s too soft, mine too hard) and fall asleep.

Tuesday, November 29____________________

10:00 a.m. Graduation in the school. A beautiful event, full of beaming kids in white and blue robes, the principal in a bow tie hissing his s’s, thrown graduation caps, a million pictures.

Dropped diploma. Proud Cindy.

Fredis.

1 p.m. Go to get lunch. The kitchen is almost out of food, so Hannah, Hilary, and I split one portion of some kind of vegetarian stew (there is a chicken shortage here–due to Bird Flu, I suppose–and so our food has been especially dull lately).

3:00 p.m. Unpack. Finally!

4:30 p.m. Crack open one of the 4 bottles of wine that miraculously survived our journey to Honduras. Have a drink before going to hogar. Wonder if that makes us bad volunteers.

5:30 p.m.-7:30 p.m. In hogar. The kids are happy to see me. We read books and they ask me about the video that they made for my family. I tell them my family loved it. They want specifics–what exactly did my family say? I tell them my family said they are gorgeous, smart kids who speak English really well. That suffices. They nod, smile, and hug me. Everyone behaves. It is a miracle.

Right now, 7:35 p.m. The rain is pouring down on the red tile roof of my little room and the smells of wet grass and night have filled my room. The windows are open and there is a breeze blowing our improvised sarong curtains. I am having a glass of shiraz. It is only Yellowtail, which is cheap and good and doesn’t come in a box. A real treat. I should be making someone a CD of pictures I promised long ago or doing some laundry, but I felt like I needed to write this, to write you all, to tell you I am back and happy and feeling surprisingly at home. Nothing will ever replace being with family and old friends, but it is good and right to feel at home here, with these beautiful children I read books with for the past 2 hours and these amazing friends who left welcome home notes on my door. Home is where you make it and I am glad to be here.

Where have I been lately?

2005-11-11T09:46:00.000-05:00

Where have I been? Let me see . . .

Last weekend . . .

Hiking across La Tigra National Park (and 2 hours afterward trying to find a ride back to Tegus)
Falling down in the mud (twice!) during the hike
A "shortcut" straight up the side of a mountain
Returning to Tegus and walking into a hotel covered from head to toe in mud, crabby, hungry and tired

Tuesday night . . .

My first rock concert in Honduras--Juanes (15,000 people in camisas negras)
Getting sent by security to use the men´s bathroom at the concert--men using the urinals while women waited to use the stalls right next to them!

Right now . . .

In Tegus, on my way to Valle de Angeles for a volunteer retreat
Stopping at the grocery to buy cookies and marshmallows
Finishing my graduate school application
Planning Christmas shopping
Trying to do a little freelance writing for www.sidewalkmystic.com, a great site about Honduras
A week from today, I will be home for a visit! So, lately, I´ve been imagining how it will feel to take hot showers for 10 days straight, eat a bagel, drive a car, hug my family and friends, pet the dog, throw all my clothes in a washing machine and dryer, not eat every meal with a spoon, curl my hair with hot rollers, listen to my iPod, hear a phone ring, watch television, be able to order at a restaurant in English, not have to be crammed into the back of a colectivo taxi to get places, not have to check my backpack at the grocery store, sleep under my down comforter, and eat my fill of turkey and cranberry sauce!

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Well, I like to think that next week I´ll be seeing some of you! To my friends who´ll be home, please give me a call at my parents or send me an email. I can´t wait to sit and have a Leinie´s with you.

Yuscarán

2005-10-26T17:12:00.000-04:00

17 kilometers off the PanAmerican highway down a still and empty road is the town of Yuscarán, home of the aguardiente (sugar cane liquor) of the same name and home of Donkey Polo. My friend Colin and I waited for what seemed like an hour in the hot, early afternoon sun along this untravelled bit of road for a ride into the town. The roadside was covered with scrubby plants with green mountains in the distance and I let myself, for a moment, pretend I was in Africa, somewhere I have been dreaming about lately. Two pickups passed us. The first sped by, taunting us with an empty truck bed. The next truck stopped and filled up before it got to us, collecting a half dozen women with buckets and parcels. Finally, a logging truck stopped. We threw our backpacks on top of the logs and the driver made his cautious way along the crumbling mountain roads to Yuscarán.

Like all Honduran towns, Yuscarán is centered around a central park. Like all central parks, Yuscarán´s features a cathedral (see photo below), a fountain, and lots of curious locals sitting on the benches, staring at us with slightly amused looks in their eyes. Apparently, it is not every day that the logging truck passes through the narrow cobblestone streets and lets out 2 tall, sweaty gringos bearing enormous backpacks.

We knew of only 2 hotels. At one of them, no one answered the bell, the other had no electricity (but they kindly offered to a 30 lemp--about $1.50--discount and candles). Knowing how early dark comes (5:30 p.m.), we set out to find a hotel whose name we kept forgetting owned by someone named "Junior." We were given a point in the general direction. Everyone from whom we tried to extract more specific directions said the same thing, "go straight, go straight." Sometimes, they elaborated: "go straight and ask that man." Funny thing is, the roads in Yuscarán don´t go straight. They bend at unexpected angles, plummet down into unknown barrios, climb up toward ruined castles of buildings.

A man with a big belly and red eyes--possibly "that man" they kept telling us about--finally got us going straight down the right street. He and his pals gave us some kind of warning about our hotel in mumbled, regional Spanish which I did not completely understand. When I asked him what he meant, he made a reference to Halloween and how at our hotel "you go to sleep on one side of the bed and wake up on the other." All the men laughed and we laughed too, just to be polite.

One of the men, looking for a tip, insisted on showing us to the hotelito and banged on the door until we finally got the attention of the owners. Our room was clean and simple, filled completely by beds, and didn´t appear to be haunted, but still had luggage on the beds which meant we couldn´t check in until 5:30. Considering our other options, we told them it would do.

We walked past the stinky aguardiente factory, which looked more like an abandoned YMCA than a factory, through the cobblestoned streets onto the dirt roads at the edge of town in search of the famous lookout, beneath an immense Ceiba tree, high above Yuscarán. We climbed a set of stone stairs toward a small chapel (see photo below)
and the tree, sat ourselves down on the hill as the day began to fade. We watched children play and then get called home and for a few moments found ourselves alone looking over Yuscarán and the other tiny pueblos that dotted the mountainsides. When the clouds rolled in we hurried away, back into town to the only restaurant, a Chinese place attached to the electricity-less hotel. We sat down before the rain came and ordered anything that appealed to us from lemonade to wontons. We hadn´t since early that morning and it was almost 5 o´clock, but we still couldn´t finish all the food. After the meal, not having seen or heard a word about Donkey Polo, we ask one of the restaurant employees. We are disappointed to learn that Donkey Polo (yes, Polo played on donkeys instead of horses) is only played during the annual town fair. On our return to our hotel, we found the Yuscarán factory already closed, which meant if we wanted a souvenir bottle of the famous aguardiente, we would have to buy it ourselves.

Tired from the travelling, hiking, and eating, we spent the evening watching the Discovery channel and, when we found ourselves yet again hungry, eating our leftovers. Around 4 in the morning, I awoke to find the television on, but muted. Faces flashed on the screen, silent and eerie. I wondered how long they had been watching me sleep. Thinking I had rolled over on the remote, I look for it and find it nowhere near me, but on one of the empty beds. We both swore we had left the TV on the Discovery Channel, unmuted, when we turned it off before falling asleep. Perhaps, our big-bellied friend had been right to warn us.

The next morning I went looking for breakfast and coffee. A cup of coffee was not to be found and I ended up with a plate of steamed rice and beans and fried plantains at a dim comedor that appeared to have been, at one time, a library. The walls were tall and lined with dark, vacant shelves. A political rally was blasting on the TV and a mangy dog sniffed my feet. Later, we rode out of Yuscarán in the back of a brand-new pick-up truck. The driver, like us, bound for Tegucigalpa, finally going, like they all said, in a straight line down the highway.

Getting my fix

2005-10-12T16:47:00.000-04:00

I am in Tegus right now as the internet on the Ranch is being withheld from the volunteers, employees, and kids as some kind of punishment for passwords being changed and general chaos in the internet lab. Of course, the volunteers who have no motivation to change passwords and cause problems in the lab, suffer the most as we are cut off from friends and family without notice. We are admittedly very upset and there´s unfortunately not much we can do about it, so we are grumbling and making treks to Tegus to feed our internet addiction. There is a meeting about this tomorrow and so, hopefully, there can be some new, stricter rules limited the kids´use of the lab and I can return to my friendly little internet hut in the Honduran countryside.

Spending the day in Tegus is always some kind of adventure. Today, I went shopping. The best deals for anything from sparkly high heels to blender parts to lacy underwear are often found on the street. You can hardly walk on the sidewalks there are so many vendors. First, I decided to buy some shoes which is always difficult because I wear size 9 1/2 (39 European) and that is grotesquely big compared to most Honduran feet. So, first I have to find a style I like, then the size, and then deal with the price. Tons of vendors sell the exact same thing, so you usually are best off to shop around. No one, for some reason, likes to bargain over shoes. Finally found what I was looking for--100 lemp (about $5) black sandals. Hilary wanted to find some of these Puma zip-up sweatshirts (70 lemp each) which are sold by a woman named Elizabeth with whom we are friendly. She wasn´t at the normal booth, but we picked up a couple of these shirts and mosied on. Had a Mochacchino in Parque Central almost not bothered by the men staring and shouting "gringa" and had a lunch of pinchos (shishkabobs), rice, salad, plátano, lime, tortillas, and Coca-Cola (35 lemps for everything) at Doña Tere´s, a stand in Plaza Dolores with the shouts of men selling carrots and tomatoes and women passing by with coolers full of bags of water punctuating our conversation.

After that, we bought groceries and then, I had to make some copies of keys. There is a place that advertises that they make keys just a couple doors down from the internet place so I thought I would try that. The hand-written sign that says "Se hacen llaves" is between two businesses. One is an electronics shop, the other, a Mexican restaurant. I, torn between my options, try the electronics shop. Nope. They tell me to go into the restuarant and ask for Jorge. They also advise, "No tenga miedo"--Don´t be scared. Unsure as to why I should be scared, I am now a little scared. I go in and the restaurant turns into a little Honduran version of a mini-mall. There is a seamstress working, a computer place (which is closed), but no sign of a key place. I ask the women working on sewing machines in a dark room with no door. They tell me to go up the stairs. I look at the stairs. They lead up to what looks to be someone´s house, complete with a live chicken, gate, and dripping water. I go up the stairs and meet a little girl. I ask her who is it that makes keys. She brings her mom from the living room and mom takes my keys and agrees to have them ready for me in 15 minutes.

There you have it. Soon, I will pick up my keys, jump in the back of a pick-up truck that stop collectively at the exit to Cerro Grande to haul hitchhikers up the big hill. From Cerro, catch another ride 36 kilometers through the countryside to the Ranch entrance. From there, it is a 15 to 20 minute walk to my room. Travel time: a little more than an hour with some good luck, but realistically more like an 1 1/2 trip when all is said and done.

Let´s hope the internet is back soon. I am in serious withdrawl and as you can see, it takes a lot of travel and energy to get my fix.

Día de la Independencia . . . un poco tarde

2005-09-28T18:58:00.000-04:00

This morning, we celebrated a belated Día de la Independencia (it really is Sept. 15) by having a big parade down the middle of one of Honduras´major highways. We all piled into yellow school buses and got dropped off about a mile down the road in La Venta at a military batallion. From there, we had a pretty impressive parade complete with girls twirling batons, kids dressed up like national heroes, a bus decorated with a styrofoam map of Honduras on the front, and lots of drums.

The soldiers stood around, gaping at the female volunteers and holding machine guns. They helped us stop traffic and, so, most of our audience was unwilling, trapped in buses and pick-ups, unable to get where they were going, annoyed at our untimely celebration. It took us 2 hours to walk the mile from the batallion to the Ranch. Then, we had a program at the school that lasted another 3 hours complete with the new principal leading the students in a salute to the flag which made everyone (Hondurans included) uncomfortable and prompted many whispered references to Hitler. He tried to get the kids to salute and scream three times, "Viva la republica!" Half of them weakly joined in--the other half stood with looks of confusion and repulsion on their faces. Needless to say, the German volunteers were very uncomfortable.

I spent my afternoon doing laundry by hand, which is how it is done here. I decided that the first thing I do when I visit home in November is to throw all of my clothes in the washing machine. Mostly to get all the soap out. That seems to be the problem. We end up looking tie-dyed under the black lights at the club. It is a never-ending process, laundry. It doesn´t help that we are washing our clothes in water the color of weak tea.

With this, I am off. The computer lab is noisy with password-less kids trying to hack into the internet. I should kick them all out, but I don´t have the heart to do it right now. Let them figure it out the hard way. I will go and seek a few minutes solitude in my room before heading to hogar.

Still have sand in my shoes

2005-09-19T22:17:00.000-04:00

Well, folks. I am back on the Ranch after a 6 day vacation in Tela, on the North Coast. I am tired, but brown and content. It was a perfect time with plenty of adventures, too many, in fact to tell here. But here´s a little, just to make you a bit jealous.

We (Hannah, Hilary, and I) arrived by bus Wednesday night around 8:30, checked into our hotel Cesar Mariscos, cleaned ourselves up a little (Hannah still had streaks of dirt on her neck from the travelling) and went out for pizza and a couple of beers. Well, our pizza was good and the beer was cold and we were enjoying the music blasting from the club, Iguanas, next door. Convinced that there was a live band, we went over to take a look. We had another beer, started dancing, another beer, and so forth. After the dancing, we took a swim in the Caribbean and watched the sun rise over the palm trees that mark the transition from town to beach.

Thursday, we spent on the beach and playing in the waves, trying to body surf and only resulting with sand-filled bikini tops. We passed the afternoon (and several others during our time in Tela) in our rooftop pool, ordering up margaritas, watching women walk by beneath balancing tubs of coconuts on their heads and carrying machetes, and filming ads for Port Royal (Honduran beer) on my digital camera.

Friday, we spent walking around town and in the pool again. I think. (I am getting a little confused about what happened and when. The result of relaxation.) We went out for a bit at night, to a bar called Max, owned by a Honduran with impeccable English (no accent--we thought he was from the States) and a taste for American hip hop (nice break from reggaeton!). We turned in early-ish with plans to go to Punta Sal, a national park known for its gorgeous beaches and wildlife, with Garífuna Tours.

Saturday morning, we awoke to grey skies and were caught in a downpour on our way to our tour. Needless to say, we got up early for nothing. No tour. We walked back to our hotel, had a big breakfast and 3 cups of coffee each to ward off the cold. We spent a lazy morning lounging around the hotel pool and catching up on Desperate Housewives and got our lazy butts off the pool chairs around noon to go to La Ensenada, a Garífuna village about 3 kilometers down the beach from Tela. We spent the afternoon on the nearly empty, thatched hut filled beach listening to traditional Garífuna music and reggae blasting from a little restaurant. When we needed a break from the sun, we had a late lunch of fried fish, and plantains and a good dose of Bob Marley. Too incredible to be real, right?

That night, I experienced my first foam party. Yes. Foam party. As in the stuff that floats on top of your bubble bath. Imagine that same foam on a dance floor, blown out of huge machines until you are knee deep in bubbles and everyone around you is sporting white mohawks and dripping in green apple scented soap.

Sunday, we made it to Punta Sal National Park. It is getting late and Punta Sal deserves an entry all of its own. Still, let me say this: clear emerald water, snorkeling, monkeys in the trees, typical Garífuna lunch, sand still in my shoes.

We left paradise today, somewhat reluctantly. Still, I am happy to be back, happy to have these memories. Happy to be here, in Honduras. This is the best year of my life, friends.

Hurricane

2005-09-01T16:06:00.000-04:00

I was on cnn.com as long as I could take it, watching the video and reading about the catastrophe of Hurricane Katrina. I am trying not to cry as I write this, trying not to disrupt the other people in the computer lab with the sobs that surely are deserved.

It is especially hard to be away from your country when disaster strikes. There is some obligation in my heart---I should be home, mourning with the rest of my country, helping how I can. And yet I am here, in Honduras, watching video clips of bodies covered with white sheets and old women screaming for someone to help them. I cannot help these people.

Then, of course, I remember where I am and I remember why these video clips seem familiar to me, why these horrors seem like something I have seen before. I have seen many of these things before--here in Honduras, people live like this everyday. People live with sewage running through their yard, eating spoiled food if they have food at all. Parents abandon their children because they feel helpless, they cannot feed them. People here live without reliable police protection, without clean water, without adequate shelter. The reality is, the scenes on the streets of New Orleans are tragically like a normal day on certain streets in Tegucigalpa.

Still, this doesn´t lessen the pain I feel at reading the accounts of people on the streets, the fear and vulnerability I see in their eyes on the videos. I mourn deeply for the lives lost and the lives being lived in the horror that is the wake of Katrina. It is an indescribably horrible thing, this chaos and disaster and my heart and prayers are with everyone affected by the hurricane.

Sunday in Tegus

2005-08-14T12:33:00.000-04:00

From somewhere above me, people are singing--a church service. A man is yelling Jesús, Jesús! I am at an internet cafe that I have never been to before, the last stop on our way back to the ranch. There is no window, only an opening with bars and a vinyl, stenciled internet sign hangs from the bars. Through the bars, I can see a papaya tree growing out of a parking lot and buildings with additions on every side, that can only be houses. Above it all hangs a knot of electrical lines with air plants growing out of the wirey nest.

It is a lovely day, a quiet morning with a touch of tropical heat balanced by a breeze. We had plantains, chorizo, eggs, and tortillas for breakfast, the plantains fried and sweet and golden. I love mornings like this in this city. Getting up early, walking the empty streets past shop after shop, closed and quiet, shuttered and locked. Even the street vendors aren´t up yet and those who are are gentler than usual and only promote their goods with a wave instead of a scream.

We walked around looking for grapefruits, and finally found them on the edge of Plaza Dolores. They are as big as canteloupes and their yellow rinds are splotched with pink. Their insides are a deep, alluring pink and sweet enough to eat like an orange, without sugar.

A friend, an ex-volunteer, wrote me recently and recounted how her feelings about Tegus were always in flux: how sometimes she hated this city and other times loved it. She is right. Tegucigalpa is a city of contrasts, hard contrasts. A woman with no legs and matted hair and a woman with a designer handbag and high heel shoes talking on a cell phone, who doesn´t even see her. Flowers blooming above piles of garbage.

My friend is right, sometimes you love this city, sometimes you hate it. And the second you think you know it, it changes.

Crabby, tired Amelia says . . .

2005-08-04T16:02:00.000-04:00

Well, the "old" volunteers have left, leaving a noticable gap. It is funny how hard it was to see them go, how hard to adjust to our new group, people in new rooms, new jobs. I keep thinking I see them or hear their voices, keep thinking to tell them something or how we all can go to La Venta tonight. And then the realization hits and leaves me feeling empty and a little numb, like I have taken too much cold medicine.

We, of course, celebrated their departure in style, "despedidas" (going-away parties) nearly every night for a week. Too many maybe. Too many goodbyes. It will take us all awhile to get back into routines, regain our energy. I new expected it to be so hard to say goodbye.

At the same time, I feel sort of scared. Unprepared for my own departure. Someday, I have to leave. Someday, I have to go back and start over. I feel like I have worked so hard to be where I am, to be comfortable, to be making friends. How can I abandon it?

Yes, I am just doing a bit of moping these days. Not good, I know, but it feels necessary, like crying while chopping onions. I´ll get over it. I always do. We always do, right?

Being a slacker

2005-07-30T17:58:00.000-04:00

This is an article (testimonial?) that I wrote for Friends of The Orphans, a U.S. organization that supports Nuestros Pequeños Hermanos. Maybe I am just being a slacker or maybe you all want to read it . . .

I never thought I could I could do what I am doing. Leave my family, my friends, and everyday comforts to live in a different, less-comfortable country for 13 months? Yeah, right. But something changed in me one night as I was reading an email sent by a friend who was volunteering for Nuestros Pequeños Hermanos Honduras. Her email made me want to learn more about N.P.H and so I visited their website that same evening. It was that late June night, reading the testimonials of other volunteers, that I realized for the first time I could do something like this and, more importantly, I wanted to do something. A month later, I accepted a volunteer position as a Resource Teacher at N.P.H. Honduras.

I arrived here in the surprisingly cool air of January. I remember my first moments well, stepping off a packed public bus and walking up the gravel, pine-tree-lined road. It was a long walk and I was burdened not only by my backpack, but by the inevitable doubts and fears that come with change. How was I going to become a part of the lives of these kids? How was I going to spend over a year away from home? How was I going to teach my students using a language that I myself was only learning? What if I couldn’t do it? What if they didn’t like me? What if I might fail?

“What if I might fail?” seems a funny question to me now. Of course I have failed! I’ve said the wrong things, messed up explaining long division in Spanish, had moments (okay, days) of frustration and general crabbiness, gotten lost, misunderstood, and lost my patience. I am an expert in these small failures. But I see now that these failures are necessary—through them I am learning what I need to know. Learning to fail—and to learn from my failures—has been one of the greatest lessons of my time here.

I try to share this lesson with my students. As a Resource Teacher, or Aula de Recurso teacher, I work one on one with children who need additional attention outside of the regular classroom. Some of my students show signs of learning disorders and all of them have low self-confidence. My job is to provide reinforcement of the concepts being taught in the regular classroom. As we learn and practice, I try to provide a space in which they can make mistakes and learn from them, and challenge them not to give in to the fear of failure, but to be brave and risk being wrong in order to learn.

My days, as a volunteer, are long, sometimes approaching 12 hours. My job is not easy. The kids can be difficult. Some days, I am homesick or my Spanish doesn’t work or I feel invisible. So, why am I here? I am here to tuck in Armando and to see Glenda understand her homework. I am here because I am called “Auntie” and because of kids I don’t even know who run up to me and walk with me. I am here because Yefry tells me he loves me. I am here because of Ruth's sticky hands that reach up to hold mine. I am here because there are tears to be tickled away and stories that need to be told.

I am here because there is no place I would rather be. I am doing something I never thought I could do and being happier than I ever thought I would be. I am meeting amazing children and being let into their lives, having the privilege of loving them and being loved back. I don’t get a big pay check, my life is far from glamorous, but I couldn’t ask for more. It’s not easy to be a volunteer, but it is worth it. Let me tell you, it’s really worth it.

Mopping

2005-07-14T17:15:00.000-04:00

It has been a long week in the school. Sometime last week, the classroom teachers had a meeting and decided that students could not be pulled for individual attention from most classes. This turned my schedule from completely booked to nearly empty. This means that as we wait for some sort of compromise between my department and the teachers, most of my day is spent alone in my classroom reading or mopping.

Hondurans love to mop. People here mop a given space at least 2 times a day and sometimes as many as half a dozen. And there is a special technique to Honduran mopping which I am slowly perfecting. First, you don’t use a bucket. You make a mix of Aziztin (a perfumey cleaning solution that comes bottled like Gatorade in scents like apple and potpourri) and water, preferably in a discarded Aziztin bottle. You splash this mix on your swept floor and then, in long sweeps, mop the floor using a dry or slightly damp mop like a giant paintbrush. Then you clean your mop underneath an outside spigot and wring it dry using your hands. This is where I fail Honduran mopping. I refuse to use my hands to wring out a mop that has recently cleaned up lime green worm guts from my floor. Instead, I twist most of the water out using the handle and run quickly back to my room before anyone can see my dripping trail or try to give me mopping consejo, or advice. Then I hang the mop out my window to dry.

Somehow, I have come to like mopping and the bubble bath smell of Aziztin. There is comfort in seeing the rapidly-drying, artistically-shaped figure 8s on my floor. There is comfort in the routine, the ceremony of mopping. Plus, it is something to do!

When I am not mopping my classroom, I am reading or studying Spanish. My Spanish is okay, but I want it to be better. I am frustrated that I can’t say what I want to, how I want to, and when I want to. I realized yesterday that I haven’t studied Spanish for nearly 8 years and that allowed me to ease up and not be so hard on myself. I am practicing verb forms, testing myself, and swearing that one of these days I will go to the school library, pick out a novel, and read it. Or try to read it. When I read in English, I think in English and that is a problem, especially when someone interrupts me in my classroom. I can hardly talk to them and stammer a bit until they get give up on my company and leave.

Exams are in two weeks and I feel like I have given up on some of my kids passing these exams, much less their grade. I feel terrible about this, but I am not sure what to do. They are all capable of passing, just not willing to put forth the effort in my classroom, their regular classroom, or at home. What can I do to inspire them? I have tried being a cheerleader, a friend, a dictator, a mother, and a fool and used every attempt to encourage them to pay attention, do their homework, study for their tests and some of them just don’t do it. These are the ones I feel like I am letting slip through the cracks. And now with this battle to pull them out of class . . .

On a happier note, this Friday marks my 6 month anniversary here at NPH. Hannah, Jen, and I are planning a night out in Tegus. We have decided to look for a hotel nicer than Hotel Iberia where we usually stay. Hotel Iberia is a wonderfully character-building hotel featuring shared bathrooms with cold showers, windowless rooms, and an owner who insists every time on complaining about foreigners and all the beer they drink and how late they come in and how noisy they are. Still, Hotel Iberia serves its purpose. For less than $5 a night, you get a safe and relatively clean place to stay. Still, it is no place to celebrate something as important as reaching the 6 month milestone. For that we deserve hot water and a window!

We are planning a nice dinner somewhere (sushi?) and nice drinks somewhere else after that. While we´re not even half-way through our 13 months (that will fall 2 weeks later), is a big deal for us. Half a year. The older volunteers tell us it is all downhill from here. The next time we will celebrate like this we will have been here a whole year. Then we party for a month, say our goodbyes, and, ya, we are done. How strange to think about time going any faster than it has gone. It is time I suppose to think about what is next. What is next?

Las Olimpiadas

2005-07-04T21:49:00.000-04:00

Last night, after some rousing renditions of The Star Spangled Banner, My Country ´Tis of Thee, and about every vaguely patriotic song we know, the volunteers--without regard to homeland--devoured hot dogs, French fries, potato salad, and deviled eggs (or, as I tried to explain them to the Hondurans, huevos del Diablo). We huddled around 2 little American Flags and reminisced about Fourths past. Even the Germans celebrated by drinking American beer. It was a boisterous, happy celebration, but a little sad, too, as we thought of our friends and families attending barbeques, picnics, and fireworks without us. Though none of us profess to be the most patriotic, we all miss our country, our home, and all the luxuries and opportunities that go along with being an American. We know our privilege better now.

Our celebration was a bit haphazardly put together, thanks to a Ranch event held on Friday and Saturday, The Olympics or Las Olimpiadas. Las Olimpiadas are an annual event, awaited by the kids with more anticipation than a birthday. We had been planning for over a month, attending horrible meetings that always started at least 40 minutes late and accomplished nothing. In typical Honduran fashion, we waited until the week before the event to planning our dance routine, t-shirts, cheer, banner, flag, and mascot. This meant days and nights of gluing seahorses on t-shirts, painting seahorses on a banner the size of a bedsheet, forming a wire seahorse for our mascot, and putting lots of blue glitter on everything.

Our team was called Los Caballitos de Mar, or (yep, you guessed it) The Seahorses. The entire Ranch was divided into 18 teams, all named for animals in danger of extinction. Friday night, we had a night of presentations. Each group performed a dance and presented their flag and mascot. We wore our matching t-shirts which looked like blue tie-dye and the silhouette of a seahorse on the back. The dance routines featured lots of booty-shaking and some questionable costumes, but some amazing mascots and incredible dance moves. Our mascot was a wire seahorse, bigger than a person, covered in colored plastic with lights inside. It had to be carried on poles by 4 people. The event lasted from 6 until 10 pm. Afterwards, we all rushed home to bed in order to be fresh and energized for Saturday´s games.

We began Saturday with a typical Honduran breakfast of beans, plantains and mantequilla (liquidy sour cream). Then, a special Mass at 8 to kick off the games. Before I knew it, we were passing trays with full glasses of water, climbing through obstacle courses, running on plastic covered with soap and water, and running on stilts. And then there was the one game heralded by all as the best . . . La Lucha de Tirones, Tug-of –war.

You all know this game. 2 groups, one on each side of the rope, pull until one group tires and lets go or falls over. It is the same idea here, but with a new twist. Some clever person decided that mud would be a nice touch. Mud. Stinky, swampy, Honduran river mud. This tug-of-war was staged in a pit filled with mud up to our knees. You can imagine the aftermath. The rest of the day, I walked around, muddied from head to toe feeling like something from a bad horror movie.

The games ended around 4:30. We hobbled back to our rooms, muddy, bruised, bug-bitten, and exhausted. After a 20 minute cold shower that got most of the mud off, we enjoyed a special dinner of carne asada, refried beans, cheese, rice, and chimol salsa. After dinner (yes, the day just kept going), there was a dance where the winners were announced. The Seahorses took 11th, I hate to admit. The dance lasted until early morning, but I didn´t last that long. Neither did most of the younger kids who fell asleep outside the dance, using the brick wall as a pillow.

Whew. As much as I loved Las Olimpiadas, I am glad to see them go and return to a relatively meeting-free and mud-free life for a while. The new batch of volunteers have been appearing one by one. Soon, the old volunteers will leave it to us to keep the kitchen dirty and the hallways of Casa Personal un-mopped. July will be a month of hellos and goodbyes, parties (there is always a reason to celebrate) and some tears, too. If we can all survive July, August will be the beginning of our final times here, as “viejos,” the "old" volunteers. And I still feel sometimes as if I just arrived.

Well, Happy Fourth of July, everyone. I am thinking of you, tonight, beneath the fireworks, wherever you are.

It goes fast, doesn´t it

2005-06-26T11:23:00.000-04:00

I´ve been thinking about going home a lot lately--how strange the highways will look with thousands of shiny cars weaving in and out like something choreographed, how my bed will feel, how it will be to sit down with my whole family and have a meal, how I will sit with a friend at Jim´s Place and order a Blue Moon and how, just like that, it will be put in front of me, a slice of orange swirling the thin foam.

Technically, my departure date is a long way off, but lately, time has a serpentine movement--I catch a glimpse of it slipping by every now and then, but before I realize it, it is gone.

Last night, in the nearby village of La Venta, sitting around a rickety table covered in Salva Vida bottles, feet still wet from the hike, I talked with one of the volunteers who is about to finish his 13 months here and go home. He is ready to go home, but faces taking hot showers for the rest of his life and trying not to feel guilty. How do we go back and live a just life--a life in which we understand our fortune and live responsibly? Some of us will go back and forget. Some of us will go back and obsess. Where will be the healthy in-between? Is there a healthy in-between?

Somehow, this Sunday morning, I just don´t have it in me to try to find the answers. I´m sorry I don´t have much to tell you, no recent adventures to share. I just want to put down a little of what is in my head. I want you to know my questions.

Time is going fast and in what seems to be a moment, I will be stepping off a plane in Chicago with no answers.

The Rain, Finally

2005-06-08T15:48:00.000-04:00

The rainy season has begun. So far, what this means is a daily thunderstorm, usually in the late afternoon or evening. The timing is usually convenient enough and it is lovely to watch the lighting behind the mountains and fall asleep beneath my mosquito net listening to the thunder and rain. The brown, beaten hills have become fuzzy and green. The dust has settled and Tegus is once again a city appearing suddenly through the mountains, millions of small colored houses like the paper on a piñata. Trees that I never knew existed have sprouted speading, delicate leaves that reach out like glowing fingers. What an appropriate time to feel the dirty, cracked parts of me smoothed and full of life again.

I feel like a change in me has very markedly occurred during the past month. I have gone from being slightly discontented and very homesick to actually liking my life here on the Ranch, in Honduras. (This probably explains my lack of blog entries--not enough to complain about!) What an amazing thing. Before, looking at my next 8 months, I felt like a child sitting in front of a plate of broccoli or a stack of homework--nearly impossible, but required. Now, I am starting to see how much I like it here and how hard it will be to--in 8 months--leave this world that is slowly developing around me.

My mom and brother are coming to visit on Saturday. I am excited to introduce them to the life I have here, the children who feel like my own, the way the big dipper hangs upside down here, how the air smells during the rain. I am excited to hear what they thing about everything, excited to hear them compliment my Spanish, see them hug my kids, have them taste a licuado or a baleada. They will bring suitcases full of things from home: clothes and soap and contact solution. They will arrive tired and dirty and marvel at the chaos of Tegus. The pine trees on the Ranch will remind them of home. They will tell us about the things we miss, about their lives that go on without us. We will be a little sad, but wonderfully happy.

Maybe I am not writing about exciting things, maybe you are bored with me and my haphazard way with words, but I want you to know I am doing well. I am still fumbling with my Spanish, teaching less-than-expertly, not loving everyone how I want to, but I am learning to be happy.

And the rain, finally, has come.

Letter to Ellen

2005-05-13T15:49:00.000-04:00

The following is excerpted from a letter to my friend . . .

May 13, 2005

Dear Ellen,

I hope this letter finds you well. It´s hard to believe I have been here in Honduras for over 4 months now and that I have been teaching for over 3. I actually am pretty settled in my routine, so settled, actually, that it is hard to imagine my friends and family in their routines back home. It seems like time has just stopped and I am here while the rest of the world stands still and waits for me.

I still have a long way to go: 9 months. Many of the volunteers are counting down already. Some admit this, some don´t, but I am convinced we all do it. We´ve been warned that 4 months is a dangerous time--a time when we feel comfortable in our routines, but inadequate and homesick. I think this is true. I am frustrated that my Spanish isn´t as good as it should be and that my kids don´t always respond as I want them to. I am embarrased that I dream about shopping, eating sushi, and all the comforts of my former life: hot showers, washing machines, clean water, dishwashers, cars, not sleeping with mosquito nets, etc. It is hard to admit that I miss Target and going to the gym and eating yummy expensive food, food that costs more that most people here make in a month. I feel guilty for knowing I will eventually go back to all this. And I will go back. I wish I could tell you that I want to stay and give my life to these kids, but I don´t want to stay. I am looking forward to going back to a life full of privileges and opportunities. As much as I hate to admit it.

I am happy that I am here, of course, but I wonder if some of my happiness is premature, that I am happy knowing I will accomplish something with this year, that I have challenged myself and met my goal. Don´t I sound terrible?

My experience in teaching has its endless ups and downs. Some days my kids are wonderful and then the next, for no apparent reason, they are unmotivated and behave badly. It can be so frustrating. Yet, overall, I have to love them for their graciousness. They put up with my bad Spanish seeming to understand me most of the time. That´s good.

Thanks again for the books you gave me. They have long since been read--and enjoyed! I read a lot--I just finished my 22nd book since I´ve been here. I´ve read more in the past few months than in the past few years, I think. It´s not that I have a lot of free time, I really don´t. I think it is just that the entertainment options (no TV, limited computer time, nowhere to go, limited people to hang out with) and need to escape a little. What a good habit though! I feel lucky to be able to read so much.

I miss you and hope to hear from you soon,

Amelia

P.S. Did I tell you I bribe my kids with stickers? And candy?

P.P.S. Bribery works.

Back to the Brewery

2005-05-08T21:36:00.000-04:00

This weekend, Jen (our honorary cousin who has a strong liking for candied peanuts), Hannah, and I headed north to Lago Yojoa, an immense and spooky lake about 3 hours away to spend the weekend eating the rica food and drinking the homemade beer at D & D Brewery, a small hotel in the middle of a coffee plantation. The Brewery is in the little town of Los Naranjos near, but not on, the lake. Hannah and I had been there once before and had been completely charmed by the friendly atmosphere, good music (Reggae, Bluegrass, Classic Rock), awesome food, and fine selection of beer.

That night, though tempted to go to bed at 7:30, we managed to wander into town to socialize at the one and only nightspot, a billiards hall. We lasted about an hour and after being accompanied home by our guard dog, a German shepherd belonging to the brewery, we were in bed by 9, tired from our day(we worked on the Ranch until 1 p.m and traveled all afternoon).

In the morning we had some lovely blueberry pancakes and 3 cups of coffee each beneath the poolside thatched roof hut which serves as D & D’s dining area. We let breakfast draw itself out and chatted a bit with some of the other guests, a pair of brothers from Delaware. After breakfast, we headed for Pulpanzak (no, this is not the correct spelling) waterfall.

Click here to see a picture of this unspellable wonder:

http://www.molotov.no/storebilder/pack5/6.jpg

An old farmer took us the final leg and let us off on a dirt road that was marked with a sign that said the waterfall was somewhere nearby. We walked through what we supposed to be the town of San Buenaventura, a string of small houses, a small circular center, and flowering trees in every lovely color you can think of. It was less than a mile down the road to the waterfall.

The waterfall was as wonderful as any waterfall you have seen or imagined. We climbed down the muddy rocks to swim in a deep, green pool at its base. The water was cool, clear and sweet. We were the only people there. We stayed in the water even though we were beginning to shiver just because we couldn’t bear to leave it.

We spent the afternoon and night relaxing. One of the brothers played the little guitar he had bought in Mexico and we all sang.

A boy is playing guitar,
I don’t know his name,
it feels too late to ask.
He sings off key,
but breathy and beautiful.
He doesn’t know how we are feeling,
but sings as if he did.
The crickets don’t know the song,
but sing along anyway.
The music is not in our key,
but we know all the words.
We sing together--
happy and warm strangers.

After the singing we had dinner and after dinner, we returned to the billiards hall, this time unaccompanied by our perro bravo. Half a beer later, we found ourselves nearly run out of the place by the stares and annoying comments of the men. Some men followed us home as if we were scared Pied Pipers. Of course, the men meant us no harm, they maybe had been heading home or were simply interested in the 3 gringas who were brave enough to drink a beer at their billiards hall.

Today, we and the brothers (we did learn their names, by the way) hitchhiked back to Tegus. The boys were headed for Nicaragua, determined to cross the border today. Our final jalon was kind enough to let us 3 girls off in the center of Tegus and take the boys to their bus station across the river in Comayaguela. We grabbed our backpacks, now laden with the Brewery’s fabulous banana bread and candied peanuts, said our quick goodbyes and found ourselves back in the real world of the vendor-packed sidewalks of Tegus. We bought some last treats of cut mangoes and iced lattes and, a little bit sad to leave our weekend behind, headed home back through the dusty countryside.

I am eating ripe mangoes
without using my hands,
sucking them from the plastic bag,
each one slippery, harvest moon slivers.
They leave me with strings in my teeth
to pick out with dirty fingers not caring who watches
as I pass by in the back of a pick-up,
someone else’s gringa.

Good Things, Small Things

2005-04-23T10:35:00.000-04:00

This month marks my 3-month anniversary on the Ranch. Despite many challenges and failures, there have been some good things too and I want to share them with you in celebration of my survival of these hard and crucial first months.

*Speaking enough Spanish to teach my students, barter with street vendors, and tell crazy men in Tegus to stop bothering me.

*Killing scorpions without remorse.

*Playing my first game of soccer and scoring my first goal! (All in the same game--Colegio teachers vs. Escuela teachers during recess yesterday. The kids thought it was the greatest thing--their teachers playing "futbol"--and all gathered around to watch, cheer, and offer strategical advice.) My team won, by the way--4 to 0.

*Being able to disregard chunks of milk in my coffee (we use powered milk and it gets sort of clumpy at times).

*Asking for things I need and sharing what I do have without hesitation.

*Earning respect and trust from my kids. They are beginning to tell me their stories.

*Swimming in the Caribbean and in the Pacific ocean, listening to Bob Marley in a beachside fish joint, drinking mango beer at a brewery in the middle of a coffee plantation.

*Making friends here who support me, put up with me, and generally seem to like me.

*All of my 6th graders passing their Bimester 1 classes--one of my students had the highest Spanish grade in her entire class! 97%!

*Seeing the love of my friends and family back home through their prayers, emails, letters, and amazing care packages.

*Spending the night in a stranger´s home because the only hotel in town was full.

*Growing fond of cold showers, lately wishing they could be colder.

These are some of my small victories. No matter how small, I am still proud of them. I guess that is another lesson learned for me--to be able to rejoice in these small, good things.

The Crucial Word

2005-04-10T12:30:00.000-04:00

“ . . . Be sure to learn the crucial word jalón.”
–Moon Handbook-Honduras

Let’s go back for a minute to my first day in Tegus. I am on the bus with Elizabeth, Jen, and Hannah. There are no seats left and there are so many people I can hardly breathe, someone’s butt is rubbing against me and it does not belong to one of my friends. People are staring at the gringas with steady, unabashed eyes and we know we cannot hide the fact we are freshly-arrived. We have full backpacks and there is no room in the luggage rack above the seats. It is a hot day and not everyone on the bus is willing to lower their windows due to dust and smoke. Dark blue curtains cover the windows and we have no idea where we are going, much less how we are going to know where to get off. A woman is kindly holding my backpack, but I am nervous about that too. What if she is not really just a nice old grandmother, but a thief, undercover in her roomy flowered dress?

A few minutes into our ride, it is time to collect fares. The bus driver’s assistant walks down the aisle of the bus and collects our fare of 10 lempiras (about 50 cents). In theory, this would work just fine, but, remember, we are packed into the bus as tightly as a box of crayons. The bus lurches forward, we lurch forward. The bus nearly falls off a steep mountain road, we nearly fall into the laps of the old men that will not stop looking at us. Someone’s butt is still touching me. Things don’t get better. 45 long minutes later, sweaty and cranky, we arrive at the Ranch.

Whether you’re traveling for 10 minute or 10 hours, this is Honduran mass transit. But, thank goodness, there is another option. As the good ol’ Moon Handbook puts it (authoritatively, although a bit dry): “Not only is hitching safe and convenient in Honduras, but riding in the open air in the back of the pick-up beats being crammed into a hot bus for a few hours.” Here, in Honduras, we go by jalón.

Jalón (pronounced ha-lone) translates to something like “big pull,” but it is used here to mean relying on the kindness of strangers to let you hop in the back of their truck and hop out somewhere down the road–be it a few miles or a few hundred. We volunteers, in English, use “jalón” like a verb. For instance, “We are jalóning to Tela this weekend,” but in Spanish it works as a noun, “Vamos por jalón” (literally, We go by jalón).

There really is no better way to see the country than stretching your legs, leaning back on your backpack and seeing it all fly by in the back of a pick-up. When you travel por jalón, there’s no need for bus schedules (not that the buses run on schedules here) or tickets, there’s no risk of not having a seat or missing a connection. When you travel por jalón all you need is a little faith and the humility to rely on someone else to take you where you want to go. It is a pretty amazing thing to have traveled across the country, thanks to the people who helped you along your way and asked for nothing in return.

By the way, don´t do this at home. Seriously. Traveling by jalón is generally safe (unless you consider blasting Bryan Adams dangerous) and is a part of the way of life here in Honduras. Please know I do not endorse hitchhiking in general, especially in the United States where you will surely get picked up by a murderer or lonely trucker.

Waiting

2005-03-29T17:36:00.000-05:00

"What always happens," she said. "You have a hard, terrible winter; then it ends."
--Girls by Frederick Busch

How is the weather where you are?

The past two weeks have been hot, the hottest since I arrived, with the thermostat reaching past 90. With this heat (though, perhaps, not because of it) a sense of anxiousness has arrived. No, not quite anxiousness, I am just not sure what it is.

Last night, sitting at a dinner table in my hogar, one of the Tías set down a plate of food in front of me and told me it was for another Tía. In other words, or really without words, that I was not welcome to sit there. Why? We don´t have assigned seats, no one had been sitting there before me, I had sat there on other nights. I didn´t ask. I have learned that the answers to these questions aren´t worth hearing.

It had been a long day at school, at hogar one of the kids had thrown my eyeglasses on the ground, and another had pinched me. I just couldn´t handle anything more. And so I left. I got up without saying a word, grabbed my lousy dinner (a spoonfull of greenish scrambled eggs, a dab of cold beans, and a cotton-ball-sized hunk of cheese) and went to my room, holding back tears all the way.

Besides being hot, this is how my past two weeks have been. Small things representing big problems, overwhelming problems, ones I cannot solve. I am realizing that the biggest lessons I will learn this year aren´t about speaking Spanish and working with kids. This year is about learning how to fail, how to be humble.

It sounds so romantic, "I am volunteering at an orphanage in Honduras, teaching struggling kids." All of us volunteers came with some kind of light in our eyes--be they stars or city lights or the glowing end of a cigarette. Whether we admit it or not, we were all hoping for a few Dead Poet´s Society moments. They´re not going to happen, these moments. I might make a difference here--I hope I do--but I will likely never know it. My life here is the opposite of romantic and, lately, not very rewarding.

If I were in Wisconsin, I would be waiting for the warmer air and icy daffodils of spring. Here, on the Ranch, we are waiting for the rain. We are waiting for relief. And I am waiting for my winter to end.

Jueves Santo

2005-03-24T23:12:00.000-05:00

Holy Week on the Ranch is a week full of intense reflection. Shadows of suffering darken the nights and even the full, fuzzy moon seems to hang in waiting, waiting for the joy of Easter morning, the day that breaks our sadness. Easter seems a long way off, although it is only 2 days away.

Tonight, in a chapel lit only by candles, we knelt in silence and prayed for all the suffering in the world. I found myself crying for the never-ending sadness, the desperate people, the children without families. I cried for my own family, so far away, and for all the families separated by miles or by histories. I cried for the lives of the children here who I love so much more than I ever could have imagined, for their lives lived before coming here, for their challenges in the future. For the fact that in a year I will leave them. I cried for those who are alone, who have no hope, who are full of hate.

I cried too for my own moments of hate, the suffering I cause.

I have a picture of a heart on the inside of the door of my room. I put it there to remind myself--every time I leave my room--to love the people I don´t want to love. The awful thing is, I forget to look at that heart all the time. Sometimes I walk by people and look right past them because they might return my hello with a scowl or ignore me. I get irritated and unkind. I am revengeful or jealous or ungrateful. I give in to fear by not giving other people a chance, or a second chance, and forgetting why I am here. Love is a hard thing and I am not very good at it.

I am awaiting Easter like I never have before. This year, there will be no Easter eggs, but there will be light to end these dark days. Our celebration on Sunday begins at 4 a.m. with a bonfire and candlelit processional. Even in the darkness of early morning, there will be bright light. With this light will be hope and a new beginning for all of us.

Vamos A La Playa

2005-03-19T21:10:00.000-05:00

Someone had taped aspirin to the belly-buttons of the kids of Casa Suyapa, supposedly so that they wouldn´t throw up on the 4 hour bus trip to Amapala, a beach town on the South coast of Honduras. Also, they were each issued a plastic bag before we left. I had no idea why, but I didn´t bother asking. I´ve learned not to ask about a lot of things here.

We were not out of Teguc when I found out. Conveniently, the first kid had to "hacer pi-pi" when our bus was stopped with a flat tire. Not less than 10 minutes later, back on the road, he had to go again. Out came the bag. When he was done, it was tied shut and thrown out the window to join the piles of garbage that fill the ditches along every highway. In theory, the bag idea works great. Unless they have holes in them. And there were holes. Oh yeah, and the aspirin-in-bellybutton idea . . . doesn´t work.

I should have taken the bags of pi-pi and vomit as some kind of omen. Get off the bus now, Amelia. But no, I didn´t listen. I was going to the beach. With more than 50 little kids. For 5 whole days.

About 4 hours and 8 bags of bodily fluids later, we arrived at the Southern shore of Honduras. From there, we took a military boat over to the island of El Tigre. We stayed outside of the sleepy fishing village of Amapala at the Naval Base. Yes, you heard me right, a Naval Base.

A volcanic mountain shadows the island and at night, turns into a threatening curve blacker than the sky and void of stars. Amapala was a 15 minute walk from the base, through brick streets filled with mango trees and barking dogs. The beaches were 15 minutes in the other direction. The volcanic sand was black and the water a greenish grey. Offshore there were mountainous islands and, at night, we could see the lights of El Salvador. The kids gorged themselves on the small green mangos and funny-looking marañones that grew on the base.

There weren´t many soldiers on the base. The few that were there eyed us four gringas with serious, ceaseless fascination and marched around in a mix of camo and cut-off blue jeans chanting semi-vulgar rhymes to keep their pace. It was a functioning base--guards and machine guns guarded the entrance casually--but the whole place had a thrown-together feel as if it was a newly-run or falling-apart operation. Is Honduras was really depending on this base to defend its shore?

All 70 of us slept in one big room with mattresses sprawled out like thick carpeting. We woke up with the kids around 6 every day. As soon as the kids saw that we were awake, they would run over and climb into bed with us. Even the older kids loved to snuggle with us as we were waking up. As hard as it was to wake up so early, to so many excited and crying kids, seeing the love (what else could it be?) in their eyes as they rushed to cuddle with me made it my favorite part of the day. I suppose it was the easiest part of the day, too. No one had hit anyone yet, no one had gotten mad because they didn´t want to brush their teeth, no one had jumped on my sunburned shoulders and ignored my cries of pain. We were all fresh and as ready as we would be for the day.

After brushing their teeth twice (once before and once after breakfast--what was the point?) and slathering sunscreen on the kids (not waterproof--what was the point?), we were off to the beach. We spent the morning swimming in the calm, still water and building dark "castillos de arena," sand castles, decorating them by dripping watery sand on them for a gothic look. After lunch, the water was rough with waves. All of the adults would line up parallel to shore, to keep the kids contained and visible, and we all would jump and play in the waves. The Tíos (the kids´caretakers) seemed to enjoy this as much as the kids. Miraculously, no one drowned.

We we returned to the base, it was time for showers. We had 2 showers for all the kids. The girls used one, the babies the other, and the boys showered outside at a spigot. After showers was dinner and after dinner--whew!--the kids went to bed. By 8 every day, they were sound asleep, dreaming of another day of eating mangoes and swimming in the salty, opaque water of La Tigre.

After 8, we would walk into the town of Amapala, through the humid air and night sounds of whispering people and clucking chickens. We would walk out onto the pier with its staircase that disappeared into the rough sea or go and have a beer on the porch of a restaurant there. Our last night on La Tigre, we were invited to the Club on the base by a soldier who had befriended us during our visit. He spoke English perfectly, having attended the Naval Academy in Annapolis. He treated us to Bahía, a light Corona-like beer, on the deck high above the wild sea and practiced his English.

Now--with the exception of the bags of pi-pi--it sounds like not a bad week, right? Well, I kind of left out the bad things. I don´t want to dwell on them, but still, you should know . . .

Mean Tíos (some of them HATE the volunteers--who knows why?)
2 bathrooms for 70 people
Bathroom doors with no locks
Not one minute alone in 5 days
Blistering (literally) sunburn
All our stuff getting soaked on the boat
Scary soldier who was in love with Annie (volunteer)
Katerine (one of the kids) falling out of a tree and having to get stitches
Mind-blowing heat and humidity
Mean Tíos
Mean Tíos

Yep, the Tíos were really mean to us. I don´t know why and I probably never will. Not all of them, of course. But a few of them either ignore us, refusing to learn our names or even say hello, or are blatantly mean to us, making snide comments at every opportunity. I am not going to say more about this, but be assured, some of them can be quite terrible to us. This made the week even harder.

Overall it was an extremely stressful dotted with beautiful moments. All of us are peeling and tired, but recovering. And yesterday, I noticed nearly 10 little girls with their hair in two braids--exactly the way I had worn my hair all 5 days of our trip. Seeing those braids made the whole week worthwhile.

Routine

2005-03-13T14:20:00.000-05:00

As I am heading toward my 2 month mark here on Rancho Santa Fe and also entering into 2 weeks which are completely an exception to my daily routine (camping with my hogar this week, Holy Week, next week), I am thinking about my routine, the patterns of my life here.

My day begins at 6 am. I get up, dressed (no shower--too cold in the mornings), make coffee (instant), eat yogurt and granola, read a little, and by 7:10 begin my walk to the school.

It takes me 20 minutes to walk to school. It should only take 15 minutes or less, but all the kids are walking to school at the same time. They are in no hurry to start classes and walk really slow. If I happen to run into some of my little kids from Casa Suyapa it pretty much gaurantees me that I will be late as they all want to hold my hand, peek into my bag (hoping for storybooks), and walk with me. My walk takes me past the main kitchen, past Casa Suyapa, past Talleres (workshops), through an open savanna-type plain, and over a little bridge.

The school is a collection of open-air brick buildings. There is no glass or screens in the windows, only bars. I have one curtain in my classroom which I have tied to the bars, trying to keep the dusty wind out. Sometimes I could scream at the wind (sometimes I do scream) because it constantly is tearing things off the walls, dirtying my room, and making it hard to work. The comedor (cafeteria) is a wall-less pavilion in the middle of the buildings with some metal tables and chairs. Most of the school buildings are centered around a courtyard which has several brightly blooming trees and a flag-less flagpole.

The school day starts at 7:30. There are 8 periods, a recreo (recess) and time for aseo (chores). Classes end at 1:15. The class periods are usually 40 minutes and bells ring to announce the periods. However, some days there are randomly no bells and most days the bells ring 5 minutes early of 5 minutes late. I am always changing my watch, trying to align it with the bells, but to no avail. Therefore, I am always early or late for everything.

During the day, I meet with approximately 5 of my students individually. I set a schedule based on the students´s classes and pull them out of certain "less-important" subjects during the day. The hard part is finding the kids. I work with kids from 3 different classes with 3 different schedules. My schedule changes every week as well, so that the same kids don´t keep missing the same classes. I don´t have the schedules for the kids´ classes (it wouldn´t really help if I did since the schedules always change, too) and so I have to run around the school trying to look for my students.

There is no time in the school schedule between classes. For intstance, 1st period ends at 8:10 and 2nd period begins at 8:10 as well. Obviously, it takes a few minutes for the kids to pack up and walk to their next class, so classes always start late. By the time I find the kid, class has already started and I have to interrupt the teacher to ask permission to pull out my student. This is annoying to both me and the teacher. Annoying, but accepted and unavoidable.

The best thing about the school is the caseta. The caseta is a little snack bar. If I have an hour off, I sometimes go sit in the caseta and get a Pepsi and a baleada (flour tortilla with beans, cheese and cream) or whatever´s cooking. If I am lucky, my friend Jen, an English teacher, happens to have an hour off and joins me and we sit there listening to cheesy American music on the boombox. My belly usually starts to rumble mid-morning--we don´t get lunch until 1:30 and 7 hours without a snack is a long time!

On Monday and Tuesdays, I stay at school until 4:00 meeting with 2 students in the afternoon. After class, I walk my students back to their hogares and make it home by 4:30. I then have time to jump in the shower and change into kid-friendly clothes (jeans, t-shirt, no jewelry, hair in a ponytail).

From 5:30-7:30 every night I am in my hogar. Oftentimes, after hogar we have some sort of meeting. If there´s no meeting, sometimes I´ll walk down to Casa Personal and hang out with some of the other volunteers. If dinner was bad--sopa de menudo or boiled plátanos, for example--we might make some pasta. Socializing doesn´t last long. I am usually in bed by 10:30 aiming for my 8 hours.

Every other weekend is a work weekend. On a work weekend, I spend Friday night with my hogar, from dinner until bedtime (usually 9 or 9:30) and all day Saturday (9 a.m. until 9:30 p.m.). Saturday mornings, the kids do chores. Lunch is at 1. Mass is at 4. Dinner at 6 and then some kind of activity, watching a movie or having a bonfire in the night.

2 weekends a month, we have our salida. From 1 p.m. on Friday until Monday morning at 7:30, we are free to do whatever we like. My last salida, two weeks ago, I went to Tela, a beach town on the Carribean coast. This weekend, I hung out a bit in Teguc and now am back on the Ranch taking it easy.

Last night, some of the volunteers and I walked to La Venta. La Venta is a small town about a 30 minute walk through the woods from the ranch. There is a pulperia (little snack shop/bar) there and we sat around and had some beers, and enjoyed the breeze. The pulperia is a little shack of a place, with turquiose blue walls and plants growing out of old pots and coffee cans. There are a few benches and beer crates to sit on and a makeshift checkerboard and bottle caps if you feel like a game of checkers. Outside the yard is full of rusting car parts and tires. A huge coconut tree looms over the garden of junk. The beers are cheap--about 75 cents--and you take what you get. Different kinds of beer, cans, bottles, whatever they feel like serving. You keep all the cans and bottles on the table until the end of the night as a way of keeping track of what you owe.

Today, I am still enjoying the luxury of my salida, catching up with emails, packing to go camping, reading and relaxing. Tomorrow, I leave for a 5 day adventure to Amapala with my Hogar. Anapala is a town on a volcanic island on the South (Pacific) coast. I am not sure what to expect camping with 50 little kids for 5 days, but be sure I´ll let you all know how it goes. If you would like to see Amapala, click on the following link to see a photo of the beach there.

http://www.travelblog.org/Photos/12726.html

Happy Easter, everyone. Be sure to check back here in a week or two to learn about my adventure in Amapala and to hear about our Semana Santa on the Ranch.

Laughing

2005-03-04T20:28:00.000-05:00

Every day, I have a good laugh. Sometimes the laughter is joyful, other days I laugh out of desperation. Lately, I must admit, there has been some maniacal laughter coming from my room!

My life here is full of funny challenges. Take, for instance, my job. I am a teacher here on the Ranch. I work one on one with 4th and 6th graders who are having difficulties in school. Some of my kids probably have learning disabilities, others just need more time to grasp a concept, some have behavioral issues. I work with 10 students, meeting with them 3 times a week individually. The subjects I teach are Spanish (!) and Math. Those of you who know me, know how I am lacking in math skills, and all of you can figure out the hilarity (irony?) of me teaching Spanish in my own bad Spanish. I have no choice but to laugh. Most of the time, my kids are teaching me more about Math and Spanish than I am teaching them.

My days are long, my job is difficult. There are moments I want to give up and go home, moments I feel unappreciated, days I fail at everything. There are times when my kids are mean to me and each other, times with the kitchen is out of food and I am hungry, days when my Spanish just doesn´t seem to be working, days when there´s no electricity or water, moments in which I am invisible.

As I am ready to get out my luggage, something always stops me. A kid running up to me, grabbing my hand, and walking with me without caring where I am going. Or an impossibly faraway voice screaming, "¡Amelia! ¡Hola!". Or a letter in my mailbox from one of you. These things keep my clothes upacked and my heart laughing.

Amelia Vs. The Bacteria

2005-02-11T19:21:00.000-05:00

You will all be relieved to know I am alive. I won my first fight with bacteria this morning.

It began innocently enough on Wednesday afternoon. After working diligently all morning in my classroom to have it decorated and clean for the start of the new school year on Monday, I spent the afternoon relaxing in my room. On my way to hogar, I had a sudden bout of stomach cramps which prompted me to run to the nearest restroom.

That was the start of nearly 48 hours of misery: dizziness, achiness, diarrhea, stomach ache. You name it, I had it. From Wednesday night until this morning, I left my room only for the purpose of delivering messages to various important people as to why I would be missing their various, important events. My constant goal was to be near a bed (preferably mine) and a toilet (preferably unoccupied).

This morning, I wake up early, around 6 and find that I am feeling better. Yay! Since I had already informed the school I would not be at work today, I go back to bed, ready for a day of recuperation. I lay there in a luxurious mix of pleasant dreams and the slight recognition of being awake and remembering the dreams. My siesta is interrupted at 8 by a knock at my door. It is the pharmacist, a volunteer from Germany, who is in charge of the Ranch clinics.

She tells me that I should go to the clinic to be seen by the doctor as there are several other volunteers who have been stricken with this same illness. I explain to her that I am feeling better. She insists that I go. She is not one to be reckoned with, so I agree. She asks if I am okay to walk. Yes, I tell her, I am. I will go.

The external clinic is about a 15 minute walk (if you are healthy and long-legged) from my room. 20 minutes later I arrive, sweaty and exhausted. I spy my a nurse, my friend Elizabeth, let her know I am here, sent by the pharmacist. Elizabeth knows nothing of this and there are no other droopy-eyed volunteers clutching rolls of toilet paper in sight. Only the Honduran people who have come in from neighboring villages, waiting to see the doctor, watching me curiously. Elizabeth calls the pharmacist. I am at the wrong clinic.

I journey back, praying for a pick-up to drive along and give me a ride. 25 minutes later, sweatier than before, I arrive at the internal clinic which is located less than a block from my room.

(In case you are wondering why I didn´t´t go to the internal clinic in the first place . . . First, I have never been to the internal clinic and have been told it is only open in the afternoons. Second, I honestly had never seen it before today as it is tucked back behind the main office. Thirdly, and most importantly, I was truly delusional from being so sick and having walked so far.)

They are expecting me. They have done stool samples on all 4 of us and found bacteria of some sort. I am shown to a bed in a room with 2 other sick volunteers (the 4th sick volunteer is male and is therefore not permitted to set foot in our room) and told that I will be called when the doctor is ready to see me. It is 9 a.m. I feel fine.

Seven, yes, seven long hours later, at 4 p.m. the doctor arrives. She comes into our room, talks with us in rapid, mumbled Spanish, asking us our symptoms. I tell her. She leaves the room abruptly, saying nothing. My friend Annie (a nurse here, also sick) follows her and comes back a few minutes later having just persuaded the doctor not to give us IV´s! Instead we get a handful of antibiotics, some hydration salts, some liquid anti-cramping medicine, and vague instructions in Spanish on what to do with them.

I can tell you what I did with them. Left them on my bed and went and ate supper. After 2 days of oatmeal, those pancakes sure tasted good! (And so far, no mad dashes to the bathroom!)

Then There Were Seven

2005-02-04T21:00:00.000-05:00

On Wednesday, after 2+ weeks of living in a room of 8 girls, I packed my bags. How amazing it was to see all I´ve accumulated in only 3 weeks. I loaded up rolls of toilet paper (a truly valuable thing), smushed my "new" jeans in my backpack, wrapped up my plate and cup, rolled up my blanket and sheets, and dusted off my luggage.

I put on my backpack and started my trek. I walked by Casa Eva (where the abuelos--grandparents--live), past Padre Renayldo´s house with its colorful porch and tidy garden, past the beloved internet house and main office, to my new home on the hill.

¡Que suerte! Hannah and I were fortunate enough to be assigned a room outside of Casa Personal where most volunteers live, 20 to a kitchen, for their year here. The privilege of living outside Casa Personal is usually reserved for the older (either in age or duration of stay here) volunteers, so we are really quite lucky. (Casa Personal is not a bad place, but definitely resembles a crowded college dorm at times . . . well, all the time, really.)

We have a gorgeous little room with a red tile floor and wooden ceiling and, most wonderfully, windows on 3 of the 4 walls. It is bright and airy with views of the mountains. We have "real" plumbing (translation: a toilet that you don´t have to manually fill with water and then stick your hand into to flush), lace curtains, and a walk-in closet (seriously!). My friend Elizabeth (college roomate, freshman year) and I currently share the room, and Hannah will move in after Elizabeth leaves next weekend.

I go back to Casa Personal to visit sometimes, but, is always nice to end my day in my new room. As Elizabeth puts it, bedtime is the best time of day. I will be heading there shortly.

Click here to see some photos!

2005-02-01T21:25:00.000-05:00

http://www.ofoto.com/I.jsp?c=sqixgqe.u0g2gk2&x=0&y=asigs7

My Birthday (or The Egging)

2005-01-28T13:14:00.000-05:00

Thanks to many of your kind wishes and the enthusiasm of my sister and my co-voluntarios I had a wonderful, memorable 25th birthday on Rancho Santa Fe.

The day (this past Sunday, the 23rd) started in the Ranch computer lab where I was surprised by Elizabeth who came bearing a card and a piece of cake. No ordinary cake, mind you. This was from the best cake shop in Teguc. The top and bottom were dense, moist chocolate cake and the middle were 2 thick layers of chocolate and vanilla mousse. I took one bite and decided to save the rest for later so as to fully enjoy the luxurious chocolate treat. (I did save it for later, in case you are wondering. I ate it about 10 minutes later, sharing a few bites with my friends.)

Then, accompanied by my sister and some fellow volunteers, we headed into Teguc. We had the best pizza at this great local place, Pizza Hut. Yum. Greasier than in the states, but a luxury none the less. We even had free refills of Pepsi and ice in our glasses. Danijel alerted the staff to the fact it was my birthday and I received a TGI Friday-style serenade at our table and a balloon animal.

We then hit up one of the American Clothing stores. These shops dot the city center and the precise equivalent to a US thrift shop. (Exept without all the junk and grumbly, disheveled clerks.) These shops sell only used clothing and linens and are staffed by salegirls who take the clothes you want to try on and reserve a dressing room for you as if you were Renee Zellweger shopping for Chanel. Almost everything at these stores is some sort of brand name, the condition is usually good, and the prices are affordable. After a search of nearly 5 years, I actually found jeans that fit. 2 pairs! And a pair of black capris for school and a retro tennis zip-up sweater (thanks, Hannah!). Now, with bluejeans, I finally feel I am back in the fashion of the rest of the world. Funny that I searched all over the US for jeans and found them in Honduras. What other questions will be answered here?

We shopped and did other errands (internet\phone\groceries) for the rest of the afternoon and returned to the Ranch late in the day.

Upon our arrival, we discovered that the electricity had gone out (a fairly regular occurrence, so I´ve been told). With only a few more hours of daylight, we scurried to make our preparations for the evening´s fiesta. (Did you really think I could let my birthday pass without a party?) Hannah and Danjiel worked on the Sangria; I chopped veggies for the salsa. We hauled wood from the kitchen to Casa Personal for the bonfire. I was banished to the terrace so some surprise preparations could be made. (Balloons, party hats, and a birthday banner! Thanks everyone.)

The generators came on sometime after dark, so Duffy and Margot were able to make me some wonderful from-scratch brownies (with eggs begged from the kitchen) and we had a couple hours of power to finish our work for the party.

Sometime around 8:30, with Elizabeth´s expertise, we started the fire. People began to join us with an odd collection of mugs and cups full of Sangria (I was using a one of the pitchers coffee shops use to steam milk). The fire was wonderful, the Sangria was amazing (full of wine and rum and watermelon, apples, oranges, pineapple, and other lucious fruits), and before long we were singing and generally making merry.

Around 11, a few of the "older" volunteers appeared with candles and sang me the birthday song that is traditionally sung here. It is complicated and long, but very nice, of course. I was enjoying the music and the candles and musing on the fact that since we were short on eggs I had managed to escape the Honduran tradition of smashing raw eggs on one´s head on his/her birthday. Just as the song ended and I was about to thank everyone for their efforts and alert my comrades to my happiness regarding the egg shortage . . .

3 eggs came smashing down on my head, whites and yolks dripped down my face, egg shells imbedded themselves in my hair. After I recovered from the shock, I immediately thanked the benefactors of this gift with big, eggy hugs.

Then I took a (cold) shower.

Happiness and Hogares

2005-01-20T22:30:00.000-05:00

This weekend marks some important milestones for me--important in big and small ways.

Friday will mark 2 weeks for me in Honduras, Saturday completes my first week at Rancho Santa Fe, and Sunday is my 25th birthday.

I can´t believe I have only been here for 2 weeks. It could easily be 2 months. My life in the states seems so faraway it is almost as if it never existed at all. The transition (was there really a transistion or did I just wake up here one day?) has been surprisingly easy for me--I think this is because (for once) I am doing the right thing at the right time. I have no doubts that this is where I am supposed to be right now. An amazing thing.

Every day brings new levels of emotions. Happiness exists in plenty here, which makes no sense (which, in turn, makes it all the more beautiful). The children who live here have been through all imaginable horrors (death of their parents, abandonment, physical and sexual abuse, any other horrible thing you can imagine) yet they run up to me and want to be held and cuddled, they tell me my hair is pretty, that I am nice, that I speak Spanish well. They are safe here and they are free to love their caretakers, teachers, and volunteers.

There are 600 children who live on the ranch ranging in age from newborn to "kids" even older than I (University students, usually). They live in hogares (loose translation: homes) which are segregated by gender (except for the babies) and age (roughly). There are 20-25 kids in each hogar. Their caretakers are called Tíos and Tías (Uncles and Aunts). Each night, we volunteers spend 2 hours in a hogar. We eat dinner with the kids, help with homework, talk and play. This allows us to develop personal relationships with the kids.

Right now, we are in orientation and have been going to a different hogar every night. It is definitely very stressful and draining to be meeting so many new kids every night and trying to put forth 2 hours of good Spanish and trying to remember their names and so forth. The kids can be trying. They like to play a game I call "¿Como me llamo? (What is my name?) where they come up to you and ask the aforementioned question even though they know full well you don´t know (or remember) their name. They think it is funny. And it is--especially when I ask them the same question back and they can´t remember my name! Sweet revenge.

Despite the stress involved in visiting these hogares, it is AWESOME. It gives me a chance to hang out one on one with the kids, talk to them, play with them, try to begin to understand their lives. They can be quite complicated, but most of them are so ready to put their head on my shoulder, read a book with me, or talk about their lives (and ask about mine). I have met some great kids. I love them all incredibly. I don´t know how to describe it. It is unlike anything I have ever experienced--probably as close as I can get to knowing the love parents have for their kids without actually being a parent. It is amazing.

After we have visited all hogares, we will make our top choices known and then be assigned to a single hogar for the rest of the year. We will spend 2 hours there every night.

To my friends and family who read this blog, please know that I am safe and happy. I am the safest and happiest I have ever been. I love it here and invite all of you to come and visit. I want the world to know about these wonderful children. I want you to be able to hold them like I can.

I miss and love you all.

Aqui estoy en el Rancho!

2005-01-17T21:26:00.000-05:00

A spanish rap song is blaring in my head. It is called "Gasolina." You don´t want to know the words. You really don´t. Estan muy sucias.

It is my head because I spent the last 2 hours with 20 + chicas (in their early teens) here on The Ranch. They were doing some serious dancing and, of course, persuaded me to get in on the action.

Yes, El Rancho Santa Fe is truly a special place. It is about 22 miles outside of Tegucigalpa, Honduras. Teguc is a big city (1 million people, I think) full of big city things like noise and dirt and crime--the ranch is the complete opposite. It is a spacious home in the countryside, surrounded by mountains. It is an immense place safe from the perils of the big city.

We are pleasantly isolated. It is about a 15 minute walk from Casa Personal (where I live with the other volunteers) to the front gate of The Ranch. From the front gate, it is a 45 minute bus ride to Cerro Grande (outside of Teguc´s downtown) and from there, a 15 minute ride in a "colectivo" (kind of a taxi) to the city center. The bus ride can certainly be rough. The buses are retired school buses from the United States, often in bad condition, and run on erratic schedules. The drivers assistant´s job is to pack the people on, so often, we end up standing pressed up against strange men and women in a rickety school bus racing on crumbling roads. It is bearable, but not fun. In theory, the second half of the bus ride from Teguc to the Ranch is quite beautiful: green fields, mountains, small shops and homes along the way.

The first half is the most difficult. The bus passes by the dump (el crematorio) which smells so terrible I have to breathe through my mouth. The dump nearly overfills its lot, spilling garbage down the hills onto the road. The most sickening thing is that lives are lived out in the crematorio--men and women and children work there every day, digging through the garbage, looking for things to recycle and sell. It is horrific beyond words.

The Ranch could not be more starkly different than Teguc and the outerlying areas. It is filled with pine trees, banana trees, and all sorts of green. Paved paths run from building to building. The buildings are often built around a central courtyard and are tidy (mostly) and homey. The Ranch exists on a plot of 2000 acres. Yep, it is a HUGE place. I had no idea.

Hannah and I are currently living in Casa Personal where many of the volunteers live. The volunteers who have been here longer (some will be leaving in February) share double rooms complete with a private bathroom (nice!). The new volunteers (us) are in dorms. We have 8 girls in one room. Si, es la verdad! Can you believe it? What a challenge.

We share a bathroom with several sinks, toilets, and showers. There is no hot water. It is icy cold. This doesn´t seem so bad seeing as Honduras is a hot place, right? Well, es una mentira (it´s a lie). It has been COLD. Probably in the 50s! Very cold for the skirts, t-shirts, and flip flops I brought with me. Very cold for COLD showers. The plumbing is altogether interesting. The dirty water from the sinks drains into the toilets and, in order, to flush you must do a pretty complicated operation involving sticking your hand in the tank and pulling the lever up.

I could go on and on about everything and I want to. But today was a long day. Our first day of orientation. I am completely exhausted. I will write more later and respond to my accumulating collection of emails. Until then . . . buenas noches.

Finding the Masochist in Me

2005-01-13T20:03:00.000-05:00

"Scratch a traveler and you´ll find a masochist underneathe." --B. Severgnini, Ciao America!

Well, I think this quote is a fair one to share, although, fortunately, my travels have been fairly painless so far. (Gracias a Dios!)

My sister and I arrived in Copán Ruinas, Honduras last Saturday.

The 2 1/2 hour bus ride from San Pedro Sula was rollercoastery enough to warrant Dramamine. Needless to say, I didn´t have any. So I suffered. (The masochist in me indeed brought out by my travels.) I also have to admit: I survived.

The bus ride was bumpy, but beautiful. The mountains here are a green that glows, a color that does not belong to us or our world. To someone still in shock from arriving in a new country and (somewhat) speaking a new language, I remember them now as if they are magazine photos beneath a layer of glue on a elementary school project. They aren´t quite mine and a little fuzzy.

Copán is a small town in which all needs can be fulfilled by a short walk a few blocks this way or that. The streets are a chaotic mix of cobblestones with sidewalks that drop off unexpectedly and at irregular intervals. Collarless (mostly) dogs run the streets, occasionally casting a threatening glance in the direction of a gringo (me). The streets are always filled with people--locals and travellers. There is, as you would guess, no question who is who.

The taxis here appear to have been stolen from a graveyard of amusement park bumper cars. They are tiny red things with a name (the owner´s?) painted on the window and a white, plastic roof which pops up or down depending on the weather. They seat two (comfortably) or three (uncomfortably) in the back. The drivers beep constantly and constantly bombard gringos and locals with offers of service.

I have to note here, before I say adios, an apology for my English. Those of you who have studied another language must understand that in order for one to learn a new tongue, one must surrender everything. This includes my English grammar of which I have been so proud.

My time on the computer is running out. More when I have time!

(Not) Counting Down

2004-12-31T15:00:00.000-05:00

Note: I started this entry last week, after the news of the Earthquake in the Indian Ocean resulting in death tolls of over 135,000 and of the murder of 23 innocent people on a bus outside of San Pedro Sula, Honduras. It has been an emotional holiday and I was unable to finish and publish my original post. Today, thanks to my oh-so-inspirational friend Elizabeth, I managed to eke out some reaction to the events of the world and my life. Much of this entry is excerpted from an email to Elizabeth.

One week from today, Hannah and I will arrive in San Pedro Sula. I think this last week in the US will be the hardest for me. There is nothing I can do to prepare anymore and that frustrates me, leaves me feeling helpless. Worse yet, I have a feeling that helplessness is something I will have to get used to during the next year. I am antsy and basically trying NOT to countdown my final days at home. Ugh. I feel kind of sick to my stomach thinking about everything. I am excited, too, but right now the unknown trumps the thrill of adventure.

In one week, I will be in Honduras. This thought is una sombra, a shadow, that follows me even into the dark.

Then there was the terrible news last week about the busload of people gunned down outside of San Pedro Sula. While I mourn for the inconceivable Indian Ocean tragedy, this small incident has pained me intensely; it makes me upset in a different, more heated way. We can't stop the movements of the earth, but when the horrors of the world are done by human hands, the blame seems to fall on each one of us. What a sad thought. How dark this world can seem sometimes.

Tonight is the last night of 2004--during the cold, black night, a new year will creep bravely into the thick winter sky. We cannot know what 2005 holds--certainly joy and sorrow--but my prayer above all prayers is for peace: peace in the world, peace during sadness, peace in the ecstatic times, peace in moments of frustration (with ourselves and others), and--most importantly--a peaceful faith in God's plan.

Happy New Year.

Amelia Buys a Plane Ticket

2004-10-21T22:10:00.000-04:00

Well, it's for real.

Hannah (my sister--she's going too!) and I bought our plane tickets yesterday. It was an exciting moment. We used Hotwire so the tickets are unrefundable. That makes it seem even more real. Unrefundable, one-way tickets. We are going to Honduras, people.

But . . . my spanish is awful. I don't have enough money. I am scared about being away from home for 13 months. How the heck am I going to pack stuff for over a year into 3 pieces of luggage that I have to lug around Honduras? What if Hondurans don't like me? What if they don't have spray-in hair conditioner in Honduras?

The doubts and questions have been poking at me amidst my exhilaration. I can't get away from them--they are as real as my non-refundable plane ticket.

Amelia Goes to Honduras

2004-09-22T16:55:00.000-04:00

In January, I will be embarking upon a 13 month adventure in Honduras, Central America.

I have accepted a volunteer position with Nuestros Pequenos Hermanos ("Our little brothers and sisters") located outside of Honduras' capital Tegucigalpa. Nuestros Pequenos Hermanos, or NPH, is a home for orphaned or abandoned children. Over 15,000 children have grown up in the NPH family, which now operates homes in 8 countries in Central America and the Carribbean. My position, Resource Teacher, will allow me to work one on one with children who have special needs and are struggling in the classroom.

This position is unpaid and I must pay for my transportation to and from Honduras, health insurance, immunizations, and other preparatory medical care. My estimate for these costs is $2000.

If you can help me raise this money, please click on the "Make a Donation" button below. Even a couple bucks helps!

Stay tuned to this site for updates during my time in Honduras. You will be able to see your donations at work.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.