Weddings and Funerals

It seems I have aptly named this blog, for I have had the opportunity to share much grief and joy in the past month. I do not know how to recount the events with gusto and flutter, so I’ll write it as it occurred, leaving out information that may get me into trouble.

Seceral weeks, the family of one of my 3rd grade students was attacked outside of town while in their vehicle by a small group of lackeys sent by a powerful man in a nearby town: a case of mistaken identity wrought by a case of mistaken culpability.

 

You see, an important man’s immediate family in the nearby town was murdered on the side of the highway right before I arrived a month ago, and someone blamed a powerful family here in San Francisco de la Paz. Ever since then, there have been violent attempts and fears of retaliation.

 After discovering that they had shot up the wrong car, the men asked for forgiveness and drove away. My student is still in the hospital with bullet wounds, and his mother died a couple days ago. His father is still alive, fortunately.

Although I only had this student for less than 2 weeks, it is sobering to ponder on how precarious life is here in Honduras, even for the innocent. Probably more sobering to me is that most people expect this sort of thing from life. In the United States, the school would have been overrun with child psychologists and group sessions. Here the children hardly gave notice of the matter.

 Indeed, life goes on as normal. My first week at school I was invited to a wedding that I attended several Saturdays ago. Nely is a very pretty 20-something who co-directs the school with an open hand and a loose bell schedule, who I have come to like as an acquaintance, but scorn as a school director.

The church part of the wedding was long and tedious.  The priest spoke at length about fidelity, marriage, God, the church, the inconvenient decorations, and the Eucharist, while the bride and groom and everyone else waited for over an hour. The wait did afford ample opportunity to soak in the charm of the aged Spanish-style columns, gold and green wedding decorations, and the icons of various saints lining the walls. The church was well packed; Nely and her husband are well-respected in the community.  Afterwards there was a reception which was interesting, but quite long. We did not dance afterwards, a show of respect for Nely’s dead brother, who was murdered a year ago. The whole affair made me appreciate my Protestant heritage.

The wedding was a happy break in the midst of continued pain and sadness in the town. Although now my emotions over the event have dulled somewhat, I still recall the shock of yet another death. The husband of someone I’ve come to think of here as a close mentor died of a heart attack in the municipal building a day after the wedding. He was one of a precious few good men of influence in this town, and his good dinner conversation will be sorely missed. His family is still grieving, and despite my short time knowing them, I share their pain. There was a wake, a funeral service and caravan (a crowd of people walking down the street), several special church services, and a shrine in the home.

To me, human life has never been so fragile and valuable than in the past month.

I have much more to tell you, but I have been living much faster than I have been able to write.  I will update again soon.

 

Stranger in a Strange Land

It is impossible to describe how different life is here in Olancho. I feel like a fish that has grown fledging legs and is beginning to explore an entirely new world – choking from half-grown lungs, vision blurry from ill-developed eyes. My skin burns from the sun, and my body drips with sweat. All the sights, sounds, routines, social processes that I have taken shelter and comfort in my entire life are gone. All is unfamiliar, foreign, strange, as I am.

The uncertainty is difficult. Even though I teach all of my classes mostly in Spanish for the present, I can understand only about 60% of what is said to me, and only about 10% of what is said to other people. I am forever uncertain about what is going on around me socially, and I find it difficult to stay engaged when I am constantly asking for repetitions and clarifications. I seldom understand the contents of children’s arguments in class. Buying saldo for my phone was a 20 minute affair, and I’ve only just figured out the basics.

It seems that, like it must be for the fish learning to walk, brief forays back into the familiar are precious moments of joy. Amenities like packaged granola and AC in the pharmacy are at once out of place and welcome to me. Hearing fluent English is impossibly satisfying. Today, the other two gringo teachers and I sang the American national anthem while the American flag was raised. Even though I am not usually sentimental about such things, I felt a stroke of romantic pride in the land of the free and home of the brave.

I suppose in time I will grow to appreciate, love, and even miss the things of this culture. We will see how long the “grokking” will take.

Grief shared is half grief; Joy shared is double joy.

Dolor compartido, mitad del dolor. Alegría compartida, doble alegría.   –   Honduran Proverb

I have been in San Francisco de La Paz, Olancho, Honduras since Thursday. I find it difficult to write anything of value regarding my time here. My brain is still reeling from all the new experiences, and the heat is somewhat numbing.

Over the past two days, the majority of my time has been spent walking around the town by my gregarious new compañero, John. John has been able to connect with just about everyone in the town it seems in one way or another.  His quick, accented Spanish always brings smiles and welcome. Although I find myself squinting and struggling to follow conversations, John smoothly interprets and engages everyone, maintaining amiable relationships with people otherwise quite suspicious of strangers, especially gringos.

The first day I walked around the town of about 17,000*, most people stared unabashedly at me, or ignored me completely. Thanks to John, now my problem is being greeted by people whose names and stories I have forgotten.

The most common question I am asked (somewhat suspiciously, I think) is why I am in Honduras. I suppose it is a bit strange, leaving an American lifestyle to be submerged in a different language and culture where I am an outsider, make a tiny fraction of what I made in the States, and sweat through the night. But I think the question behind the question, “What possessed you?!” was more often asked in the States, whereas the implicit question here is “What do you want from us?”

This question is justifiably asked, for many travelers come with less-than-honorable intentions. Some Americans find easier pickings among disadvantaged women, and others just find cross-cultural interaction easier. Tourists and adventurers seek experience as a commodity, and missionaries come to instruct and teach about ultimate truth. A few come as intellectually interested parties, to study the people like a chapter in an anthropology book.

I tell people who ask that I came to learn Spanish and understand the culture. In reality, I don’t exactly know why I came. I came from an intuitive urge – I knew this was something I had to do, like the next step in my journey that, if left untaken would leave me stuck forever. Now that I am here, I find that Spanish and culture are secondary to the greatest opportunity I could have: to share experiences with people very different than myself.

 

*edit 6/30/2013 Turns out the Municipality of San Francisco de la Paz has over 18,000 people, but the town itself has closer to 2-3 thousand. To give you an idea of its size, I’ve walked over almost every road in the past couple of days.

Grey water draining through the streets.

The front of my house, and to the right, my vecinos, Saúl and Lupita.

Stalwart