On the Other Side of the Deep Waters

Nearly a month has passed since I departed from Tegucigalpa, Honduras, site of my HNGR internship between May and November. Arrival in the U.S. during the Christmas festivities of the month of December has provided both encouraging and discouraging reflections. I would like to share what I have been thinking about for the past few weeks, none of it comprehensive, all of it true.

It is encouraging to return to the United States at a time when my tradition speaks of rumors of the coming of God into human flesh. Advent means the anxious anticipation of a a prophesied hope, a way out of suffering. So many of the people I encountered in Honduras are living in a year-around Advent. They are esperando, the Spanish word for both waiting and hoping. My friends are waiting/hoping for the government to recognize their ownership of land. My friends are waiting/hoping for their emigrated brother (or mother, or father, etc…) to contact them from the U.S. My friends are waiting/hoping for the drug-violence in Honduras to cease. My friends are waiting/hoping to not be poor anymore.  My friends are waiting for the resolution to this problem we call suffering. The hope of Christmas is that this Resolution is not a mere idea or spirituality, but an actual human being: The waiting ends at Christmas with the birth of Jesus. One day, we will stop waiting, and hope will not be necessary, for Christ will have restored things to what they should be.

It is discouraging to return to the United States during the month of December, when the consumerism consumes us.  With the help of my parents, I have adjusted fairly well to the sharp disconnect between wealthy-mall life and life in a poor neighborhood (after all, Tegucigalpa had both, too). Yet it still feels so wrong when I see the quantity and quality of U.S. American purchasing power. Never in my life am I so convinced that buying stuff does not make me happy, and that I am lonelier and lonelier the more I try to keep up in the race to the retailers. I am learning how to live with freedom and joy (I skied Loveland since I got back and I thoroughly enjoyed it) while living conscientious of the needs of others.

It is encouraging to meet so many people curious about what I saw, heard, felt, and did. So many of my friends and family have shown genuine interest in Honduras, and exhibit real frustration and pain when I describe some of the harder situations that I saw. I have been very careful with what I say to people, trying to avoid either bombastic or understated retellings of how I perceived things in Honduras. But people have been understanding and respectful of what I have experienced, and this has deeply helped my reentry into my home culture.

It is discouraging to see U.S. poverty again. There is a sense that I should understand the powerlessness and pain that is in this country before making any judgments overseas. 

It is encouraging to reenter into a community where I can see people truly seek fellowship with the Jesus of Bethlehem, of Nazareth, of Golgatha. I have people to admire here. I can integrate my experiences in Honduras with the experiences of others, so that we may together walk in discipleship under Christ. We are broken, sorrow-full people, but Christ is here with us and works with us anyway. I thank you for reading, for listening, for passing the time with me on this journey. Pray that I would integrate the thoughts, feelings, and friendships that I have made into the rest of my life with Christ.

Que Dios le bendiga y le guarde,

Adam

Investigaciones

For the past six months I have been researching one step in one law. It is about land rights, and I would like to explain it, but not here. Not now.

Let's talk about how I researched, instead. This investigation has brought me into the offices and board rooms of the powerful, and into the backlots and humble homes of the poor. Some are corrupt, most are victims of corruption. How I have composed myself, shown respect, and conducted interviews with people from different socio-economic backgrounds has been something weighing on my mind ever since I began researching. 

I was in San Pedro Sula for four days, baking in the sun while interviewing community leaders about how their property price was determined, how they were represented in the process, and whether they felt it was a fair price or an injustiprecio. The community members ask me why I am collecting this information. 

“I am investigating this step in the process so that we can eventually present proposals to reform the law.”

This answer does not give anyone clean water, a sewage system, or electricity. But when I walk into a neighborhood with my team, I am given food, coke or gatorade, a hearty welcome, and the title of "lawyer" even though I have no such degree. I feel the meagerness of my research. I hope no one feels that I hustled them into providing information for something that will never actually help their community. 

I am nearly done with my research now. I have put together a paper that diagnoses the problems of one step in one law. Like every other time I have traveled outside the country, I have been given more than I can ever give back.

Un Gol y Dos Puntos

Careening down the sideline, I neared the metallic bed frame that has been reengineered to be a goal, standing slightly cockeyed on the slanted street.

Left foot placed centimeters further out from under my body than is the normal running stride, to support the pendulum swing of the right foot down upon the ball.

CLANG. Pelota meets meta.

Left foot on ground. Right foot in gutter. Shin scraping stone. Arms out in front to catch a body that will not be received with such great hospitality by the Honduran ground.

OHHHHHHH. Silencio from my family members. I get up because I don't want to be the guy that always gets hurt falling into the cuneta. I run after the ball down the street. Pick it up, bring it back, ask the question that makes all other consequences unimportant.

Fue un gol?
Si, fue un gol. ¿Está bien?
Claro.

Look down at the wound, and begin to wonder what to do. It was a goal (Priority number one completed). Now there is a gash in my leg and my blood is taking strategic advantage of this new breach in the epidermis. What is my next course of action?
Give me five minutes. I need to clean this up.

That night: water, coffee, salt, hydrogen peroxide, bandaids, bandaids, bandaids.

The next day: a struggle to decide what to do. It isn´t really bleeding anymore, and the members of my poorer Honduran community are telling me that it´s fine. They would call it good and keep working. I decide to go to the clinic. My North American friends kindly express their solidarity and accompany me.

Voy a darle dos puntos y un antibiótic que peleará contra cualquier infección, says the nurse.
Ok. I say.
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October 2010, Wheaton, IL, USA: Six stitches under left eye due to cut suffered during soccer game. $957. Pray that insurance covers it.

September 2011, Tegucigalpa, Honduras: Two stitches on shin due to cut on suffered during soccer game. $50. Pray to thank God for Louis Pasteur .
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At this point, I could publish a picture showing the wound now, several weeks later. But who wants to see an archipelago of dried blood on a hairy, white leg?

I could also begin to make a short comparative study on health care costs between the US and Honduras. $957 vs. $50. Hmmmm....

Or, I could talk about access to health care among vulnerable urban Hondurans, and the cultural and economic decisíons that made me decide to go to the clinic when my Honduran family would not (could not) have done so if the same happened to them.

But I enjoy knowing that the ball went in the goal. Tie game 3-3.

Formality

Classroom attire at Wheaton has never been a high priority for me. You could probably chalk it up to a combination of frustrations with capitalist advertising and my own confusion with about how to represent myself humbly despite coming from a powerful socio-economic class identity. Some degree of carelessness probably factors in there too.

This carelessness is unheard of among my Honduran friends. That I would have the means to dress with an ironed shirt and unstained jeans, and would yet choose to dress sloppily does not make sense to most Central Americans.

People from my neighborhood have a reputation in Tegucigalpa for being among the poorest and uneducated of all citizens in the Capital. To defy this reputation, people in my community make extra effort to dress smartly. This is particularly important for people around my age. For men, the jeans and shirt are unwrinkled, with special attention given to protecting luminescence of the shoe. Don’t think about leaving the house without hair gel. Women have a wide color range to their wardrobe, and always liberally apply accessories and make-up. Throwing on some kind of fragrance is important for both sexes.

The home may be on its last buckets of water, the tinned roof may have leaks in it, and the lack of a neighborhood sewage system causes mysterious smells to scent the streets, but no one would know this from the way one dresses to work or school. People do not want to carry their poverty with them. I wouldn’t either.

 My academic advisor helped me to see that this actually connects with the fundamental value of property law. People want formality in clothing and in land, because when there is formality, there is recognition. By holding this piece of paper, not only your property is recognized by the Republic of Honduras, but also you’re right to ownership. And this right to possess that which is the fruit of one’s labors must be owned by a human being. It is a human right. Receiving title is receiving recognition that you are a human, and should be treated as such.

We are humans. Children of God. I want to learn the ways to honor that in everyone I meet.

Adán

I extend my hand to a Honduran. ¿Cómo se llama? "What is your name?" I ask.

They respond, then ask me for mine.

Adán.

Upon the statement of my name, exactly 73% of Hondurans follow with a specific question. I will buy an ice cream cone for the first person who can correctly guess which question that is.


I´m looking for an inquiry that, for some reason, Hondurans specifically ask of me. "Where are you from?" "What are you doing here?" or questions of that nature do not qualify.

If necessary, I will give a hint in a couple days.

The Arteries and Veins of My Internship

If my work were to be considered the brain of my internship, and my time with my host-family the heart, my transportation adventures would be the veins and arteries connecting the two together. 

Three types of transportation ferry the citizens of Tegucigalpa from one part of the city to another.  Taxis are the fastest—and most expensive—of the means of transport available to Capitalinos. There seem to be thousands scurrying around the city, honking in inquiry at anything that has two legs and a brain with the slightest possibility of desiring a ride. These are a good choice if you are carrying something valuable or need to get somewhere in particular quickly. But if this is the mode of choice, don’t slam the door. North Americans are infamous for committing this gravest of transport sins. Closing the door with even some briskness qualifies as a transgression that causes many taxistas to fear that a mortal wound has been inflicted upon their car. 

If you want a step down in price and can spare some time, the 30-passenger rapiditos can efficiently carry you from one place to another. Every route I’ve come across costs ten lempiras ($0.50), which is usually paid to the driver immediately before departure. Drivers in these cars are in a hurry, but will usually not abstain from throwing on the hazards and stopping for a pedestrian that is standing between formal stops. 

The cheapest, grittiest, most adventurous choice are the school buses that run the same routes as the rapiditos, but far, far slower. At rush hour, these buses carry up to eighty, aisles filled with two lines of tired, exhausted workers bracing themselves upon the seats or the two handrails bolted to the roof. The steps in the front or the back are not out of bounds (yes, the buseros have carved out another makeshift door toward the rear). 

Fare collectors—nearly always male—push through the crowd, pointing at the passengers, requesting the 3 lempira ($0.15) payment. At the stops they get out to yell the destinations of the bus, ushering potential travelers into the mechanical beasts of burden.

“¡Corranse, corranse, papi!”

“¡Avance, avance, avance, joven!”

The engine groans under the pressures of age and too many people, as if angry with driver, passenger, and fellow vehicle alike. The exhaust spews and every bolted joint creaks upon every acceleration or the slightest application of the brakes.

Sardines we are, in the belly of a tired beast.

Seafood Adventures

A random riddle among my  coworkers recently: What animal has bones outside and meat inside? See the answer above.

There is a market that sits right next to the National Stadium, where venders can sell their fruits, vegetables, fried foods, and even seafood. Apparently, a specimen from the last category caught the eye of one of my host brothers. He brought the crab home and put it in a Tupperware box that clearly was not designed to promote its well-being. One would not expect a cangrejo to survive the confined space, the rice diet, or the constant harassment of a family of four adolescent boys. Such an expectation would be correct. It died after about a week. 

I got these pictures before it died. I’m from a land-bound state with the blessing of mountains but no oceans! Of course I joined in my host-brothers’ fun! 

 The crab’s brethren had their revenge. My first of two bouts of food poisoning was brought about by some malicious shrimp I ate later that day. The wretching twas fierce that night.