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.

Feliz Cumpleaños

Nearly two months ago, I celebrated my 21^st birthday. I was awoken at 6am to a playlist repeating Feliz Cumpleaños with variations of the same arrangement of brass horns, apparently a Honduran tradition. Given that cakes seem to be the love language of Honduran mothers, my own host mother made a cake with typical elaborate frosting, which was promptly destroyed when I followed Honduran tradition and smashed my face into the side of the cake to take the first “bite”. Eggs were cracked upon my head, blessings were bestowed upon me, and I was given an edition of National Geographic en Español and two Snickers bars. Karaoke ensued. These are good people.

Tegucigalpa

After a month and a half of living here, a description of my city and living space is more than overdue.

Tegucigalpa Municipio Distrito Central, is a city of 1.2 million located in the southern portion of Honduras in the department (equivalent of a state) Fransisco Morazan. President Profirio Lobo Sosa directs the country from the Casa Presidencial, but as is custom with all Honduran presidents, his home is located separate from the Executive office. The building for the Congreso Nacional, the legislative body of Honduras, sits in the middle of the city, just west of the central plaza characteristic of all Latin American cities. The mountainous terrain, informal city planning, and lack of resources has left the capital city with few street signs, and arranged as if someone spilled the roads out in a form resembling a pile of spaghetti noodles. 

I live in a poorer neighborhood on the eastern part of the city. Water comes once a week, and the sewage system is basic, as noted in a previous post. Electricity is not a problem, though it occasionally goes out for up to an hour. While I must stay very aware of my surroundings when I walk around the various parts of my area, my immediate street is secure.

I live with a family made up of two parents in their late thirties and five kids. Four boys and a young girl, all between the ages of 8 and 15. My host father is an artist, working in an area of the dining room/kitchen space set aside as his studio. My host mother works tirelessly around the house. The younger three kids attend a private elementary school, while the older two boys attend the equivalent of a high school. I have found myself connecting most easily with the youngest two kids, playing games and joking with them in ways that the older three boys simply do not react due to their awkward entry into adolescence. Already I have had good conversations with my host father about matters of faith and politics.  

I hope this family realizes how much I prize their generosity. Pray that I would find ways to show them how much their hospitality means to me.

28/6/2009

Two years ago yesterday, then-president Manuel Zelaya was taken from his home, put on a plane, and flown out of Honduras as the military temporarily took control of the government. An interim president served until the election of current president Porfirio Lobo Sosa in November of the same year.

Was this a coup? Depends on who you ask.

Manuel Zelaya was part of the Partido Liberal de Honduras, a left-of-center political party that enjoyed the following of most poorer urbanites and rural folks. For a number of reasons, Zelaya was probing the political waters for the purpose of extending presidential term limits. The Constitution of Honduras says a president can only serve one term of four years. The Constitution also references that any president trying to change the Constitution can be formally impeached by an order from the Supreme Court of Honduras.

Manuel Zelaya had not officially moved to change the constitution when he was removed from the country. Instead, he was simply proposing a referendum that would allow any citizen of Honduras the ability to change the constitution. Very fishy, everyone said. Zelaya must have that term limit article on his brain.

Thus, the Supreme Court condemned the measure, and sent the military to remove Zelaya from the country. This was not exactly the way the Constitution had defined the proceedings for impeachment.

People who say that it was a coup that violated Honduran democracy are part of the Resistencia (the Resistance). These former Liberal Party supporters do not view current President Lobo as legitimate and maintain loyalty to Zelaya. People who may or may not have supported the removal of Zelaya, but who perceive President Lobo's administration as legitimate are called Golpistas (Coup-ists).

A month ago, an agreement was signed between President Lobo and ex-President Zelaya that allowed the latter to return to the country. When he did, a giant rally was held at the airport here in Tegucigalpa to welcome him home.

Several people have told me that Honduras has a new political conscience, one that does not so trust the words of any one leader. Any democracy that bases political success upon the debate of the issues, not the personalities of the politicians, has acquired a new degree of health. How difficult this is in our current media-inundated society!!!

Anyone who has a different read on the Honduras political crisis let me know. I, like every other person, is still trying to define what happened two years ago.

Con Todo de lo que Tengo

I think that should mean "With everything I have," but I'm not 100% sure that it is grammatically correct. Feelings like this have defined my first month here: the uncertainty of correct expression, the frustration of inarticulate speech, the foolishness attendant with mistaken Spanish.

My first week here was an experience of dismay at my own deficiency in the language. It was similar to that experience you feel when that headache or broken bone first begins to hurt, casting a pall over every action you take. Maybe it is the healing process, or maybe it is simply you becoming accustomed to the pain, but the acuteness of the ache seems to dissipate.

Same with my Spanish abilities. I think I'm getting better, but it is difficult to tell. I am used to allowing the chatter around the house flow over my ears when I am tired of listening. I now understand how heavily my Spanish is accented and how much I still need to learn. I also have a new appreciation for my friends who have traveled outside the U.S. to learn a language, as well as my friends who have traveled to the U.S. to learn English. It is tough.

Right now, I am just trying to put my head down and climb the mountain of language proficiency without getting exasperated by altitude or false summits. I'm giving it all I got, at least I think so.

Henri Nouwen says to me and all who have or will go through this process, "When we become aware that our stuttering, failing, vulnerable selves are loved even when we hardly progress, we can let go of our compulsion to prove ourselves and be free to live with others in a fellowship of a weak." (Gracias pg.17)

So easy to say. So difficult to truly internalize.

Dios les bendiga, y espero que Dios me bendiga, también.

Our Land

Today, I formally began work with the Land Rights team. I share a cubicle with a community organizer and a lawyer. My coworkers organize and advocate on behalf of people who have not been legally recognized for owning their home. When a family does not have a property title, they are set up for exploitation by a number of different political powers. With proper titling, homeowners feel more security to invest in the development and construction of their home, while having the opportunity to use their home as collateral for gaining much needed loans.

Everyone is extremely hardworking at this office. The next two weeks will be spent carefully reading property laws and policy documents surrounding the Honduran property law system. From there, I will begin work on a research investigation within the realm of property law.

I read Steinbecks Grapes of Wrath back in January, and it has to be in my top 5 favorites. This passage resounds with truth, and I think it is fitting for the beginning of my internship that I share it with you.

----Funny how it is. If a man owns a little property, that property is him, it’s part of him, and it’s like him. If he owns property only so he can walk on it and handle it and be sad when it isn’t doing well, and feel fine when the rain falls on it, that property is him, and some way he’s bigger because he owns it. Even if he isn’t successful he’s big with his property. That is so.

But let a man get property he doesn’t see, or can’t take time to get his fingers in, or can’t be there to walk on it—why, then the property is the man. He can’t do what he wants, he can’t think what he wants. The property is the man, stronger than he is. And he is small, not big. Only his possessions are big—and he’s the servant of his property. That is so, too.----
--Steinbeck, pg 37.

The relationship between what we own and who we are is significant. We impress our identity onto tangible objects(e.g. a wedding ring, house), and I think that is ok--if done with sacred rarity. Christ did the same in the Upper Room with the bread and wine.

That, and a host of other reasons, is why I think the work that this Land Rights team is important.

I would love to hear your thoughts.