Monday, July 11, 2011

Enrique's Journey

Throughout this past year, I've been able to read a lot more than usual. Since moving out of my host family's house last October I've also been reading a lot more journalism, since it's usually easier to download a weekly roundup, rather than to check the news everyday. Anyway, the best book of the year was one I just finished reading in Guatemala, called Enrique's Journey...

"When Enrique is five years old, his mother, Lourdes, too poor to feed her children, leaves Honduras to work in the United States. The move allows her to send money back home to Enrique so he can eat better and go to school past the third grade. Lourdes promises Enrique she will return quickly. But she struggles in America.
After eleven years apart, he decides he will go find her. Enrique sets off alone from Tegucigalpa, with little more than a slip of paper bearing his mother’s North Carolina telephone number. Without money, he will make the dangerous and illegal trek up the length of Mexico the only way he can–clinging to the sides and tops of freight trains. 
He travels through hostile, unknown worlds. Each step of the way through Mexico, he and other migrants, many of them children, are hunted like animals. Gangsters control the tops of the trains. Bandits rob and kill migrants up and down the tracks. Corrupt cops all along the route are out to fleece and deport them. To evade Mexican police and immigration authorities, they must jump onto and off the moving boxcars.
Based on the Los Angeles Times newspaper series that won two Pulitzer Prizes, one for feature writing and another for feature photography. It is an epic journey, one thousands of immigrant children make each year to find their mothers in the United States."

Great story. At times the novel purposefully felt like it was telling Enrique's story in the larger context of the 45,000 children who make this journey every year. It combined equally balanced vantage points on the immigration debate, while still giving the whole thing a face and a story, rather than just a bunch of numbers. 

The novel, for me at least, also helped to personalize a lot of the things I've tended to gloss over during the last year. Things like hearing people's journeys to the states whenever on a bus for more than 2 hours, or young kids selling stuff during the middle of the week when they should be in school. It now seems to carry a lot more resonance. Now it seems as if everyone has a story hidden away. A story about relatives and loved one's abroad, or knowledge of the journey itself, and if statistics have anything to say about it they probably do. 



Enrique's Journey also helps to explain, especially with regard to Central American migrants, how long the journey to the United States truly is. Many Honduran and Nicaraguan immigrants are turned back multiple times long before ever making it to Mexico City, much less the border of US. Overall, the book was a personalizing and informative.  Good stuff.


Here is the link to the Pulitzer winning article from the Los Angeles Times: http://www.pulitzer.org/archives/6694 


Quick side note: Best article of the year, Believeland, a story about the rise, fall, and resurgence/perpetual failure of Cleveland sports told through the lens of varying intersections within the city. good good journalism, history, psychological profile, urban planning and sports story all rolled into one. 

Streets Look the Same

Things I noticed in the States:
  • People obeying traffic regulations of all sorts. Including speed limits. 
  • I didn't go over one speed-bump!
  • Beer. Delicious. Plentiful. DIFFERENT!
  • Food. Delicious. Plentiful. DIFFERENT!
  • I didn't experience dramatic cultural shock per se, but rather I would expect Honduran things to happen and then be disappointed when they didn't occur. Like the fact that there was no one trying to sell me stuff on the Metra. 
  • The lack of dogs in the street, chickens waking you up, or burning trash at the corner. 
  • I have access to good supermarkets in La Ceiba, and so as a result I don't lack for much, but Whole Foods and Trader Joe's are incredible because they are able to offer so many options.  
  • I didn't feel tall. 
  • Diversity of all sorts was the main thing I took away from my time in the states. Whether it's the types of peanut butter available in WF, or just the incredible cross-section of people on the street, the US has never looked more mixed up. Hell, even the television shows are all different, not just soccer and televangelism. We are lucky to have lots of diversity of all sorts and blends. 
  • Great friends, looking forward to getting back in 14 months...
They tried. Not staged. 
Guatemala: 
  • Chicken busses are even more packed than Honduran ones.
  • A more lively and colorful culture than in Honduras. A lot more history it felt like, both colonial and pre-colonial.
  • Traveling with Dirty Mike is always an adventure. Watch out for his now fluent Spanish.
  • Guatemala was lots like Honduras in the sense of varying landscapes and geography, but even more dramatic. Lago de Atlitan contra Lago de Yojoa. Maybe not better, but more dramatic. 
  • More developed in the sense of infrastructure and planning.
  • Lots of Honduran words absolutely do not work, like cheque or jalon. 
Antigua, Guatemala

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

A Joke From Guatemala

A joke I heard while at a 4th of July party with Guatemalan volunteers in Antigua this past weekend. You might have to live here to truly get it.

Q: ¿Por qué tenemos un problema con la basura aquí en la ciudad?
 R: Porque no tenemos un río.

Q: Why do we have a problem with trash here in town?
A: Because we don´t have a river.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

The Best and Worst Jalons. Or... Pig Urine Smells Terrible


Best

So in this last week I have received my best and worst jalons of my year in country. For those of you who have not been keeping up with the spanglish I use in this blog, a jalon is a hitch-hiked ride. The best one came Friday afternoon when I was on my way to the closest city to me, Santa Rosa, to hang out w some friends and do some shopping. My friend with whom I was supposed to get a ride to the international high way (a two lane road in terrible repair, but still better than every other road in the this country) with at 4 pm (in time to catch the bus that passes at 5:30) didn’t end up getting his act together until 5:20 (not in time to catch said bus). So as it turned out I was left standing on the side of the international highway at 5:50, with little hope of making it to Santa Rosa in a timely manor (the next bus passes at 11:00 pm). So it was as I stood there at the top of a mountain amid freezing winds and heavy fog contemplating my next move that I saw a solitary four door car approaching (as a side note, when one is trying to catch a jalon it is usually best to try to flag pickups, since people rarely offer you rides inside their cars). I figured it was worth a shot and half heartedly flagged it down. By some awesome chance the driver stopped and picked me up, and by another it turned out he was headed most of the way to my destination. Then after chatting it up a bit, I realized that he was actually headed all the way to the north coast and was just looking for a place to spend the night and continue his trip in the morning, and I was able to convince him to continue on to Santa Rosa. To top it off, after driving me all the way to my destination, he refused to accept any money for the ride. Overall a great experience.

Worst

So after that awesome last jalon, a few days later I encountered the very worst jalon of my peace corps life (or really my life in general since I never hitch-hike in the US, really I don’t think any one does any more, since we all assume we will get murdered and robbed, which is interesting that I never have that worry in a country with a murder rate around 50 times that of the US). I was returning to my site after a brief visit to Cucuyagua a town about an hour from my desvio (where my road meets the international high way) and had missed my towns only bus of the day. Thus I was left sitting at the desvio waiting for a jalon back to town (15 kms of mountainous road away). After about 20 mins a flat bed truck passed by loaded with house hold furniture (I think they were moving to Fraternidad) and stopped so I could hop up in the back. With me back there were three men and a pig, which was tied up and at first hidden under a big tarp. I quickly noticed the pig however when it started to get restless and squirm and squeal. This was initially not too bad since one of the guys was holding it down and was able to quiet it after a bit. The real trouble started when it began to rain heavily and they stopped to pull the giant tarp aver all of the contents of the truck, including us. This meant that we were trapped in an enclosed space with stale air and an agitated pig. It was at this moment that the pig decided to make his escape from his bonds and began writhing, screaming (for those who haven’t heard one scream, it is horrible since it sounds much like a person suffering some unimaginable harm), and voiding its bowels and bladder (for those who haven’t smelled pig urine, it is horrible and literally burns your nostrils, especially when you are trapped under a small tarp with it). As if this wasn’t enough, the tarp was full of holes and since we were headed up hill at this point all of the water that entered the truck bed began to pool up at the back where we were sitting, so we were left sitting in a good 3 inches of stagnant pig pee-water. It was at this point that I thought to myself, “wow how could this terrible situation get any worse”, and as if on cue, the tarp began to fill with exhaust fumes from the trucks engine. It seems that when they put up the tarp, they managed to cover the exhaust pipe and thus funnel all of the fumes and carbon monoxide into the tarp. After what seemed like an eternity of fumbling and tugging on the tarp we were able to free ourselves from our watery-pissy-fumy tomb. After said ordeal I decided to just sit up on the back ledge of the truck and take my chances with the rain and the possibility of being bounced off the my perch by a bump in the road, rather than re-enter the previously mentioned hell that existed under the tarp (pretty much the best decision of my life). After a while more bouncing along in the pouring rain I finally reached my destination (I have never been so happy to see Fraternidad). Sadly to top off this terrible ordeal, I returned to find that we didn’t have water and thus I was unable to wash myself till later that night (I truly feel sorry for my coworkers who were forced to sit near my pig pee and diesel fume smelling self).