So, my friend’s 13 year old brother was playing with a grenade last Monday and ended up hurting himself (Duh?). After a year of living in La Fraternidad (13 months and 2 days actually, but who’s counting?) not much surprises me anymore, though someone conveying this information to me in a really casual manner still managed to. It actually took me a minute to process this information, primarily because, well, you don’t hear people talking about grenade accidents that often (and and when you do, you would assume that it would be done in a somewhat exited or surprised tone of voice, not the deadpan, bored sort of way that my friend relayed the information to me). But after I understood what he was telling me, (that a 13 year old had gotten hold of a grenade and apparently not thrown it far enough when detonating it) I realized that I had actually heard the explosion the day before and just written it off as more kids playing with fireworks (which are usually the least of my worries, seeing as just as often the bangs I hear outside my house are the local drunk firing his pistol around). As soon as I had grasped this information I went in search of other people to confirm the story (because as a have learned, people make up some wild rumors here, and it is best to double or triple check all information). After asking around a bit I was able to ascertain that he had indeed been playing with a grenade and was indeed hurt (though accounts on how hurt varied greatly, from mildly injured to dead). In the end I was able to clear the facts up when I saw him in front of his family’s house and went to talk to him. It turns out what had happened was that he had found one of the crow dispersal grenades that his brother-in-law had stolen from the army during the coup two years ago (his brother-in-law is a cop, and a serious moron for this and many other reasons, and had been stationed in the capital working alongside the army following the coup). Apparently he mistook it for one of the smoke or tear gas grenades that the brother-in-law also has laying around the house (pilfered at the same time), and has in the past detonated in their yard, and mine for that matter (on one occasion he even ran around in tear gas smoke with my land lord until they were both crying and dry heaving, then they visited my house and just being in their proximity made me start to cry and have a painful runny nose). When he threw it, (like all of five feet, and then stood there looking at it) it landed on a pile of old cans and scrap metal that were in the corner of his families yard. Thus when it blew up he got sprayed with little pieces of metal all up one leg and arm, and a bit on his face. Luckily none of the shards got in his eyes or cut too deep, but he still had to go to the medical center and get them all pulled out and then get bandaged up (when I saw it, it basically looked like someone had blasted him from a distance with a shot gun). So this story has a relatively positive ending, in that he neither killed himself nor was permanently maimed (also I have learned that my town will always continue to find new and exotic ways to dumbfound me).
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
"My Racing Thoughts"
So there we sat on leather couches, furry rug beneath our feet, wine swirling in our glasses and artwork adorning the walls. Completely, and I mean completely out of our element.
Content with my answer, I step away from the fury of questions being thrown around in my head, my racing thoughts subsiding, and return to the conversation at hand. I continue, however, to think to myself, only partially absorbing the words spoken around me.
My brain is struggling to make sense of what is happening around me. It is lost, like a raver at SunJam who has spent too much time drinking RedBull and blasting techno.
This is too much like the United States to be Honduras. Are we really in Tegucigalpa? Are you sure? Because, this does not feel like "The Goose". Where is the loud music, the honking taxis, the revving motorcycles, the slight hint of ranchero in the air? No, I'm sure this is Tegucigalpa. I've been here for the past week. Why does this feel like another world then? Why does this not feel like what I've come to know over these past 16 months.
As if he could sense my confusion, he states,"...porque desde esta vista, no se puede ver la pobreza."/"...because from this view, you can't see the poverty."
He was right. As I gazed from the 7th floor balcony, this scene of Tegucigalpa was serene. Our host continued to rattle off various neighbors of importance, and progressed our conversation to issues facing Honduras and how the country has arrived at it's current state. I continued to chain smoke cigarettes, staying with the conversation, and contributing, but at the same time reacting in surprise to the amount of straightforwardness he was offering. He was not hiding behind fijese ques or standard Honduran double talk, but was speaking honestly about the country's struggles. His viewpoints, while sometimes strong, were reinforced and often deeply supported by his research. His frustrations met ours in collisions of agreement and head nods.
How did I get here? Well, on my trip to Tegucigalpa I decided to stop off in Lago de Yojoa to stay at D&D Brewery and check out some parts of Honduras I hadn't seen yet. The Brewery is a pretty great place. It's central location and word of mouth popularity mean that you run into a pretty diverse agglomeration of backpackers and development workers. Plus the place has delicious blueberry pancakes
After a day of day-drinking, hiking behind humongous waterfalls, and extreme river tubing (awesome) I settled in for a game of trivia with a pitcher of Pale Ale, and struck up a conversation with a table of Hondurans behind me. Whom surprisingly knew a lot of the answers to the trivia questions being posed and spoke fluid English.
The stories of the people at this table were fascinating, and so much different from what I've come to expect when talking to people about their experiences in the states.
Anyway, we struck up a conversation and we were invited to dinner at his apartment the following week. I "dragged" two fellow volunteers along with me, since I was unsure of what to expect, but we ended up having a great time. Conversations that I have been craving to have on issues like AIDS, violence, homosexuality, and development were all on the table, sin pena. Topics that Hondurans tend to avoid. I think the night speaks volumes about the people PC volunteers encounter during their service.
PC is unique because you can go from awkwardly siting on a wooden stool in a dirt floor kitchen discussing Toyota pickup trucks, to relaxing on a leather couch of a 7th floor condo in the richest neighborhood in Tegucigalpa, sipping wine and discussing whether US foreign policy of the 1960's can be implicated in the current standing of the country's education system. Apparently it can be. We were shown some 1960's Honduran social studies books that were provided to Honduras by USAID, and it was incredible to see how dominant the US was in formulating materials and classwork.
As volunteers we find ourselves constantly navigating these waters. Our American passports being the key to Honduras' first world, our broken Spanish and empathetic personalities the keys to country's "developing" majority. We often find ourselves mixing with the intellectual and political classes of Honduras, but we are just as prone to sit down with the campesinos and discuss coffee growing. We migrate between these worlds with ease, but often find ourselves more empathetic and attached to the lives of the poor. Many of us have have a direct line to the alcalde, and have rubbed elbows with all sorts of Honduran politicians, from congressmen to ministers, but we find ourselves working with local patranatos just as often. In a sense, we help to bridge the gap. This is what separates us from the rest of the international development community, who rarely get their hands dirty, or venture out of their fortresses in San Pedro or "The Goose." They are content to sit and watch development happen, rather than be a part of it. They only see it on sanitized tours and cleaned up presentations that obscure the reality of what is really happening.
Do we flush the toilet paper? Do I drink another glass of wine? Where the hell did this wine come from? Who the fuck drinks wine in Honduras? I'm not complaining, but wait a second, how did I end up in a Milwaukee riverfront condo? Wait, no, I know this layout and it is not Milwaukee. This is Chicago. I'm sure of it. It's one of those newer condo layouts in Rogers Park.
Content with my answer, I step away from the fury of questions being thrown around in my head, my racing thoughts subsiding, and return to the conversation at hand. I continue, however, to think to myself, only partially absorbing the words spoken around me.
Wait, you have a library in your condo, and a collection of hot sauces from around the world? I retreat again to the safety of my own head.
My brain is struggling to make sense of what is happening around me. It is lost, like a raver at SunJam who has spent too much time drinking RedBull and blasting techno.
This is too much like the United States to be Honduras. Are we really in Tegucigalpa? Are you sure? Because, this does not feel like "The Goose". Where is the loud music, the honking taxis, the revving motorcycles, the slight hint of ranchero in the air? No, I'm sure this is Tegucigalpa. I've been here for the past week. Why does this feel like another world then? Why does this not feel like what I've come to know over these past 16 months.
As if he could sense my confusion, he states,"...porque desde esta vista, no se puede ver la pobreza."/"...because from this view, you can't see the poverty."
He was right. As I gazed from the 7th floor balcony, this scene of Tegucigalpa was serene. Our host continued to rattle off various neighbors of importance, and progressed our conversation to issues facing Honduras and how the country has arrived at it's current state. I continued to chain smoke cigarettes, staying with the conversation, and contributing, but at the same time reacting in surprise to the amount of straightforwardness he was offering. He was not hiding behind fijese ques or standard Honduran double talk, but was speaking honestly about the country's struggles. His viewpoints, while sometimes strong, were reinforced and often deeply supported by his research. His frustrations met ours in collisions of agreement and head nods.
How did I get here? Well, on my trip to Tegucigalpa I decided to stop off in Lago de Yojoa to stay at D&D Brewery and check out some parts of Honduras I hadn't seen yet. The Brewery is a pretty great place. It's central location and word of mouth popularity mean that you run into a pretty diverse agglomeration of backpackers and development workers. Plus the place has delicious blueberry pancakes
 |
| Mouthgasm |
The stories of the people at this table were fascinating, and so much different from what I've come to expect when talking to people about their experiences in the states.
"Where in the states were you? What did you do?"
"Harvard University. I'm a tenured professor, but now working here in Honduras."
Umm, excuse me?! Was not expecting that.
Anyway, we struck up a conversation and we were invited to dinner at his apartment the following week. I "dragged" two fellow volunteers along with me, since I was unsure of what to expect, but we ended up having a great time. Conversations that I have been craving to have on issues like AIDS, violence, homosexuality, and development were all on the table, sin pena. Topics that Hondurans tend to avoid. I think the night speaks volumes about the people PC volunteers encounter during their service.
PC is unique because you can go from awkwardly siting on a wooden stool in a dirt floor kitchen discussing Toyota pickup trucks, to relaxing on a leather couch of a 7th floor condo in the richest neighborhood in Tegucigalpa, sipping wine and discussing whether US foreign policy of the 1960's can be implicated in the current standing of the country's education system. Apparently it can be. We were shown some 1960's Honduran social studies books that were provided to Honduras by USAID, and it was incredible to see how dominant the US was in formulating materials and classwork.
As volunteers we find ourselves constantly navigating these waters. Our American passports being the key to Honduras' first world, our broken Spanish and empathetic personalities the keys to country's "developing" majority. We often find ourselves mixing with the intellectual and political classes of Honduras, but we are just as prone to sit down with the campesinos and discuss coffee growing. We migrate between these worlds with ease, but often find ourselves more empathetic and attached to the lives of the poor. Many of us have have a direct line to the alcalde, and have rubbed elbows with all sorts of Honduran politicians, from congressmen to ministers, but we find ourselves working with local patranatos just as often. In a sense, we help to bridge the gap. This is what separates us from the rest of the international development community, who rarely get their hands dirty, or venture out of their fortresses in San Pedro or "The Goose." They are content to sit and watch development happen, rather than be a part of it. They only see it on sanitized tours and cleaned up presentations that obscure the reality of what is really happening.
Honduras, like much of the developing world, is a country where poverty brushes up against the upper class on a daily basis. The "first-world" and the "third-world" exist side by side in Honduras. To categorize Honduras as the poorest country in Central America is a mistake. The developed world exists here in Honduras. They are not poor, and lack for nothing, not even Cheezits.
"Platform Fire"
We've had 5 murders in our municipo (the equivalent of an American county), over the past two days. 4 dead in the aldea of La Bomba, a neighboring town, and yet another murder about a block away from my apartment. The size of our municipo is roughly 30,000. These murders verify the recent news that Honduras has the highest homicide rate in the world.
People talk about the growing violence all of the time in Honduras, but it is almost always behind closed doors. This recent violence, however, has led to a noticed public change. Maybe it's because this part of the country has finally reached a tipping point. With land disputes commonly terminating in violence, and drug traffickers becoming even more brazen, it is hard to find a person in Jutiapa who hasn't been affected.
The reaction of the town is part apathetic, part outraged, but at the same time timid. Worried that tomorrow they could be the next story splashed on the front pages of La Prensa or El Heraldo. There is lots of blame to pass around starting with American drug consumers who drive the market, but if we look to the evolution of the Cartels in Mexico we begin to see that these organizations are no longer one-trick ponies, relying on just drug profits to fuel their operations. They are diversified conglomerates, more akin to the mafia than just running drugs. Today they are working in everything from human trafficking, "protection," and of course arms trafficking. Hypothetically, say you legalize all drugs in the United States and win the "War on Drugs," knocking out that aspect of the cartel's operations. It doesn't matter. These organizations are past drugs. We continue to fight a war against criminal organizations who have already diversified, expanded, and which have now become something else entirely.
The cartels are followed closely in culpability by Honduran media. Which, in my opinion, instills more fear than it does understanding of the subject. Trying to find even handed, intelligent, Spanish reporting on the violence in Honduras is bound to meet futile ends. Splashy murder pictures dominate the front page, followed by women in bikinis, and closed up by 10 pages of soccer. No joke, pick up any Honduran newspaper and that will be the order.
Strangely, I think that regular Hondurans should be placed on this list as well. Murder rates do not double in 5 years without some amount of apathy existing in the populace. That is perhaps the most fascinating aspect of this recent violence. Sadly now, on the streets of Jutiapa, the obligatory Adios has been replaced with cuídese, a small, but deeply implicative statement of the general sentiments here within the town center.
"Who is to blame though?"
The reaction of the town is part apathetic, part outraged, but at the same time timid. Worried that tomorrow they could be the next story splashed on the front pages of La Prensa or El Heraldo. There is lots of blame to pass around starting with American drug consumers who drive the market, but if we look to the evolution of the Cartels in Mexico we begin to see that these organizations are no longer one-trick ponies, relying on just drug profits to fuel their operations. They are diversified conglomerates, more akin to the mafia than just running drugs. Today they are working in everything from human trafficking, "protection," and of course arms trafficking. Hypothetically, say you legalize all drugs in the United States and win the "War on Drugs," knocking out that aspect of the cartel's operations. It doesn't matter. These organizations are past drugs. We continue to fight a war against criminal organizations who have already diversified, expanded, and which have now become something else entirely.
The cartels are followed closely in culpability by Honduran media. Which, in my opinion, instills more fear than it does understanding of the subject. Trying to find even handed, intelligent, Spanish reporting on the violence in Honduras is bound to meet futile ends. Splashy murder pictures dominate the front page, followed by women in bikinis, and closed up by 10 pages of soccer. No joke, pick up any Honduran newspaper and that will be the order.
Strangely, I think that regular Hondurans should be placed on this list as well. Murder rates do not double in 5 years without some amount of apathy existing in the populace. That is perhaps the most fascinating aspect of this recent violence. Sadly now, on the streets of Jutiapa, the obligatory Adios has been replaced with cuídese, a small, but deeply implicative statement of the general sentiments here within the town center.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Quick Notes
On Friday I head to Tegucigalpa for our program's midterm medical reviews, which will consist of the following:
I got new neighbors last week. It's a small family with a newborn. (So much for the raucous parties I've been throwing with me, myself and I). I've tried to introduce myself numerous times, but the wife is painfully shy. I am not surprised, since married Honduran woman, as a general rule, are very quiet, but still the situation is somewhat depressing. I was hoping to make some new friends, or at least find someone to watch Norte, my junkyard cat, haha, since we're the only two people living in our building. On the positive side, since they are living in the apartment sencillo (simple) I was given the fridge and the gas oven from the other apartment (Awesome).
A close family friend and handyman, Kelvin, was shot dead outside of my apartment the past week at 6:30 in the morning on Sunday. I knew him pretty well, since he had helped me fix up numerous things in my apartment. He was a really talented guy when it came to metal work, and he had designed new bars for my windows, along with a new iron door for my balcony. Perhaps the most depressing aspect about the entire event was the ambivalence that people, even my host family, held towards his death. When I asked people, "Do you know who did this?" "Who would want to do this?" "Why at 6:30 AM?" People responded with an answer I've become all to familiar with, "No sé, pero eso es Honduras. No hay orden."/"I don't know, but this is Honduras. There is no order." It is a sad, but true statement, and after being down here for a year I've begun to appreciate their fatalistic attitude, since they have no way to control what is happening. In Honduras,most practically all crimes go unpunished. I've heard that something along the order of only 2% of crimes are successfully prosecuted here. 2%!! In the US, even bad police departments have a solve rate of about 80%.
Our soccer field project remains on schedule, but at times getting small things done feels like pulling teeth. Setting up meetings and making sure people follow through on their work are perhaps the most frustrating things I do in Honduras. There have been some positives though. In a few weeks we will receive a shipment of 115 pounds of sports equipment to be given to at risk youth in the community. Working with multiple organizations including Sports Gift, Casa de Roc Orphanage, NaviVan, and the Orange County Peace Corps Association we were able to take a simple question from a counterpart about getting soccer jerseys for the kids into a reality. It was complicated, but we are in the home stretch now. Gracias a dios.
- Pooping in a cup
- The dentist telling me my teeth are rotting away, and me retorting, "Have you seen how Hondurans use sugar?!"
- Enjoying a hot shower.
- Trying not to get ripped off by some cab driver in Teguz.
- Suffering through a 7 hour bus ride.
 |
| Tegucigalpa at night looks a ton better than Tegucigalpa during the day |
A close family friend and handyman, Kelvin, was shot dead outside of my apartment the past week at 6:30 in the morning on Sunday. I knew him pretty well, since he had helped me fix up numerous things in my apartment. He was a really talented guy when it came to metal work, and he had designed new bars for my windows, along with a new iron door for my balcony. Perhaps the most depressing aspect about the entire event was the ambivalence that people, even my host family, held towards his death. When I asked people, "Do you know who did this?" "Who would want to do this?" "Why at 6:30 AM?" People responded with an answer I've become all to familiar with, "No sé, pero eso es Honduras. No hay orden."/"I don't know, but this is Honduras. There is no order." It is a sad, but true statement, and after being down here for a year I've begun to appreciate their fatalistic attitude, since they have no way to control what is happening. In Honduras,
Our soccer field project remains on schedule, but at times getting small things done feels like pulling teeth. Setting up meetings and making sure people follow through on their work are perhaps the most frustrating things I do in Honduras. There have been some positives though. In a few weeks we will receive a shipment of 115 pounds of sports equipment to be given to at risk youth in the community. Working with multiple organizations including Sports Gift, Casa de Roc Orphanage, NaviVan, and the Orange County Peace Corps Association we were able to take a simple question from a counterpart about getting soccer jerseys for the kids into a reality. It was complicated, but we are in the home stretch now. Gracias a dios.
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