I am finally able to find my way around here to most buildings, despite the fact that they are largely indistinguishable from the others. I’m even starting to remember the names: Casa San Vincente (where most volunteers live), Talita Kumi (girls’ dorms), the Hortaliza (some garden patches), and the tortilleria (where the tortillas are made—go figure). Walking around one of my first nights by myself with my flashlight (it is pitch black here by 6:45 pm), I saw small glinting lights floating everywhere out in the trees and was convinced they were the eyes of some wild animal about to approach me and chase me back to San Vincente. As it turns out, the Midwest isn’t the only place where lightning bugs make their home. The insect population here is quite varied, including 7 inch grasshopper-like things and ginormous cockroaches, not to mention copious mosquitoes and flies. Among the animal wildlife, giant bullfrogs and pockets of vultures roam the Ranch. Still, it’s a lovely place.
I haven’t started working yet, but I will next week. I am allowed some time to settle in and get acquainted with the Ranch before they completely throw me to the dogs. Yesterday I was “presented” at Talleres, the middle school/vocational school where I will be working. Each morning at 7:30 the kids line up and say morning prayers before heading off to classes and their different “tallers.” A taller is an area of technical work, like shoemaking, pottery, alterations, and metalworking. I also met Jorge, my boss in Talleres, a large Honduran man who, so I’m told, tries very hard to avoid most direct conversations with his staff and who is apparently always very busy making meetings about having future meetings.
I had the wonderful opportunity to go to “compras” yesterday with all the July birthday kids. I boarded a bus with about 20 other kids who celebrated birthdays this month and settled in next to Evelin, a 15 year old girl from Talleres, for the hour ride to Tegucigalpa. We started talking and pretty soon she wanted to know everything about my family: what are my siblings’ names, how old are they, do I have grandparents, where do they live, do I have a “novio” (a boyfriend) and if not, “do I want one?”. So far I have picked up that family, whether or not the kids have living blood relations, is very important on the Ranch, and I’ve been asked about it more than a couple times. Evelin was especially keen to know my parents’ names and what they look like.
Our conversation turned more serious when she next offered up her own opinions of her parents, who both live in Tegucigalpa. “Yo quiero mucho a mi mama,” she said nodding, which means that she loves her mother a lot. But the next few minutes she repeated over and over how much she does not love her father, that he is very bad, a very bad father. I realized that no matter how happy some of the children here may look, the majority of them are dealing with awful past situations and serious personal issues. Talking with Evelin, I was reminded of the little girls I sat with at mass on Saturday afternoon, ages 8, 9, and 10, who nonchalantly volunteered that their mothers and fathers were dead. I think I’ll try to remember this the first time I have an exceptionally difficult day in class.
The bus arrived in a dirty, worn-down square in Tegus (what locals call the capital) and off hopped 20 kids, aged 11 to 16, a few Honduran chaperones from the Ranch, and three of us volunteers. Our first stop was Pizza Hut, where we all piled in the back of the restaurant and were fed enormous amounts of pop, pizza, garlic bread, and creamy/fruity sundaes. Compras is really about stuffing the kids with as much food (and sugar) as possible, giving them extras to bring home, and then feeding them some more until they are so full all they can do on the bus back to the Ranch is slouch in their seats and nap. The other neat thing about compras is that the kids are each given money—lempiras—based on how old they are. The money is completely theirs to spend in the city on whatever they wish. Most of the kids end up going to a grocery store and buying cookies, candy and other junk food, although a few returned with knock-off Puma sunglasses or cheap shoes.
My trio of young ladies took me around to a grocery store, then to a couple cheap shoe stores. Like any teenage girls, they were enchanted by the “half-off everything on this shelf” signs and stroked all the pretty hot pink and purple heels that they would get to wear someday. Being a white, light-haired American woman, I got plenty of cat calls walking down the streets even though I was clearly with three Honduran girls in school uniforms. I guess my girls got a kick out of it though, so I didn’t’ mind as much that I didn’t understand what they were saying to me. In six months, though, I’ll probably be offended.
We finally got back on the bus after what seemed hours. Before heading straight back to the Ranch, though, we stopped at an NPH office up the hill and had huge slices of milk-cake (very soggy) and more pop. Even though they were already stuffed with some of the cookies and candy they’d all bought, the kids pushed down one or two cubes of cake and cup after cup of Pepsi. I certainly felt like it was my birthday.
I arrived back at the Ranch with just enough time to run to my first Olympics meeting with my team. Every August, the Ranch holds Olimpiades, a massive, Ranch-wide celebration with opening ceremonies, judges and numerous competitions. I walked in during the middle of planning Team Costa Rica’s t-shirts and dance uniforms—wait, dance uniforms?! I’ll be dancing in front of everyone? Oh, oh yes. Such is the life of a volunteer here. For the remaining hour, Juan, a gangly teen in maroon polyester pants and an orange Germany t-shirt, taught the team our first steps to the dance routine. This quickly turned into organized chaos since the team is made up of older employees who oversee some of the kids’ homes and some of the youngest kids in Casa Suyapa (I think one girl is 7?). As I watched Juan repeat the routine for the 10th time, it dawned on me that we were dancing the opening sequence to “Thriller.” As if I haven’t gotten enough Michael Jackson already, apparently his music and dancing is somewhere next to Dios on the Ranch.
I ended my day in San Pablo, an hogar for boys from 11 to 13. Most of them were working on homework when I arrived, which they have to finish and get checked off before they can eat dinner, and I was quickly solicited by several of the boys to “help” them—which roughly translates to “do my homework for me, gringa.” I struck a deal in broken Spanish to help after they did some work themselves, a response they seemed to expect. While I was coloring in some geometric shapes and answering the questions I could understand (nearly all of the kids speak a very informal, nearly slang form of Spanish that will take extra effort for me to figure out), Francisco grabbed my sunglasses off my head, put them on and started singing what sounded like “Billy Jean” in Spanish while parading and dancing around the table. Francisco is a scrawny 11 year old with the features of maybe a 7 year old, so my oversized glasses far more than engulfed his miniature head. Simply hilarious.
Carlos, one of the older boys, kept trying to test me by making me ask him questions then answering with lies and laughing about it. Somehow we got onto the subject of the Mayans since nearby Copan has one of the best kept sites of ruins, and I think I won Carlos over by telling him about 12/12/2012—the end of the world, based off of the Mayan calendar. With wide eyes, Carlos showed me his drawings and class notes about the Mayans and their calendar, asking me when the movie was coming out and whether it was true. I simply shrugged and repeated all I knew. Maybe it wasn’t the best topic to bring up to a handful of 10 and 11 year olds, but who said fear wasn’t a good way to get someone’s attention? At least they think I’m smart.
This entry is already much too long, so I’ll cut myself off for now. There are so many stories and impressions that I want to write down and remember, but I’ll do my best to keep it shaved down to just a few of the most significant. Thanks for reading, and I hope you are all surviving the heat back there!
Peace,
Daniela
I haven’t started working yet, but I will next week. I am allowed some time to settle in and get acquainted with the Ranch before they completely throw me to the dogs. Yesterday I was “presented” at Talleres, the middle school/vocational school where I will be working. Each morning at 7:30 the kids line up and say morning prayers before heading off to classes and their different “tallers.” A taller is an area of technical work, like shoemaking, pottery, alterations, and metalworking. I also met Jorge, my boss in Talleres, a large Honduran man who, so I’m told, tries very hard to avoid most direct conversations with his staff and who is apparently always very busy making meetings about having future meetings.
I had the wonderful opportunity to go to “compras” yesterday with all the July birthday kids. I boarded a bus with about 20 other kids who celebrated birthdays this month and settled in next to Evelin, a 15 year old girl from Talleres, for the hour ride to Tegucigalpa. We started talking and pretty soon she wanted to know everything about my family: what are my siblings’ names, how old are they, do I have grandparents, where do they live, do I have a “novio” (a boyfriend) and if not, “do I want one?”. So far I have picked up that family, whether or not the kids have living blood relations, is very important on the Ranch, and I’ve been asked about it more than a couple times. Evelin was especially keen to know my parents’ names and what they look like.
Our conversation turned more serious when she next offered up her own opinions of her parents, who both live in Tegucigalpa. “Yo quiero mucho a mi mama,” she said nodding, which means that she loves her mother a lot. But the next few minutes she repeated over and over how much she does not love her father, that he is very bad, a very bad father. I realized that no matter how happy some of the children here may look, the majority of them are dealing with awful past situations and serious personal issues. Talking with Evelin, I was reminded of the little girls I sat with at mass on Saturday afternoon, ages 8, 9, and 10, who nonchalantly volunteered that their mothers and fathers were dead. I think I’ll try to remember this the first time I have an exceptionally difficult day in class.
The bus arrived in a dirty, worn-down square in Tegus (what locals call the capital) and off hopped 20 kids, aged 11 to 16, a few Honduran chaperones from the Ranch, and three of us volunteers. Our first stop was Pizza Hut, where we all piled in the back of the restaurant and were fed enormous amounts of pop, pizza, garlic bread, and creamy/fruity sundaes. Compras is really about stuffing the kids with as much food (and sugar) as possible, giving them extras to bring home, and then feeding them some more until they are so full all they can do on the bus back to the Ranch is slouch in their seats and nap. The other neat thing about compras is that the kids are each given money—lempiras—based on how old they are. The money is completely theirs to spend in the city on whatever they wish. Most of the kids end up going to a grocery store and buying cookies, candy and other junk food, although a few returned with knock-off Puma sunglasses or cheap shoes.
My trio of young ladies took me around to a grocery store, then to a couple cheap shoe stores. Like any teenage girls, they were enchanted by the “half-off everything on this shelf” signs and stroked all the pretty hot pink and purple heels that they would get to wear someday. Being a white, light-haired American woman, I got plenty of cat calls walking down the streets even though I was clearly with three Honduran girls in school uniforms. I guess my girls got a kick out of it though, so I didn’t’ mind as much that I didn’t understand what they were saying to me. In six months, though, I’ll probably be offended.
We finally got back on the bus after what seemed hours. Before heading straight back to the Ranch, though, we stopped at an NPH office up the hill and had huge slices of milk-cake (very soggy) and more pop. Even though they were already stuffed with some of the cookies and candy they’d all bought, the kids pushed down one or two cubes of cake and cup after cup of Pepsi. I certainly felt like it was my birthday.
I arrived back at the Ranch with just enough time to run to my first Olympics meeting with my team. Every August, the Ranch holds Olimpiades, a massive, Ranch-wide celebration with opening ceremonies, judges and numerous competitions. I walked in during the middle of planning Team Costa Rica’s t-shirts and dance uniforms—wait, dance uniforms?! I’ll be dancing in front of everyone? Oh, oh yes. Such is the life of a volunteer here. For the remaining hour, Juan, a gangly teen in maroon polyester pants and an orange Germany t-shirt, taught the team our first steps to the dance routine. This quickly turned into organized chaos since the team is made up of older employees who oversee some of the kids’ homes and some of the youngest kids in Casa Suyapa (I think one girl is 7?). As I watched Juan repeat the routine for the 10th time, it dawned on me that we were dancing the opening sequence to “Thriller.” As if I haven’t gotten enough Michael Jackson already, apparently his music and dancing is somewhere next to Dios on the Ranch.
I ended my day in San Pablo, an hogar for boys from 11 to 13. Most of them were working on homework when I arrived, which they have to finish and get checked off before they can eat dinner, and I was quickly solicited by several of the boys to “help” them—which roughly translates to “do my homework for me, gringa.” I struck a deal in broken Spanish to help after they did some work themselves, a response they seemed to expect. While I was coloring in some geometric shapes and answering the questions I could understand (nearly all of the kids speak a very informal, nearly slang form of Spanish that will take extra effort for me to figure out), Francisco grabbed my sunglasses off my head, put them on and started singing what sounded like “Billy Jean” in Spanish while parading and dancing around the table. Francisco is a scrawny 11 year old with the features of maybe a 7 year old, so my oversized glasses far more than engulfed his miniature head. Simply hilarious.
Carlos, one of the older boys, kept trying to test me by making me ask him questions then answering with lies and laughing about it. Somehow we got onto the subject of the Mayans since nearby Copan has one of the best kept sites of ruins, and I think I won Carlos over by telling him about 12/12/2012—the end of the world, based off of the Mayan calendar. With wide eyes, Carlos showed me his drawings and class notes about the Mayans and their calendar, asking me when the movie was coming out and whether it was true. I simply shrugged and repeated all I knew. Maybe it wasn’t the best topic to bring up to a handful of 10 and 11 year olds, but who said fear wasn’t a good way to get someone’s attention? At least they think I’m smart.
This entry is already much too long, so I’ll cut myself off for now. There are so many stories and impressions that I want to write down and remember, but I’ll do my best to keep it shaved down to just a few of the most significant. Thanks for reading, and I hope you are all surviving the heat back there!
Peace,
Daniela
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