Hola a todos y a todas,
In the last four weeks since I have blogged (I know you were all ever so eagerly awaiting my next update), classes in the school have officially ended, graduation and quinceañeros have passed, vacation courses have started, the university and high school students have returned to the Ranch from their schools in the city, and Honduras has turned a political corner (for better or for worse is yet to be seen).
My 147 students finished out the year well, with only 5 really truly failing English to merit staying an extra week with me and making up the grade. Last week I attended the Talleres employee Christmas party, which took place in a tiny, two bedroom casa (an outdoor bathroom was shared by four homes) stacked with a mega entertainment center, jamming speakers and a disco ball to ensure a night of awkward dancing and chatting with coworkers. I learned that my beloved jefe, Jorge, actually speaks English (would have been nice to know) and lived in the States for a while, and that another coworker of mine is 23 and has a 6 year old son. We all exchanged Secret Santa gifts and then, following Honduran custom, took turns making small speeches to express our appreciation of each other (and that the year had ended). In retrospect, the three months I spent teaching in Talleres were one of the most challenging learning experiences I have yet had, and that is not to say that the months were terrible. On the contrary, I have come to really enjoy my job in the Vocational School/junior high, although the vacation until the next school year starts is much needed.
Vacation courses began last week. I am teaching one English course for the first period and then assisting a profesor in ''dibujo y pintura,'' or drawing and painting, which realistically translates to babysitting upwards of ten rowdy 4 to 13 year olds as they wreak havoc on the storage room (our classroom) and on each other. Today I ripped the broom away from Jepherson as he swung it like a baseball bat at Paola's head for stealing his chair; I also saved Adonis from death by falling bookshelf. I said that I am ''assisting'' the profesor, but really, I am babysitting him, too. More stories on that to come, I am sure. Suffice to say that I mentioned to him yesterday that listening to music on his cell phone during class time was probably not helping settle the kids down to draw pictures of Santa and his reindeer.
It is hard to believe that nearly 5 months have passed since I arrived in July on Mel Zelaya's coattails. I feel myself more and more at home on the Ranch, and have come to truly love these children and Honduras's splendid idiosyncracies. I leave Friday for a short trip to Nicaragua, Copan and Tela before the Ranch goes into lockdown mode for Christmas and New Year's (two weeks where volunteers are not allowed to leave the Ranch, but instead work nearly non-stop in hogar).
I hope you all passed a delicious Thanksgiving, and that Christmas is taking its time coming to you. I am slowly finding out how Christmas is celebrated at an orphanage in a country where snow is something that exists in books and movies. I hope this story I prepared will help you see a little bit about how we entertain ourselves on the Ranch during the Advent season.
Christmas is Coming
Last night I was led into the hogar with 3 pairs of sweaty, grimy hands covering my eyes and another 4 pairs clutching my hands and pulling me into the salon. The girls had been whispering and giggling about a surprise in the hogar all day long, and now they were beside themselves to show me. As I waited with my eyes closed inside the salon, I could hear the chicas running around the room, yelling and shrieking, ''Not yet! Don't open your eyes! Turn off the lights! No, don't turn them off yet! Ok now turn them on!'' Finally, they screamed at me to open my eyes, which I gingerly did to the cheers of 29 Christmas-enthused girls.
First I saw the Christmas tree, its twinkling colored lights complemented by nativity decorations and red and gold ornaments, many of which were missing rather large chunks out of their sides or were severly disfigured, no doubt the result of years of abuse in the chicas hogar. ''Daniela! Daniela! Look over here!'' was the next cry. My eyes traveled to the right where the real surprise stood. The girls had been squealing about it secretively all day. Next to the tree was an 8 foot tall blow-up snowman, the kind that you plug in to keep air pumping into it, the kind you see in Costo and K-Mart but could never imagine paying money for, instead choosing to snicker at all those Chevy Chase-worthy houses that actually put it up in their yard (apologies to whoever does have one in their yard right now--it is true that the kids love them!).
After a moment of confusion as to where I actually was, I, too, started cheering and clapping that we had a gigantic ''Frosty'' inside the hogar salon. Then all chaos broke loose in riotous Christmas revelry: Michael Jackson blasting from the boombox, chicas running up and bouncing off of Frosty's bulbous white belly, and other chicas screaming and dancing and doing gymnastics in front of the tree. Suddently, though, the festive squeals became cries of terror as Frosty's huge frame began to deflate, threatening to cover the littlest chica, Genesis, in a pond of white nylon. As Frosty melted away, several girls started to cry----what was happening to our beloved snowman, who seemed to willingly bounce to the smooth rhythms of Billie Jean and Thriller? The big belly quickly gave way to reveal Scolin sitting behind, the cable cord clutched in her fingers and her eyes locked in guilty surprise. The source of such a tragic death soon discovered, 28 angry chicas advanced on the lone Scolin, who held up the cable in dismay: one of the tongs had broken off into the outlet.
This was certainly a travesty, judging by the chicas' reactions. Tía Reina would be coming back tomorrow and she would be furious . . . the girls would all surely be ''castigada'' from doing any fun activies for days, instead charged with mopping the pasillos several times each and sweeping the yard (yes, they sweep their yards here). She might even take away movie priveleges---gasp! No sooner had the girls assessed their potential punishments than they kicked into Ranch Survival Mode, operation: Fix the Frosty.
Their first attempt was to try to fish the other tong from the plug out of the socket using their fingers. The threat of electric shock was apparently not scarier than Tía Reina's wrath. After my repeated pleas to remove all digits from the socket (Julissa received seveal unexpected jolts), someone fished out the tong with a pair of tweezers. When trying to tape the tong back to the plug didn't work, it became apparent that superior wisdom was needed. Hence, our trek in the dark to Casa Suyapa, the hogar for the youngest kids, to find Chele, the chicas' self-appointed god of all things electrical. Since Chele, a soon-to-be university student, works in the electricity taller, surely he could fix our beloved frosty. Entering the youngest hogar was like entering a monkey park---at feeding time. I instantly had a half dozen little mogrels (all kids in my art class) shrieking and climbing all over me, the remains of their tripe soup dinner dripping from their mouths down the front of my shirt.
Somehow we forded our way through mazes of hungry four-year-olds to Chele, seated with a group of even littler chicas. Josselyn explained our dire situation in one exasperated breath. The life of 29 girls --- and a mega Frosty --- where at stake. Chele agreed to come take a look. Back in our hogar, the chicas huddled around Chele as he worked, clutching hands and silent for the first time that night. Their mouths waited open in desperate suspense as Chele fit the makeshift plug into the outlet. The hope of Christmas and all things merry seemed to hinge on whether or not Chele could restore the Frosty to life.
Suddenly, air started blowing into the base and Frosty started filling from the bottom. It took a few moments to register that Frosy was, well, becoming Frosy again. Once it was apparent that their fates weren't to be decided by an angry tía Reina, it was as if there were ten piñatas in the room waiting to be slashed open: the screams of job coming from the chicas were overwhelming. ''Gracias, Chele!'' they chanted, dancing and clapping once again. Frosty's thick awkward arms flapped, applauding his miraculous revival; his goofy smile promising countless more nights of Christmas cheer to the smooth crooning of Michael Jackson, no doubt.
The rest of the night was one grand dance party, made all the more special by the presence of one oversized Frosty the Snowman, formerly dead and now risen to new life. I can only imagine what would have happened should the CD player have broken, leaving us cold and lonely without Smooth Criminal and Billie Jean. I suspect this Christmas will be unlike any I have ever before experienced, one where gifts mean more and family means something completely different than I am used to. I am positive, though, that any Christmas spent with kids who would shed sloppy wet tears, stick their fingers in electrical outlets, and boldly go searching in the lion's den for a prophet to fix their golden bull (or was it a cow?) will be that much more memorable.
Feliz Navidad!
