I danced the Waltz. Or at least, a semi-recognizable version of it. We were 26 godparents of the 26 boys and girls who celebrated their Quinceaños this year, one of the most important milestones of many Central American cultures. After accompanying my godson Marlon through the archway to signify his coming out into society, we all lined up, readied ourselves for the music to begin, and then with no apparent coordination, shuffled our feet around the cement floor in the school auditorium, each hesitant step more resembling a sad twice-removed cousin of the Waltz than the real thing. Still, anything more elegant would have been a false representation of the past years these children were celebrating.
The 15 year old birthday honorees matched in every possible detail, the color of the detailed nail designs of the dolled-up young ladies corresponding perfectly with the formal dress shirts the boys wore. And of course, the invitations, centerpieces, birthday cakes, and recuerdos (endearingly tacky reminder gifts that are integral to every major Honduran event) reflected the exact same shade of fifteen-year-old gold that cast its color over the entire evening. Marlon was my second godson of the week, since only two days before I had accompanied Yefry up to the stage to receive his diploma for graduating 9th grade. And of course, Marlon and Yefry join my original godson, Alejandro, whom we baptized back in July. Three times a godmother— I dare say I must be a saint now.
The Ranch is quieter now. School is over for the year and vacation courses won’t begin for another week. The younger kids’ days are occupied by normal daily chores—sweeping, mopping, and then sweeping and mopping again—and the older boys and girls left for ten weeks of internship practice in their vocational trade. They are scattered around the country, most in Tegucigalpa, but some as far away as San Pedro Sula where they have extended family members to stay with while they gain valuable work experience. For some of those kids, who are only 16 and 17 years old, this is their first time ever being outside of the Ranch for more than a day or two, and now they will be responsible for getting themselves to work every day on time and learning how to live more or less on their own. Many of them haven’t seen these extended family members in years, and I can only imagine the awkward first interactions as a paying tenant joining their home for a few months. Many of them were my students this year, and I am nervous to let them out into the world on their own. There is so much that could happen. I suppose this is a taste of what a parent must feel like.
I always enjoy getting to spend time off of the Ranch to work a little bit in real Honduras. Nearby Talanga is about as real as it gets: from the moment you step off the bus dust lodges itself in every pore of your dripping sweaty body, pigs the size of bears eat plastic Pepsi bottles in people’s front yards, barefoot street urchins sell gum and friend pork rinds while their mothers offer any pill you’ll ever need for half price, and wonderfully offensive Reggaeton music blasts from the dark inside of adobe homes. I give in to the heat and buy a Coke and frozen choco-banana for the rest of the walk to the Comedor where Merlin, our bilingual doctor (also a Ranch graduate), was going to do health check-ups on all of the kids.
I’d been to the Comedor once already back in June. There are now about 35 children from ages two to ten who get a full lunch there five days a week since the Passionist volunteers started the soup kitchen in November 2009. NPH Honduras is just beginning to be involved in support of the Passionist Comedor, hoping that one day soon our children will take part in community service.
Merlin set up in the front room and I positioned myself for optimal photo-taking. The first family came with their mother who was nursing her fourth child. The three kids seemed pretty healthy besides a few rotting teeth. They were a little short for their ages, but Merlin seemed satisfied, so he weighed them and then called in the next group of brothers and sisters. This little boy claimed to be nine, but I was certain that he couldn’t be more than five judging by his height and the size of his arms, which were hardly thicker than a broomstick. He came without shoes. Merlin traced his feet on a piece of paper, noted his name, and made a note to find shoes from the Ranch bodega for him. Next it was his sister’s turn. Merlin looked in her eyes, ears and nose, and then at her hair. He motioned for me to look closer above her ear. Her wiry black hair was a complete patch of white where hundreds of lice eggs had taken over. I couldn’t look at the eggs without seeing something black scurry out from Merlin’s light. This poor girl must be constantly itching, I thought. There’s no comb for a colony that size; she would have to be shaved.
Halfway through the checkups, a young girl came into the room holding a two month old newborn baby. He was a beautiful healthy boy who was just at the age for vaccine shots. While Merlin explained to the young mother to come to our external clinic for shots, I looked closely at the girl and recognized her as one of my former 9th grade students. She’d been in my classes when I first started teaching at the Ranch. She had left sometime this year after getting pregnant, I suppose once she came back from her internship practicum (hence that fear of letting your kids out into the real world). While NPH cannot support pre-marital pregnancies, they always do provide health and financial assistance for the young ladies when they leave the Ranch. It was a shock to see this girl six or seven years younger than I with a two-month-old son. I kept thinking of her looking up at me from her desk and smirking while she didn’t do her English work. We made eye contact. I smiled and told her she had a beautiful son.
My job title changed recently from Home Correspondent to Communications Officer. The change was decided by a unanimous vote of all Home Correspondents from the nine NPH houses at our conference in Nicaragua as we figured it more accurately reflects the billion projects that inevitably end up as our responsibility. Well I was in no way expecting job responsibility #862 that handcuffed me on Thanksgiving Day. It had already been a very long day. I was trudging through an urgent project but also had to cover the graduation of our kindergartners and 6th graders—a two hour event since the master of ceremonies was our much esteemed but eccentric Guatemalan librarian. No one is sure where she gets her money, or how old she really is, but we adore her gaudy jewelry and fish-net tights. I swear I have never seen this extravagant woman wear the same outfit twice: for Quinceaños she debuted in a sparkling purple floor length dress that really looked more like a mermaid suit than anything else, but of course she pulled it off with elegance and finesse.
It being Turkey Day and me naturally a vegetarian (and only more convicted since spending 15 months in a country where chicken feet and fried pork skins rule the lunch menu), I chose to bring the salad and help make the stuffing for our giant feast we had planned among the volunteers. I had just finished preparing the stuffing and salad dressing and was unlocking my office door when I received an urgent call from the National Director telling me to get down to the school pronto and to bring the camera. Well that was going to be easy: my office sits at the farthest most possible point from the school and it was HOT that day. I mean I had already pitted through my grey blouse and my feet were making squishy noises when they rubbed against my sandals. To make things more interesting, I had also just closed a somewhat illicit financial transaction in an underground alcohol purchase from our internal control office and was schlepping three bottles of French red table wine. Needless to say when your boss says run, you run, no matter how much your feet are slipping out of your flip flops, or how much the bottles clank in your side bag.
Fifteen minutes later I arrived at the school out of breath and completely unattractive, but that was of secondary concern to my responsibilities as official Ranch photographer. As it turned out, someone had broken into one of our storage units and stole an amplifier worth $2,000. Two police officers from Tegucigalpa were taking notes and checking out the crime scene. Luckily they had one obvious lead: two very clear footprints on the plastic bin that was housing the amp. Hmm, an interesting story, but not one that I thought the house would want me to write about and publish on the donor-based website. Still not entirely sure what my role was in being there, I held up the camera and asked what they needed pictures of. The police officer came over and pointed to the footprints: duh. Take pictures of the evidence. Or better yet, give me your very nice digital SLR Canon camera so that I can take pictures of the evidence. I gingerly handed over my extra appendage to the policeman half-astounded: of course two cops would make the hour trip from the capital to investigate a serious crime scene and wouldn’t bring their own stupid camera. Sigh. Honduras you never fail to find a way to surprise me.
Once the alleged investigator (I’m not sure he didn’t have a hand in it) handed me back my camera I asked for his email so I could get his photos to him. He hesitated a moment and looked at his partner and asked if they had internet. She shook her head. Nope, no internet. OK. Then in true Honduran form it took all of us gathered an unnecessary amount of time to figure out how we were going to get the investigator the photos of the crime scene that they took on my camera. Finally it was decided and I was free to cross the Sahara again up to my office. After such an event, I have no shame in tweaking my job description just a bit. To Communications Officer I proudly adjoin the title CSI Photographer.
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