Lempira, the great native that led many successful battles against the Spanish, is honored as his name is that of the region (Gracias, Lempira) and the currency (lempiras).
The story
As I approach the end of my second week in Gracias, Honduras, I can say that I have nearly unpacked... As I rearranged my belongings over the weekend, I realized that I had never properly unpacked. Upon arriving, I rushed into working at the clinic, deeming the suggested "day to rest" unacceptable and inconsistent with my purpose for being here. Surveying my belongings, wondering where to place what (considering to eventually carry one bag onto an airplane), I caught myself imagining packing for a departure. Astonished at the spark of excitement and relief that this passing thought granted, I instantly felt guilty and questioned why, at that moment, I would so readily accept an evening flight, were it offered. What was I lacking to deterr increasing episodes of homesickness (for the home, family, schedule, food, and life that I was accustomed to) and the decreasing ability to amiably embrace the new and different? Why was I so contented to pack my bags and conclude my experience in Gracias? Had I properly unpacked?!
Advice from authors
Having my guest room in order, I wondered how I might go about "learning to belong fully and truly where I live," as I had cited Berry last week. McDonald, in Annals of a Quiet Neighborhood, may offer some useful advice:
At the start of his term as a parishioner, Mr. Walton explains, "For as I wanted to do my work well...I wanted to interest myself in it; and therefore I would go and fall in love, first of all, if I could, with the country round about. And my first step beyond my own gate was up to the ankles, in mud" (Chapter 1).
Despite being greeted with undesirable circumstances at the start, Mr. Walton wants to form a relationship with his surroundings. But how does one go about 'falling in love with a place'?
"When you have once learned to honor anything, love is not very far off," Mr. Walton describes his experience, referring to how miserable he feels at the sight of a pollard (a tree trimmed at the top). He later learns to honor and love pollards for their ability to still be trees amidst their adversity and bring forth "bursts" of life (Chapter 1).
Perhaps 'falling in love with a place' requires learning to honor the reality of a place, that is, all of its triumphs and flaws that are intermingled with the simply common and ordinary. I don't suspect that one can be very productive while 'falling in love with a place'; although I am sure that the task is an achievement in itself.
Thus Mr. Walton reasons, "But as no servant has a right to force his service, so I would be the neighbor only, until such time as the opportunity of being the servant should show itself" (Chapter 3).
This clergyman recognizes the dependence of a servant on the need of those who he serves. Until a need manifests itself, he decides to pursue becoming a neighbor, likely being able to so better serve those around him.
An unidentified fountain statue...much like the nameless young catrachos that trek across el centro (downtown) daily (no weekend breaks) in their tall rubber boots, machete in hand. I have learned that public school children have a winter vacation lasting from December to February; just in time for harvesting coffee!
My experience
To start 'unpacking,' it is useful to consider what I have brought along and how these items might fit into the current reality.
One Honduran, finding that I was to stay for 7 weeks in Gracias and that I spoke Spanish half-decently, said, "No eres rusa o americana...serás catracha," that is, I was to be a Honduran (not a Russian or American). However, experience has shown one thing clearly: I am a gringa (a white American girl). Special interest in my history and plans (and an occasional snickers bar from various clinical patients) accompany this classification. Are my "admirers,"as Dra. Raquel calls them, drawn to me as an individual or the country and culture that I seem to represent? The latter may be more likely. In any case, my initial conclusion was that the reality of being a gringa (and the constant reminders) would keep me from being able to identify with those around me and become a neighbor (to fully belong in the place). In Elliot's novel No Graven Image, Pedro, an indian, in response to Margaret's conformation to indian dress, states, "It's no good for a señorita to become a runa" (pg 167). Margaret realizes that she wanted the indians to accept her as an indian, an impossible thing as she was a señorita-They had already accepted her as a señorita. ...So contrary to the wishes of my Honduran friend, it is unlikely that I will become a catracha.
I have found, however, that catrachos and gringos (and anyone else, really) have several cirumstances in common. Allow a scene to illustrate: Although I had no such purpose, giving recorder lessons to two groups of kids may serve as an inlet into the church and community (at least the kids and some of their parents). Otherwise, I still feel like a foreign guest. At an evening culto, or service, we were invited during a worship song to stand and join hands. I held Doris, my host sister, on one side and a man, perhaps in his 50's, on the other. Closing our eyes, we sang as a congregation:
Renuevame Señor, Jesús
Yo no quiro ser igual
Renuevame Señor, Jesús
Pon en mi tú corazón
...necessito más de ti
that is,
Renew me Lord, Jesus
I do not want to be the same
Renew me Lord, Jesus
Put in me Your heart
...I need more of You
Singing such a verse as a congregatioin, holding hands in unity, I realized that just as the vibrations of this Latino worship song filled the space between each unique individual, so the song's meaning allows binding resonance across cultural and racial barriers. Although I, a gringa, stood between two catrachos, the three of us were equally sinners and dependent upon renewal from our Lord Jesus. Henry Nouwen, in Turn My Mourning into Dancing, calls us to greet each others' belovedness and recognize that the most personal (often suffering) is most universal to all of humanity. Thus, I hope, gringas and catrachos can be neighbors, despite racial and cultural distinctions.
I would be glad to hear your insight regarding these musings as well as any similar experiences that you may have had.
A two-story, round-shaped café offers beverages and a cozy spot on the plaza.
Some orthodox travel notes
So as to fulfill my duty to you as an American traveler, I'll mention some Honduran experiences:
-I went to a Honduran bank for the first time with Dr. Josue, my host dad. I found it a bit uncomfortable to have to pass by four or five armed guards just to get into the building and to be consistently watched by guards at every corner of the bank. There were several long lines and many small cubicle spaces where I presumed people completed their financial transactions. I noticed two signs from the bench where I awaited my host dad to complete his transactions. The first translates, "For your security/safety, and that of ours, turn off your cell phone." I wondered how seriously dangerous and insecure this sign suggested the bank to be. Another sign read, "Receive money here from the United States and the whole world." I marveled at how explicitly this statement articulates what seems implied, that wealth comes from the States.
-Several new foods I have eaten: Lichas are golf ball-sized fruits with a prickly red exterior shell. Once you bite through the shell, exposed is a juicy fruit similar to a grape. The sweet and sour meat envelops a nut that is not to be eaten. On Saturday, el día de sopa (the soup day), we had sopa del mongodon or estómago de vaca. Honduran soups are great in that they have large chunks of traditional vegetables like yucca, bananas, plantains, potato, and a zhuchinni-like vegetable. The cow stomach itself appears a bit alarming (as it looks like a piece of stomach) but the flavor and texture seem most similar to seafood. ...my host dad enjoys meat during nearly all meals (especially beef) so I may have experience in a wide range of beef delicacy before my time in Gracias is complete-So far, tongue and stomach are on the exotic list...
-While my host sister awaited a haircut in a downtown salon, I visited the plaza (parque central) and took a few pictures (those that appear throughout the post)
So to conclude with an overview of my works, I have held my first two recorder lessons and have continued assisting Dra. Raquel during my second week in Gracias, Honduras. I have tried to find a perching place from which to illustrate my experience for you. Referring to in-context/place literature, Berry suggests, "The story is in the language in which it is told, and nowhere else" (A Master Language, Berry). If I am to tell you an accurate story, I had better learn the right language : )
PS: Thank you for your encouraging comments! I will try to accommodate voiced interests in my future posts.
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