Dancing My Heart Out

It took me a long time to admit it but I can finally say that dancing is my first and true love. I realize that part of the difficulty in admitting this is my deep-set insecurity about not being as good as I’d like to be, hence, I can’t make any claims to being a real dancer.

But I’m over that because I figured out that there’s no sense of my being continually frustrated over not having the regular and formal training I could have used to develop, it doesn’t really matter because I never dreamt of being a professional dancer anyway, I just always wanted to be, well, good. And just to keep dancing. It’s interesting that while growing up, despite not having the encouragement from home for me to pursue a hobby, nor the money to pay for non-school related endeavors, I always managed to find an outlet for dance that didn’t cost a dime, save for costumes for performances. Thank goodness for the student-organized cheer dance team in high school and the dance company in college. Then after graduation, when I eventually got this thing called a “job,” I could finally pay for dance classes to my heart’s content. I had a better idea of how I loved to dance when I was still living in Fairfield and used to drive 50 miles all the way to San Francisco on weekends just to receive a couple of classes. I was also fortunate to have found opportunities to perform and even for a short while, be part of a real dance company.

Looking back now, I’m more impressed with myself than sorry for having accomplished a lot in dance despite the little professional training or experience I have. In high school, I was surprised to have been able to learn some new skills despite being, as a dancer, being in the ripe age of 16 years old. In college, I was in the dance company for four whole years and in the last two, was in charge of the dance productions that were staged. These entailed more than just dancing. Then a couple of years ago, I organized a performance hip-hop key group in the church I was attending whose aim was to do fellowship through the common interest of the members. We had a pretty cool performance one New Year’s Eve that not only involved choreography, but a spoken word piece as an introduction and a multi-media presentation that was played during the dance. More than the coolness factor, the whole experience was special to and a breakthrough for me because it was when I realized that God really wants to use my dancing as a way to reach people. “Little ol’ me?” I wondered. “Yes, little ol’ you,” seemed to be God’s response.

Coming to Honduras, I always knew that I was going to keep dancing somehow. However, not in a million years would I have thought that I’d be giving ballet lessons…especially since it’s not my forte, having only received a few years’ worth of instruction and well, it wasn’t my cup of tea. Nonetheless, I’ve maintained my high regard and respect for it being the necessary foundation any real dancer must have. I always consider knowing ballet as being literate in dancing. To cut the long story short, for art´s sake, I eventually succumbed to giving classes back in February, not having a clue what I was getting myself into.

Lo and behold, November 3rd was the first ever performance and recital for Olanchito Ballet, the name which we would eventually call the group I’ve formed. Seven little ballerinas who’ve remained steadfast and committed to learning ballet, the art form that is as esoteric as the concept of punctuality in this country. In the recital, the girls performed ten (count ‘em) short dance pieces, to a combination of classical and Latin folk and Honduran folk songs. This is mind blowing to me because personally, I hate doing choreography with a passion. Let alone, choreograph to classical music, which I have never done, nor would have wanted to do. I always just wanted to be the one learning and dancing. But what was I to do? I found myself in a situation where the only way I could keep on dancing is to be able to be the one to teach it. So I went for the compromise.

I thought I already knew how much I love to dance, but I didn’t know to what extent. Being a teacher truly stretched my limits and brought about another experience I didn’t expect to have: being a parent. Thinking of my students as my own children was the only way for me to survive the classes without any bloodshed (spoken like a true non-mom) or losing my sanity. Sure, it was fun, but it was also like being a full time nanny.

Was it all worth it? Of course, everything looks better in retrospect, having survived the tempest. But I remember the evening of the performance where a good number of people braved the rains to witness what was to be the first ever full-length ballet performance in Olanchito. Days in advance, I tried my best to let go of all control and let the kids come around on their own and be there for them as moral support more than anything. I won’t deny that I felt like a true stage mom the whole time, proud of how all the girls (and two “special participants”) held their own even if it was the first ever performance for the majority of them. Also, I’d have to say that I was proud of myself for having accomplished something like that and overcoming everything that got in my way- my own issues included.

Dancing has also been my refuge as a volunteer. For someone who can barely stop working to rest, dance has been my playtime as much as it has been work. It didn´t matter how frustrated I got, because at the end of the day, I was still dancing. It also has given me my chance to get to know more youth in the community. Twice I was asked by a couple of high school groups to help them out with their cheering competition- and the sucker that I was, I readily agreed not aware of the headaches these two ventures entailed. In the end, I was only able to help them out partially, either they didn’t give me enough time to work with or only half the group was attending and I had to cut my “services” short. In the end, however, Honduran-style, both groups pulled things together last minute and managed to walk away with second place in their respective competitions. Pretty cool.

From all these experiences, I’ve gathered that my most effective and gratifying community work is going to come from doing something I love the most- dancing. My project at the cultural center is on the last stretch and when that is done, I will take advantage of the kids being on vacation and will be giving dance workshops (ballet and hip-hop) to all those willing. I will also be involved in preparing for various art, literary and theater workshops, all part of the project for the center. Art is life indeed.

I haven’t built any wells or roads, but I am helping build a children’s library with a mural and the works; I haven´t saved lives, but I have danced into the lives of people, in one way or another; I once thought that ballet was a part of my past and yet I have started a school here in Olanchito. I´m still a long way from the kind of dancer I´d like to be, but I know that if I can keep doing it, I can only get better. I think I should have faith in my talent the way it has been faithful to me, always giving me opportunities to keep dancing. I guess this little ol’ dancer has nothing to complain about.

Confessions of a Workaholic

I would like to begin by saying that my English is falling apart (Feel free to think, “We’ve noticed, Leah.”). I recently wrote an article that I submitted for a volunteer publication and I must say it was quite a challenge getting through writing it and finding the correct English words, instead of using some Spanish words that seem easier to come by these days. Nothing to be alarmed about, this is a normal occurrence among volunteers- thinking and speaking in Spanglish…it just seems more pronounced once one tries to write on paper in one language. I don’t feel too bad because I’m not the only one; the only thing is that I hope Peace Corps would start an “English Rehabilitation” program before sending all volunteers back to the U.S. Or the rest of America can catch up on their Spanglish too; that way returned Spanish-speaking volunteers can just blend right back in!

On another note, one of my dearest friends in the world, Connie, told me not too long ago: “You haven’t changed, Leah. Your life is still the same. The only thing that has changed is your location.” She was referring to how I live my life non-stop regardless if I’m doing something for a living or voluntarily. Some people know me too well. It may seem that I have fallen into the black hole these days, as I have been quiet on my blog and on emails. I have to confess, I’ve backslid once more into overdrive mode. This is the last time I’ll let it happen again, I swear! Yeah, right. I must sound like a recovering addict trying to say over and over that I’ll slow down…so and so…and at the same time committing to another project or engagement. On the bright side, I can’t really complain this one time because, finally, I’m beginning to see the fruits of my labor as a volunteer.

To begin with, the project I got approved for the Casa de la Cultura is finally being executed. I had this bright idea of including a million components in my project, hence, there have been a lot of things to be done. But in essence, this project (that is being funded by a grant from USAID and the Municipality of Olanchito) aims to recover the identity of the community as the country’s capital of civic and culture through the construction of a Children’s Library, various installations in the building (bars and mirrors for dance classes), purchase of equipment (sound system, lights, costumes for performing groups) and different cultural activities. It’s not true that the only measure of development is through infrastructures being built, because development is not only about the tangibles. But in terms of instant gratification, it sure is nice to be able to see things being built right before my eyes and know that I helped make that happen.

Case in point: the ballet class I am teaching now is official. The kids and I used to dance bare feet and in plain clothes, while using backs of chairs as barres. Now, thanks to the group’s fundraising efforts and the grant I got, all the seven girls have complete ballet uniforms and real barres to use. And drum roll please...full-length mirrors to top it all off! Despite the fact that we are not in a ballet academy, the teacher is nowhere near a prima ballerina and that there are no wooden floors, nor a real studio…we are still doing ballet! And isn’t it all about working with what you have? And on that note, the class is busy preparing for its debut performance on November 3rd. I am staging a dance recital just for them that includes dance pieces using various music including classical and Honduran folk. It has been a lot of work and I am exhausted, but I’m really excited about it. The girls aren’t quite ready for Swan Lake, but they’re precious regardless.

Continuing with the list of things keeping me on my toes, I recently concluded a 6-part workshop on basic business administration with a group of women who have their micro-enterprise. What do I know about business? Up until recently, nothing, really. I fully understood through this experience the expression that says something about teachers being only a page ahead of their students. That’s where the beauty of Peace Corps and manuals steps in. As a volunteer, we have a plethora of resources about any conceivable topic related to development work and a lot of them are manuals that enable any of us to teach the most fundamental concepts of any subject to locals. It is wonderful because I’m personally learning a lot as well. This particular endeavor seriously kicked my butt because I had a ton of material to cover and prepare (sans Power Point, i.e. all of my visual aids were done with good ol’ fashioned markers and paper). But in the end it was all worth it because the women I worked with (aged between 20-something to 70-something) were very grateful for the new things they learned. Furthermore, it was a great experience for me going into a rural community to work (literally “home schooling” the women right out of their houses) and spend a few nights there to see the women in their element. Needless to say, I was lulled to sleep by nature’s choir- roosters, pigs, mosquitoes. Life in a farm, indeed!

And then there’s my public policy project with some high school kids that was on hiatus for six weeks due to a combination of reasons why there were no classes or students were too busy, namely: preparations for Civic Week (where ALL schools participate in parades for an entire week), a break from Civic Week, a marching band competition, and finally, a teachers’ strike that lasted two weeks. It’s the same group that I couldn’t meet with the entire month of July due to another set of reasons just as fascinating. The good news is, this week we got the ball rolling again and there is actually hope of finishing the project before they go into their exams in a couple of weeks. Vamos a ver.

Did I mention that in between all this I was helping out a high school group to prepare for a cheering competition? Um…yeah. Well, until I had to pull myself out of it because by our fourth rehearsal day, out of a group of 30 that was supposed to be practicing, only nine people showed up. Yet another classic scenario of my life here- people commit to something and in the end they don’t want to do any work. It’s all across the board, whether it’s with kids or adults, whether it’s about doing a project or doing something fun like preparing (which is work) for a dance performance. It’s frustrating to the teeth, but ultimately, it’s just sad. But, what else can I do?

It all worked out in the end, though. I took that incident as a sign that God wants me to REST. I realize that staying committed has been one of my greatest skills, but that I shouldn’t overdo making commitments right and left. These days when delays or cancellations happen, instead of getting upset, I just take it as an opportunity to have more down time. I promised myself to just focus on what I have on my plate now and not to even dare think of ordering “seconds.” No more stress, no more burning-out. No more being behind on my own life whether it’s doing the laundry (by hand, let’s not forget) or finishing the books I’ve been trying to read forever. At least, this is the plan.

It’s not going to be easy…but once my family and friends start hearing more and sooner from me, then it means I’m being good on my promise. Of course, they can feel free to cheer me on at any time.

Running for Cover

It’s a wonderful thing to know that one’s safety is looked after and prioritized. Not long after news broke out about Hurricane Felix reaching category 5 off the Caribbean, Peace Corps immediately sent out an order having all volunteers close and not so-close to the north coast to consolidate in an area more to the center of the country.

After about a 10- hour sojourn in three different bus rides yesterday, here I am safe and sound, far from my site and far from the work I have to be doing. About 20 or so volunteers are in my company and we are just on standby on when we could go back to our sites if nothing catastrophic happens. The downpour has started in various parts of Honduras but it seems that the hurricane’s impact is not going to be as strong as originally forecasted…or feared.

I can’t complain about being safe, warm and well-fed where I am now and in good company and well-equipped with all my gadgets…however, it sure was a sucky feeling having to leave my site and being one of the first ones to skip town and run to safety. I know Peace Corps isn’t the Red Cross, the U.N., nor any search and rescue group. We’re not here to help out when the circumstances become a threat to our own safety, because that’s not what we signed up for. I just have to accept that and not beat myself up for having the privilege of having the option of having a safer place to go to when the going gets rough, unlike the majority of the population here.

I guess this has been another reality check where in I am reminded that no matter how inconvenient or uncomfortable my predicament sometimes may be, it will never be the plight of someone being at a perpetual disadvantage. I will always have choices at my fingertips to improve my conditions and have someone watching my back…and paying the bills. Hopefully when the tempestuous weather subsides and I am back at my site, I can resume trying to do meaningful work. Work that is significant enough that no one will have to remember me as the Peace Corps Volunteer who “peaced out” when the rain started pouring.

Blues in all the Hues

Nobody’s volunteer service is supposed to be perfect and I was prepared for the rough patches heading into Honduras. Or so I thought.

It was a few weeks before I completed my first year in country (June 21) that I began to realize what I was NOT prepared for. So many subtleties in the different aspects of my daily life here have accumulated and have struck me quite hard out of nowhere. Eventually, it registered to me- or perhaps, I finally admitted that…”Geez, I’m in a funk!”

As a result of a series of deep reflection, I identified the following as factors to the quite extensive valley I have found myself in –

• Getting piropos (cat calls, kissy sounds, being called “Hola, mi amor!”¬) on a daily basis for pretty much an entire year has worn me down, along with, not so pleasant incidents where, trapped amidst a crowd in a big event, certain men took the liberty of grabbing what they thought they could get away with. Ever since, I try my best not to be a walking man-hating, angry women’s rights defender, but needless to say, I have graduated from simply ignoring all forms of harassment at all times and try to defend myself in various ways I have come up with.

• Realizing that the majority of my frustrations with work are rooted the apathy and complacency endemic in the culture. When nobody really wants to do any work or change anything, where do I go from there?

• Having my work with two different high schools be paralyzed by endless “days off” for every reason conceivable to mankind i.e. “Students’ Week,” review week before exams, exam week, rest day after exams, “Student’s Day”- which isn’t included “Students’ Week!” I mean, c’mon!

• Wrestling with existential issues such as the uncertainties with the future upon realizing more that anything and anyone can change at any given time, including myself. Also, the fear of being forgotten by or growing apart from my nephews and nieces who are all growing so FAST.

• Going through a “I’m still not good enough to be a Christian” phase even though I know for a fact that I’m quite an excellent human being.

At the end of the day, it’s all about the perennial issue that most volunteers mull over- that Eureka! moment of, “I am really not needed here.” Or- “Even if I were needed, nobody is willing to change anything anyway.” Worse, when there is interest from locals in any form of development or improving anything, having to work for it would be a major drawback. The vast majority in this country are so used to hand-outs (whether from foreign institutions in the country doing “development” work by just giving away anything to their discretion and from families abroad that send remittances sufficient to live off of) that lifting a finger for something would be a complete hassle or a foreign concept.

But am I complaining? Not really. If there’s a valuable lesson somewhere in this entire avalanche, it is that I am getting to know myself more. I thought I knew myself enough- but, surprise, surprise. I’ve been thrown into a fire I’ve never known before and that has forced me to dig even deeper into my being and find whatever fiber that will get me through this and help me look harder for the valuable things that are in the garbage heap that I am waist-deep in.

Ultimately, the gratification really lies in the relationships I have formed. Although at times I find myself counting the months and days until I finish my service (a little over a year and two months), as soon as I remember the loved ones here that I’m going to have to say goodbye to, I can’t even bear the thought of leaving them. Life is full of ironies indeed.

Another irony is that somewhere in my moments of blues, I find shades of warm orange that allow me to enjoy the difficulties and challenges because I feel more human than ever, and also, I can literally sense the growth happening inside of me. Let’s hope it is a butterfly that I transform into in the end, or at least a much better and stronger person.

So instead of fighting the pain (annoyances, really)- I just let myself feel it and go through the process and find breaks of white light in between. The perennial optimist that I am, I always know to just go back to counting my blessings when the going gets tough- naturally, I will end by listing the things that have kept me going…

• Getting my project proposal for the culture center approved. It means a lot of work before me and it’s really not official until the money comes, but at the least, it seems as if months of hard work and waiting seem to be bearing fruit.

• My most devoted ballet students are still coming to class. Also, although we are yet to present a dance piece we have been working on, it is finished and has come together nicely and is liked by the girls very much.

• Seeing a spark of interest even in just a portion of the different high school kids I’ve been working with in issues such as public policy, gender equity and cultural diversity.

• I’ve become an adopted member of many families that I have friendships with. I am invited to every occasion just like any next of kin and these relationships have just become my pillars of support and source of true joy.

• Learning a lot of skills both in the professional and domestic realm- from becoming familiar with issues well enough to impart them to students to making my own pupusas and encortido so that I don’t ever have to buy them outside.

• Enjoying the pleasures of living in solitude and finding solace in it- especially in moments spent writing, listening to music, cooking, reading.

• The hope that all my experiences here, good and bad, will someday serve me well.

I know that all the sucky things, too, shall pass so I have not made any drastic decisions such as packing my bags and going back to the U.S. mojada, as far away as I could from at times this seemingly God-forsaken country. In the end, I know that I am still where I should be because I sense that there’s so much more growing up in store for me here. Ojala que al fin, valdrá la pena. So I brace myself for all the cocoon moments that are still before me and I just close my eyes and picture la mariposa que voy a llegar a ser.

Teaching Adventures, Pointed Toes and Time Flying

Who would’ve ever thought that Peace Corps life would be so hectic? Where are the lazy days on a hammock, the periods of sheer boredom? But then again, I also initially thought that I was going to be living in a hut by candlelight. My life is quite the contrary, as I enjoy electricity and running water 24/7 and live in a city with at least 4 Internet cafes. However, there remains a Peace Corps-esque element: I still wash all of my clothes by hand. I iron them too.

I figured it’s not Peace Corps but a Leah thing- I have a gift, to somehow, some way get so busy with responsibilities that I end up not being able to catch up with my own life. I have a ton of books that I have yet to read, e-mails from months ago to respond to and pending “personal time” to indulge myself in. For a while this really got me down, how my Honduras life ironically mirrored my über-hectic, fast-paced former U.S. life. But I am on the road to recovery, pausing every so often to reflect on my priorities more and escape from a neurotic life that has been my own doing. However, I would say this in my defense, despite reverting back into overdrive, there is one important difference between my life then and now: at least now I’m doing things that I really want to do.

Charla Marathon. March 8 was International Women’s Day and in order to continue the momentum from the National Women’s Day celebration, I honored the day, however, taking a different route. I wanted to give charlas (remember, a mini-lecture or workshop) to high school students about the history of the occasion and possibly about sex and gender concepts. My “great” idea was to go to two different public high schools and perhaps, give two charlas in the morning in one school, and then two more in the afternoon at another (note: high school classes here are only HALF a day long). But as I explained this to the school facilitators, they basically responded quizzically asking me why I would want to give two sessions when there are seven sections each for the morning and afternoon sessions? Okaay. I don’t know what possessed me to agree to the arrangements, but at the least I was able to bargain myself a lunch break and schedule TEN charlas instead of fourteen.

On the day itself, heaven favored me considerably such that some classes were combined; hence I only ended up giving seven forty-minute charlas instead of the original 10. Mind you, I never really had any formal teaching experience nor have no idea why I signed up with the toughest crowd there is (i.e., adolescents). But 357 students later (yes, I counted, I had a sign-up sheet) – I survived my own brilliant plan and surprisingly, ended up feeling very gratified. I was terrified more than I cared to show prior to my sessions, but everything worked out in the end. It went almost too well, but naturally, there always is that ONE class, specifically, ONE student that kept things very, very real. Up until that one student, I actually thought to myself for the first time ever that perhaps, I have what it takes to be a teacher. Um, I will not be quitting my day job any time soon.

Seriously, though, the experience was very sobering, because it gave me a taste of what Honduran teachers have to go through everyday. Obnoxious student behavior aside, the very dismal conditions of the classrooms and lack of many basics (e.g. in one high school, the students had to go around carrying their own chairs to their different classes because there weren’t sufficient seats in all of the rooms) just explains the poor quality of education in the country (a student is at a disadvantage from the beginning, with the classrooms falling apart) and why teachers are notorious for going on strike for higher wages all the time – must be all the stress they deal with on a daily basis! But to end on a high note, although I only I was able to only touch the tip of an iceberg through my sessions, I am pleased to claim that at the least I may have planted some seeds here and there and expanded their vision on society even just a tad wider and encouraged questioning, for example, why there are no women in their history books or why inequality exists between genders and how this is reflected in their own lives.

To end this subject, I would like to say, kudos to all the real teachers out there! Hats off, thumbs up, high five and all that good stuff to y’all brave and steadfast souls.

I’m a Gringa too, I swear! On a different occasion, a group of Peace Corps volunteers and myself gave a charla (yes, another one) on ethnic diversity to a group of students in a town called Siguatepeque to raise awareness and dispel existing stereotypes on the subject and discuss the origin of the term gringo. We had an activity where all the volunteers (of diverse backgrounds) were lined up and the students were to pick which ones were North Americans (here we can’t just say “Americans” because it’s offensive to Latin Americans to refer exclusively to U.S. citizens as the only Americans) and sure enough, the results of the activity and discussions reinforced what we already knew that the majority of Hondurans think that white, tall, with blue eyes define what it is to be estadounidense. It was great however, that out of the 21 students, 2 or 3 of them knew otherwise; so there is hope for the future! The funny thing was, after we, the volunteers, divulged that we are all “North Americans” despite having different roots, in the end of all the discussions on history, etc., the students still seemed incredulous that not all gringos are the typical white, tall with blue eyes. This was akin to telling a kid that Santa does not exist. But it was a lot of fun, and surely a lot less stressful than my previous marathon charlas.

Ballet Basics. When I was in San Francisco, I was taking an average of three classes per week, whether it was jazz, ballet, hip-hop or capoeira. Needless to say, it was only a matter of time where I would reach the point where due to the inexistence of dance classes for me to take in my town, I would go ahead and give them instead. Hence, I am now an official unofficial ballet teacher for Olanchito with kids ranging from 6-14 years old. Couldn’t stay away…couldn’t resist. I’m no prima ballerina, but I’m as good as it gets where I am and I am confident in being able to teach at least the basics to a group of first-timers. By the way, have I mentioned that I have never taught kids and especially not dance classes to people with no prior experience? Oh, and that I’m not exactly a big kid-person either? Hmm…notice the pattern I am developing here?

Ha! But so far so good…I started with a “trial period” of four weeks to test the waters and in the end all the kids and parents want to continue. I had a survey and all the good stuff to ensure a proper evaluation of my class- one of the comments I received that they like how I stress discipline (especially punctuality- a rare trait among Hondurans!) in my classes. This goes to show my plan is working…ballet was the last thing I wanted to teach but I want to transfer the greatest values that I personally learned from it as a kid, the discipline and a sense of a responsibility that I was later on able to and still continue to apply to all other aspects of my life. Through this process, I have been learning myself, to basically, uh…learn to deal with kids, improve my “instructional Spanish” and have a creative outlet that hopefully bears good fruit in the future.

Special mention to my dear friend, Ericka, who, provided me a cd of ballet class music and a ballet book to serve as my reference for my classes. Gracias! All other contributions accepted from anybody, anytime. ☺

A Moment to Pause. I never thought I would say that time here in Honduras flies, but it does. I have been here over nine months now and although there are plenty of petty things that I can legitimately complain about, I won’t, at least not now. To this point I remain thankful for having the chance to live a dream and I will continue to do so the best way that I can, even if it means getting over my hang-ups with politicians, kids and apathy in general. I am simultaneously excited and panicked – excited to complete my service and find out how “it all turns out” and panicked that I may not accomplish the things that I would like to by the time I finish next year. But is this my overdrive persona thinking? Either way, I will keep trying to achieve a good balance in all that I do, so I end with one of my favorite sayings- work hard, chill hard.

My Hands are Finally Dirty

After months of wandering and wondering, wandering and wondering…looking for “real, tangible” work and pondering on where I fit exactly in the world of community development, doors and windows are finally opening upon my return from the holiday break.

A Different Kind of Writing. I promised myself that I’d pick up on my writing while here in Honduras and I’ve been true to my word- my blog, journal and letter writing have kept me busy. Now it seems that I am about to embark a new kind of writing that I’ve never done before- project proposals. For the municipality. After meeting with the powers that be in my town and various institutions, I have been assigned to be one of the people responsible for writing the proposals to acquire funding for projects that have been defined in the town’s municipal development strategic plan. It’s not going to be rocket science, but I still find it rather intimidating, especially since I’ll have to be familiar with subject matter that I’ve never worked in before, such as water systems, infrastructure, agriculture production.

I’m getting a knot in my stomach just thinking about it. Oh, and did I mention that the concept of organizing or managing information does not exist where I am? But I wanted to be challenged, and I guess here it is, staring at me right in the face.

El Dia Nacional de la Mujer. January 25 is National Women’s Day in Honduras; 1955 was the year when women earned their right to suffrage. Upon finding this out about a month ago, I consulted some of the women I knew from various sectors about the possibility of celebrating the event. A committee was formed made up of representatives that included the Women’s Municipal Office, Red Cross, Media, Fundación Pico Bonito, a network of women’s groups and of course…Peace Corps (i.e., I!).

What started as an idea turned into something larger than life. Prior to the day, some of the organizers appeared on television and radio spots to promote the event and discuss various themes concerning women. Yours truly, who has successfully dodged the media since September, eventually succumbed to the pressure and made my first radio stint and gave my first tv interview not long after. I suspended all my camera shyness and insecurities with my Spanish in the name of promoting the event and giving my own 2-cents on some gender issues. Happy to say, people told me I did a good job, and this was a huge relief.

The celebration itself ended up being a whole day event starting with a marcha pacífica (peaceful march) in the morning followed by an informal conference where various speakers were invited to discuss various themes (historical significance of the event, gender equity, sexual health education, to name a few), combined with a small food sale of some of the products made by the small women’s micro-businesses. The celebration was concluded in the evening with a cultural night, where different performers were invited, and homage to various senior women (midwives, clothes washer, cooks, etc.) who have dedicated their entire lives to their labor but have gone unrecognized. Each of the day’s activities was successful and by the night time, the venue was packed and a lot of women came in their best outfits, it seemed. The showcase of talents (poetry, song, dance) was impressive and very well-received (not to mention a certain volunteer named, Leah, performed a jazz piece to bachata music, the beloved sound of Honduras, among ranchera and reggaeton).

It was a historic day indeed, not only in terms of success, but due to the fact that it was the first ever celebration held in Olanchito for National Women’s Day. And even days after, people kept telling me that the whole pueblo (town) was still buzzing about everything and one of the positive, tangible outcomes of it was that some women found out that day that the Women’s Municipal Office exists and were able to go there for assistance afterwards.

What made all this possible in the first place was the “WE” in team factor- when our committee presented the ideas for the celebration before the municipal council (90% male) they were approved for the way we presented our cause and ourselves. We weren’t a group of women who wanted some cute little party to celebrate, but we showed that we were serious, had something to say, and had something to show. This is particularly significant for me because when I first got here, the mayor wouldn’t give me the time of day when I told him I was interested in working on strengthening the Women’s Municipal Office, because he had age-old, political issues with a colleague. But persistence has paid off, especially efforts to team up with more women, and now we don’t feel so invisible anymore.

For this one time, I would like to toot my own horn, for a lot of the work happened after the approval and I ended up doing a whole lot of the organizing and execution and every dirty chore in between. I was blessed to work with people who did their part (and cursed by those who were just there for show) and those who came out of the woodworks to give their support. There were a lot of frustrating and stressful moments that could’ve been easily avoided, but since we weren’t in the same cultural page on a lot of things, especially on the concepts of accountability and responsibility, I had to respect that and learn to also gracefully concede without sacrificing the quality (well, not too much) of work. I really can’t complain with the outcome, for everything was truly worth it plus I sure learned a lot from the experience. Furthermore, we were able to promote issues at the heart of our committee- women’s rights and gender equity, and bottom line, that’s what really matters.

Crossing the Border

The magic of airplanes. One minute I’m dragging my worn-out suitcase through unpaved roads, the next minute I’m unpacking the same suitcase in another world, where the streets are paved and lined with gold, yet nobody really notices.

My immediate thoughts, within the first few days: Yes, I missed the streets of San Francisco, but not the walls of corporate America. Yes, I missed nice things, actually, having things, but not being broke because of them. Yes, I missed the speedy and efficient service for everything, but not the lightning-speed pace of life.

I definitely do NOT miss “work” as being the reason why the majority of people don’t ever have time for themselves and loved-ones or for things they really would rather be doing.

Eventually, the inevitable came. The departure date. I spent my entire life bouncing between two countries, and now comes a third, so one would think goodbyes become easy at some point. The truth: the “Hellos” never lose their thrill, but, neither does “Goodbye” fail to pierce through the heart each and every time. Even if it’s with the same people again and again.

So why do I keep saying goodbye, especially to those I hold closest to my heart? I don’t think I ever told anyone goodbye. It has always been a “See you later.” Out of the desire to find myself. Out of the need to chase my dreams before regrets start chasing me.

How bittersweet was the minute I realized that I yearned to go back to Honduras because there my dream awaited to be completed. Now, as I patiently head that direction one day at a time, what keeps me going is the promise of the next round of hellos. And the thought that perhaps, on top of “Hello,” one day I will get to say, “Guess what, I’m here to stay.”

Happy Birthday to Me!

My birthday has always been one of my favorite times of the year simply because I always get an overwhelming outpouring of love and thoughtfulness each and every year for as long as I can remember. What´s interesting is not the same people remember every year, nor do they all remember at the same time, but nevertheless, I there are well-wishers, here there and all over. It never fails that each year, I receive a couple of random greetings from people out of the woodworks, so it has been fun finding out every year who they are going to be.

This year is no different in its level of awesomeness. Just when I thought being in Honduras would pose as a challenge, somehow I knew deep down that my day would find its way to prove to be special. My first birthday song (en español!) came in at 12 a.m., December 9th, from a friend in town, followed by a long distance call from the Philippines at 12:02 a.m. that came with a song number as well. Did I ever get to say that I LOVE IT when people sing Happy Birthday to me over the phone? I think it´s the most hilarious and fun thing.

My plans for the day were to attend a Christmas party at a nearby mini-resort for the network of women´s group that I am working with- only they turned the party into one birthday fiesta for me as well! When I arrived, birthday music in Spanish was blasting from the speakers and everyone surprised me by jumping from behind the bushes. My “party” was made up of almost 25 awesome women all in all!! Most of these are people I´ve only seen about a few times since I started working in Honduras, and yet they drowned me with kind words and some presents and as the picture shows- in icing. Yes, I got my cake and ate it too! Not to mention a piñata and merengue time with the ladies!

In the evening, I got to attend my first ever Honduran wedding to accompany my host mom, so that was cool. I felt like I had another big party with a ton of people, at no cost to me! Haha. Capped the evening by going dancing with some friends and then the following day, I went to celebrate again out of town with another volunteer who had the same birthday as I do- so we had some adventures in La Ceiba. Everything was chill and good.

Messages and phonecalls continued to pour in throughout the weekend and through the mail- both snail and electronic. Some people form here called me too and I never even told them when my birthday was! As always, I can´t really complain about anything, if at all, I feel so blessed to have so many amazing people in my life who continue to prove that distance doesn´t matter- and neither does being “recently acquainted” because in my three months here in Olanchito, a lot of people have come to embrace me as their own.

I´m 29 years old and it´s amazing how I don´t feel a year older. If anything, I know I´ve definitely matured more in my thinking but my heart is definitely getting younger and younger. Unlike the majority of people who freak out every time they turn a year older, I am the exact opposite, feeling more brave to embrace life as the years pass. I don´t think I ever have to worry about getting old- especially here in Honduras – I´ve had countless arguments with people who tell me I´m lying when I give them my real age, but when I tell them I´m 22, the argument comes to a halt. Case closed, indeed.

So this is a special shout out to each and everyone in my life who ever remembered when I had a birthday and made an effort to make me feel special. Every message, every phone call, every gesture- they all have stayed in my mind and heart and continue to make me feel mmm…good…deep inside.

Excerpts from November

Nov. 2nd Apartment Blues
Moved into an apartment and I was back on my own. Sort of. Still had the previous occupant’s things and it took two weeks to get rid every last one of his things. Now I´m enjoying all my loaner items- bed, desk, drawer, stove, some kitchen items. My bed sheets are brand new, however, and a refrigerator may actually be within reach. But for now I will continue to enjoy my consumption of room temperature agua, since I made it to a month without the luxury of the ice box. It´s not so bad once you get used to it.

Nov. 4th and 29th ¡Viva Cuba!
Attended a ceremony on the 4th to honor the presence of the Cuban Ambassador to Honduras in our town. Our Mayor spoke endlessly on the glory of Cuba and how wonderful anything and everything that is Cuban. Heard the Cuban National Anthem for the first time, which lasted about 30 seconds as opposed to the Honduran anthem of 3+ some minutes. Saw members of the Medical Brigade from Cuba as well and they lived up to their reputation that I have heard about beforehand- creidos, i.e. snobs. But, the Ambassador was very nice to me when I introduced myself and he actually shook my hand.

On the 29th was a day to commemorate the Cuba – Honduras friendship. When it was time for the guest of honor from Cuba to give her speech, instead of the usual flowery declamation, she suddenly went into political discourse lambasting U.S. policy and the Bush administration and the evils of North Americans and how mighty Fidel is for making it to his 80th birthday. Hmm. Being the lone estadounidense in the crowd, I could only imagine what could have happened if the fired up speaker suddenly realized that there was an enemy amongst the audience. For once I found it convenient that no one in Honduras ever initially perceives me as from the U.S., only from China or Japan - the only two countries in Asia, according to the knowledge of the majority here. But I digress, needless to say, it wasn´t a very comfortable situation.

Mental note: I should avoid future events of this nature so that I will not have to be obliged to join the crowd when they burst into their chanting of ¡Viva Cuba! and ¡Viva Fidel!

Nov. 5th – 23rd. Speak Spanish to My Ears
I attended series of workshops with varying themes such as Human Rights of People Living with HIV/AIDS, Water Sanitation Laws, Emotional Intelligence, Conducting Feasibility Studies for Development Projects, Functions of the Powers of State and the Transparency and Audit Committees. Oh yes, all of these were in español.

Although I have been told by a lot of people that my spoken Spanish is perfecto or excelente, I still have my doubts. However, I do know that my comprehension has definitely improved, I would say up to 97% after surviving all these workshops, sans a dictionary, and even understanding technical terms. Kudos to my dedication and endurance! Sitting through classes of legalese in English wasn´t the most exciting nor easiest thing for me, what more, in Spanish. But “I´m doin´it…and doin´ it well," to quote an LL Cool J song, I think.

Nov. 13 If You Look Foreign, You Must Have Dough!
One of the men I have seen frequent the municipality on behalf of his group suddenly called me on my cell phone (a colleague just conveniently gave it to him) to ask to meet with me because his group needs help acquiring land and no one else in the municipality has been able to do it. Uh, sure thing. That was my cue to recite my spiel of "Peace Corps does not provide financial resource, but human resource” and went on to offer him instead to connect him with an existing organization that works on his issue. Just another day in Municipal Development work, I guess.

Nov. 14 Definitely in the Boondocks
I visited a 20-year old community of about 25 houses in one of the neighboring mountain villages of the city. When I arrived, I asked where the bathroom was and I was advised to go behind the church. Was the bathroom behind the church? No, the river lay behind the church. I was told to go there because no one would see me there as I took care of my business (just #1, for the record). So, as I was doing my first ever squat-to-pee in Honduras, it dawned on me that there was no bathroom anywhere there because there was no water system, hence no latrines, and of course, no electricity either. I had my first hand experience of the reality of the majority of the people who are living in the rural areas, outside the comforts of the city. It was sobering for me and a good reminder of what I´m supposed to be doing in this country. So no more whining ever about my apartment blues, where, although I had a leaky faucet at first, at least I have running water. And a toilet.

Nov. 23 and 24 Turkey Day
I had turkey! I had turkey on Thanksgiving Day in Honduras! Thanks to a volunteer friend’s mother (fabulous Ms. Viviana from San Diego) who came to visit the country for her daughter’s birthday and invite her friends. The lucky souls were treated to two nights in Hilton where they served a traditional (well, close enough- the turkey was real, though!) Thanksgiving Meal. Woohoo! The following night we enjoyed some wine, various cheeses (none of which was quesillo!), fruits and cold cuts. We had a lot to be thankful for indeed!

Nov. 26 Good Morning, Politics
Shortly after getting out of bed I headed out for the grocery and passed by a nearby store where I started chatting with the owner. When he found out that I´m from the U.S., he immediately went on about the injustice of how immigrants are treated there and his sentiments against the construction of the wall and then reminded me of the disasters that resulted in every Central American nation’s relation with the U.S. from the Reagan era. I have to admit I was blown away by the depth and breadth of his knowledge of history and politics – this was definitely not a typical chitchat with a Honduran. However, this was also at around 8 a.m., the morning after traveling on a bus for eight hours. I let him finish what he had to say and then politely told him that not all North Americans ( I learned that it is more p.c. to be specific and not just say “Americans” because Latin Americans are also Americans, not just the gringos.) share the same opinion with the current U.S. administration and then I excused myself. On a different day or time, it would have been interesting to pursue the political discourse, but that early morn, I just wanted to buy some groceries.

Nov. 29 Meeting with the Big Cheeses
My Peace Corps supervisor came to visit me at my site and meet with myself and my counterpart, the Mayor. It was all procedural, in order to check how things have been with work, health, life in general and discuss any issues. Over lunch, a graceful dance of politics and diplomacy between my jefa and the alcalde ensued and I would have to say it was productive and very helpful for me. At the least I would say that the past couple of months have been a frustrating uphill battle trying to find my purpose and way in and through a political world. Although I know that it will not be smooth sailing from here, hopefully having found some common ground from the discussion will result in progress.

Nov. 30 Beauty amidst Sorrow
Maritza is one of the best girlfriends of my host mother, Rosa. This week, her family suffered a tragic loss when her younger brother, a lawyer, was murdered in the capital. I wasn´t able to make the trip for the burial, however, when the family returned, I accompanied Rosa to visit their home since Maritza has become a friend of mine as well. It was an honor for me to be welcomed into the home and be allowed to witness incredibly intimate moments. I am familiar with the process of mourning when a loved-one passes away, but I have never been in a situation wherein a loved-one´s life was stolen. It was painful seeing the mother and the siblings of the deceased grieve. However, I found beauty in all of this - the maturity and strength of Maritza´s eleven-year old daughter consoling and embracing her mother as she cried and cried, people from the community visiting the home to be empathize with the family, intimate friends running the household and entertaining guests so that the family can mourn in peace. And in the middle of all of this, Maritza´s brother, Anoel, whom I met for the first time that evening, took the time to sit with me and get to know me, setting aside his own need for space in order that I could feel more comfortable in the home and with the situation.

This brings me to the realization that all this month I have been frustrated and stressed over not being able to do any tangible work even though I have been here, there, and everywhere trying to get to know communities, people and organizations. Someone once pointed out to me that building relationships is work. Whenever I go out I carry around a little notebook, writing names of every person I meet. Every so often I review these names and even though I don´t always remember everyone, everytime, most often I do and the effort has always been vale la pena (worth the trouble) when the eyes of someone whose name I remember light up. Last time I counted the names was over two weeks ago and I was at over three hundred people. This doesn´t even include the people I met before September 9, when I moved to this town. I guess 300 new acquaintances, several already dear friends, in about two months time is not bad work at all.

I guess what I am trying to say is that reaching a level of confianza (trust) the way I have with Maritza´s family, where I was able to go in her room, despite being the extranjera (foreigner) that I am while other visitors could not, is an amazing thing for me. And thanks to Rosa and other colleagues who have introduced me to various circles, I have reached this level of intimacy with other families as well. The concept of volunteer work being that of building relationships more than anything is starting to make more sense. So, no, I have not saved Honduras and I don´t think I´m going to- more than anything I think it is saving me from myself and any risk of having lofty aspirations. However, I will continue on with the kind of work I have been doing putting people first and I know somewhere out of all of this, a project of some sort will come up where it will be my turn to make a positive difference in somebody´s life.

Bitter Becomes Sweet

I am suddenly living solo. After a year of living with family then two years with a roommate in the U.S., and four months later with four families in Honduras, I am back with me, myself, and I. Four days and counting.

The past month of living with my host mother, Rosa, has been so abundant with wonderful experiences and learning that to my surprise, I found myself not wanting to leave and just stay with her for the rest of my volunteer service. For a change, I didn’t have to worry about being lonesome or having a real home, as I had it all in the company of this lovely woman and in the cozy abode that she has. I met so many people and learned a lot about the community through her and discovered as well the extent of compassion a human heart can have.

However, I had to take a refresher course on humility and acceptance when the honeymoon had to end. Rosa’s heart was willing to take me in longer, but her commitment to keep her space open for a greater cause called for letting me go. As painful and sad it was for me at first, I immediately turned to counting the blessings I received through her and became grateful for the experience.

Apartment Blues. No transition is ever easy, especially not when it involves a business-like transaction in Honduras. Immediately after I signed a lease contract with my landlord for an apartment beginning November 1st, she told me that I couldn´t move in until the 2nd because the current tenant (i.e., her brother-in-law) had not vacated. Okaaay. So I returned the following day to pick up the keys only to have her tell me that the apartment wouldn´t be ready until the 4th. She told me my host mother wouldn’t mind my extending my stay with her because she is a kind, calm person. Yes, this is considered a professional excuse in this country. No more nice Leah at that point. So I put my foot down and told her I had to move into the apartment by hook or by crook, since Rosa was expecting family members to arrive and occupy my room, hence I had to pack up and leave, hasta pronto.

Somehow I was able to move into the apartment, but the place still had all of the previous occupant’s things- furniture, clothes, and appliances. Not to mention it was filthy. Instead of trying to take advantage of the Cornflakes-laced bed that was still there to sleep in for the night, I opted for the wickerwork-type of couch. Needless to say, with all the additional emotional and physical transitions I suddenly had to go through, that night was a definite low point. To sympathize with my pain, it maybe helpful to mention that in the last six years, I lived in six different places in the U.S., but if this seems rather crazy, it´s nothing, really, considering I just outdid myself because in my four months in Honduras, I had just moved for the fifth time.

Feel me?

After a good cry, I collected myself and reflected on what had just happened with my life. I knew my patience and faith are being stretched even further for my own good, hence, at that time, I didn’t have the need to get hysterical nor have a nervous breakdown. Besides, that would be very un-Leah. If anything, I have been my usual stoic self in the face of uh…crisis? Killing the landlord and her brother-in-law with kindness even when they tried to scr*w me over eventually worked to my advantage because the apartment ended up being emptied out a day earlier and I got a bed frame and a drawer loaned out to me. I didn’t have to sleep on the floor, after all, like I thought I would and I was able to empty out my suitcase. Sweet!

Back to Basics. Last night was the first time that the apartment, even in its vast emptiness, started to feel, not quite like home yet, but at the least, like my own place. It finally got cleaned, Honduran style (i.e. hose everything down with water) and I felt like I could finally breathe and in my solitude, find some inner peace. I felt that it was the real official start of my volunteer service.

I am now the proud owner of a twin-size colchon (a pseudo-mattress made of foam), bed sheets, and a pillow. I have a loaner fridge and two chairs for another week and a stove is about to be donated to me. So far, so good. For a while I was a bit stressed out how to fit the $200 allowance the volunteers got to furnish our respective places, but I refuse to sweat the small stuff much longer. I decided to trust that everything I need will find its way to me when I need them, not sure exactly how, but it will happen.

I am bringing to new heights learning to make do with what I have and extinguish any desires of acquiring so much stuff. This is what I wanted to leave in the U.S. so bad, and unfortunately, it hasn’t been easy as I hoped because a lot of people in this country, despite their poverty, are unsurprisingly materialistic. I swear, it is the power of cable television. The clothes, shoes and fancy cell phones of some people here definitely do not reflect their actual economic status. Dirt roads are not a deterrent to women painting the town red in their shiny stilettos. As for me, I refuse to fall back into a consumerist lifestyle and instead would like to savor the minimalist wayI find myself living in.

Alone, but Not Lonely. As much as I have enjoyed being out and about meeting the whole town (literally) in the past couple of months and always being in good company, finding myself solo in my empty apartment one last Friday night was a breath of fresh air. I found refuge in the company of a new shipment of books from my dear friend, Ericka, and a pile of books in Spanish begging to be read. For a change, I heard myself think and felt myself really feel for an extended period of time. I remembered the projects I originally wanted to do on my quiet time and got excited all over again.

Sure, it seems like I have been on an endless roller coaster ride, even before I left San Francisco. True. But with each dip I discover something new as I rise back up, equipping me better for the next dip that I’m about to encounter. It´s not a secret that life is full of ups and downs, so I´m not sure why people keep trying to run away from or deny the ”downs” that inevitably occur. There are a few rules in life that I swear by and one of them is to live it with the utmost grace, even in the face of adversities. I knew all along what I was up for when I chose to become a volunteer and having the right frame of mind makes such a big difference. It probably doesn’t hurt either that I´m ridiculously patient and optimistic no matter how hard the hits I take.

I am pretty fortunate that even if I choose to become a hermit here in my town, it will be impossible to do so given that I already know a ton of people and any given day that I would like company, all I would have to do is step out of my door. I already know my neighbors prior to moving into my apartment and with invitations to eat out or hang out coming in abundance, truly there is no excuse to feel alone. If anything, all the attention and company can be overwhelming, but , this a subject matter for another time. For now I will just enjoy finally having the balance of alone time when I´m in my place and having the company of the whole of Olanchito when I´m out.

God´s Love in the Time of Addiction

Coming across a church in Honduras that is called Fire of God, I am reminded why those who are not accustomed to the Christian life and all its attributes, would deem ¨those evangelicals¨ as crazy fanatics and why they would immediately run the opposite way within sight of anyone carrying a ¨Jesus Saves¨ sign. I grew up Catholic and am very well acquainted with Mr. JC Himself, but I used to think ¨those crazy evangelicals¨ to myself too. Well, I still think that way about some of them, but over the past couple of years, I have been educated about a thing or two and am now more careful to judge.

It was bound to happen that I wanted more than just the routine of going to mass, 50 minutes of which were devoted to sheer ritual, reciting memorized prayers, and performing gestures in between, and the rest was 10 minutes of homily either by an inaudible octogenarian or a foreign priest with an accent so thick that he might as well have spoken in tongues since nobody understood him anyway. In other words, like my Theology Professor in College declared, I was guilty of being a nominal Catholic like the rest of the class. It´s embarrassing but I never really read much from the Bible until the required exegesis in freshman year, and only heard the same Scripture passages during mass year after year.

The Leap. Then one day I attended service at a non-denominational church. In all honesty, as much as I wanted a profound experience, I actually felt like I crossed into the Twilight Zone. People were all over me as I walked through the door, greeting and blessing me, and the congregation was bouncing off the walls dancing and praising to LOUD music. And everyone knew everyone and most of all, everyone seemed just TOO HAPPY. Scared little Catholic girl, I was indeed. Nevertheless, I kept going back and started to learn more, such as the Christian speak, i.e. commonly used words in the sermons and conversations that I have never used before in everyday language such as testimony, ministry, His stripes, miracles, restoration, and a lot more. I just kept thinking to myself, ¨Change is good. Change is good.¨

It was good indeed for as different (and weird) everything seemed at first, I found exactly what I was looking for so long, church hopping and all, for quite some time- a real message. For the Word of God to make sense in real life and not just be some be some strange text full of Ye´s and Thou´s. Passages I´ve heard all my life suddenly started to make sense, not just in meaning, but in application as well. It took a lot of work and utmost open-mindedness on my part to start reaping the benefits of really seeking and learning. A lot of heartaches too. For at times, nothing just made sense- different parts of the Bible seemed to contradict each other- one part says Thou Shalt Not Kill and then in another, God commands to annihilate clans and clans of people. Hmm. And then there is just that persistent insecurity- it is just too darn hard to be good or understand things- at least in the way that those happy people are. There was actually a period that out of frustration, I consciously stopped praying and tried to not believe in a God, or the God, or whatever it is supposed to be.

It was the emptiest feeling I have ever experienced in my life.

Living Presence. I don´t know if I ever will be eloquent enough to be able to explain why I believe in God, especially to a non-believer. All I know is that all my life there has been this presence in my life guiding me every step of the way, even when I didn´t pay much attention to it. I don´t even dwell too much on issues of historicity or factual basis of the Second Coming like all the intellectuals like to debate about. I have just come to accept His reality in my life and now I am just focused on patiently growing day by day and embracing the truth the love of God can bring. And dare I say it- the miracles.

A Miracle Called Morris. Last Sunday I went for the first time to a Christian church here in town and it just so happened to be the night where the congregation was welcoming the return of a group of young men from a spiritual retreat. Needless to say, there was the hour and a half long intro of singing, praise, and invocations, but finally the participants were called in to the sanctuary. They then ran into the building and started dancing for joy in front of the church like I´ve never seen youth dance before. For a second I could´ve thought I was in a rave party, seeing the frenzy that they were in. And then each of the participants were called to step forward one by one and share their testimony. One of them was Morris, the ultra friendly and convivial server /bartender in one of the town´s best restaurants, who is also usually seen in the social scene (not that there´s much) when not at work, always with a bottle in one hand and a cigarette on the other. He is a very pleasant person, but the few times I had the chance to spend time with him, I saw all the signs. Needless to say, this 21-year old was all about work, booze, smoking, getting stoned and getting…some.

So there was Morris, in front of the congregation, proclaiming his love for God and that the old Morris is gone and has been interred. He then asked forgiveness from his family and wept uncontrollably as he did so, as his family (and myself, along with my host mother) went into his embrace. It was the same thing for the rest of the participants- one by one, proclaiming their salvation, claiming they are free, and falling into the arms of almost always, their mothers. What struck me the most was that some of them looked as young as ELEVEN YEARS OLD, weeping with such remorse, as if they were already carrying the sin of the world at such a young age. Eventually, I found out that they were indeed. This group of about twenty young men was the rock bottom of this town, the product of broken families – living with the addiction of alcohol, cocaine, you name it. So imagine the look on their mothers´faces as their Prodigal Sons have come home.

Learning from a Former Non-Believer. A couple of nights later, Morris, being a long time family friend of my host mother, visited us in our home to thank us personally for our presence at church that night. He was his usual self- jovial, happy, but the only difference was, he was sober. And the delight that emanated from him was incredible. He wreaked with joy such that I recognized it as to be the same kind of happiness that I saw in real Christians, you know, the kind that I found TOO happy it was odd. Glass after glass he drank with us- all of them water. He shared that since the retreat, he had no desire or craving at all for his vices, even after years of addiction. I then found out the extent of his dark past and I was amazed by his honesty and the ease with which he opened up and just how his world went downside up overnight. This is coming from someone who, too, used to think, ¨those crazy evangelicals.¨

I am still not over by what I witnessed that night. I keep thinking to myself, here I am, having believed in God and always faithful to His ways all my life, and yet, I don´t ever remember a time where I think I have danced and praised God, in the way those boys, now men, did. Such reckless abandon in their worship and joy in their faces – the very kind I would like to be able to have one day, and the reason behind I keep finding myself in the company of Christians.

And then there was Morris at our dinner table, asking to lead the prayer before our meal. If I didn´t know better, I would´ve thought to myself, ¨Oh, he´s one of those Christians who are too happy.¨ If I needed any more convincing about what the love of God can do, witnessing the change in Morris and those boys would have clinched it. But the thing is, I don´t need any more convincing, I just need to shed all my still existing inhibitions and hang-ups and completely open my heart such that one day, I, too, may experience fully the joy the love of God brings.

Two Birthdays and a Funeral

There`s nothing more intimate than being invited into family occasions to celebrate with them and also, share their moments of mourning. It didn`t come as a surprise that my moving in to live with a woman in her 50´s who is well-known and well-loved by the entire community has given me instant access to the world I am living in now. Integrating has become effortless. A week after the move, I am still blown away by the depth and breadth of this free-spirit I have come to get to know and how she is received, along with myself, in every single home or corner store we pass by. I feel immensely blessed by this opportunity and it is only the beginning.

In the past week alone, I attended an 18th and an 80+th birthday party and a burial. In all three occasions I found myself surrounded by strong family ties and life-long friendships fueled by an insurmountable amount of love for each other, whether in a time of joy or sorrow. Imagine the octogenarian celebrant, surrounded by her 9+ children, multiplied exponentially with her grandchildren, all taking the time to slowdance with her. And then there was the late night gathering of a throng outside a funeral home, where friends and family awaited the arrival of the deceased; when the hearst arrived, there was silence and when the tears started pouring, shoulders to cry on abounded.

The past month has been a blur, being pulled right and left in getting to know the community, and up and down, emotionally. Supposedly the first few months of service are going to be slow and I would have to agree- that is, when it comes to business being done. Deadlines don't exist here and when it comes to keeping appointments, well, I learned all too well that they do take place- eventually. Pretty big adjustment for someone who used to swear by an Outlook Calendar, but in a way, I think I`m learning to enjoy just going with the tranquila pace of life here, and the attitudes. On the other hand, my social life has skyrocketed into the atmosphere- that is, of course, if you count visiting community or family members and chatting over Coke or tortilla y quesillo and going to local grocery stores to stop and chat as social events.

I have also been able to go out dancing in more consecutive weeks (even days) than I can remember, even compared to back in the U.S. And I don`t necessarily mean going clubbing. Over here, there is room for dancing for any occasion, any place, and I love it. I couldn´t remember ever dancing with a group of vibrant and humorous 50+ year old women (and an 80+ year old, let´s not forget!), shaking it to merengue music til we dropped. And last weekend I was on a field trip with a network of women's groups trying to form an alliance in the region and when we were having lunch at a poolside of a resort, reggaeton played and I on instinct just bobbed my head to the music. When all of a sudden, the hot mamalicious of the group just grabbed me and next thing I knew, we were putting on a show for the rest of the ladies...showing them how it's done and how music and dance truly defy all age and cultural barriers. It was hilarious...and amazing. As much as I would hate to admit it, I realized that the 40/50+ year old women I have been hanging around with have so much more energy than I do and could definitely outlast me whether in dancing or socializing. I have some serious training to do, I say.

On the work front, I cannot say that things have been too peachy. I guess I can`t have everything I want in one sitting. These days I have been developing my virtue of patience more than ever, figuring out how I can be really useful to this community. I have decided that on top of being involved with the arts center, I would like to focus on working on women's issues, collaborating with the Municipality Office for the Women. But before I get to do that, I have to get through an ocean of political drama and bureaucratic hoopla. Although it`s supposed to be a "municipal" office, it is not really the case as it hasn`t really been getting any form of support for some time from the local government. To say the least, I discovered how challenging it is to get the time of day from the seat of power when it comes to women´s issues, being in a machista town where more roads are of utmost importance. I have been frustrated for a while, but I guess this is where my creativity and wits are supposed to step in, and fortunately, I have been finding encouragement here and there simply by having the right frame of mind and patience, of course. Right now I have no idea on where to find the solutions, but I guess my real work has begun. And like everything else in Honduras, I know everything will fall into place, eventually.

I´m Legit

It`s official. I am a volunteer. I made it through eleven weeks of training and so did the rest of the 50 out of the 52 that came to Honduras. The past couple of weeks have been a blur with so much happening. Field-based training in La Esperanza wrapped up successfully and rather quickly. Then it was back to Sta. Lucia for a week and the following weekend was our site visit- the time when we were finally told the location of our sites and actually got to visit them for four days to see the place and get to know the community.

Sweet Discovery. I lucked out by having my site situated in the highly-coveted area of the North, where all the beaches are found. I´m not quite that lucky by being right on the coast, or even being really, really close to it…but two hours away isn´t bad at all. My site is the principal city in the department of Yoro, known as civic city of Honduras. My real fortune lies in the kind of work that I´ll be doing- mainly with the municipality and the casa de cultura, which is what a city´s cultural center is called. My counterparts are the mayor and the director of the casa. It´s still pretty surreal how I was sad to leave my dancing and all the arts in San Francisco but managed to end up in a city best known for the writers and artists that have emerged from it. The casa was pretty defunct until the new director took over and now it offers music and drawing lessons, ballet (well, sort of) classes and is actively looking to do more (perhaps I didn´t have to say goodbye to dancing or design work afterall?). I arrived at a perfect time- Civic Month where two weeks of activities celebrating culture and civic pride have been scheduled. My work in the municipality is yet to be determined but I´m supposed to over all strengthen it…rather vague and ambitious, I know. Hopefully my subsequent meetings with the mayor will clarify things and focus on at least step one.

Burnt, but Content. I can´t really expound right now, exhausted from the week´s series of activities and emotional roller coaster ride. I was on the bus for at least a total of 30 hours the last two consecutive weekends. My site is ten hours away from Sta. Lucia and last week´s visit plus last night´s return have taken their toll on me. Not to mention that I´ve packed and hauled all my things three times the past three weeks- from La Esperanza to Sta. Lucia and now to Olanchito. For the first time in eleven weeks, I am feeling a bit spent. Fine, sort of sick. But I just wanted to share my thoughts while fresh, especially about last Thursday´s swearing in of volunteers. The country director for Peace Corps Honduras was there, along with, the U.S. Ambassador. The ceremony was short and sweet and afterwards we had some fun in the Ambassador´s Residence where as a bonus, we got a sighting of the Honduras President who happened to be there. The night was concluded with dancing at a club with the entire group and afterwards a hot shower and a plush bed at the Marriott where we were actually allowed to spend the night on a volunteer rate. I guess I can´t really complain about the ten hour bus ride that followed the next day.

So this is it for now, folks. More details to come as I get to know my new home for the next couple o´years and start settling in to the Volunteer life. I plan to take everything slowly, but surely, just as I always have. I´m just happy to finally be able to say- I`m really doing it! Wish me luck!