Who Wants Pudding?

You would think these kids were lining up for free chocolate pudding, the way they get to class before me and push as I unlock the gate. It seems unnatural for children to be so excited about an evening English class. Then it’s such a mad rush for seats in the cotton-candy pink classroom that I’m scared someone will hurt himself in the chaos. These kids are, in some ways, opposite of my Tanzanian students. They are loud and bossy and outspoken and curious and they have no fear. I, on the other hand, am terrified.

I saw from the very first class how much energy they had, and I wanted to go home and crawl under the bed. I somehow got a harness on the class. Not only are they rowdy and hyper, but they can be respectful, polite, and focused.

After about a month they have learned their numbers, simple greetings, personal pronouns, days of the week, months, foods, and a handful of verbs. But they have learned also that whoever invented English was trying to play an evil trick on the world: you have to learn 2 languages in 1. You have to know that to write what sounds like “naym” you must write “name”. They learned this disappointment early on, and are coming to grips with it.

Kids know that teachers don’t like games. A teacher LOVES to give boring homework, make you repeat things a thousand times, and write, write, write. You must pry the games out of a teacher, usually by begging, whining, or making really cute pouty puppy-dog faces. As a last resort, you have to behave really, really well. My kids have tried all this, and assume it is by some amazing coercive powers on their part that we end up playing a game or two every day. My secret is that I actually enjoy having them play games, but I can’t admit it! If they find out, I’m done for.

But these kids are thirsty for education. Their teachers spend most of the time either on strike or in workshops so that they’ll be better teachers. Meaning that Honduras may have some super-trained teachers, but the kids never SEE them. Strange strategy. Last year, I’m told Honduran school kids missed 100 days of school, and that’s not including when their teachers just didn’t show up for personal reasons.

BYOB
If you walked into the room, you’d think that you were at a cocktail party (well, one in which the alcohol hasn’t arrived yet). People are milling around, talking on cell phones, munching on snacks and hitting on each other. But no, this is a typical official meeting here. It started an hour late, most everyone listened to the first bit, but then a snack arrived, and it was as if someone held up a crystal, scattering peoples’ focus points in a million different directions. People wander in and out, talk over one another, and wonder if we’re getting free lunch.

I’m not exaggerating. A man raised his hand after coming in late to the meeting, and apparently desperately needed to hear the sound of his own voice. This agitated another man who was also, apparently on the verge of cardiac arrest if he didn’t hear the sound of his own voice. Man #1 began to speak of his background on environmental issues, very, very passionately. But his phone rang. He answered warmly, then asked who was calling him. Meanwhile the other man had grasped some tiny controversial thread of the first man’s rant, and was running with it, triumphant to have the podium. Man #1 continued talking on his phone, but kept nodding and smiling at Man #2 as if he could actually possibly be listening to him at the same time. While Man #2 seemed as if he might be reaching what could possibly resemble a point, a secretary came in to deliver him a cinnamon roll. This caused him to forget that he was in the middle of a very important point, and thrust the roll in my face because he had gotten it especially for me because I was, apparently, very beautiful. I tried to decline, but he was getting louder and pushier, and I had no choice. Then, as he tried to glean my political stance on Obama vs. McCain, I luckily had my mouth full and was unable to reply, so he struck up the conversation with someone else. Soon, everyone besides the presentation-giver had had enough, and were apparently all out of passionate rants that had nothing to do with the topic. The meeting, as usual, disintegrated bit by bit, like a napkin in a bucket of water.

That was a slightly extreme case. But I have never been in a meeting with more than 1 other person here that doesn’t have the same feel to it. I need to get used to it, or it will drive me batty. I think Americans spend too much time glued to their seats come hell or cinnamon rolls during boring meetings. Looking on the bright side, at least here it’s ok to mix it up with a little refreshment, a little political chit-chat, and a little inappropriate flirtation.

Mine

This weekend I hiked to the largest waterfall I’ve seen in my life. It is in the reserve, and the hike there requires passing coffee farms, abandoned gypsum and gold mines, and splashing from one side of the river to the other more times than I could count. It was a beautiful hike, and amazing to see the mining tunnels built over 70 years ago.

A few years ago residents of this area organized a protest that stopped international traffic on the highway. It was to prohibit a Canadian silver-mining company from entering the reserve, while the president of Honduras had given the go ahead. This is pretty amazing, and shows the power and the will of the people in this zone.

A Little Bit of Ugly
The man was well-dressed and attractive. After first handing out carsick bags to the rows of passengers on the bus and quoting raucously from several parts of the bible, he unbuttoned his shirt, causing his audience to draw a collective gasp. We were given a glimpse of his well-toned abs, with a gruesome picture that barely registered in my mind due to the chilling words “Mara Salvatrucha” inked across them in rolling blue script. Mara Salvatrucha is one of the biggest and most ruthless gangs in Central America; supposedly the only way to leave it is to switch gangs or to die. The gang originated in Los Angeles with Salvadoran immigrants in the 80’s. As they were deported, the gangs took root in Central American countries, becoming highly involved in drugs and armed theft. One of Honduras’s heavy-handed former presidents took a stab at crime; among other things making it illegal to have any sort of tattoos and over-stuffing the jails with anyone remotely associated with the gang activity. These days the gangs are still thriving. I prepared to have to give up all of my belongings to this gang member.

But this man said he had found God and renounced his former lifestyle, and was asking our help with building a rehabilitation center for former gang-members. Many of those on the bus were touched enough to hand him a few bills.

This is the second testimonial I’ve witnessed in Honduras by a former gang member. The other was a friend of a friend, who grew up neglected in a poor neighborhood, where drugs were hawked like candy on the playground. Soon his only friend was crack, his allies solely pawns in acquiring more of it. Unspeakable crimes were the only way to feed the addiction. As he was on the brink of death, a mere skeleton sleeping in the streets, using all his stolen money on drugs, passing in and out of consciousness, his mother returned from the US and forced him into an intensive rehabilitation program. We saw him a year after “graduating,” clean and healthy-looking, praising God for saving him. I just hope it sticks.