December 2010
And then I stopped. There was no more writing after Argentina, at least not publicly. It is difficult to write when so fully immersed in living. And it is not until life slows, and it changes, when the details of our experiences become foggy and we find ourselves straining to remember just what it was that we lived so intensely, that we lament it was not all written down. I distinctly remember this moment in the 10th grade when my English teacher remarked about the good fortune of those who have kept a journal through which they can reference their past. A student replied that she did not see the need to write anything down, as she would remember anything worth remembering. Mr. Cahill chuckled in his knowing, with the pontifical dignity that comes with being a bald man of his age and said, “If only it were true that we could remember all the things ‘worth’ remembering.”
I am not in Argentina anymore. I am not in Honduras. I am “home” and have been for over a year now. To call my return a crash landing feels like an understatement. No home. No job. No plan. And let’s not forget the worst economic crisis since the Great Depression. One can only listen to the words “these hard economic times” so many times before it begins to shake her confidence. I remember hearing about the financial collapse on CNN Español and wondering, “Can it really be that bad?” It must be the spin, the media embellishing the sorry state of the intransigent superpower that has for so long manipulated its southern neighbors; “The U.S. goes belly up” is understandably well-received news to many south of the border. But upon return, this was in fact the reality that I faced. No home. No Job. No plan. Surrounded by the ubiquitous stench of defeat that came to exist in my country. In the past year I have moved cities twice, houses four times, and I have worked three different jobs. It has taken me until now to begin to sense the return of normalcy here, in the United State of America. It has taken me until now to feel like I am standing, and I continually question my footing.
I have spent much of the past year digesting the time I spent living in my little pink cement home, covered in dust, or in mud, depending on the season. For me it was a time of such beauty, simplicity, and freedom. A time when I felt free from weight I never knew existed back home, a weight that only through its expulsion, did I become aware of its existence. I was freed from media, from consumerism, materialism, free from vanity, my self-image, to be reborn and to evolve in a completely new world.
My new life became the glorification of the mundane, accentuating the details of every action—those I had never really noticed before. I found comfort in menial tasks; sweeping the dust, the sound the broom made on the floor, and the satisfaction in watching as the tiles became white again with my strokes…or the act of washing my clothes on a concrete washboard aside the “pila”. Soaking, scrubbing, wringing, thinking. There was so much time for thinking. Time for introspection, examination of identity and of place—a kind of time that does not exist where I am from. In the absence of things, consumed with my thoughts, I found myself content.
I recognize my experience as one that has come to be cliché in a time of international travel, Peace Corps, teach abroad, international NGOs, NPOs, of cross-culturalism, and migration. I recognize that others have my stories, stories that echo redundancy in the ears of travelers. In spite of the fact that I do not feel unique in my experience, it was through this “common” experience that I learned to love the small things in a world where the “little things” really were. My time in San Marcos de Ocotepeque is unique in my personal narrative and I will remember it as a formative period in my life that has led me in my current direction.
I have posted and may continue to post some of what I wrote privately that year.
Diary Excerpts 2008-2009
10/14/2008
I have never had so much to write, while writing so little.
I just returned from El Salvador. Being on the road again, living in a perceived adventure, feels like home, so to speak. When I am moving I am not nostalgic. The things I see I could not dream.
In all honesty I feel lucky to have made it to the border alive after my near death experience on the way to la frontera. A woman named Marisol—a close neighbor in San Marcos—offered to drive me and three other teachers to the border. The El Salvadorian border is an hour away from San Marcos. The road meanders around mountains, over the summit of Guisayote. It is a series of blind corners, nearing 90 degrees. Now, I have driven on my fair share of roads in questionable conditions—I grew up on one. But I have never, in my life, been so certain that I was going to die in a car. We drove 80 miles per hour around blind mountain corners on a two-lane “highway”, swerving to avoid potholes that would take your front end off. And there are absolutely no reservations about passing on blind corners, despite oncoming traffic. As if her erratic driving was not terrifying enough, Marisol repeatedly turned around to talk to the back-seat passengers. Every time I gasped while clutching the sides of me seat as we evaded oncoming traffic while driving in the left lane (Honduras is not among the countries, in theory, that drive on the left), Marisol would throw her head back in laughter and ask if I was scared. “Well,” I thought, “only because I was hoping to see tomorrow, you madwoman!”
When we arrived at the border, we had missed the last bus, despite the speed with which we had arrived. Marisol explained our predicament to the border patrol. They offered to ask cars as they went through the checkpoint if they would carry four women into El Salvador. Within moments we were climbing into a semi-truck. The driver looked at the lot of us curiously. “All women and no man,” he said. “Aren’t you afraid?” After a moment of silence, the four of us staring up into his massive vehicle from the ground, he reasoned, “well, between the four of you you’ll be okay.”
I watched the sun fall behind the plethora of Salvadorian peaks as we rolled through them, packed in the cab of a semi that carried olive oil and toilet paper from El Salvador to Honduras.
That would be the first of many “halones” that I took in semi-trucks that year. There were many halones from various modes of transport, actually, and much more diversity among their operators. I suppose it wasn’t the soundest way to travel—or that is what I have been told contrary to my own experience. The kindness of strangers amazed me. My roadside encounters went out of their way to share their country, and to welcome me; to show me a favorite beach, to stop for coco helados because I have never tried them, or to find fresh native fruits that do not grow where I am from. They showed me the hidden treasures, speaking with great pride about all that their country had to offer. These strangers fed me, invited me into their homes, and I always made it safely to a destination. I found myself constantly, questioning if the people where I come from do this for their foreigners. Do we invite those who are not from here to share in the beauty of our country? Do we help them find their way when they are lost? Would we buy them local fruit or invite them into our homes? Would we go out of our way? I want to say yes, but the greater part of me believes it more likely that we ask them for their papers.
