Art for Humanity

March 8, 2011          For my Grandfather

Wearing the only sombrero I could find, (that happened to be adorned in flower patterns) I was teaching the Geography and politics of Mexico to a group of young, smiling and attentive Honduran faces. These twelve young ladies represent the polar opposite of the troubled inner city kids that always manage to squeeze their way into the predictable plots of countless movies where some heroic teacher manages to make a difference in their lives without getting bludgeoned to death. I may have been wearing flowers designs on the women’s sombrero that was slowly cutting of the circulation to my head, but I was no Michele Pfeiffer. After only three days of class, these girls were learning rapidly and actively striving to practice their new English words long after class was over. As the class came to a close at 3pm on Wednesday, March 2, I pulled the sombrero off my head, regained circulation, and felt waves of contentment wash throughout my body. I knew that I was doing something good with my life. I wasn’t getting paid in a monetary fashion, but I never felt quite as rich in my life. That same hour, across the sea, Anthony Della Costa, my grandfather, friend, and mentor, took his last breathe of air.

Prior to dinner that evening, I hiked up the hillside where I received reception for my phone. The second I walked into the area, my phone started buzzing. It was my mother. She said, “Brace Yourself.” I already knew what she was going to say. I skipped dinner and immediately sought solitude. For years, my Grandfather was suffering from Parkinson’s disease. Most recently, he was in a nursing home, battling worsening symptoms and depression. Despite the dreariest circumstances, he retained a sense of humor as dry as the Sahara. One of the most recent times I visited him, a woman across the hall, suffering from dementia, was continuously screaming “ICE CREAM, NURSE!” After about forty repetitions, he casually commented with a face as straight as measuring tape, “I don’t scream for ice cream.” Then he said “There’s always some great conversation around here.” Many of my friends claim they cannot determine if I’m joking or serious. I spent my childhood living with this guy.

Under a blanket of constellations illuminating the country night sky, I felt a great sense of comfort. When our bodies are no longer in the form we define as human, the matter is not destroyed, but simply takes another form like stardust. I thought of my grandfather joining that great procession in the sky. Moments later, I heard a chorus of coyotes sounding off like manic mongrels of the night. Inexplicably, the tears stopped, and I started laughing. My insane laughter was cathartic, but probably sounded a bit demented. Even the mosquitoes were hesitant to approach me. With ten minutes remaining in the student’s nightly conversational class, I regained composure and determined it was time to tell them what happened and why I had to leave.

I walked into the class, took a seat, and waited for a lull in the conversation. That was rather easy, as the students seemed exhausted from a hard day’s work. Speaking slowly while carefully selecting and enunciating my words, my eyes grew moist. There was an instant outpouring of compassion and hugs from the girls. One of them said “I love you.” They stayed in the classroom an extra hour. They prayed in Spanish and sang songs, in an obvious attempt to cheer me up, and their scheme was effective. I heard songs ranging from religious songs in Spanish, to the Honduran national anthem, to Shakira, to Michael Jackson, to frère Jacques. Death in Latin American culture becomes a celebration of life. I knew that my grandfather would not have wanted me to “mourn,” but to enjoy life as long as my heart pumps blood into my veins. I couldn’t have been in a better place that night, and I already started missing the students – as I planned to leave the next morning to be with my family.

So here I am, in central Florida. I will return to Central America, but I don’t know exactly when. Regardless, I’ll keep writing, so I’ll be doing things interesting enough to read about. I promise there will no blogging about shopping at Win Dixie or Beiber fever.

Feb. 26, 2011     BINGO

Securely strapped to my harness and staring straight at the dauntingly long zip-line hundreds of feet above a rocky jungle river, Melvin the adventure guide and weekending US army soldiers could sense my fear. Maybe it was because my body reverted into a convulsive tremble. I wasn’t sure why flirting with emanate death constituted my idea of a good time. Thrill seekers seem to be channeling some repressed inner masochist. Is it because we are too well acquainted with the mundane? Is it because the fight or flight adrenal secretions have addictive properties? Or is it because there is a lack of the brain cells that correspond to survival instinct? Melvin patiently struggled to effectively explain the proper positioning. When zip-lining, one starts at point A, leaning back in reclined position with legs crossed while suspended in the air. One hand is positioned in front holding on to the cord that attaches the harness to the zip line, the other hand is positioned behind the head – gripping the zip line while simultaneously serving as a brake and steering method. After lurching forward, one hopes to zip over to point B without being stranded in between, helplessly dangling. My first attempt at zip-lining was like a dentist’s first attempt at taxidermy. I failed to steer effectively, therefore my body reverted to swaying in every conceivable direction, and I stopped – well short of point B. Then I managed muscle myself back to safety by pulling with tremendous force. The military tried their best to politely hold back their snickering. With an attitude of perseverance and determination, I was able to press on, without soiling myself. By the time I did the ninth cord, I gracefully flew through the jungle like a professional!

What is a visitor to do with only one night left in La Ceiba? The answer is pretty obvious. Midnight bingo! In Honduras, bingo is not just a pastime for decrepit skeletons, it’s an all-ages extravaganza featuring luxurious prizes like Tupperware sets and over-sized wall clocks featuring puke green parrots! People of all shapes and sizes intently hovered over their bingo boards, waiting ever-so-anxiously for the next number to be called. Following every elated cry of “bingo,” there was a hushed, jealous grumbling among the participants – myself included. At the equivalent of twenty cents per game, why not take part in the action? Granted, I had absolutely no idea how I would carry all that Tupperware back to the hostel, let alone half way across the country – but that didn’t matter. It was all about the sheer thrill of the game; the heart racing and the epidermis perspiring. This was clearly not nursery home bingo, with the exception of a faint smell of urine. This bingo was complex! There were several ways to win. Not just five in a row would determine the next bingo king or queen, but multiple occasions merited one’s success. With a V shape, four corners, or simply a box of four on the right portion of the card, one could gloriously leave the scene in style, with their cardboard cut out of the great Phil Collins, or a 50lb bag of potatoes! Fortunately, I won nothing.

My excursion has concluded, and I’ve returned to the campus. I will start teaching Geography on Monday. Remember that there are also many people in Honduras that don’t have maps either.

Just ask miss South Caolina! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WALIARHHLII

So donate to us! We need supplies and maps! How else can anyone point out The Iraq?

Feb. 20, 2011        Northern Excursion Part One

With less than two weeks to go before The Leadership College classes commence, I decided it was time for an adventure in the northern coast of Honduras. I was looking for a healthy dose of contrast, and my wish was granted. The bus ride alone contained moments of surrealistic bliss. Darting through the countryside, I caught a glimpse of a monkey, frantically pacing a gated junkyard like a security guard on meth-amphetamine. Every time the bus stopped at small roadside villas, herds of locals swarmed around the bus, thrusting baskets attached to poles up to the windows. They contained refreshments ranging from plantains to pickled pigs feet. During my transfer in San Pedro Sula, there was a commotion by the escalator. A terrified woman stood at the top, apparently seeing this modern marvel for the first time. She was profoundly confused, and looked at the moving stairway like it was a ruthlessly hungry mechanical beast that had an appetite for human flesh. With some gentle coaxing, she finally surrendered to the technology. As many people laughed, I understood that  many modern conveniences are ultimately daunting and counter-intuitive at first sight. As a child, I thought the radiator in my grandparents house was a malicious, soul sucking phantom – straight from the depths of hell.

Arriving in the coastal city of La Ceiba, I was immediately impressed with the diversity. In previous cities, the vast majority of the locals were traditional Hondurans. La ceiba has a sizable population of “Garifunas.” They are of African descent, originating from the survivors of a wrecked slave ship in 1675. After learning that the local Caribs planned to execute all of the male children because of the independent spirit of the people, they revolted and took refuge in the mountains – avoiding slavery.altogether. They’ve had a tremendous impact on the culture with their unique foods, and bootie-shaking “punta” music. Despite the festive atmosphere of La Ceiba, the desperately impoverished are prevalent. Walking back to my hostel from the nightclubs, I received a lion’s share of solicitations for drugs, women, and even doo-rah-cell batteries. One particularly drunken English speaking individual approached me offering drugs. He introduced himself and I shook his hand and told him my name. He exclaimed, “That is the name of my boss!” He then recanted his offer and started quoting bible verses in Spanish, profusely shedding tears. A street light flickered on at the3 end of his spiel, and he was convinced that a miracle occurred.

The following day, I took a boat to the island of Utila with the Swedish and Dutch friends I met at the hostel. The hour long ride was incredibly bumpy, and the staffers distributed plastic bags that served as vomit receptacles. At least four people got a second look at their morning breakfast. I nearly followed suit. The island was a tropical paradise lost in time. There were no major roads or cars, and the locals were a very relaxed breed. Many people go for the diving, but I opted to snorkel. The goggles failed to fit over my glasses, so I stuck to the shallow portions of the reef where I could see the fish up close. However, my strategy backfired when I found my self swimming in water that was too shallow, and I had to stand up and walk over the coral to another deep portion. I would like to officially apologize to coral everywhere for doing this. Instant karma struck, as I caught my flipper in one of the crevasses and fell as my European friends watched in the distance with disbelief. The next morning greeted us with torrential downpours, so I decided to head back to La Ceiba with my clothes fully saturated, smelling like a wet German Shepard.

I’m back at the hostel now, planning to do some hiking in the jungle and scouting places to pass out fliers for the adventure and relaxation center. I’ll be back at the farm in a few days, helping to prepare the place for the students. Another installment of this journey within a journey will be posted. Each person that posts a comment automatically wins a response!

Feb. 12, 2011   Solo Queso

In the streets of Tegucigalpa, it’s hard to stand still. One must be on constant alert. One instance, there was a truck full of goats backing into the portion of sidewalk in which I was standing. Then, as I tried to decide whether to look at a woman simultaneously smoking and breastfeeding or a beggar lacking limbs, I stopped dead in my tracks and bumped into three Hondurans whooshing by under my armpits. Feeling a bit overwhelmed, I sought refuge in a three story Pizza Hut guarded by teenagers with semi-automatic machine guns. I decided that I better not try to con my way into a freebie. I had been craving pizza for weeks, and the Hut was the only game in town. It was a place of sophistication, as tables full of doctors and other professionals eloquently conversed while dipping their glistening cheesy bread into lumpy ranch dressing with the finest precision. When it was time to order, the waitress explained the “especiales” of the day which contained an onslaught of butchered pig remnants. I told her “No como carne (I don’t eat meat).” She looked at me incredulously, as if I was trying to explain Scientology. So I ordered “a pizza de personal con solo quseo,” thinking I ordered a personal pan cheese pizza. My words were taken quite literally, and I was presented with a pizza – sans sauce. If the tomatoes ever do get their revenge and go on strike, then pizza is ruined!

As challenging as it is to convey why I don’t dig on swine or other animals, it’s been surprisingly easy to communicate. An easy topic is music. Shockingly, the most popular American rock band in Honduras is Guns and Roses, or phonetically, “Goons y Rrrosays.” Disco is also a fever. I heard the Village People’s classic, “In the Navy” blasting from the car speakers of some tough looking thugs wearing gold chains and wife-beaters.

Communication would be even easier if I could whistle effectively. The most I can manage sounds like a melancholy tea kettle. Hondurans are accomplished whistlers, emulating the exotic avian of their homeland. They’ve developed a whole system of intricately structured whistles. There is specific whistle for numerous events. There are whistles that indicate an attractive female is in close proximity. Depending on how the whistle ends informs one of her marital status. It might be my imagination, but there is also a whistle for “disoriented gringo approaching.”

My Tegucigalpa experience was stimulating, but I’m grateful to be out of that labyrinth of auto repair garages and litter filled streets. I’m back at the campus, writing and shooting videos promoting the adventure/relaxation center and preparing for students arriving the first week of March. After talking to a local high school graduate that couldn’t name more than two continents, I decided that Geography would be a great subject to teach. Many students are still in need of sponsorship, so if any of you loyal readers know someone that can contribute financially, email me asap! Additionally, if anyone wants an exhilarating and exotic experience in Honduras for a ridiculously low tax deductible donation, hollah!

Feb. 5, 2011

Have you ever laid eyes upon a featherless chicken that still moves? Beneath the pretty speckled facade of feathers lies a wrinkled sack of nervous flesh; sprouting a neck, two legs, and the sad mutilated appendages we call wings. Witnessing these monstrosities pecking around an outdoor kitchen during the weekly soccer mating rituals in Las Botijas, I contemplated the nature of perception. Information that is often accepted as fact, is merely a compilation of surface details. When I told my family about my plans to volunteer in Honduras, they regarded my decision supportively, but with an air of heavy skepticism and fear. Without peeling back the feathers of the chicken, their perception of Central America was very grave. With brains full of media implanted images of juntas, gorillas, crooked police, malaria, exploited tourists, and other archetypes of the “third world,” they feared for my life. Having spent two weeks immersed in Honduran culture, I can confidently say that I feel just as safe here, if not more safe than in the good old US of A. The people I’ve encountered have been remarkably kind ambassadors; consistently regarding me with healthy curiosity and a genuine desire to help, not just ogling at some tall gringo with a dollar sign halo. Conversely, back home, there is more of an emphasis on the endless pursuits of the ego, allowing little time to help or warmly welcome visitors.

Plucking away at the feathers, previous perceptions along with their supporting terminology seem increasingly absurd. Take the idiom, “third world” for example. The last time I looked at an atlas, I only noticed one world. Also, where exactly is the second world? You never hear about that place. The modern industrialized, and hence, “civilized” countries not only feel compelled to place themselves one major notch above the rest, but two! In terms of comparative wealth, Honduras lags far behind the richest nations. This lack of wealth is burdensome for many families as it may limit the potential for travel and education. However, wealth is relative, and only one variable in the equation of happiness. Many of the locals I’ve met have strong familial bonds, remain in excellent physical condition as a result of their efforts in the land they cultivate, and maintain active spiritual practices. Minus the bombarding distractions and the obligations of materialistic pursuits that characterize life in wealthier nations, one can feel more in tune with the simple functions of being human. You don’t even need to own a garbage disposal or plastic house plants.

As much as I miss playing Guitar Hero, I’ve found that to be true. For example, I never thought that I would wash my dirty clothes, by hand, in a river. At first, the task seemed rather daunting and I prolonged its execution until my sweat saturated clothes started fermenting in the corner of my room. Johanna, a most wonderful cook and Spanish tutor, volunteered to show me how the deed was done. It started by hauling a big bucket chock full of my putridly soiled laundry down the side of a cliff in order to reach the river. That was both thrilling and exhausting. I was then instructed to individually douse each article of clothing with water, thoroughly cover them with a roll on bio-degradeable soap, vigorously scrub them with a brush, then douse them again to rinse and place them on rocks to let them dry. I felt like my name was Kenmore. Then the profound realization came: when you cook your own food it tastes better, moreover, when you wash your clothes using the labors of your own bare hands, they feel better and smell fresher than morning mists rolling off the mountains. As they gently caress my body and delicately keep my privates in place, I think of the gallons of water and units of electricity saved.

Free from pop-up ads, infomercials, humming microwaves and automotive exhaust, I’ve enjoyed fresh meals cooked over fires and many hours devoted to human interaction, meaningful labor, creativity, and discovery. One of my favorite things to do, involves hiking to a very secluded area at the top of a waterfall, where there are natural pools of deep blue water and very interesting rock formations. There I can swim, meditate, practice yoga, write, or simply allow the sounds of the river to lull me asunder. I return to the campus recharged and ready for any challenge that lies ahead. I can see the chicken clearly.

Jan. 29, 2011

It’s been just over a week since I’ve arrived in Honduras. Flying over the Gulf of Mexico, my head was filled with anticipation regarding my first venture into Central America. Upon departing the plane, my blood pressure and pulse dropped notably, as I perceived a very relaxed attitude among the people in the San Pedro airport. I previously heard that Hondurans generally cherished a slower paced life, and it was evident through their body language and the little Spanish I could decipher. Exiting the airport en route to the bus terminal, I was instantly awestruck by the deep green and luscious mountains gently rolling in all directions. However, it was disturbing to see the desperation in the soulful black eyes of the children begging on the sides of the road. The feeling of being in a totally different realm resonated within. That very morning, I departed from Orlando, the land in the shadow of the great mouse we call Mickey – a place of grand buffets, mega-churches, and mile-long outlet malls. The contrast was invigorating. More importantly, I was heading to a place where I knew that I could help instead of exploit the existing problems, instead of simply wandering around with mouth agape, snapping pictures of the exotically weathered locals and asking for directions to the closest resort using broken Spanish.

With the full moon illuminating the mountainous landscape just enough to get a sense of the general flora and topography, the bus to Zambrano was a smooth and captivating ride into the heart of the high country. I checked into the hotel where I was set to meet my contacts in the morning. The room contained four beds (inexplicably), a concrete floor, an enigmatic shower-head, and a television full of dramatic soap operas and sensationalistic talk shows. Delirious, I finally chose a bed and slept, occasionally stirred awake by a bizarre chorus of dozens of howling dogs and crowing chickens drunk from the orb of luminescence hovering in the Honduran night sky.

The next morning, I met with Glen, the director and visionary of the college, and Elias, the farm manager. After enjoying a delicious breakfast, it was time to go to my new home. My mode of transportation was the back of Elias’ motorcycle. Trailing us was a semi, loaded with miles of pipeline that we were to install the following day to provide the grounds with a water source. The road off the “highway” to the Leadership College was like a journey into Oz. Simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying, we rode up and down the hills. We passed refreshingly modest homesteads and farms, whose inhabitants truly live off the grid. We passed by many locals with curios glances and welcoming gestures and words. Occasionally, we had to stop the motorcycle, pull out the machete, and cut the brush extending into the road to clear the way for the semi.

Since I’ve settled in, I’ve been busy helping with various projects, ranging from building bunk beds for the forthcoming students, to gathering wood for the the cooking. Interacting with the workers and locals, I’m gradually learning the musical language of Spanish – despite the one occasion in which I mistakingly claimed to plan on eating my friends. One of my daily duties is to babysit approximately three dozen chickens. I’ll explain. The second or third day after I arrived, there was drama in the henhouse. A coyote ruthlessly ensnared an unsuspecting pecker-head in his jaws. The next day, two more casualties. (Note: “casualty” is a rather “casual” way of referring to death. I’ll save my war propaganda theories for another post.) Anyway, to give the chickens the ability to range freely, one must stand guard to prevent their wandering into the brush from whence their nemesis hides. The two or three daily hours watching the multicolored hens has served as a meditation. While observing their fascinating and sociopathic tendencies, not only am I convinced that I could be a great border collie or other herding dog, I am able to brainstorm and write. Monitoring the cluck machines, I conceived the plans for the spiritual center that continues to evolve on a daily basis. My heart swells with gratitude.