The following story is completely true. Names have not been changed to protect the innocent. I am not that creative. At no point during the following story was I ever in any actual danger (except maybe from my own clumsiness). I hope you laugh reading this story at least as half as much as I did experiencing it, re-telling it, and now, writing about it.
One of the many joys of living in a culture different to the one in which I was raised, is learning about new cultural practices. Holidays are jam packed of these learning opportunities. One of the most striking lessons I have had was that of the “indio bárbaro”.
The days approaching any holiday in Trujillo, the indio barbaro can often be seen walking the streets. He is a man from the Garifuna community wearing a tribal mask and covered in oil looking for money. If you don’t offer him money, he may mark your clothes with oil (a physical representation of the curse he has placed upon you). The indio bárbaro (or barbaric Indian) rarely travels alone and is usually accompanied by another who blows a whistle to announce their arrival. Personally, I think this is a flaw in the system as one almost always has a warning.
For those who have grown up being followed by men covered in oil blowing whistles and motioning for their money, it is completely normal and quite comical. I didn’t, and it scares the hell out of me. Nevertheless, I grit my teeth, pay my lempira and scurry on my way.
On one particular day, the thought of paying this man and parting with my lempira (about 5 cents) was too much for me and I went into fight or flight mode. Yes, I ran. I broke out into a full-out sprint down the lazy cobblestone road. I didn’t dare look back to see if he was gaining on me, nor to see if Laura (the volunteer who was with me at the time) had escaped. It was every woman for herself.
Had we been in a busy city in the states, I imagine the on-lookers would have been quite puzzled to see two adult women (one in a skirt and high heels, the other in flip-flops) sprinting down the road, followed by a man wearing a tribal mask and smeared in oil. But in trujillo, the only confusion was as to why we were running.
I punched the air in triumph when I reached the end of the road as our friend had given up and gone after a more complacent target. A nearby woman asked us why we were out of breath. Upon explaining that we were running away from the barbaric indian, she looked at us with confusion and said “but why are you afraid of him? He won’t hurt you, just pay him”.
I have met cultural differences over the past year with enthusiasm and as great learning opportunities. However, on this particular day, when we ran into what appeared to be the barbarian’s 8 year old brother, Laura said with all the attitude and sass of a girl from Jersey, “Nombre!” (the Honduran equivalent of the “Z-snap”) and I shouted “no me toques!” (don’t touch me!) with all the attitude and sass of someone who had just run away from a grown man covered in oil and threatening to curse me and dirty my clothes if I didn´t pay him 5 cents.
Laura and I laughed the entire drive back to the farm.
I love this country!
I look forward to hearing from you soon!
love,
jenny
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
El indio barbaro
The following story is completely true. Names have not been changed to protect the innocent. I am not that creative. At no point during the following story was I ever in any actual danger (except maybe from my own clumsiness). I hope you laugh reading this story at least as half as much as I did experiencing it, re-telling it, and now, writing about it.
One of the many joys of living in a culture different to the one in which I was raised, is learning about new cultural practices. Holidays are jam packed of these learning opportunities. One of the most striking lessons I have had was that of the “indio barbaro”.
Surrounding any holiday, a few men from the Garifuna community put on tribal masks, cover their bodies in oil, and blow a whistle at anyone they meet asking for money. If you don’t offer them money, they mark your clothes with oil (a physical representation of the curse they have placed upon you). The indio barbaro (or barbaric Indian) rarely travels alone and is usually accompanied by another who blows a whistle to announce their arrival. Personally, I think this is a flaw in the system as one almost always has a warning.
For those who have grown up being followed by men covered in oil blowing whistles and motioning for their money, it is completely normal and quite comical. I didn’t, and it scares the hell out of me. Nevertheless, I grit my teeth, pay my lempira and scurry on my way.
On one particular day, the thought of paying this man and parting with my lempira (about 5 cents) was too much for me and I went into fight or flight mode. Yes, I ran. I broke out into a full out sprint down the lazy cobblestone road. I didn’t dare look back to see if he was gaining on me, nor to see if Laura (the volunteer who was with me at the time) had escaped. It was every woman for herself.
Had we been on a busy street, I imagine the on-lookers would have seen quite the sight as two adult women (one in a skirt and high heels, the other in flip-flops) sprinting down the road, followed by a man wearing a tribal mask and smeared in oil.
I punched the air in triumph when I reached the end of the road as our friend had given up and gone after a more complacent target. A nearby woman asked us why we were out of breath. Upon explaining that we were running away from the barbaric indian, she looked at us with confusion and said “but why are you afraid of him? He won’t hurt you, just pay him”.
I have met cultural differences over the past year with enthusiasm and as great learning opportunities. However, on this particular day, when we ran into what appeared to be the barbarian’s 8 year old brother, Laura said with all the attitude and sass of a girl from Jersey, “Nombre!” (the Honduran equivalent of the “Z-snap”) and I shouted “no me toques!” (don’t touch me!) with all the attitude and sass of someone who had just run away from a grown man covered in oil and threatening to curse me and dirty my clothes.
Laura and I laughed the entire drive back to the farm.
I love this country!
I look forward to hearing from you soon!
love,
jenny
One of the many joys of living in a culture different to the one in which I was raised, is learning about new cultural practices. Holidays are jam packed of these learning opportunities. One of the most striking lessons I have had was that of the “indio barbaro”.
Surrounding any holiday, a few men from the Garifuna community put on tribal masks, cover their bodies in oil, and blow a whistle at anyone they meet asking for money. If you don’t offer them money, they mark your clothes with oil (a physical representation of the curse they have placed upon you). The indio barbaro (or barbaric Indian) rarely travels alone and is usually accompanied by another who blows a whistle to announce their arrival. Personally, I think this is a flaw in the system as one almost always has a warning.
For those who have grown up being followed by men covered in oil blowing whistles and motioning for their money, it is completely normal and quite comical. I didn’t, and it scares the hell out of me. Nevertheless, I grit my teeth, pay my lempira and scurry on my way.
On one particular day, the thought of paying this man and parting with my lempira (about 5 cents) was too much for me and I went into fight or flight mode. Yes, I ran. I broke out into a full out sprint down the lazy cobblestone road. I didn’t dare look back to see if he was gaining on me, nor to see if Laura (the volunteer who was with me at the time) had escaped. It was every woman for herself.
Had we been on a busy street, I imagine the on-lookers would have seen quite the sight as two adult women (one in a skirt and high heels, the other in flip-flops) sprinting down the road, followed by a man wearing a tribal mask and smeared in oil.
I punched the air in triumph when I reached the end of the road as our friend had given up and gone after a more complacent target. A nearby woman asked us why we were out of breath. Upon explaining that we were running away from the barbaric indian, she looked at us with confusion and said “but why are you afraid of him? He won’t hurt you, just pay him”.
I have met cultural differences over the past year with enthusiasm and as great learning opportunities. However, on this particular day, when we ran into what appeared to be the barbarian’s 8 year old brother, Laura said with all the attitude and sass of a girl from Jersey, “Nombre!” (the Honduran equivalent of the “Z-snap”) and I shouted “no me toques!” (don’t touch me!) with all the attitude and sass of someone who had just run away from a grown man covered in oil and threatening to curse me and dirty my clothes.
Laura and I laughed the entire drive back to the farm.
I love this country!
I look forward to hearing from you soon!
love,
jenny
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
A singed arm hair christmas
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from the finca del niño!!!
I hope the Christmas season and New Year were full of the peace and hope that only baby Jesus can bring.
It has been a while since my last entry, and as action packed as it has been, I will just give a short account of Christmas and New Years.
Christmas on the finca this year was as beautiful and joyous as I could have hoped for. Christmas eve morning, I woke up at 5 am to help 5 teenage girls make almost 500 tamales (okay so this number might be slightly exaggerated, but not by much!) I stirred a pot of corn paste over an open fire until all the hairs on my arm were thorough singed and I thought that I may have dislocated my shoulder, and then I stirred about 30 minutes longer. Just between you and me, I am not sure that the taste reflects the amount work that is put into tamale making. I think the richness of the tamale comes in the time spent with family and friends watching your arm hairs burn off.
After bandaging my arms, I collapsed on my bed for a quick nap before mass. After mass, the finca and our neighbors gathered to share a traditional Honduran Christmas dinner of tamales, chicken sandwiches and coke. After stuffing our mouths, we watched Christmas plays that the kids prepared that went smoothly until a spider appeared on stage and scared one of the angles. As she ran screaming off the stage the rest of the angles began stomping in a futile attempt to kill the interrupting spider. It took me about 10 minutes to regain composure after my laughing fit, and the rest of the night I had to fight spewing coke out my nose when thoughts of Diana, the poor spider and killer angles popped into my head.
As Christmas eve is the big day of celebration at the finca, Christmas day was pretty low key. The volunteers spent the day passing around the phone so we could talk with our families, eating chocolate, and swimming in the ocean.
New years eve was just as memorable. After an evening communion service, we all filed into our youngest girls’ house for more tamales (yes!) and coke and dancing. Exhausted from the previous week, I was looking forward to the dancing to end around 10pm and me hitting my pillow in a deep sleep by 10:15. No such luck. The dancing only paused long enough to shoot off a few fireworks (aka small explosives) and then continued well past 2am!
Early the next morning, Laura (another volunteer), sister Margarita and I all piled into a pickup and headed off for Buenos Aires to celebrate the baptism of a former volunteer’s son. Buenos Aires is a tiny village about 1½ hike up a small mountain with no electricity. The view is possibly the most breathtaking in Honduras. That night we shared a meal of beans, coajada and tortillas de maiz by candlelight as our host shared stories of living in rural Honduras, the effects of the US economy on Honduras (yes, we feel the US economic problems here as well) and his hopes for the new year. The next morning we woke up at 5am to hike up the hill and watch the sunrise.
Beginning 2009 with star gazing, baptisms, sunrise watching and great conversations, I can feel nothing but hope for the year. I feel so blessed to be apart of this incredible mission for another year and am so thankful for the opportunity to experience the Love that envelops this project.
I hope that you all are well, and look forward to hearing from you soon!!!
love,
Jenny
I hope the Christmas season and New Year were full of the peace and hope that only baby Jesus can bring.
It has been a while since my last entry, and as action packed as it has been, I will just give a short account of Christmas and New Years.
Christmas on the finca this year was as beautiful and joyous as I could have hoped for. Christmas eve morning, I woke up at 5 am to help 5 teenage girls make almost 500 tamales (okay so this number might be slightly exaggerated, but not by much!) I stirred a pot of corn paste over an open fire until all the hairs on my arm were thorough singed and I thought that I may have dislocated my shoulder, and then I stirred about 30 minutes longer. Just between you and me, I am not sure that the taste reflects the amount work that is put into tamale making. I think the richness of the tamale comes in the time spent with family and friends watching your arm hairs burn off.
After bandaging my arms, I collapsed on my bed for a quick nap before mass. After mass, the finca and our neighbors gathered to share a traditional Honduran Christmas dinner of tamales, chicken sandwiches and coke. After stuffing our mouths, we watched Christmas plays that the kids prepared that went smoothly until a spider appeared on stage and scared one of the angles. As she ran screaming off the stage the rest of the angles began stomping in a futile attempt to kill the interrupting spider. It took me about 10 minutes to regain composure after my laughing fit, and the rest of the night I had to fight spewing coke out my nose when thoughts of Diana, the poor spider and killer angles popped into my head.
As Christmas eve is the big day of celebration at the finca, Christmas day was pretty low key. The volunteers spent the day passing around the phone so we could talk with our families, eating chocolate, and swimming in the ocean.
New years eve was just as memorable. After an evening communion service, we all filed into our youngest girls’ house for more tamales (yes!) and coke and dancing. Exhausted from the previous week, I was looking forward to the dancing to end around 10pm and me hitting my pillow in a deep sleep by 10:15. No such luck. The dancing only paused long enough to shoot off a few fireworks (aka small explosives) and then continued well past 2am!
Early the next morning, Laura (another volunteer), sister Margarita and I all piled into a pickup and headed off for Buenos Aires to celebrate the baptism of a former volunteer’s son. Buenos Aires is a tiny village about 1½ hike up a small mountain with no electricity. The view is possibly the most breathtaking in Honduras. That night we shared a meal of beans, coajada and tortillas de maiz by candlelight as our host shared stories of living in rural Honduras, the effects of the US economy on Honduras (yes, we feel the US economic problems here as well) and his hopes for the new year. The next morning we woke up at 5am to hike up the hill and watch the sunrise.
Beginning 2009 with star gazing, baptisms, sunrise watching and great conversations, I can feel nothing but hope for the year. I feel so blessed to be apart of this incredible mission for another year and am so thankful for the opportunity to experience the Love that envelops this project.
I hope that you all are well, and look forward to hearing from you soon!!!
love,
Jenny
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