Agape and the beginning of my adventure...
I've been thinking very hard these past couple of days about the stories I will tell you upon my return from Honduras. The people I've met through my travels, the sides of my self that I still uncover- shocked at their newness and previous inexposure to my own self-concept, it's all so jumbled in my mind and I don't know where one discovery ends and a new one begins. All the experiences fill me up, swollen like a balloon about to burst. Fill me up with what exactly? It's love. Not romantic love, not friendship love, not even joyful love. It's this ecstatic love that constantly reminds me of the interconnectedness and amazing nature of humanity. There's a word for it: Agape.
So now that I have returned, here are my adventures. Where do I begin? At 1am on March 18th, I suppose. The adventure began with a slightly crazy drive to the Philadelphia airport. My driver: a middle aged man, awkwardly quiet and distant named James. It was 1am on a snowy sunday night, and I lay flat on the back seat of the car. I looked out the windown to the dark path that stretched out before me. It was my future, dark, narrow and unknown, like the dirt country road that we followed toward the big city.
Fast forward to the plane ride from Philadelphia to Houston. To my left was a beautiful older woman, reading a magazine. To my right: a young woman with wavy blonde hair, colorful wool socks, no shoes and a flowing robe. She was curled up on the seat, looking out the window. Immediately I noticed a strand of tibetan prayer beads around her neck. We smiled at each other, and I took out my copy of The Pilgrimage by Paulo Cohelo. (side note: I have just finished this book and it is amazing. It has inspired me even more to walk the Pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. Any potential travel buddies??). When she saw the book, she giggled. Softly at first. Then louder. I looked up.
-I just love Paulo Cohelo, don't you? She said, readjusting her curled body to face mine.
-Absolutely. What have you read of his?
-Oh just the alchemist. It really changed the way I see things.
-You should read The Zahir. It's my favorite of all his works.
She wrote the name of the book down. We got to talking and instantly I realized that she was an apparition of what I want my future to be. An English professor with a masters degree in Psychology, she gave up teaching at universities to travel the world. An aspiring writer, she had just returned from teaching English to Tibetan monk refugees at a buddhist temple in Nepal for a few years. She was on her way to her next adventure in Mexico. She told me stories of the monks, of living simply and mindfully without desire. I told her about my travels through Europe, and the way I felt the universe guides those who know how to listen. She agreed. She told me to submit my stories to her book: she was compiling travel stories written by women who have traveled the world alone, despite all warning. Maybe I will.
Switched planes in Houston and sat next to a loud man with a very pronounced southern accent and an orange t-shirt brighter than anything you've ever seen. At first I was annoyed: he was the type of american tourist that I hated, the kind that seemed to show no humility or respect for the culture. But as we spoke I realized I was completely wrong about him. He was a Christian, on a mission to Honduras to perform surgery on soldiers in San Pedro Sula. And as wary as I am of radical protestant missionaries, there was something about him that made me feel he was a good man. Maybe it was the idea of selfless service, which reminded me of my youth with the Jesuits. I don't know what it was, but in that moment I was grateful for his faith in his God, because it was faith that was creating, rather than destroying a part of the world.
Arrived in Honduras and got in a car with a Honduran couple: Elouisa and her boyfriend, Gerrison (I have no idea if I spelled that correctly). Extremely giggly and bubbly, I immediately felt right at home. Gerrison's driving reminded me of driving through Boston or playing Frogger, except we were a car instead of a frog and if we got hit we couldn't try again. And in this way, to the sound of spanish pop-music, they introduced us to the streets of Cofradia. How do I describe Cofradia? There is nothing special about that town. And in it's plain-ness, it's nothingness, it's absolute small town-ness, is something extraordinary. Dusty narrow streets with children and wild dogs running about and maybe a bird or two, small houses with tin roofs painted in the brightest colors you've ever seen. Music on every corner. Laughter. Dancing. Dust. Cofradia.
I spent my first night alone in a house full (FULL) of people. It was a simpler house compared to those of my travel companions: a large room with bare white walls, divided into smaller rooms with walls made of flimsy plywood and cloth. The air was thick with dust and humidity, but was tempered by the sweet smell of food and coffee. I had never lived in a house quite like that before, and I was open and grateful for the experience. Upon arrival, I was immediately greeted by a small girl with a long thick braid which fell all the way down her back. She must've been 10 years old. Her name: Diosa (Goddess). She had large brown eyes that took everything in eagerly, and a smile which lit up her serious face. She introduced me to her little brother, Tigo. They would be attending the San Jeronimo Bilingual school, where I would be working for the next few days.
I crawled into bed early that night, exhausted from my trip. But I couldn't sleep. All around me were the sounds of a new country. I was angry with myself for falling victim to my own fears, retreating into myself instead of reaching out to others. I was afraid they thought I was cold, or rude and incapable of speaking their langauge. I was overwhelmed with culture shock, a feeling I've experienced many times but simply could not deny myself of it's grasp. I lay in bed and accepted it, allowing the discomfort to hang over me, heavy like the humidity in the air. It began to rain. I fell asleep to the sound of children laughing and rain pouring on a tin roof.
I woke up around 12am suddenly. There was someone else in my bed. A heavy body lay beside me, breathing softly. I didn't knowhow long he had been there, or if he was asleep. I quickly assumed he was, however, judging by the rhythmic patterns of his breathing. I didn't know what to do. It was extremely inappropriate for a boy and a girl to be sleeping in the same room, let alone the same bed. Furthermore, I didn't even know if the boy was a member of the family, or had just wandered into the room from the street. I froze, terrified. The boy let out a soft groan, rolled over, and smacked his head on the floor. I quickly closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. He got up, mumbling something about being crazy, and wandered back through the curtain into the other room. A few moments later, a bright cell phone light shone into my eyes. I let out a soft yelp. Another boy was standing beside my bed. I don't know if it was the same boy, or his older brother. The boy squatted down on the floor next to my bed and asked me some questions. In my groggy state, I answered them shortly and rudely. I just wanted to go to sleep without having someone else in my bed. He eventually left me alone, and although I felt horrible about being so rude, I fell back asleep. The next morning I packed up my things. it was time to move on to the next homestay, the place where I would stay for the rest of my time in Cofradia.
So now that I have returned, here are my adventures. Where do I begin? At 1am on March 18th, I suppose. The adventure began with a slightly crazy drive to the Philadelphia airport. My driver: a middle aged man, awkwardly quiet and distant named James. It was 1am on a snowy sunday night, and I lay flat on the back seat of the car. I looked out the windown to the dark path that stretched out before me. It was my future, dark, narrow and unknown, like the dirt country road that we followed toward the big city.
Fast forward to the plane ride from Philadelphia to Houston. To my left was a beautiful older woman, reading a magazine. To my right: a young woman with wavy blonde hair, colorful wool socks, no shoes and a flowing robe. She was curled up on the seat, looking out the window. Immediately I noticed a strand of tibetan prayer beads around her neck. We smiled at each other, and I took out my copy of The Pilgrimage by Paulo Cohelo. (side note: I have just finished this book and it is amazing. It has inspired me even more to walk the Pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. Any potential travel buddies??). When she saw the book, she giggled. Softly at first. Then louder. I looked up.
-I just love Paulo Cohelo, don't you? She said, readjusting her curled body to face mine.
-Absolutely. What have you read of his?
-Oh just the alchemist. It really changed the way I see things.
-You should read The Zahir. It's my favorite of all his works.
She wrote the name of the book down. We got to talking and instantly I realized that she was an apparition of what I want my future to be. An English professor with a masters degree in Psychology, she gave up teaching at universities to travel the world. An aspiring writer, she had just returned from teaching English to Tibetan monk refugees at a buddhist temple in Nepal for a few years. She was on her way to her next adventure in Mexico. She told me stories of the monks, of living simply and mindfully without desire. I told her about my travels through Europe, and the way I felt the universe guides those who know how to listen. She agreed. She told me to submit my stories to her book: she was compiling travel stories written by women who have traveled the world alone, despite all warning. Maybe I will.
Switched planes in Houston and sat next to a loud man with a very pronounced southern accent and an orange t-shirt brighter than anything you've ever seen. At first I was annoyed: he was the type of american tourist that I hated, the kind that seemed to show no humility or respect for the culture. But as we spoke I realized I was completely wrong about him. He was a Christian, on a mission to Honduras to perform surgery on soldiers in San Pedro Sula. And as wary as I am of radical protestant missionaries, there was something about him that made me feel he was a good man. Maybe it was the idea of selfless service, which reminded me of my youth with the Jesuits. I don't know what it was, but in that moment I was grateful for his faith in his God, because it was faith that was creating, rather than destroying a part of the world.
Arrived in Honduras and got in a car with a Honduran couple: Elouisa and her boyfriend, Gerrison (I have no idea if I spelled that correctly). Extremely giggly and bubbly, I immediately felt right at home. Gerrison's driving reminded me of driving through Boston or playing Frogger, except we were a car instead of a frog and if we got hit we couldn't try again. And in this way, to the sound of spanish pop-music, they introduced us to the streets of Cofradia. How do I describe Cofradia? There is nothing special about that town. And in it's plain-ness, it's nothingness, it's absolute small town-ness, is something extraordinary. Dusty narrow streets with children and wild dogs running about and maybe a bird or two, small houses with tin roofs painted in the brightest colors you've ever seen. Music on every corner. Laughter. Dancing. Dust. Cofradia.
I spent my first night alone in a house full (FULL) of people. It was a simpler house compared to those of my travel companions: a large room with bare white walls, divided into smaller rooms with walls made of flimsy plywood and cloth. The air was thick with dust and humidity, but was tempered by the sweet smell of food and coffee. I had never lived in a house quite like that before, and I was open and grateful for the experience. Upon arrival, I was immediately greeted by a small girl with a long thick braid which fell all the way down her back. She must've been 10 years old. Her name: Diosa (Goddess). She had large brown eyes that took everything in eagerly, and a smile which lit up her serious face. She introduced me to her little brother, Tigo. They would be attending the San Jeronimo Bilingual school, where I would be working for the next few days.
I crawled into bed early that night, exhausted from my trip. But I couldn't sleep. All around me were the sounds of a new country. I was angry with myself for falling victim to my own fears, retreating into myself instead of reaching out to others. I was afraid they thought I was cold, or rude and incapable of speaking their langauge. I was overwhelmed with culture shock, a feeling I've experienced many times but simply could not deny myself of it's grasp. I lay in bed and accepted it, allowing the discomfort to hang over me, heavy like the humidity in the air. It began to rain. I fell asleep to the sound of children laughing and rain pouring on a tin roof.
I woke up around 12am suddenly. There was someone else in my bed. A heavy body lay beside me, breathing softly. I didn't knowhow long he had been there, or if he was asleep. I quickly assumed he was, however, judging by the rhythmic patterns of his breathing. I didn't know what to do. It was extremely inappropriate for a boy and a girl to be sleeping in the same room, let alone the same bed. Furthermore, I didn't even know if the boy was a member of the family, or had just wandered into the room from the street. I froze, terrified. The boy let out a soft groan, rolled over, and smacked his head on the floor. I quickly closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. He got up, mumbling something about being crazy, and wandered back through the curtain into the other room. A few moments later, a bright cell phone light shone into my eyes. I let out a soft yelp. Another boy was standing beside my bed. I don't know if it was the same boy, or his older brother. The boy squatted down on the floor next to my bed and asked me some questions. In my groggy state, I answered them shortly and rudely. I just wanted to go to sleep without having someone else in my bed. He eventually left me alone, and although I felt horrible about being so rude, I fell back asleep. The next morning I packed up my things. it was time to move on to the next homestay, the place where I would stay for the rest of my time in Cofradia.
posted by Jessica @ 10:42 PM
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