But it hasn’t always felt that way. Peaking around the two-month mark, my dissatisfaction had crippled my time in the community. I would walk through Los Laureles, trailing Matt, but staying inside my own reclusive thoughts, my own dreary tired world, wishing something were different. I was sick of the dragging sense of no progress. Days felt like one long unrelenting conversation in Spanish, a language in which I lacked considerable proficiency. Those two months now allude to largely an unfortunate time of my own uselessness.

            Through my home-sick logic, our attempts to refine the children’s characters were   daily proven futile. My work was an expensive charade – pointless – since they still would fight and bite and snarl, lack patience, self-control, and since no one has found a stable job, and Chihua won’t go to school even after we bought him school supplies, I’d wonder out loud, “what am I doing?” I was beginning to think that our work in the community was just a naive excited walk around the people that lived there, that we were just like obnoxious flies buzzing in the heat.

            I am so glad I was wrong.

            I arrived in Honduras with an inadequate sense of progress and an inaccurate view of development. My previous expectations of quick social justice and believing in fast-acting solutions skewed the reality of our work. I wanted to see change, material, spiritual, and character change within weeks. I had romanticized alleviating poverty, unaware of the days that lay ahead of me in Los Laureles.

            The reality that I had to recognize and accept, and now enjoy, is a messy one. Our work is with people, relationship-based, and of course we disappoint each other. I sometimes fail to have a good sensibility to the situation, and children continue to annoy me (that’s a joke.) Our vision for the community touches education, health, employment, self-esteem and spirituality; five areas that are not profoundly improved by short-term mission trips. Instead, we are intertwined in the lives of children and families of Los Laureles, straining to be good enough “fathers,” role models, and friends to make a viable difference in their life.

            Matt has signed up for another four years. He will see our budding teenagers and self-conscious 7^th grade students, reach young adulthood. Hopefully, the “progress” I was unable to see within my first several months here will be obvious to Matt as he reflects over the years, relating the stories of Darling’s chance at higher education and Christian’s sudden enamor with the Mennonite Church over his blog. The transition will be tough at first, but it seems I will soon be among the many reading along.

The thing is, I am replaceable in the community. There even may be another young bright-eyed kid with new scruff on his chin looking to change the world in Los Laureles. I hope there is. I will likely return to the community but it will not be the same. Instead of a committed term that verged on a year, I will be visiting for several weeks. That’s ok, life is that way sometimes. But I finally understand, the transience of my own time here is exactly something our work intends to prevent. The nature of the work done in Los Laureles is to love people as Christ does, an act that is not transient. In fact, Matt, it seems you might be in it for the long haul my friend.

Thanks for reading,

Love,

Konrad

But here in La Ceiba nicknames rule over given ones. I attribute this phenomenon to the fact everyone has the same seven names written on their birth certificates. It was only a matter of time before I was given a nickname replacing Konrad. For the past four months the kids have had considerable difficulty in pronouncing my German originating first name, mutating it into ”Contra,” “Konra,” ”Konat” and many other augmented forms that were plain wrong.

So you can now refer to me as Corn Flakes. Yes, the cereal. Where did it come from? Well… I’m not too sure myself, but I know Matt is a full sponsor of the conversion from Konrad to Corn Flakes

 Next time we chat, feel free to call me Corn Flakes. When you are feeling lazy, you could drop the “s,” calling out a shorter abrupt name; Corn Flake! Or maybe you are in the joking mood: stick my maker in front, “Kellogg’s Corn Flakes.” Try it. The name sounds pleasing to the ear if you say it in a Latin-American accent. To achieve the desired effect, try yelling it, putting all the emphasis on the “a” in “flake” as you can muster. Or adding “¿Qúe Onda?” to the outburst usually gets me in the right tempo and the slang flow I’ve come accustom to these past four glorious months.

Following is a photo album of a few kids in the Community and their nicknames.

So Konrad, How are you?

I’m good. I have fun. I enjoy my work. I no longer wake up completely submerged in a melancholy homesickness, greatly brought on by vivid dreams of my friends and family. The annoying sudden realization that, “Oh right, I’m in Honduras…” has ceased. My mood has stabilized and my feelings are less impressionable. I have achieved casual contentment, a characteristic of the summer before, which is great by the way.

This progression was subtle. Another way that I look at it, is that my days here feel finally like life. It feels normal to be in Honduras. I now am able to wake up and go into Los Laureles without looking uninvolved with my head lost in some reverie. It’s a shame it took two months to start shedding the melancholy overtone. Now I wish I could just take those two first months and stick them at the end of my term, adding winter months to summer.

The days, however, have lost some of the excitement and spontaneity they once held. When I couldn’t catch the jist of conversations and when events appeared unconnected, it felt more like an adventure. Now our actions and plans have obvious motivations and consequences. We have goals and grants and official documents that must be faxed. It has been frustrating to see my attitude change from idealistic super-enthusiasm, to a grind, however pleasant it may be.

My Spanish has improved dramatically. And while I still routinely work myself into conversations and sentences where I simply don’t know the vocabulary and my voice drops off abruptly, I am can be proud that at least I got that far. I continue to fumble over words. I haven’t perfected the rolling of my “r’s.” But during the day, while I’m immersed in the language, I’ll catch myself replying to questions or adding comments to dialogue without thinking through the translation. It was an exhilarating feeling the first few times when I got it right sans all the meticulous worrying about verb tense, subject placement, or if I should be adding emphasis on the second to last vowel because I the verb is in the present. That feeling faded quickly, however, when I realized I still truly know nothing.

With improved Spanish and several months under my belt came deeper relationships, not just shallow head nods and hand shakes. I have established meaningful relationships with many of the kids and a few families in particular. I think about the kids when I’m home away from the community. I look forward to spending my Saturdays simply watching Spanish-dubbed movies crowded under the television with two or more adolescent Hondurans. My name is now called out a forth of the time that Matt’s is when we walk the streets of Los Laureles. Yet sometimes the younger ones do say Matt’s name in acknowledge of my presence, when I’m obviously alone, but I don’t hold them to it.

I also now know the frustration of dealing with children. I’ve been aggravated when children acted unreasonable and behaved contrary, unresponsive to everything I said in a firm voice while looking directly in their eyes. The worst experiences have been when I’m ignored. A child may be entrapped with jealousy because Matt and I didn’t take them to the mall yesterday and now they won’t laugh or smile. When their laughter usually gave you a sung soul glow, and instead you’re welcomed with a sweeping glance and they walk away, that hurts.

Those disappointments make me forget every substantive achievement Matt and I have accomplished in the community. However obvious and solid medicine and private education may be, when people disappoint, including myself, the skepticism festers. Progress on a week-by-week, even month-by-month basis in Los Laureles is ambiguous and vague. It isn’t something Matt and I talk about. That topic is left to nighttime reflection, when sleep can quickly push it out of your mind.

But then I’ll wake up, forgetting the pensive tone of the night before, and eat a bowl of cereal before leaving to the community. Upon arriving, Chiro will shyly give me a hug and Chigua will come over for a fist bump. Then I’ll climb into a tree to accompany Chita among the leaves. There’s nothing like a little childhood absurdity to start the day.

As I moved past a street corner, a man called out to me. He asked if I was the guy from Belgium as he crossed the street. The question sounded odd as I repeated it to myself, “is there someone in La Ceiba from Belgium that everyone knows?” He approached me quickly, obviously interested in catching my attention. He was dressed like a United States Postal worker. His collared long sleeve shirt was rolled up to his elbows, a washed out blue against the darker shade of his skin. He was a Garifuna from the North coast of Honduras. A canvas satchel hung from his side, a jacket over the top. He seemed genuinely excited as I stopped to regard him.

I told him I was from the States, not the Belgium guy from town infamy.

“Which state?” He replied.

I answered, also naming Philadelphia as the city I grew up in, a bit of a lie I have gotten a habit of. Not only do I enjoy thinking of myself as growing up in the city, but also I do it in hope to create some recognition in the Honduran’s eyes. I am quite sure that “Spring City!” the place I call my hometown, will not evoke instant acknowledgment.

But to my amazement, he rushed, “that is where I lived for two years!” He spoke wonderful English as he described places and parts of Philadelphia, the restaurants he visited, South Street, the pride he felt as being part of the city. He recounted feelings of acceptance during his life as an undocumented immigrant coming to Philadelphia and being welcomed to the city of Brotherly Love by his employer who supplied him with place to stay. He was boldly grateful to his employer; someone that genuinely and respectfully treated him like a human being. He told me of his life with a smile spread among his patchy beard.

He asked how my Spanish was, and I replied truthfully, “It’s not terrible, but it isn’t too good either.” He told me while he was in the States, he continually asked God to help him with learning the Language. As evidence of his success, he told me in clear common day English, to do the same.

I did not get much of a chance to say anything in response, his recollection and advice dominated the conversation, I was able however to mention that I had a friend awaiting my company. His attitude dropped. No longer was he overly buoyant. Instead he became reserved, mumbling in hushed English that dwindled as his sentences ended. I had trouble hearing, and became aware that he either really enjoyed this conversation, not wanting it to end, or wanted something off me. His repeating, “Well Conrado, you know I’m…” suddenly sounded much guilty.

I tried to remember what I was taught about Homelessness and responding to begging. I remembered it is usually better to bless them with food than the loose change and few bills in your pocket, if you can’t do that, give them human recognition. However I really couldn’t catch what he was grasping for. He continually mentioned his age, reminding me that it was my duty to know. But I really liked the man, so I invited him to lunch.

He followed me to the mall, accepting my offer. His manner from before had mostly disappeared, but he still held to some hesitance. And as we came off the elevator, Matt ahead of me with several of the youth from the dump, he remarked that “he didn’t want to be offensive, but he very much wanted to get going, that the food here is too expensive, simply the money for the bus ride home is enough.” He talked leaning in to me, and I envisioned if Matt were to glance back, that it would have looked like we were exchanging sensitive information. I sensed that he was insecure. And I genuinely trusted his request, but I was, for some reason, confident that all he really needed was a Burger King meal off of the wall – Number 2, con queso y Sprite. I told him this meal is what I could do.

We were standing in line though, behind several girls between the ages of 14 to 26 (I am terrible at ages with Honduran women) when he told me about his past couple weeks. He was coming back from Mexico and needed 200 Lempira to get home, an isolated fishing village where the men work with nets. He promised that after this was all over, and he successfully made it home, with the community’s one phone he’d give me a call, inviting me to eat some “real Garifuna food.” I believed, and still do, that he was sincere. I told him that I’d pay for his meal and handed him enough to get home.

Upon hearing my commitment, he latched onto my arm, displaying the most basic sign of gratitude, a smile. He deeply thanked me, mentioning my name several times. His demeanor changed after I affirmed that he could get home. He helped me with the order, making sure I said the Spanish words correctly, pointing out when the youth behind the counter was making fun of me. He told me that there was something special about me. My Christianity and my service had created an aura, and he could sense it. When he returned to his village, he was going to use this encounter as another testimony of God’s Love and Grace among people.

But for some reason, as we walked away from the food court, I got too caught up in my original intent and I only gave him 100 Lempira. The food cost 100 Lempira, and I gave him another 100, when all he frankly wanted was to get home.

I sat down next to Matt after I had given my friend the money and food, when I realized my failure. I laid my head on the food court table and felt terrible, guilty, inadequate, failing miserably. Why didn’t I just truly listen to him and give him what he wanted? He had blessed me and I had given him a superficial fast food meal and enough to get half way home.

I still don’t understand why I failed to do as I promised and give him the 200 Lempira. Why I didn’t think at the time when I was handing over the money, after he said, “Well this will get me halfway there.” to simply just hand him the other 100 bill, and reply, “oh well here’s the other half.” He had invited me to his house, called me his brother in the spiritual world, and I aborted his hope for a quick trip home.

In perfect reflection to my dragging mood, we walked out of the mall into rain.

My birthday party intended to be a surprise. However my cunning nature quickly saw through the charade. I noticed the spontaneity of our plans that day. I was certain the “practice” we had that night at church would turn out to be a birthday celebration. However even with my tenacious ability to see through bogus plans, I could never have foreseen what followed.

As I entered the Sunday school room the youth called out “Feliz Cumpleaños!” Awkwardly I smiled, trying to figure if I should meet people in the eye or stare at the floor. The pastor, a squat little brazen woman, asked me to take a seat in front of the 30 or so youth. As I settled down in the plastic chair, she informed me that tonight we were pretending that I had just been born, say… six hours ago.

I was caught off guard by the remark. “Does this mean that I don’t have to behave like a mature 19-year-old missionary? Will diapers be involved? Could I only communicate in maniac wails and cooing?” But my wandering imagination quickly shut off when the Pastor lifted up my shirt. Without my discretion my lower stomach, in all of its untanned glory, was displayed to the room. A pathetic chuckle fell out of my mouth, it was all I could muster. She then began applying iodine to my bellybutton. “As If she just cut off your umbilical cord,” Matt called out from the crowd. A pained smile showed on my face as I watched the iodine stain my navel the color of dried blood. I thought to myself, “At least I’m an outy.”

Thankfully the pastor patched me up, placing gauze on the “wound.” I looked up as she taped the bandage to my skin, the youth seemed to be taking this quite well. They were reacting to what I considered an obvious breach of personal space with raucous laughter.

Next a shower cap was stretched across my head and a towel wrapped around my waist. I was fidgeting with the shower cap as the pastor began handing me unwrapped gifts. Toothpaste, brush, towel, cheap sombrero. These are the gifts that no one enjoys receiving, the gifts that require no thought to the recipient’s personality. (Although perhaps they were more of a statement about my personal hygiene habits than the result of an unimaginative laziness.)

Along with that haul, I was given three t-shirts, each strictly commercialized with a tourist in mind, particularly, the ignorant incompetent tourist. The prancing-wide-eyed, hands-on-his-fanny-pack, as-he-bumps-into-things tourist. I didn’t understand then, faking my pleasure at the sight of the shirts, and I don’t understand now. They make fun of me for being a gringo, and yet they dress me up as tourist.

At this point I was appealing to anyone in the room who would look me in the eye that I had enough, but the pastor did not catch the tells of my body language. I shrank back, leaning as humanly possible away from this situation without actually being off the chair. I began to wonder if when she concocted this skewed and unusual scheme that she declined to give any thought to person at the butt of the joke.

The Pastor then called for milk to fill the baby bottle she held in her hand. She had to settle for Coca-Cola, but I couldn’t recognize that as pleasant upside, instead my mind concentrated solely on the bottle she raised firmly. Soon two young women were chosen from the audience to participate in this debacle. I was unsure of what their roles were at first, I must have missed the Spanish for, “feed him the bottle.”

“Lo siento,” I said as I sat on the first girl’s lap, crushing her femurs and thighs with 160 pounds of pure man-baby weight. I hung to her neck, trying not look into her eyes as I chugged away on the bottle. Keep in mind; it is very difficult to accomplish any rapid drinking with the no spill technology of modern baby bottles. It was a drawn-out, bizarre enactment. I was desperate to be finished.

I finally polished off that baby bottle. The room applauded, and I gave a bow. I could only play along. In retrospect I still am stunned. It believe it was taken too far, out of control, ridiculous, and unfit for any birthday celebration, but I don’t’ know if the Hondurans feel the same way. For all I know, they might have thought this was perfectly comfortable incident, a nice way to end the night.

 If you wish to see pictures of the party, feel free to visit Matt’s webblog. It is listed under my “blogroll.”

I particularly enjoy my expression...

From Konrad, Josue, Matt & Cesar

In stark contrast to the cramped warmth of the La Ceiba and the bus ride, San José was wonderful. It is a city established at the level of clouds with a climate closer to a Philadelphia Spring. Though definitely still Latin American, San José reminded of parts of New York, without that “me against everyone” mentality. It is a progressive, modern, sexed-up, idealistic city. It actually had architecture! – more than what I could say for La Ceiba or what I’ve seen of Tegucigalpa, Honduras and Managua, Nicaragua. I fell in love with it. Too bad I might not go back again while I’m down here. Not after I broke our host family’s toilet.

Not like the terrible disgusting way. I let the porcelain top slide off the seat onto the tiled floor, and in thanks, it burst into two large pieces and many much smaller shards. It was in the early morning, and I was flushing the toilet manually. Initially the crash inspired no interest, as if this was a regular occurrence that requires little thought, like changing the toilet paper after a roll is done, or eating a ham sandwich. I looked down with indifference until Matt and Saco came into the bathroom reacting to the sound. After recognizing their expressions and matching them with the mess on the floor, then did I finally utter, “oh shit.”

So I made the rest of our stay a bit awkward with our host family. They are not a rich household, and their newly renovated bathroom, which I happened to break, was only completed with the help of a monetary gift from a previous visitor. The mother was as Matt described, “mortified,” at the sight of the broken toilet top. I felt like I had accidentally amputated their third child, unsuccessfully. To make the situation worse, in Costa Rica, they don’t sell the top of the toilet individually. Instead, I had to pay for an entire toilet. 

After this unfortunate event, on the last day of our stay, I dropped change on the floor. It clattered and I stomped on the rotating coins to make them stop moving. The mother rushed up the steps and asked what had happened.

The fund-raising initiative for the new toilet will begin shortly. Have your check ready. You’ll find an envelope in your mailbox after the holidays.

The luggage procedure was soon over, my day of flying finished. As I moved past the last security figures I saw Matt Keiser, the person I am working with in La Ceiba, down the hall. Reacting quite contrary to the majority of my body language, I smiled without hesitance, inspiring a sense of betrayal and suspicion, “who made me smile? That wasn’t conscious…” I met Matt with a hug, and two firm handshakes for the Hondurans brothers who greeted me. The weariness from travel momentarily disappeared as we drove from the airport into downtown La Ceiba.

Viewed from inside Nelson’s halting and throttling truck, La Ceiba was mad with movement and energy. We fell into traffic, a seemingly chaotic stop and flow of cars, buses, trucks, motorcycles, bikes and people. With my head outside the window, warm air swept by the sound of horn honks and yells. Fireworks burst overhead. Nelson commented that the entirety of La Ceiba was welcoming me. The street was crammed, inelegantly, with shifting and overpowering life. It was Latin American hustle and bustle, and it rang sweet and strong.

The first night was difficult, and the day afterwards tough. Continually attempting to understand a foreign language, with the day broken by introductions and sputtering interactions, made the first week long. A routine has been established, as much as possible, but events and plans shift and fall apart or appear quite suddenly. It could be a teaching session scheduled in the town an hour bus ride from La Ceiba only the night before, or the cancellation of that afternoon session because the bus has made no progress in two hours.

I will wake around 8:30 and quickly eat breakfast and join Nelson in his truck. We run errands in the mornings, drop people, things off, or pick people up. It’s a cast whose appearances are not regular and since I don’t know the language, it seems these actions are quite spontaneous or part of a random order of things. Eventually, Matt, Josue (another person who works with Matt and me) and I will be dropped off in Los Laurles, the community living on the land below and around the city’s garbage dump. This is the location of my work for the next seven months.

Seen as a mismatch collection of concrete, tin and clotheslines, houses are erected on the slope of the hills and past landfills. The homes tend to connect into their neighbors with shared roofs, walls. It presents the stark contrast of poverty and trash compared to the growth and life of vegetation that surrounds the community of 2,000 people. It is a collage of lives and shelters put together with what they could acquire and what little they had.

Presently I know about 15 or so faces but fewer names. Matt has reached the point where kids will call out his name but he won’t even know the child. Becoming the subject of conversation and notice in the community is easy enough; Matt and I are the only gringos who regularly appear at the dump. Usually we play soccer in a field of dirt, pebbles and sparse grass, and visit with the families and children we know. We spend lunch there, blessed by their remarkable hospitality. And in the afternoon we try to get some of the kids out of the dump – to the mountains, to swim in rivers, downtown La Ceiba, or even to the mall. By five or four, through a random combination of walking, driving in taxi or bus, I’ll end with a nap in my room. Then it is usually out again, for dinner, friends, fellowship, practice for worship, it stays different and full.

My life here has yet to feel permanent. After many months of working towards this point, moving past a time of transition – I’m finally “somewhere,” doing “something important.” This is what I wanted. Adventure, excitement, the unease, the challenge, but I don’t think my mind has caught on. “Oh, I’m going to be doing this for about seven months,” has not quite become a mentality. Instead I feel like I rushed in, caught unprepared by the prominent language barrier. I am finding it hard to convince myself I can better lives while being such a gaping outsider. But then I’ll enter into an intricate play of hand movements with the kids – high fives to fist bumps, or the smile and laughter of my Honduran Friends. And in the moment afterwards, I get past a sense of apprehension, and love that I am here.

Of course I am not yet in Honduras, that will begin later this fall.

Although feel free to book mark this page, I’ll have heartfelt anecdotes soon enough.

Konrad