Bella Vista Indeed!

PART 1: The San Diego Church team comes to build classrooms in Bella Vista.

(I know almost everyone on the team and was with them the two weeks they were here)

Bella Vista is in Danli, a small town three hours South East of Tegucigalpa, close to the Nicaraguan border. Building the pastoral house at the Nazarene church in Bella Vista seven years ago was my first experience in Honduras. The house is still there, but instead of Pastor Ramiro living in it, it hosts 250 children four times a week feeding them with funds from Compassion International. Without this help, many of the children in the area would be starving.

Bella Vista is the place I made my first Honduran friends, one of which is Isabella. Seven years ago, I was green to Central America and to Spanish for that matter, but Isabella, at 12 years old, did not seem to mind waiting for my two years of high school Spanish to form sentences like, ‘What name is you?’ and ‘I to be Brian and I am 19 old years”. She was very patient and even helped compose the sentences I was trying to form. She would tell me what I wanted to say to her and then answer her own question. It was in this manner that we became friends over the two weeks we worked there.

It was all bliss and good times until one evening my broken Spanish failed me. On the way to her house to meet her grandmother, the person with whom she lived, I told her that the next time we meet, she be when she would visit me in the United States. She smiled and swung my hand that she was holding and nodded in approval. We got to the house and she spat out a presentation of her new gringo attachment to the family. Not knowing what anyone was saying, but responding to the warmth of her grandmother’s toothy grin, I hugged the old woman and took my seat on the cardboard stiff sofa. I passed an excruciating 20 minutes on that sofa, trying my best to catch what they were asking me, and doing a lot of head-shaking and nodding. I nodded as my eyes wandered, taking in the room. I noticed the mint green walls (that I thought were an odd color choice then and now know are a popular choice in Honduras. My house is mint green now); I noticed the cut out magazine ads for Pepsi and Coke that hung like portraits on the wall and from the ceiling. With enough one-way conversation, they finally allowed me to depart as the group’s red vans started to roll away without me in them (a habit that has now formed over the years—this year I was left behind; Thanks Bob).

It wasn’t until the next night, our final night there, that my communication mistake came to light. Isabella appeared to say goodbye to us, but was a little stand-offish. I walked over to her to greet her, but she stayed a bit rigid and said something as I arrived. I could tell it was a question by the inflection in her voice, but I had not the faintest idea what she was inquiring, but it seemed important so I asked her to repeat it. After she ceaselessly repeated it in different fashions, tempos, inflections, and speeds, I decided I needed help. Shelley wouldn’t help me translate, so I found Joyce. To Joyce, she repeated the question. Joyce understood, being fluent in Spanish, but looked perplexed or surprised.
“What? What did she say?” I asked.
“She says you told her that she can come with us to the States and she wants to know if it is true.” Joyce translated.
“What! No, no no no no! I never said that. How could I say that?” I was shocked and a bit nervous. I couldn’t go around telling little girls they are going to the States with me.
Joyce translated that there was a mistake and I never said that and there was no way we could take her. Deflated as a popped balloon, Isabella lowered her eyes and walked home without much more. Suddenly I remembered my broken Spanish saying she should visit. I was sure I had said it right, having practiced it over in my head, and suddenly I realized her family probably thought I was taking her and that was why they were so smiley. I felt awful but with nothing left to do and no vocabulary to explain, I let her go and we left. Over the years, I have visited Isabella and her family. I still go to the living room and cardboard sofa to speak awkwardly with grandma, only now I actually understand what we are talking about and don’t make many more grave mistakes by inviting people places. Isabella is now married with a son and lives in the hill above town and we are still friends.

My second time in Bella Vista, I went walking down the hill from the church looking for photo opportunities and came across a little six year old girl hanging on a black iron gate that was attached to the front of what I thought was the door to the inside of her house. My Spanish being a little better than it was with Isabella three years before, I asked her if I could take her photo. She did not object, nor move. After capturing her beautifully on film, I asked her for her name, Jocelyn, and what she was doing that day. She had no plans. With an invitation to go to the church with me for the kid activities we had planned for the day, she ran off immediately to get her shoes. She ran around the building and up into what looked like a muddy dirt hill out back. I watched her go until she became small and disappeared over a crest. Her house must be just right there, I thought.

Twenty minutes later, she reappeared wearing a pair of cracked, dry leather sandals that looked like they belonged to someone older and bigger than she was. With big grins produced by our newly formed companionship, we grasped hands and we walked the hill back to the church. She spent all day playing with the group and ended up coming back every day that week.

I also met her rambunctious best friend, Ivania, who never seemed to leave Joel or me alone. She was always around my neck every time I stood up. She was on my back every time I turned around. She was everywhere! A real monkey. When it came time for us to say goodbye at the end of the week of work, Ivania started the little girls in a game of “Kiss the White Boys”. Joel, Rick and I spent a good ten minutes dodging little lips as they came flying at us and placing the kisses on our cheeks. When we got in the van, it was discovered that out of 20 or so little girls in on the farewell game, only one had successfully kissed all three of us on the lips, Ivania. Because of that kiss, I never forgot her name.

This year I wondered if I would see my old friends. I wondered if Isabella would show up. My last time in Bella Vista, when I met Jocelyn and Ivania, I had made a trek from one end of the colony to the other asking in every house where she lived. I followed all the directions people gave me for an hour until I arrived at a shack way up on the hill and found no one in it. I was assured it was where she lived but I never saw her. Thinking of this and thinking of Jocelyn, I hoped they would come.

We stumbled out of the vans on the first day, the rest of the San Diego team and me, to take a gander at the project that lay before us for the next two weeks, to build classrooms for the Compassion International Center. While admiring the worksite and then the waning sun—that threw the colors of dusk into the sea-blue sky over the community—I was accosted from behind. I felt two tiny arms firmly wrap my waist from behind. I spun to see which kid had already found the gringos and looked into the big brown eyes of my Jocelyn. Ecstatically I stooped to hug her, as well as you can hug a three foot person, and saw the recognition in her eyes that she had been waiting for me. I felt such a relief that this six year old, now nine, had remembered me and found me. I didn’t have to go look for her. Soon to follow, I found Ivania (who kissed me again) and even found Grandma Isabella and her sofa.

I had a fantastic time hanging out with the girls, playing games, chatting—now that I can speak to them—and walking the town. It was on our last day that I realized how much I meant to them and how much the group meant to the community. Jocelyn, who had said goodbye the day before, did not show up on our last day. Rumor has it that she locked herself in her bathroom instead of going to school or coming to see us again. Ivania clung to me for the whole hour before we left and freely let a steady stream of tears mixed with snot soak into my shoulder. I clung to her and told her that I would be back soon to see them and that I would never forget them. How could anyone ever forget such precious children? I think about them every day…

Being with the San Diego group was fantastic. I had no idea how much I wanted to see old friends and be able to hang out with them. I was so lucky to room with Pastor Antony, possibly the greatest man in the world. I didn’t realize it, but it was really comfortable and relaxing being with friends and cousins, and both sets of parents again (Mom and Tim and the McGinty’s). I really enjoyed having so many things in common and being able to talk about subjects important to me with someone else who equally cared about them, such as books, movies, and walks of life. Believe it or not, I think it was harder to see them go and leave me behind than it was to say goodbye to them in Lindberg field when I came here last October.

I was getting used to having so many friends around and a roommate to talk to all the time, that this last week has been very lonely for me. Suddenly my small apartment feels very empty and quiet. I of course have friends here, but I am not with them very much because most work 10 hours a day. I don’t wish that I had returned with them (although the thought did cross my mind more than once), but I wish I had that companionship here all the time. You would think that you could grow accustomed to loneliness, but you cannot. You only learn to make it hurt less, like ignoring hunger, which you never do when you are lonely. You always end up eating. I wonder what is in my fridge…



(Breathe) (Stretch) (Eat) (Pee)

PART 2

The San Diego group took me to the island of Roatan for the last four days of their trip. Roatan is just off the coast of Honduras and the major tourist spot in the country. We stayed in a nice little resort located on the beach called Bananarama. It boasted a beach bar and kitchen, a dive shop, big rooms with fridges, microwaves, big beds, and air conditioning. It was fantastic. The island has grown up a lot since the last time we were there. All of West Bay, the town where we stayed, used to be empty beach and now is covered with major hotels and resorts. Oh yeah, our resort had hot showers too. The only drawback to vacation was that the power company for the island cannot produce enough power for the island and has rolling blackouts throughout the week. We got hit by it twice. It inconvenienced many tourists, some in our group, as they did not have air conditioning and could not run their laptop computers. The resorts at least are equipped with generators that they ran so we could at least have running water and showers during these times. I remember thinking that it wasn’t too bad, and that I kind of liked the island life. I spent most of my time swimming, snorkeling, and eating in the nicest restaurants I have ever seen in Honduras.

On Sunday I said goodbye to the San Diego group and went with my friend Karen to her aunt and uncle’s house, the plan being that she and I would be traveling together back to Puerto Cortes the following morning. The whole of Karen’s family came in a borrowed Toyota pick-up truck to pick me up at the hotel. They drove me around the island giving me a grand tour of all the vistas and towns before we went back to Coxen Hole where they lived. West Bay and West End are where the tourists usually stay, it is also where all the American and European foreigners live on the island. Coxen Hole is where the Hondurans who work for the American Hotels and the islanders live. From the main street it looks nice, lots of shops and restaurants, places to go and see, a coastal view, but we turned off that street and headed away from the ocean. We drove only two blocks inland and the houses turned to wood, the streets turned to mud and it was here that Karen’s family lived along with a thousand other Hondurans trying for a better life in the island economy. We returned the friend’s car and headed down a makeshift alley with an open sewage canal beside it. We crossed the yards of two houses and then came to their apartment. It was up a flight of broken wooden stairs and had a suitcase padlock on the door to secure the contents inside. When they opened it, I saw a sparse area that served as the kitchen and living room. The kitchen part had a sink, a gas burner, some dirty dishes, and nothing else, no fridge, no microwave, one light bulb. The other side of the space, the living room, had an old plastic table and a bench seat from a van with a sheet draped over it that served as the sofa. Two bedrooms sat in back, one on each side of a hall. The parent’s room had a queen bed, some clothes stacked on the floor, and an electric keyboard mounted atop the amplifier, the family’s most prized possession. The second room also had a queen bed and the usual clothes, and a mirror. One fan, without a faceguard, was shared by all.

With eight people in the house, where to sleep seemed to be an issue. It finally got resolved when David, the oldest son, slept on the floorboards of his parent’s room, his parents in the bed with the six year old daughter, and I, Karen, Yameli, and Nicole all slept in the other bed, sideways so we could all fit. My legs hung over the edge of the mattress and quickly lost blood and then feeling. We had two pillows among us. It was hot.

I found out the next morning that the whole town had not had water in three days and there was no tank with a generator attached to the house to provide them water until the city fixed the problem. Water went out at least once a week. The electricity also went off for the whole town twice as often as for the resorts. I knew West Bay was more ritzy than most living in Honduras, but it was then I realized how isolated it was. In the small of an island there existed such a disparity of wealth. I realized how isolated many of the hotel owners were, the ones who never visited where their employees lived. It was sad to me to see so many people living in such poverty and so close to modernism and money. It was shocking because it was not rich Mexicans like in Tijuana, it wasn’t rich Honduran’s like in Tegucigalpa, it was Americans who came to a foreign country and lived far, far above the native population.

I am not saying that there should not be hotels or progress. The other side is that the Americans and hotels provide much needed jobs to many Hondurans who otherwise would not have work. You would think though that on an island where everyone lives so close to each other that things like accessible water for all could be taken care of.

Karen and I arrived at the Ferry boat terminal at six a.m. to take the seven o’clock ferry and were met by a mob of travelers all cramming into the ticket area to buy passage. Other passengers guarded luggage on the sidewalk. It was a zoo. A Spaniard kept hoping and hollering about the injustice of the lines, and how he had been there yesterday and no one told him he could purchase a ticket in advance. It was impossible to move around and we missed the seven o’clock boat as soon as we squeezed in the doors and into a line. Three long line-waiting hours later, we bought our tickets for the two O’clock ferry and left to eat before returning later.

From 2 p.m. to 4 p.m. we sat on the upper deck of a hydroplane craft on its way to La Ceiba. From 4:05 p.m. to 7, we sat in broken seats on the direct bus to San Pedro Sula. From 7:10 to 8:30 p.m., we sat in the stopping bus to Puerto Cortes Dippsa Station, the last bus of the night. From 8:30 to 9, we waited for the next bus we needed to take us home. We arrived home at 9:30 p.m. where I immediately guzzled what felt like two gallons of water, and went to bed. It’s good to be home.


I have a new comfort food since tomato soup with grilled cheese sandwiches are hard to come by in Honduras and it would be too blasted hot to eat it anyway…. Oreo cookies and milk, Mmmmm!
Thank God for Chocolate…