los pobres viven aquí

This post comes slightly out of chronological order, but I feel I should write about it while the experience is still relatively fresh:

Directly in front of the Clinica (ZOE) there is a young man who sells snacks and refrescos (drinks) to support his family. Affectionately named Jonas, for his resemblance to one of the Jo Bros (Jonas Brothers), he is outside of the clinic by 7 every morning with his little Pepsi cart full of goodies and doesn't leave until around 4. On Wednesday, 19 year-old Jonas and his 17-year old wife celebrated their son's first birthday, and on Saturday, we had the privilege of spending a little time with them on a day trip to Valle de Angeles.

Before leaving for the tourist town nestled in the mountains, we went with Jonas to pick up his wife and their son. We left the cabbie with a fairly standard 60 lemps and stood to take in our surroundings. We found ourselves on the corner of a busy intersection, the sidewalks crowded with impoverished Hondurans trying to make a living selling plaintain chips, stolen clothing, and handmade crafts. Jonas gestured up the hill, did we want to see his home? "Bueno," we said, "vamos," and we started the climb. Within moments we were swallowed by the slums; corrugated roofs, crumbling cinder blocks, and the smell of trash and urine pressed into my senses, and our conspicuous western group suddenly made me uncomfortable. Standing water surrounded the houses, teeming little breeding grounds just waiting to spread malaria and dengue. Winding up the main road, and I kept my gaze steadily ahead so as not to trip or attract any more attention. At some point, Jonas turned off the main drag to a narrow gap between the shanties. A week ago it may have been a decent pathway, but after a few good rains, the trail was eroded into a treacherous creek-bed. Every where we stepped, a mound of garbage met our feet, until finally we reached the top, crossed through a small barbed wire gate, and were greeted by the smiling face of Jonas' wife. We exchanged pleasantries and were shown inside: a dark, 20 square foot entryway with a single dangling light-bulb was separated from the back door and bedroom by a small partition. The dirt floor was as bare as the walls, except where they shelved baby food and their meager possessions, and yet, they smiled and invited us in to see their home.

We took a few photos with the family, and set out to a pleasant afternoon. While “glad” is not the word I would use to describe the experience, it was both a humbling and important part of my time here thus far.