Even having lived in Honduras for three years, every once in awhile I just have to stop what I'm doing and tell myself how cool it is that I live here. Now, as I'm about to move back to the United States, I'm finding that the cultural gap that I crossed to get here looks a bit different from the other side.
Say you are visiting Hospital Loma de Luz in Balfate, Honduras. A number of things may shock you. First, you are encountered by the horribly inefficient Honduran airport. Nothing happens quickly, and it will most likely culminate in your luggage (containing clothes and nothing more) being ripped apart and vigorously searched. You could become indignant. Once outdoors, you are traumatically overwhelmed by crowds of people waiting for returned friends, the stifling heat of the outdoors, the hordes of taxi drivers pressuring you to partake in their services, and potentially the claustrophobia associated with squishing into a 10-seat land cruiser occupied by 18 people and their luggage. (Just kidding. Ish.) Almost unconsciously, you peel off any superfluous layers of clothing and mentally prepare yourself for what lies ahead.
Let's assume you were fortunate enough to have squished your way to a window that opens, where you can soak in the country's quaint scenery and suck in all the fresh air the polluted city offers (a welcome commodity, should you find yourself becoming nauseous due to the driver's haphazard dodging of potholes). As you drive past corrugated-tin houses and hardly-clothed children, you may experience a tinge of pity for this nation, living in such impoverished bondage so helplessly.
You have driven for several hours now. You have finally reached the 3-quarter mark--"La Ceiba," you think you remember it being called. You pull into the heavily congested parking lot and step out into the smoldering heat again. Even without having done any more than step a few paces toward the door, you find yourself dripping with sweat. Soaking in the scenery around you, you are taken aback by the cloud-draped mountains and the number of people staring at you. Entering what is presumably a mall, you make an effort not to flinch as you walk past the speakers blaring reggae music. Shopping is harder than it should be; not only are you short on time, it's also awfully difficult to concentrate on browsing nonchalantly when 3 attendants are watching you like hawks--either telling you all about prices and styles and sizes and everything that doesn't really matter when you're just browsing or simply staring at you as if they could see your soul. What more, you have to get groceries that will last you the whole week. Oh, the choices. But finally, you manage to pick out your necessities and have them strategically packed into boxes and into the car. You're seeping with perspiration at this point, and want only to be at your destination. Not to fear, there's only an hour left of driving. Very little of which is on paved roads.
The scenery becomes even more picturesque at this point; mud houses dot the roadside and cows, chickens, pigs, bikers, and children fight for the right of way. (By the way, there's no need to fear the machete-wielding hitchhikers--they're pretty even-tempered.) That tinge of pity you experienced earlier becomes a pang of guilt of your own comparative wealth. As you approach the hospital, you're aghast at the breathtaking sunset dipping into the ocean, reflecting its radiance on the water's surface. What a way to conclude a day of chaos--knowing that at least one thing in the world is perfect and just waiting for you to catch a glimpse of it. Unfortunately, the moment is somewhat short lived, as you may learn with a jolt when your attention is suddenly riveted on the precariously situated road leading up to your housing. Wedged between a hill and a gorge, gravel slips under the tires and potholes threaten to throw the vehicle off the path. Welcome to Hospital Loma de Luz: the Hill of Light.
Doors hanging ajar and night sounds filling the air, you finally finish unpacking. With that out of the way, you look outside and spot on the next hill over the light of loma de luz: the hospital's chapel cross lit up against the star-strewn blackness. You try to ignore the mosquitoes buzzing in your ear and the geckos traversing the ceiling while you run over the warnings of this third world wonder in your head.
Although scorpion stings and tarantula bites hurt, they don't kill.
Snake bites hurt and can kill--quickly. Though not all poisonous, never trust a snake of any kind.
Malaria and dengue aren't fun, but don't kill (at least not the variety of this country).
Walking up the hill hurts, but doesn't kill.
Honduran sneers and cat-calls may hurt, but don't kill.
The patients in the hospital are hurting, and are dying for a way out.
Watching patients can hurt, but we're trying to show them a way out.
Somos una loma de luz, la luz del mundo. We are a light on a hill, the light of the world.
Throughout your stay, you could be startled by monkeys coming up to the window or toads finding their way into your room or the everyday adventures that waterfalls, jungles, and missionaries offer. Upon returning to the United States, you could face culture shock.
After three years of living in Honduras, I'm about to face just such a shock. Please bear with me as I do so.
Making my way through a highly efficient airport may take me by surprise. I'll probably dig out any loose clothing items I can find so as to ward off the cold of air conditioning while I mentally prepare myself for what lies ahead. Following the beep of the car in the puzzling maze of a garage, I'll slip into a sleek automobile and my ears will ring with the silence of pothole-free roads. As we drive along the highway, passing building upon building and billboard upon billboard, I will most likely experience a tinge of pity for my nation, living in materialistic bondage so willingly.
We stop to eat on the way home. Quiet mood music plays in the distant background as I order my junk food in English.
I'm back on the road, looking across the highway as the sun sets on parking lots and strip malls. Fifteen minutes later, I'm "home." Bursting into the immaculate condominium, that tinge of pity I felt earlier surges back to me as a pang of guilt. Looking around, every closet seems on the verge of bursting with all sorts of nothing. Dropping my bags, I look out the sliding glass door, which no noise can penetrate. Cars whiz by; so many people, do they even know I'm here? Walking away, I try to ignore the TV's chattering and go through the warnings of this top-notch country in my head.
Although papercuts hurt, they don't kill.
Car crashes hurt and can kill--quickly. Though not all maniacs, never trust those with whom you share the road.
School and work aren't fun, but don't kill (at least not if you're in a good part of town).
Having to drive everywhere hurts, but...oh, ha, nevermind.
Avoidance of both eye contact and deep relationships may hurt, but don't kill.
The people passing by are hurting, and are dying for a way out.
Watching the people passing by can hurt, but we're trying to show them a way out.
Somos una loma de luz, la luz del mundo. We are a light on a hill, the light of the world.
Throughout my stay, I could be startled by squirrels coming up to the window or organization finding its way into my room or the everyday adventures that grocery stores, churches, and Americans offer.
I am a missionary. This, at least, doesn't change between countries.
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