I just spent a week on a farm in the mountains of Honduras. I had no hot showers or cold drinks. The tap water was unusable and bottled water was a precious resource that was locked away until needed. Meals were an ever-rotating combination of beans, cheese and rice with some meat and eggs thrown in at lunchtime. I spent most of the week feeling sweaty and damp from the humidity, and didn’t shave once the whole time I was there.
So now, why do I wish I were back there so badly?
I was at the El Hogar agricultural school, a boys-only three-year program that teaches boys how to farm, raise livestock and live sustainably while operating their farm as a business. The boys who graduate from the school go into the Honduran workforce leaps and bounds ahead of others their age, having the skills to help keep themselves and their families out of poverty.
When I arrived at the school, I was tired from hours of travel and skeptical about what I would find there. I was sure that with my limited Spanish skills and the simple fact that the boys and I came from totally different worlds, I would form only superficial connections with them. I had always wanted to go on this trip (my church does it every year) to prove that I could overcome my fears, and maybe even to have a life-changing experience, but I was certain it would be my first and only year on the farm.
Chilling with my fave cow
I’m already excited for next year. Though I only spent seven days with the boys and my church group, by the end of the week they felt like a second family. My Spanish improved dramatically, so dramatically that we were soon having real conversations about fútbol (soccer), music and life on the farm. We danced every night to both Honduran and American music and bonded over Hangman and Tic-Tac-Toe, games that can cross any language barrier. One group adopted my best friend Lindsay and me into their “familia peluche” (plush family) and even wrote us a note at the end of the week, reminding us to never forget them.
Yes, I did do some manual labor. I moved rocks and whitewashed the pig house, I painted a mural on the barn and sewed screen into the windows of the comedor (dining hall). The best moment of all, though, was when I got to help teach English toward the end of the week. In front of a class of primeros (first years), I explained the concept of I, you and we in English and told the boys to write their own sentences.
They didn’t all get it at first, and not all of them were enthusiastic. I tried, not always successfully, to answer their questions, fix their flaws and praise them for good work. But when I left the school building, I felt like I was glowing. I had felt happy working before, and proud when I had done something well, but it was rare to feel this good about something, this sure that I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
Sure, the week had its many challenges, stresses and setbacks—none of which ended up being as bad as I initially thought. I panicked the first night at the thought of having to eat only beans for a week, but ended up finding much more variety than I expected (spaghetti anyone?). Plus, I could say no to the tortillas, and someone in my group was always up for a few (or many) bites of my dinner. I was no fan of working under the hot sun or sleeping in a humid, unaired room, but I survived. I both saw and heard tales of heartbreaking poverty, but at the farm, I felt that I was helping in some tiny way. In the end, being with the boys, whether we were eating, dancing or just hanging out, was worth every second.
Good times in the comedor
I intern at Her Campus and am entering college as a journalism major. I spend my days surrounded by driven young women, constantly plugged into the world around them, updating email and Twitter and Facebook feeds, commenting and offering their opinions whenever possible. Honduras could not be more different. While I love my job back home, it was liberating to be out in the open air, having no idea what was in my email inbox or who was calling my phone, trying so hard to listen most of the time that I often forgot to speak.
I once thought I would always be too scared to spend more than a week in a foreign country. I loathed Spanish class in high school, and I always preferred being around other girls to spending time with a group of boys.
Now, I can’t wait to get back to Honduras next summer. I was beyond stoked when I found out that my college roommate speaks Spanish, and I’m already contemplating majoring in Spanish as well as journalism. I know now that I’m just as likely to call the mountains of Central America my home one day as I am to live in a glamorous New York City apartment. I’m just as likely to stand in front of a class of miniature farmers as I am to be calling up the White House for a comment.
Nothing is certain anymore, and that’s pretty cool.