The little house was made of dust-scarred cement and sat on a very uneven surface of loose rocks, surrounded by alpine peaks of assorted garbage-plastic bottles, candy wrappers, food scraps, shards of metal. The air smelled of crushed dog feces, spilled soda, and tattered dreams. I called out to the mother I hoped would be inside, and a faint, “pasa, por favor,” emanated from the back of the dwelling. I stooped to enter the low doorway, only to encounter an orderly, clean interior that stood in stark contradiction to the unkempt and chaotic external environment of the house. There were two rooms, both quite small, divided by an impromptu curtain made out of bed sheets; I could only survey the main one. There was a shiny wooden cabinet to the left adorned with sentimental trinkets and a few grainy photographs in tenuous frames; a fat television set crowned a low plastic table placed right in the middle. A faded but charming little couch and two plastic chairs were the only other visible furniture., and these all faced the television dutifully, like loyal deputies under the spell of an imperious marshal. Not a speck of dust or hint of dirt could be seen anywhere. From behind the curtain to the second, mysterious feeling room, emerged a young woman with a very old face, brown like a coconut’s skin, blazing ebony eyes alight with expectation and a little nervousness. She was beautiful in a rough-hewn kind of way-too much unspeakable deprivation and extended bouts of misery etched creases into her eyelids and wrinkles into her cheeks. She did not smile, nor did she frown. She did not speak right away. Only those blazing black eyes communicated something; clearly, she was waiting for an answer I could not give yet.
I was on a round of becado visits, that is, I was visiting the houses of families who had applied for a scholarship for their kids to attend San Jeronimo Bilingual School. These scholarships are funded by the collective tuition paid by 75 percent of the students in the school; a quarter of each year’s total matriculation must be young people getting either half or all of their tuition paid for. The becado process creates economic diversity and gives some kids from the most desperate neighborhoods the chance to take classes in English in an intimate, participatory educational setting. I would ultimately decide who qualifies for scholarships or not, and I did not want to wield this sort of economic power lightly.
My conversation with this proud and tough-looking mother began like they all do-an awkward attempt on my part to make small talk. “It’s hot, isn’t it?”, which in Cofradia is almost a cliché. “How old is Reina and what grade is she going to enter?”, even though I already knew. A quick glance at those grainy photographs-“Is that your mother and father?” The ice was not being broken too well and I felt like maybe it was best to just get down to business. The gulf between her and I was far too great to overcome with some gratuitous words about empty trivialities.
I took out the standard questionnaire form that I use to evaluate a family’s qualifications. “Do you own the house?” Yes, with my husband. “How many people live here?” Just three. “What is the family income?” About U.S. $200.00 a month. “What do you and your husband do?” I work in a maquila, the all-day shift. My husband just left for the United States. He will try and enter the country and find a job. I took notes about the general condition of the property-clean and orderly, but sparsely furnished, and in poor shape externally. I asked the final question-“What do you want to do for your compromiso (in exchange for getting tuition paid for, each becado family must commit to a certain form of service for the coming year)?” I can come into the school and clean. And then, as quickly as the visit commenced, it was over. I shook the mother’s hard palm and wished her all the best. I told her that I would let her know soon about my decision regarding the scholarship, even though my mind was made up the moment I entered her dwelling. I walked out of the house through the low doorway and turned once, to see this beautiful, time-worn woman smiling at me awkwardly, that nervous glimmer of hope in her eyes. She could definitely look forward to another year of her kid being sponsored to get a high-quality bilingual education from a dedicated volunteer teacher who will struggle, as I do, to understand what life must be like for most Hondurans. We will struggle to better grasp the daily cruelties of seemingly insurmountable economic injustices, the hurtful physical separation from loved ones, the attempt to make a dignified home amidst the trash and filth...

Jonathan Power
BECA Program Administrator, 2006-2007

Our triumphant arrival at the waterfall
After one month of summer camp, we officially wrapped things up with a dust covered trip to Cusuco. For many of the kids and some of the adults it was their first visit to the nature reserve. We had a wonderful and at times hysterical trip. It was a great way to conclude the summer camp.

Thanks to the generosity of the “Ingleses” and Operation Wallacea we sprinted up the steep dirt road in powerful 4x4 trucks. We left Cofradia at 10:30 and by the time we made it to pineapple shack a half hour later, our human cargo had transformed into a bunch of dust bunnies. The look suited Mrs. Jaime particularly well. Sporting Lydia’s diamond encrusted-dinner-plate-size-sunglasses Mrs. Jaime looked more like a stylish dung beetle than anything else. We had a good laugh and then the kids promptly decided the adults should ride in the truck bed while they sat securely in the air-conditioned cab.





Upon arrival Maxcito’s mom, Juana, and Willito’s mom, Mirna, handed out their delicious bounty of baleadas and arroz con pollo. After lunch, a guide from Operation Wallacea named Justin took us on a tour of the bosque nublado (cloud forest) which culminated with our arrival at a pristine waterfall. Despite pleas of mercy and shouts of “miiister, I can’t do it!” all the students survived the strenuous forty five minute hike to the falls. Huffing and puffing all the way back up the mountain Lydia declared, “I am going to return home skinny and my mom is going to ask, ‘where did my daughter go?’”

At the base camp a scientist named John took time to show the kids live newts, frogs and snakes. When he pulled out the tarantula the kids let audible gasp and took a huge step back. As he prepared to pull the tarantula out of the bag, everyone screamed “no mister no!” Ever curious, the kids did a great job putting their English skills on display, peppering the guides with questions about the wildlife and the Cusuco nature reserve. The staff at Operation Wallacea was so impressed that they are eager to employ the older students as translators.

The trip would not have been complete without our victorious return to Cofradia. After fighting valiant but ultimately losing battle with the dust we returned to Cofradia covered head to toe in dust. Now on full display, it was as if we were the arriving circus and the dust covered gringos would be the main attraction. Practically the entire city got a chance to have a hearty laugh. On the way back to town we heard shouts of, “mira los gringos” and “hay que sucio.”

After arriving at the center of town, we began the walk of shame back to the volunteer house. In the three short blocks back to the house, we attracted enough attention to warrant a mobile salesman announcing over his loud speakers that, “los gringos están VERY sucios.” I have rarely laughed so hard in my life.

It was a wonderful trip and a great way to end the summer camp. The trip would not have been possible without generous contribution of Operation Wallacea and Dan Thoms who coordinated the trip. Here is to future collaboration between BECA and Operation Wallacea!

-Nick Zosel-Johnson
Summer Camp Director

For me, Don Max is greater than the sum of his parts, more than the average character that you will find lurking in the open fields and hidden banana groves of a cheated country. With his sweat-scrunched NASCAR cap, oversized palooka nose, and generous Santa Claus paunch, Don Max makes an irresistible impression on everyone he meets, and has a particular fondness for the cadre of foreign volunteers who, in his words, “are here to help us and our children.” Don Max drives a battered but charming Land Cruiser that is caked with rust and smeared with pride. He carries locks of favored mujeres' hair in his wallet, which he regards as saintly relics. Don Max, like most Hondurans it seems, has multiple revenue generating activities: he directs a construction crew that builds houses for wannabe expat gringos, owns a modest finca that produces different types of bananas, coffee, cinnamon, and other crops, and helps run the family pulperia with his loyal wife Juana. Don Max claims to be a Honduran Republican because having a strong national defense is important to him, but then in the next breath, he will castigate Jorge Arbusto for waging an illegal war to seize oil resources in Iraq. He likes to eat yucca with chicarron, bought at unassuming roadside puestos where a woman labors over a hot pot of food for ten hours a day, every day. Don Max fights with close relatives over petty issues and brags about the number of icy cold Barrenas he can down in a single sitting. He will never forget the day at his sister’s finca when I drank some tamarind juice and my stomach suddenly decided to impersonate a roller coaster. Don Max is the essence of unconditional generosity (at least towards the gringo volunteer team in Cofradia) and wants to buy the volunteers a washing machine because doing laundry by hand is algo pesado, in his earnest words. In sum, Don Max just might be the best friend we could have in a strange new land where few things work like we have been spoiled enough to expect in our own native United States.

Guillermo Anderson came to visit the school today!
We were having our school despedida—the first in what I'm sure will be
a series of good-byes. My kids made mosaic frames for their school
portraits and I walked through the tables like I always do, saying
good job and reminding them not to put glue in their hair. Glue away
and my address copied in all their journals, we headed out to the
pasillo for a concert.

Guillermo was great and inspirational and the kids loved him. He sang
about animals and conservation. He sang about trees and asked each
child to plant one. "Who's going to plant a tree?" he asked, and they
all raised their hands. "You're almost finished with the year" he
said "and when you come back after the summer the trees are going to
be bigger than you and they'll keep growing and always be there." My
students surrounding me and Ninsy in my lap, I got the shivers. When
I come back to visit, both the trees and the kids will be big. The
school will be different and I won't be the teacher anymore.

As we head out the door and a new set of volunteers head in, it's hard
to set aside what has been my life for a year. It's exciting to think
that new people with fresh energy and new ideas are coming to build
off of what we started. It's scary to think of passing my students,
my children on to new hands. Onward and upward.

--
Lauren Fisher
Bilingual Education for Central America
www.becaschools.org