"Laughing makes your heart grow stronger"

**Warning: This post is unusually optimistic.**

If that is true, that laughter makes your heart grow stronger, then my heart is in impeccable shape after spending the last seven weeks surrounded by such amazing and hilarious people. Before heading off on my Bangladeshi adventure I was warned about the heat, the food, the traffic, the poverty ect. but no one mentioned to tell me how funny everyone was or how the effective use of humour can play a huge role in development. One of the masters of the utilization of humour (in my eyes at least) is my good buddy Basudeb, the district project coordinator of Lamonirat for RDRS. When that man steps into a room he fills it with his presence, his hearty laugh, and his eyes that brim with happiness. He's charismatic and knows how to work a crowd, and even though he spends most of his time in his office doing paper work and managing staff he is completely comfortable in the field, not talking down to program participants but getting onto their level and speaking their terms and also relaying that back to us with a component of realism and honesty that is sometimes overlooked. His office is always full of staff who clearly enjoy his company as much as I do, and he is always offering anecdotes, advice, praise, and a good cup of tea.

Although I am becoming more and more sure that international development is not the end all be all for me (something I plan on exploring in the upcoming year) Basudeb will remain a role model for me in whatever future carer aspirations I choose to follow.

I've learned a lot over the last few weeks and not all of it is related to Bangladesh, development, RDRS, ect. Although a lot of it is, I have also learned a lot about who I am, and who I want to keep being. My optimism has become a very useful tool, and even though I have always know that I can be happy in any situation the importance of attitude has become even more clear. For me, it becomes a choice. Its possible to be happy in any situation, and its also possible to be miserable (or somewhere in between)in any environment, in any crowd. Call me lazy, but it takes way too much energy to be miserable and if I'm only on this wonderful world for a limited time I want to love as many of those minutes as possible and take in as much of its beauty as possible.

Along with my borderline obnoxious positivity is my ability to learn something new in every situation even if seen the same scene a hundred times. To be able to continue learning even if I've had the same conversation, visited the same school, read the same paper. Learning never has to stop, and I don't ever want it to. Right now I am in no way ready to head back to school for a 'formal' or institutionalized education, but that doesn't mean I am going to stop learning, in fact I think I may learn more. From my friends, from strangers on the street, from the world wide web, from all the books I read, and from the world...because that's what its there for...right? To explore, to grow, to change, and to keep you just confused enough to keep on keeping on.

I leave Thailand tomorrow after spending two amazing weeks traveling in the Southern part of the country with Lauren and Kaitlan, and although those two weeks have flown by Bangladesh feels forever ago, and Winnipeg even further. I am nervous (once again) to return back to Canada, to a bunch of unknowns and changing relationships with so much baggage--filled with not only souvenirs but unanswerable questions, frustrations, unsharable experiences, memories, and dreams.

I forsee culture shock, which by now I know hits me pretty hard, but I am also very excited for the whole list of 'new' things and 'first times' that await me. A new apartment, a new job,new relationships, my first time at folk fest, my first semester completely detached from University (well mostly) and for a whole list of things that make me happy even though I've done them a million times before, like camping, road trips, dim sum, slurpees from 7-11 the beach, spending time with my friends and my ever wonderful family AND a challenge to myself for the upcoming year...Spending September 2011-September 2012 (one full year, yes one ENTIRE year)in Winnipeg without leaving for an extended period of time. Something I haven't done in the last five years, since graduating high school. Why does the idea of staying put for twelve months scare me more than taking off across the world all alone...

Because sometimes if you put roots down, they grow,
Delaney C.

Lets talk about sex baybee

We spent 2 days at the Drop in Center for Sex Trade workers in Saidpur last week and learned about RDRS's programs related to HIV/Aids prevention and reproductive health. The social stigma against sex trade workers makes it difficult for the women (and their children) to be a part of society. Their children are often teased (even by their teachers) and forced to drop out of school, and many of the women suffer similar problems when trying to get out of the sex trade making for a very difficult (if not impossible) transition.

Although in 2010 the rates of HIV/Aids in Bangladesh is only 0.01% (although I speculate that number is significantly higher and kept low due to the number of unreported cases due to lack of access to testing centers and the social stigma surrounding HIV/Aids), RDRS takes a very preventative role and provides education and training sessions both for the Sex Trade Workers (on the importance of using protection, how HIV/Aids is transmitted, how to be assertive and request a condom, signs and symptoms of STIs ect.) as well as for high risk groups (rickshaw pullers, transient business men ect.) teaching all that good stuff as well as teaching them to respect the sex trade workers line of work.

Using workshops, films, education, and training sessions RDRS has taken a very proactive and preventative (opposed to reactive) stance towards the issue of HIV/Aids in Bangladesh and is one of the aspects about many of RDRS's programs that really like. I am a huge fan of dealing with issues before they become problems, providing education before we need to apply treatment, and talking about issues before they become taboo.

Sex. Its happening everywhere, and there are no signs of it going out of style...so why are we so afraid to talk about it talk about it? Canada is not to be let off the hook by any means, and our sexual education in schools is weak at best. Sex is going to happen whether we talk about it or not, but education can try to ensure that its aa safe, protected, and informed decision. Scare tactics might work when we are heading to the polls to elect politicians, but its never stopped anyone from hooking up.

Very fittingly after our visits at the Drop in Center we visited the Maternity Health Clinic in Lamonirat...because after sex comes babies. The clinic is open 24 hrs a day and education is provided to women as they wait for their antenatal checkups. Its difficult to convince women to come to the clinic for childbirth as a safer alternative to home deliveries due to traditional practices and superstitions and 48/1000 babies die during childbirth. I'm a long way away from having any children (don't get too worried Mom) but I can't imagine that something so natural can have such a fatal end result that can be prevented by access to health care. We have a long way to go if we are going to achieve Child Health/Maternal Health by 2015.

While I don't disagree with any of the Millennium Development Goals ( End poverty and Hunger, Universal Education, Gender Equity, Child Health, Maternal Health, Combat HIV/Aids, Environmental Sustainability, and Global Partnership) I have always been unsettled by the way in which they were proposed. Alone each of the goals is daunting although admirable but without putting plans in place and instead leaving it to the discretion of individual countries to do as they see fit and remaining very vague does not seem feasible. I was able to talk to Basudeb (the district program coordinator in Lamonirat and ask his opinions of the MDG's and he seemed to be as skeptical as I that some sort of miracle will descend from the heavens prior to 2015 solving the worlds problems, bringing equality to all, and making the world a generally wonderful place to be. I wonder if Unicorns will make a reappearance? My fingers are crossed.

Just something for you to think about that I stumbled upon while reading an article in the paper today. In the month of May:

-29 women lost their lives for dowry.
-6 became subject of repression.
-21 female children were raped while 11 women were raped.
->of the 21 disgraced children 4 girls were gang raped and 3 were killed about molestation.
-10 women suffered acid injury.

Never stop learning,
Delaney C.

My Bedeshi Birthday

One of the perks of an international birthday….It goes on FOREVER. Every year my Birthday seems to exceed my expectations and this year was no exception. I’m not sure how many Canadians from rural Manitoba can say that they turned twenty-three in Bangladesh but if there is a club out there I totally want to be one of the members.

I woke up (after having a ‘midnight’ Kit-Kat pre-birthday party celebration with the girls) to the manager of the guest house in Kurigram (where we were staying) bringing me a huge bouquet of roses sent from Aslam (the manager at the guest house in Rangpur). We enjoyed our breakfast of tea, toast with homemade nutella, eggs, and fresh fruit and then Jaqel (our amazing driver for the last two weeks) present me with a bouquet of fresh hand picked flowers and a birthday wish.

We headed to a group meeting which is a program facilitated by RDRS for the most vulnerable members of the community. The program is 24 month period in which group members decide the topics of the week (ex. Dowry, early marriage, and divorce ect.) participate in IGAs (goat rearing, micro-enterprise ect.) and create a network of support for each other. This group was a group of twenty-six women who are categorized as the ultra-poor and were all divorced or widows and of only one had completed primary education.

We headed back to Rangpur where I was greeted by MORE flowers and a cute little vase courtesy of Aslam. After lunch Aslam took us to the market to by fabric for our sari blouses and petticoats after fifteen minutes of hinting that it would be better if he came with us because he could get us a better deal…gotta love indirect communication. I love going to the market. I love the chaos and the confusion. The constant honking and the dusty heat. I love almost getting hit while you weave in and out of people, tuk-tuks, rickshaws, and animals. I love the bright colours and flowing scarves trailing from women’s necks. I love the street vendors selling food of names I can’t even imagine pronouncing, the bazaars selling golden bangles, plastic purses, and yards of fabric. I love how if you stop moving, and stand still for even a second you will be washed away by activity and excitement and become only an obstacle for other people who remain a part of the machine.

We returned to the guest house to MORE flowers and a special dinner of duck prepared with apples (which might be the best duck I have ever had, and one of the most amazing meals I have had here) and Aslam had baked me an upside down pineapple cake….delicious.

The generosity and hospitality of the Bangladeshi people is overwhelming and I’m not sure that I deserve this sort of treatment from my new friends—even if it is my birthday and I am once again shocked by how much love I receive from every part of the world…I am a very very lucky girl.

With lots of light,
Delaney C.

Can I ask you a question? How many lives do you live….because I think you only live once.

Kurigram is one of the most vulnerable and economically disadvantaged districts in Bangladesh due to lack of job opportunities and being an area prone to natural disaster. After arriving in Kurigram, meeting the staff, and receiving background information on some of the programs we would be visiting we had tea, and an impromptu philosophy session with one of the staff we have affectingly nicknamed ‘Dr. Love’. He began our session by saying that “there are many important things in life, but love is the most important.” What a smart man.

A couple of days later during a discussion about the meaning of feeling we were offered Betle Nut (which I heard as Battle Nut, and was pretty excited about), and I (foolishly I might add) agreed to try for not other reason then, why not…I am in Bangladesh after all. You take the Betle nut, put Lyme on a special leaf, wrap the nut around the leaf, put it in your moth and chomp chomp chomp. A couple of chews in Dr. Love informs me that “The first time I tried this I vomited.” To which I thought, “Boy am I in for a ride.” It was about this time that my tongue and lips started to go numb and my brain began to get fuzzy coupled by a nice head rush. Aslam explained that Betel nut is a stimulant and a form of tobacco....so like chew essentially...if chew and something much much stronger had a love child. I'll always try something once...why not.

Since my first year of University (when I first applied to participate in this program) I have been fascinated by the Chars (sand bars in the middle of the river that thousands of people live on because plots of land on the mainland are expensive and scarce). Chars people face isolation as they are only accessible by boat and many NGOs refuse to work on the Chars (out of the 20 NGOs working on the mainland in Kurigram, only 4 work on the chars), lack of running water and electricity, access to education, flash flooding, and widespread erosion that forces then to re-located their homes every 1.5-2 years.

Contrary to my love for the city, the markets, the buzz and the dust I discuss in my Birthday post, I love the chars for completely opposite reasons. I love the haunting quietness, the isolation, the boat ride over as the main land gets smaller and smaller. The lack of lights and the sun slips out of sight, and the singing that can be heard from across the sandbar after we’ve tucked into our mosquito nets. I love the simplicity, and the smiles that seem more genuine and I love the quite. I love how it’s slower, how there are just as many people but everything is calm and serene. I love looking out into the river and watching the fisherman’s boats pad slowly up and down the channel in search of fish, and the stares of curiosity. I love riding on motobikes sideways with my colorful scarves billowing behind me and I love how there is more time to interact informally and just spend time in the presence of other human beings.

We visited many programs as part of the Chars Livlihood Program (CLP), several schools, micro-credit groups, and community groups. We had cultural nights where we broke out “Survive” and tried our best to represent Canada well, and we met Mrs. Delaura at a micro-credit meeting, who will remain one of my inspirations and a powerful female role-model (along with Silvia, and my very own mother to name a few of truly inspiring, powerful, and amazing women in my life). She was beautifully dressed in her green sari and stood tall and strong and something about her exuded strength and confidence and to say she was inspiring (and maybe a little intimidating) would not do justice.

Mrs. Delaura grew up on the mainland and moved to the chars to be with her husband because that was where he was raised however he now works in Dhaka in the garment factory and returns to the chars only once or twice and month to visit. She was trained as a health-care professional by Friendship (an NGO that works on the chars) and offers planned parent hood, hygiene education, and education about contraceptives for ~600 tk/month (less than $10 Cdn). She has three children (one of whom lives with her on the chars) who she puts through school and explained to us that during her 26 years living on the chars she has had to move her home 15 times due to river erosion. She invited us to her home that evening where we were able to sit, chat, and ask questions while neighbours and community members pressed closely around us.

Although I wish I had the ability to speak any language simply by wishing it to be so, I don’t find the lack of verbal communication to be as frustrating as one might expect and even if it’s just in my head the moments when you hold a gaze just a second too long and something clicks, as though its transferred between two people, or a hand squeeze, or a brush of your loose hair...those can mean more than the simple physical interaction, and I like to think they do.

One day while the girls tried to rest I attempted to draw the children away from our glassless window and distract them with jump rope, Frisbee and the beach toys that Bilan had brought. We played in puddles with the water toys each child passing the toy around the circle so everyone could get a turn, we jumped rope (even though it was much to short for someone my height to jump with—which ended up with hilarious results) and played Frisbee in huge circles. That’s not what this program is about…playing with kids, skipping rope, laughing and infections smiles. But for me that’s what makes it great, that I have the opportunity to create moments that are special to me, that include what I love to do (interact with people, and just have fun) and share something special.

With Love love love,
Delaney C.

Little Green Hands, Ancient Mango Trees, Culture and Community, Song and Dance.

In Bangladesh there is a huge importance placed on culture, and many of RDRS’s programs have a cultural element teaching the Adebasi (indigenous people) about their culture and at almost every school we attend there is singing and dancing. In Honduras and El Salvador it is also common for students to share their culture with songs, dance, and traditional dance while we timidly respond with an off-key rendition of O’Canada—our national anthem—while discussing whether the ‘Boot Scoot and Boogie’ is Canadian enough to put on display.

What is Canadian food, or music, or dance? What is Canadian culture? When abroad I always have the hardest time explaining what it is that makes me Canadian other than simply being born (and continuing to live) in Canada. Canada is a multicultural country. A mosaic of people and customs from all over the world living within the same geographical location, and that’s part of what makes Canada a wonderful place to live but also very hard to explain when visiting more homogeneous populations. I’ve started to wonder whether Canada (and many Canadians) has an abundance or an absence of culture...

My father was born and raised in Portugal, immigrating to Canada with my Uncle and my Grandparents when he was ~16. My mother is French-Canadian and grew up in Quebec before leaving for College and later University. Regardless of the opportunities to speak both French and Portuguese and have a ‘culture’ so to speak I guess I don’t. I do not have Portuguese dancing to display at cultural events, or the ability to whip up French-Canadian cuisine to bring to pot-lucks and although I know can speak Spanish (from my time in Honduras and hours of practice) and make a mean perogy (does that mean I’m Ukraine now?) I feel like I’m missing out on something, although I’m not sure what that something is. How important is it to be ‘in tune’ with where you came from? My cousins can speak Portuguese, do Portuguese dancing, represent Portugal in Folkerama, and are part of a Portuguese community in Winnipeg and I can’t help but feel a little jealous and as if they have a couple more puzzle pieces kicking around as to who they are and where they have come from.

In Canada our government provides social services and safety nets, but what happens in countries where the government is unable (or chooses not to) provide these programs for its people? In the case of Bangladesh (Honduras, El Salvador, and many other ‘developing’ countries) this support comes from Non-governmental organizations, other countries government assistance, or the communities themselves. In every community we have visited it seems that everyone we meet is involved in at least one (often more) community program—whether it be community policing, federations, micro-enterprise initiatives, community health programs, women’s collectives ect. engagement comes from all over the place in a variety of different forums.

In Canada government programs will support me if I get sick, loose my job, or need extra assistance, but rarely (at least in urban settings) will the community rally around you to provide support in a time of need…disintegration of community? If I want less crime I bring in outside support to enforce stricter rules, if I want a new community center I look outside for funding and for someone to pay to do the labour. There is less of a community and if I get sick, my neigbour may never know….but just because we don’t necessarily need each other to get by doesn’t mean we should hide away in our individual ivory towers, which makes me think….development, but at what cost?

I like the idea of working with the community, within the community on community issues…because who better to understand the issues at hand, the dynamic of the community, and viable solutions than the community members themselves. With the community policing program a huge focus was on mediation rather than on punishment. Rehabilitation and working with people to provide support, new coping mechanisms, information and education, rather than sending people outside of the community, away from their support networks and into an institution of punishment…seems much more healthy to me (for individuals and entire communities). Also, if you know who you are accountable, and everyone within the community knows each other its less likely that you are going to be deviant (are you more likely to steal from a stranger or a friend?).

Another creative initiative (which I’m extra pumped about because I used a similar technique for my big program in Honduras and I like seeing used other places because it makes me feel as though I am on the right track) is the use of song, dance, and theater to engage the community in advocacy issues and provide information to groups that otherwise would not be engaged (women, children, youth, illiterate ect.) This technique has been used in many of the community groups and federations that we have visited…staring with love songs to draw a large crowd and then shifting to folk songs, and skits that deliver messages of important issues facing the communities they are directed to (anything from disaster prevention, eve teasing, dowry, early marriage, and environmental issues to domestic violence and civic engagement). Maybe it’s about time political leaders in Canada came out with rap songs or music videos? Just kidding…kind of.

Have fun when you can, think all the time.
Delaney C.

A Little Bit of This and a Little Bit of That

I'm having a hard time writing this blog, maybe just because I know I have to, and there is a possibility of more people reading it...just a little bit intimidating. But I will try to remain as frank, open, and sincere as possible.

Arriving in Bangladesh has proved to be a very confusing experience. It feels oddly familiar (at least so far) even though I have never been here before. So many things about Bangladesh remind me of Honduras and its hard not to instantly want to compare the two, but it is something I need to make a conscious effort not to do.

We met with a man from the CIDA section of the Canadian High Commission (an Embassy but in a common wealth country) and we had the opportunity to talk to him about his experience working for CIDA, working in development and whatever else our hearts desired. He talked a little bit about the trend to switch from facilitating/funding numerous localized projects to fewer decentralized projects (which I also saw during my experience working with LWF). This ‘focus focus’ approach seems counter intuitive to me…by putting all your resources, funding, time and effort into one or two projects you are also putting a whole lot of faith in the fact that they will be successful and effective, and also putting a lot of faith in the counterparts you enter these projects into with. Would you put all your eggs in one basket???

I knew that finding clothes here would be a challenge, seeing that I am at least a foot if not more taller than the general population so when in Dhaka I didn’t get too frustrated in not finding much that fit. It also helped being warned in advance…and I’m coming to terms with the fact that I stick out EVERYWHERE. Last night after arriving in Rangpur and having a meeting with the RDRS staff, we headed to the market to try and get me hooked up.

The word overwhelming comes to mind. Bilan and I shared a rickshaw and we took off down the street…like literally bolted, passing everyone in our path. I clung to Bilan for dear life and may or may not have let out a small shriek or two when rounding corners. We got to the marked and first when to a shop to get a chawar camise (a specific long top that they wear in Bangladesh with a scarf and “Aladdin” pants) to get my size. They have no change rooms so I was taken to a beauty parlor (where men are not allowed) to try on my top. I went in and after a quick game of charades I explained I was not there to get my nails done or eye brows threaded, but simply try on my shirt and was directed to the corner where I proceeded to take of my shirt and replace it with the chawar camise well everyone stared at me.

Then we went to a shop with fabric to tailor. The men at the shop started pulling out spool (?) after spool, and then pre-made but not finished chawars….what felt like thousands of them. I finally settled on a few and we ran around the corner to the tailor, who spun me around, pushed my arms up and then down taking my measurements with a stern face and then getting angry when one of the half made chawars wouldn’t work because the neck was too small. Everything sounded angry because I could not pick up anything (apparently I don’t speak Bengali…who knew), and I was pretty much confused and overwhelmed the entire time, but now I am excited because when I return from Thakurgaon (our first site visit) I will have three awesome, beautiful, handmade outfits waiting for me 

I am excited (even though that hardly seems like the right word) to begin our field visits and start interacting instead of just being a spectacle when we parade around together. I think once we get to Thakurgaon everything will begin to come together for me…Here’s hoping!

12 hrs into the future,
Delaney C.

Right here, Right now

I've been back from Honduras for just under two and a half months now, and I'm long over due for a blog.

In typical Delaney fashion, I had a job arranged for myself before I left Honduras, because heaven forbid I 'chill' for even a minute. I got a job working as a legal assistant for the Tribal Corporation Investment Group, and then decided it would be a good idea to run for President in the University of Manitoba Students Union Election, with some amazing people who I have grown so close with in a matter of only a few weeks. Needless to say, all of you that know me, and know me well, know that I keep busy and I love what I do (that's why I do it) but I also know that sometimes I like to keep busy in order to avoid certain things I would rather not think too much about. In this case, my time in Honduras, and what it means now that I am back in Canada.

Coming back to Winnipeg has required (re)adjustment, and has proved to be a challenge in itself, perhaps only harder to deal with because I wasn't necessarily expecting it to be as difficult as it has been. Why would coming home to a familiar place, a city where I have lived nearly my entire life, a community that I am involved in, and friends and family who never let me doubt just how much love surrounds me. How could that be hard....right?

In five months I saw a lot. I experienced a lot. I learned a lot. I changed a lot. And as I was seeing, experiencing, learning, an changing so was everyone who was a part of my world in Winnipeg (and Canada), and we weren't necessarily moving in the same direction. My first week back I was talking to a good friend of mine and he mentioned the term 'Relationship Shock', and it was like a light bulb turned on for me. I had heard of culture shock before, and re-entry shock and experienced those both, but was at a loss trying to articulate the growing tension that I could feel surfacing in many of my relationships, but even knowing what to call the phenomenon I was experiencing. Knowing that I wasn't alone (as cliche as that sounds) relieved a little bit of the pressure.

I still feel the need to 'compartmentalize' the Delaney that lives abroad, that does these things that I cannot even begin to explain with any justice to those of you that know and love me but haven't been there with me. I find myself torn between not knowing what to say when people ask me how my 'trip' was, and finding the line between giving enough details to satisfy them without diving completely off the deep end boring them...or scaring them away with an out of context rant. So usually I keep my mouth shut, smile, say it was great--life changing even, and wait for follow up questions if they choose to probe deeper.

Although the 'compartmentalizing' works so to speak, I feel like I have to choose between the Delaney that lives and exists in Canada, and the Delaney that does this other 'stuff'. Essentially being forced to turn my back on whichever I am choosing not to "be" in that moment--which also feels like I am lying about myself (and to myself) and separating two very real and crucial parts of who I am and what makes me who I am, and I can't help but think (and feel) that by denying myself that other 'part' I am weakening myself, and I'm not sure that's fair.

I also haven't let myself be angry. And i am angry--although this is a very unnatural feeling for me. I'm also frustrated, and confused but I haven't been able to deal with these emotions 1) because I have made myself so busy that it is impossible to do so 2) I haven't been able to find ab outlet in which to do so and 3) I want to talk about these angry/frustrating/not beautiful perfect things but i haven't been able to do so in a constructive way (or any way for that matter) so I have decided to be mature and completely ignore the situation....but maybe that's what I needed to do.

Not everything in Honduras was great, and wonderful, and amazing. There were times when I would try to call Canada, and all I wanted to hear was a friendly voice and I would end up so frustrated I burst into tears because the connection was so awful that when all I wanted was for whatever poor soul waited on the other line was to tell me to take a deep breath, snap out of it, and that it would be okay I had to instead deal with whatever demons I was battling that day. I spent a week in my room, listening to music and reading books, only leaving to go to my office and return straight home because getting yelled at and whistled at and being frustrated with not speaking Spanish made me not want to venture into town. Arriving in a country where I knew no one and foolishly didn't speak the language might have been one of the stupidest and most ballsy ideas I may have ever had, and proved to be one of the most obvious challenges and at many times I felt like a child, knowing what I wanted to say but unable to find the words to express myself.

On the other hand, its is hard to explain, that the times I was so frustrated, and confused, were also some of the best times of my life, and I am happy that I was so foolish...in a weird incomprehensible way.

I've also had trouble explaining what I did in Honduras. On paper it doesn't look like much, and that the problem with trying to quantify my experience and 'prove' that what I did was valuable and worth while. I worked with LWF (specifically Jose Luis) in the area of natural resource protection and illegal deforestation providing information and education while trying to engage youth and women in the process of environmental protection, but really what I did was much much more that the charlas and tallers I delivered, but to someone looking from the outside, judging my experience, it would be easy for them to say "Well. that's it. That's all you accomplished in 5 months?", and its even harder for me to defend myself.

I'm really not sure if this blog is coherent at all but it's gotten the dialogue ball rolling so to speak, and for right now that's all I can ask for.

While I sleep, the world is changing,
Delaney C.

Good Work or Good Times? Discussion on Expectations

It has been difficult for me to articulate my expectations going back to my first experience(s) in El Salvador (2008, 2009) because of the evolution I have undergone from a 19 year-old relatively ‘fresh’ student to the student I am now after having been able to experience some amazing opportunities leading up to my most recent 5-month Students for Development Internship in Honduras, and as I think about my expectations for my upcoming internship with RDRS in Bangladesh this May.

When, in 2008, I traveled to El Salvador with a group of students from the University my biggest expectation was simply that I wanted to ‘help’ people. I wanted to put some of the theories I had been studying in textbooks and tossing around in my classes into action, and I wanted to see a different part of the world. I’m not sure that before I left I quite realized how deeply I would be affected, and how this first introductory experience would have a very dramatic impact on the rest of my University education (and likely the rest of my life).

I had the opportunity to return to El Salvador in 2009. This time as a leader of a new group of students to the same communities I had visited the year before and instead of just wanting to help people, I wanted more. I wanted to start figuring out if the project in question was as efficient and effective as it could/should be, and I started to ask (a lot) of questions...about the project, about the Universities role in El Salvador, and about development in general. I expected to be able to make changes, to shape the program to be able to push the program to be as effective as possible and work with the communities involved the most efficiently.

In September 2010, I was accepted for a 5-month internship and set off for Honduras. Solo this time to work for five months with a non-governmental organization. This time I wanted to work for a longer period of time with an organization and be able to start utilizing some of the skills I had developed over the years. I expected to be able to share some of my techniques, skills, and ideas, while learning a whole lot at the same time, and I expected a practical application of everything I had studied and experienced over the last four years. At this point, my expectations were less about where I was going (I could handle the bugs, the violence, the food, the heat, the people, the changes) and more about taking more than a two-week vacation that again raised a lot of questions and left me without answers.

As I think about my expectations for this May, when I will be facilitating a 5-week program for four undergraduate students in Bangladesh with an NGO called RDRS, I hope that I will be able to share some of my experiences, some of my questions and help the students go ‘deeper’ and see beyond the resilience, kindness and smiling faces. To explore their own philosophies of development, and to realize that there is more to these experiences than returning to Canada feeling grateful for all that we have been given. That continuing the dialogue, that sharing stories, pictures, and enthusiasm helps makes us all global citizens and that just because we are countries apart doesn’t mean that the connection (between people, between countries) needs to and should end.

Back in My Home and Native Land

Its just under a week since I left Honduras, and I'm feeling 'flat', as though I am back in Canada but part of me is still very far away. Leaving Honduras was hard, and I found myself more nervous to return to Canada than I was when I originally set off for Honduras. I wasn't necessarily expecting to feel this way which has felt me feeling a bit blindsided causing me to have trouble articulating my feelings towards the end of my internship. Its been difficult to put in to words what my time in Honduras has meant to me, what I have taken away, and all of that good stuff, when I have been so harshly tossed back into things having to immediately worry about what comes next and begin crossing things off my 'to-do' list that seems to have been created somewhere between Houston and Toronto.

Without a doubt my time in Honduras has taught me invaluable lessons, both personal in nature and about development but trying to quantify those lessons has proved to be difficult if not impossible, and that's not the easiest thing to explain to people who want to know 'all about' my experience in Central America. I'm never sure of the line between giving enough information to satisfy ones curiosity and giving too much information leaving the listener bored and wishing they had never asked.

Culture Shock is a force not to be reckoned with, and for me reverse culture shock (upon returning to Canada) has always been a harder battle. I feel guilty. I feel overwhelmed, especially at University or in places with lots of people (which I used to thrive on). I feel more confused than ever...about what the next step is for me, and I feel like a part of me is still in Honduras.

Con Esperanza y Amor
Delaney C.

15 buses, 2 ferries, several car rides and many memories later

I am back in Juticalpa for my last week and a half before returning to my home and native land with very mixed feelings. My time in Honduras has been amazing, although an amazing that is very different than you would use to describe a vacation, an evening out with friends, a second date, or a concert you've waited a long time to see and I'm not sure I'll be able to effectively articulate that aspect of my internship but I'll try my best to do so in a later post. I've learned so much about so many things that it seems impossible to have only been here for a short 4 1/2 months. I've been able to see some amazing things, meet some amazing inspiring people, and have had some amazing experiences (not all good ones, but ones that will be a part of me forever), and ironically now its the uncertainty of what happens next that has me a little freaked out to return to a city I have known my whole life full of friends and family with open arms and smiling faces.

Unfortunately last Thursday something a little bit scary happened, occurring just 10 minutes away from the city I live in and on a highway that I take frequently. I'm not naive, I know that Honduras is/can be a dangerous place, but this is a little more close to home for me than the shootings that have occurred inside of the town during my time in Honduras because its a route I take often and a time (while taking the bus) that I have no control over what happens to me once I get on. Since returning to Juticapla I have talked to my Honduran family about the incidence and they told me that the town is really tense and the streets are even more dangerous at night. I'm hoping that the next week will be as uneventful (safety wise) as the last 4 1/2 months and that as long as I continue to be smart, I'll stay safe.

http://edition.cnn.com/2011/WORLD/americas/01/07/honduras.bus.shooting/index.html

LWF shut down for Christmas and I had the amazing opportunity to explore other departments (provinces) of Honduras and spend the holidays with Sandra (my wonderful coworker from Teguic.) and her family in Santa Rosa de Copan. Santa Rosa is cold! and it would have been useful to have a scarf, touque and mittens. Her mother is the sweetest fiercest little old lady, and I enjoyed helping her make pan (to eat with cafe) and her nephew Emilio had a huge crush on me, that may or may not have been mutual. Sandra took me on walks up and down her cobble stoned streets showing me important buildings, and her favourite places to grab a coffee and read a book. She tried to teach me the difference between Salsa and Meringue(sp?) and after many late nights dancing in her living room with her attention seeking but adorable niece Fernanda I may just have figured it out. Christmas was great however the only tradition I was able to keep alive was waking up on Christmas morning with a hangover--guess that one will have to stick around for a couple of more years. Sorry Mom. We went over to Sandra's Brother's house for Christmas dinners and a house full of friends an family. We had nancatamales, rice, and some special Christmas dish with specially prepared pork. There was music, dancing, and too many shots. The firecrackers started at around 8pm and lasted until early into the morning. Why Hondurans are obsessed with firecrackers (fireworks without the pretty colours) is beyond me but men--grown men--are in the streets daily shooting these things off hour after hour. I must be missing something, If you can't beat them, join them--Ill have to give it a try before I come home.

I also really enjoyed maneuvering around the country via bus all by my lonesome and I have come to dislike the term "Chicken Bus" given to colorful modified and decorated US school bus and transit bus that transports goods and people between communities here in Honduras, as well as other parts of the world. I've been on a million of these buses, and although I can only speak for the section of Honduras that I live in, I have yet to see a chicken (or any form of livestock) on any of the buses, but even if I had I would still feel uncomfortable by the term. As a foreigner it might seem weird or different to see some of the things transported on these buses, however a car is a luxury that many Canadians (especially those living in remote rural areas) have that does not exist in many other parts of the world and if you could see all the weird and possibly freaky things going into those cars and being transported behind closed (car)doors from store to home you'd probably be just as shocked and surprised. I think that terming these buses, often the only way of transportation to rural and remote areas, after livestock is ethnocentric, small minded, and demeaning to the cultures that use them and takes away from the fact that they are efficient (relatively speaking) and a great cost effective way to get from point A to point B while having the opportunity to take in the beautiful countryside.

While taking a bus back to Santa Rosa de Copan after visiting the Mayan ruins in Copan a man started talking to me in English. This happens quite regularly, as though simply knowing English forges a great bond between us, and usually I don't mind chatting and helping someone practice their English however this time after about twenty minutes the man (who was about my age and apparently lives and works in Hollywood) started typing things in Spanish on his phone to show me so I could practice my Spanish, things like "You are so pretty" "I want you", then after getting off the phone with Sandra (letting her know that I was close, and letting him know that someone was waiting for me) he grabbed my phone to get my number and then said, "You are my Canadian girlfriend now, I need to take a picture of you to show my family, you can meet them tomorrow." Bahah Luckily for me the bus was just pulling into the dirt patch that serves as a terminal so I jumped into the isle insuring there were several people in between us, hopped into a cab, and sped away...although I couldn't avoid his calls that continued for two weeks even though I failed to answer even once. O Honduran courtship how I will miss thee once I am back on Canadian soil.

I have no doubt my last week here will fly by as I try to finish my research, pack up my room, say good bye to my new friends and family and embark on the 48 hour journey that will take me home to the frozen tundra close to my heart that is My Winnipeg. I may have to stop traveling after this because my heart is getting stretched pretty thin trying to reach so many people in so many places all at the same time. Either that or I'll have to figure out a way to teleport to make visiting much easier because there's still a lot of the world I want to explore.

Happy New Year, Make memories you are proud to keep,
Delaney C.

Love and Hate: Tegucigalpa

Slowly but surely I am beginning to feel more and more love for Tegucigalpa, something I did not believe possible until...well my last visit. Its huge, the pollution is bad and the traffic is worse, everyone is honking and blasting sirens, its not safe, and taxis are dangerous to take alone, and there are people everywhere, tons of people. But, there are tons of people everywhere so instead of standing out…I blend in, hiding between the waves of people. I don’t get yelled at or harassed constantly, its not dusty, and unlike El Salvador (which has a pretty homogeneous population) Honduras has a truly cosmopolitan vibe with people resembling many different ancestries, and it’s beautiful.

I had to go to Tegucigalpa to extend my Visa because I will be here for longer than 90 days, and this was the first trip I had taken to Tegucigalpa with it being the destination rather than an annoyance while trying to get somewhere else. I took the bus from Juticalpa (~3 hours), buying my ticket from two guys who made me repeat L (L-eh) after spelling my name, roughly 12 times because it was “so beautiful”. I think I was extra nasally. When we got to Teguic. I got a taxi (rather than calling one of my trusted numbers) and managed to describe where I needed to go AND I got a cheaper price rather than (like usual) getting ripped off. Sandra and I decided that it would be best for me to head to the Office of Migration the next day rather than rush so I worked in the office until Sandra was done and we went back to the house she shares with a friend where she let me crash so I didn’t have to spend money on a hotel, and for which I was very grateful for. I headed to the Office of Migration the next day and spent an hour confused, walking from line to line, and getting cut at every possible opportunity( I might need to work on being more assertive) but eventually managed to get everything sorted out, so in three days I can go back to pick up my passport and should be able to stay in the country for the rest of my internship ☺

I found another taxi (which doesn’t seem like a lot, but is HUGE, because of how dangerous it is, because I (sometimes) still have trouble articulating where I need to go, and because I always pay a gringo price) which took me to my next destination, La Colonia Mega, the grocery store of all Honduran grocery stores, with one thing on my mind…Christmas. I have wanted to cook a ‘Christmas’ dinner for my family since I got here, so I decided that this Saturday would be the day and was very excited to pick up some supplies that are not available in the city I live in. I totally got caught up in the festivities with decorations everywhere and Christmas tunes playing over the intercom wandered around mindlessly and lost track of time, but I am pretty impressed with my haul and confident/happy to report that my Christmas dinner will be 98% complete (only missing perogies due to unavailability…I’m not sure how many Ukrainians there are in Honduras, haha).

I headed back to the office to check in with Sandra, and as I was zipping in and out of traffic dodging motobikes, pedestrians and other cars while talking with Juan Carlos (my newest taxi find) in a taxi that more resembled Fred Flinstones car (I could see the ground as we shimmied between tall buildings and narrow streets) than Cinderella’s carriage I realized—I felt like a princess.

Don’t get me wrong Tegucigalpa in no way parallels Camelot, and life here couldn’t be further from a Fairytale, but there was something special in the air that day. In Winnipeg I never take taxis, and in the rare occasion that I do, I am usually intoxicated and crammed in the back seat with 4 friends either singing off tune, or trying to come up with ‘insightful’ questions to ‘entertain’ the first poor sucker we managed flagged down to take us home in return for money, and here I was in Tegucigalpa, flitting in and out of traffic, up and down steep winding roads with the sun on my cheeks and the reggaton pumping, still in a post La Colonia Christmas high, and this, this was my Fairytale. Now where’s my night in shining armor? Hola me amor…..eerrrr no gracias. Which, because I am full of inner dialogue these days, made me think of the fairy tales (and the princesses) I used to admire when I was little…back in the day.

I remember going to see Mulan in the theaters for my friend Jordan Vincent’s tenth birthday, and at the end of the movie I stood up and clapped—a standing ovation—which could very well have been for the very reason that I was (and still am) a total goof, but I’d like to think it had something to do with the fact that instead of being a damsel in distress, she was totally a bad ass.

I mean, she was noble and brave and full of honour (she pretended to be a boy so her father would not be send to war), she was tough, determined, and perseverance (she worked her ass off to become as good as and even better than all of the boys in training), she was smart, witty and clever (she used her intelligence to outsmart the rest of the army, figured out how to use her brains rather than brawn to beat the bad guys, and her jokes were top notch), she knew what she wanted and she went for it, and she saved China a second time even after she was kicked out for being a women and all of her friends abandoned her and told her she was worthless. If that’s not an inspirational role model, then maybe I should call up Paris Hilton or something.

I also liked Belle (as in Belle from Beauty and the Beast). She was beautiful, loved to read, was friendly to everyone and knew that she needed to expect more from herself and for her life. She wasn’t a bimbo like the blond barmaids looking to marry the creepshow Gaston, who was quite possibly on steroids and couldn’t have had an IQ higher than a lampshade, and like Mulan she was noble and brave, taking her fathers place in the dungeon. She was patient and compassionate becoming friends with the beast even though he was a huge asshole at the beginning and was keeping her prisoner. She was caring and compassionate, teaching the beast how to be kind, patient, and caring, even though he was after all…a beast. And even though the Beast had to come and rescue here in the end because she was bad with directions and got attacked by wolves in the forest, she’s still up there in the spectrum of bad ass Disney princesses.

My day might not have met the criteria for a fairytale, but it was a magical day nonetheless and I’d like to think that slowly but surely I’m beginning to acquire some of the attributes that I so admired in some of my earliest idols…and I’m even becoming a little bit more bad ass…getting some street cred?

The more time I spend (especially on my own) in Tegicigalpa, the more confident I become (with my Spanish, with my ability to keep myself safe), and the more positive experiences I have, the more a little bit of my heart warms up to the Honduran capital. I’ve come a LONG way since my first night in Teguic. (when I refused to do wander out of sight of the hotel I was staying at) and dare I say…I am looking forward to my next visit and the adventure(s) that will accompany it.

With love,
Delaney C.

And that's what I call a success!

Last Thursday and Friday was my two day youth worshop for Youth in Defense of the Environment in Salama and I am beyond impressed with the outcome. As always, I was freaking out Thursday morning, certain that it would be a huge flop ending in disaster. And, as usual I was (pleasantly) wrong. I really need to stop being to nervous before these sorts of things.

One of my presenters cancelled last minute, but Jose Luis was able to use her powerpoint to give a presenation on the Rio Platano Bioforestry Reserve so it ended up being okay. Thursday we started almost an hour and a half late (obviously running on Honduran time) once all of the participants showed up. The presentation on the Forestry laws went really well, and the students from Silca who came to talk about their recycling program did a really great job explaining everything and had some interactive activities illustrating the biodegradability of different materials and the importance of recycling in their communities. After their presentation I showed a video on the recycling process in Honduras made by a Peace Corps volunteer and the kids (and Jose Luis) seemed to love it and asked tons of questions. Eyal and Mark did a presentation on watersheds and water contamination with lots of dinamicas (activities and running around) which the kids lost their minds over, and ended up being a great end to the day. I also got them each to fill out a questionnaire on their perceptions of the environmental concerns in their communities and their involvement in their communities and their insights were inspiring considering some of them were as young as thirteen.

At the beginning of the day Karen would repeat everything I would say in Spanish because she said no one could understand me, which made me very frustrated and disheartened because I had been practicing my pronunciation for a week, but as the day went on she stopped, and I think the participants got used to my Canadian-Spanish accent and were able to understand me pretty well so I felt better. Eyal (who has never heard me speak Spanish before, but has heard me talk about my struggling with it) told me that my Spanish was phenomenal for the time that I had been here, and Mark and TJ also commented on my Spanish, so that was good to hear and gave me a bit more confidence in my Spanish ability. Another highpoint of the first day was when Adrianna came up to me at the end of the day and told me that the participants had thought this was going to be another boring taller and none of them wanted to come, but now that they knew how fun and interactive this taller was they were exited to be coming back the next day, which made me beam with happiness and made me super excited for the next day as well.

Friday started late again, and even I arrived almost an hour late because I spent the night at Maria’s in Silca instead of spending another night in a hotel (because any opportunity to spend time in Silca, and visit Maria is one I wont pass up). Breakfast was late so I started them off on a discussion of their thoughts on the environmental challenged facing Olancho presently, to be followed later that day with a discussion group getting them to think about looking towards the future. All of the activities went over really well and the participants seemed to really enjoy the group discussions and sharing their ideas and information with each other. At the end of the taller each group gave a 10-15 minute presentation that they had come up with using some of the information, skills, and activities they learned throughout the taller. I was not to sure how well this would go over, but I was blown away with the results. Two of the groups performed short skits, one group had a environment inspired reggaton/rap song, several of the groups used dinamicas in their presentation to get their peers to answer environmental trivia, and all of the groups were able to show just how much they had learned throught the two days. At the end of the presentations while we were waiting for lunch one of the participants came up to me and explained that he helps facilitate a youth group every Sunday and he was wondering if he could have some extra paper to do some of these activities and excercises with the group this coming Sunday…CHA-CHING! That was exactly what I was going for with this workshop (for the students to take the information, skills, and tools that they learned through this taller and to share it with their peers, and their communities in whatever forums or networks they have at their disposal), and I could not have been more happier. I’m pretty sure I was high with happiness for not only the rest of the day, but the rest of the weekend as well.

Mark, Eyal, TJ and I got a ride back to Juticalpa with Jose Luis and we went to see the Recycling video at the movie theater (there was a free screening both Thursday and Friday nights), and then I headed to the Salon to meet up with Silvia and Keyla. I was supposed to do something with the Peace Corps crew, but when I got home I realized how much I missed my family so I opted to hang out with them and spend my friday night playing word games with Darien and chilling with the baby, Keyla, and Tatiana.

Lots of Love,
Delaney C.

Sometimes my nerves get the best of me

Today Hermilo came to Juticalpa to visit and we had a meeting about the upcoming conference I am planning for the ninth and tenth of December. I am planning an interactive workshop for 40 high-school students who are members of environmental organizations.

FLM has had youth conferences in the past, but they are usually for 200 students in a big hall, with some dry presenter rambling on while the students throw paper air planes and fall asleep on each others shoulders. When I was a student I could not stay awake for those types of lectures let alone learn anything substantial even if the topic was muy interesting to me. So for this workshop I decided to change it up a little bit, because I want these kids to get excited and I want them to feel passionate and I want them to take something away from the experience. There will be four presentations from professionals or specialists (One on the new forestry laws, one on the situation of the water systems in Olancho, one on Recycling, and one on Climate Change and the situation of Olancho's Forests), several activities that help illustrate what the presentations are trying to teach and get them thinking about the issues in a different medium, and discussion groups for them to share their thoughts and ideas. Each day the students will be given time to work on a 10-15 min. presentation in their smaller groups that they will present to the other groups at the end of the workshop. Presentations can be formal and informative, take the form of a game, quiz, song or play, or any medium that the group of students want to explore to share their ideas, what they have learned, their hopes for the future, and of course have fun while doing it!

I would be nervous if I was facilitating this in Canada in English, because that's my style (I always get nervous, I always over plan, and then usually everything works out and I am very pleased with the results) but trying to pull this off in Honduras at my (fleeting)level of Spanish brings a whole new set of challenges. I am pretty comfortable with problem solving, thinking on my feet, and corralling unruly high-school students but without having mastered the language (although I am doing much better than when I first arrived) I am very nervous for the success of this event. Keep your fingers crossed for me!

I am also nervous because I can almost see the the sand of time passing through the hourglass (at an alarming rate) as I race to finish this post...time is going by that fast, and I have a whole lot of things I want (need) to accomplish before I can leave (feeling satisfied). I have been working on my preliminary research and have been working with Hermilo to fine tune my interview schedule so after the conference I can begin interviewing. I am hoping to get a few interviews in before the country shuts down for Christmas Vacation (which I have been warned about by several people) so I will be able to finish the remainder in January, compile the results and finish the report before I head back to my home and native land at the end of January.

I'm not sure how I feel about being here for nearly five months and doing so 'little'. If I had to explain what I did in a day it wouldn't sound like much and even without going into boring details, stories about the work that I am doing while in Honduras would put even the best intentioned to sleep and leave many of you asking, "That's it?". But I am always busy. I am always doing something or talking to someone or scurrying off somewhere to try and get something done so I really don't know what to tell you or where my time goes...its a mystery.

I do feel quite strongly that I should not have came here (been allowed to come here) with my level of Spanish. At least for the purposes of this internship. Two months in and my conversational Spanish is functional, and if I was traveling I would be set. However working in Spanish is still a challenge and I can't help but feel that the quality of my work and my ability to help the FLM and MAO would be dramatically different if I were fluent on arrival. But I am here, and I am not fluent in Spanish (yet), so I will just keep working my ass off to catch up and make my time here count now wont I.

My stomach has decided to strike against my will. Against frijoles that is. I like beans I really do. I have nothing against them, but my stomach has had enough and against my wishes flips over and refuses to allow entrance when they are placed before me. Beans are served three meals a day here and there is no escaping them, which was fine for a while, and I'm sure will be fine again...but for now, my stomach is on strike and there is nothing I can do about it until its needs are met(likely a week or two of bean free dining).

Also, today when I got home from work Silvia (mom) told me I would have to unfortunately pack up my stuff and move to another room in the house because her (ex)husband is moving back to the house. Because the house is in his name there is little she can do (according to her lawyer) to keep him from coming back, and he ended things with his hunny bunny (someone is pregnant but I couldn't figure out who or why it was a problem) so he needs a place to live. Im not to thrilled with this for a couple of reasons. I can tell that Silvia is less than thrilled, which makes me less than thrilled because I have her back, I liked my room (although that's not a huge issue at all, rather a minor convenience), and I had liked living in an all female house (minus the kidletts) although I guess I didn't realize how much until the dynamic was threatened with change. I'm a bit apprehensive because I cant walk two feet down the street without attracting relentless unwanted attention over and over and over and over and over and over (you get the picture) again day after day and the house was kind of like my refuge not to mention the fact that I have been asked several times by the Uncle to date him, if I want to marry a Olanchanan, if I will have Honduran children and many other real gems of questions and I really really hope that doesn't happen on a daily basis...because that will get exhausting quite quickly and change my wonderful living situation into a rather uncomfortable one. But, not to get ahead of myself...I'm sure things will all work out and I am apprehensive for nothing :)

Tomorrow I head to Silca to talk to the secretary of MAO about the organizational structure, mobilization, and training of MAO. Im taking a bus and having a sleepover, which should be interesting although I am excited because Maria is one of the sweetest, most caring and passionate individuals I have met while down here so I'm sure it will be fantastic and good to get out of Juti (if even for a night).

Dream Sweet,
Delaney C.

El Salvador

Information Saturation

I’m reading a book about a boy whose Dad died in the September 11th attacks on the World Trade Center. I remember parts of that day still today. I remember seeing the planes crash into the buildings on T.V. before going to school. I remember not fully understanding the extent of what was happening, but knowing that it was bad. I remember sitting in shop class and talking to my teacher about what was happening while kids around me played with scrap metal.

I still remember the look in his eyes. It wasn’t compassion, but it wasn’t indifference. Back then I couldn’t really place the look, but now I think it was tired. Tired of years of hearing about bad things happening everywhere else, tired of having to protect the people around him and hope that the bad things stayed on T.V. and in the newspapers far from home. Tired of trying to care for people whose faces he had never seen and voices he had never heard.

Sometimes I get tired and sometimes I don’t know for whom or what I care for anymore. And there are days when I feel all cared out, like I have no more caring left inside of me. Sometimes I get frustrated that it feels like I do all this caring for other people by myself. On days like this I wish that I could be an accountant or a statistician and care about numbers instead of people…because numbers can’t let you down or disappoint you, numbers can’t carry out genocides, numbers can’t hurt other people, numbers can’t have corrupt governments that prevent aid from getting to them and things from getting better. Numbers can’t be greedy, numbers can’t look someone in the face and hurt them and their families because they have different beliefs, numbers can’t be abused by their parents and then take that anger and pain out on other people.

But I don’t like numbers. I like people. And (most days) when I am not feeling so tired and exhausted I care about people (a great deal), and I want people (not numbers) to be happy and to succeed. Sometimes I wish I could be okay with taking care of the people surrounding just me—my little circle of family, friends, and maybe an acquaintance. But I don’t know if I could be. I don’t know that I could stop thinking about the faces I have never seen, and the voices I have never heard, with the hungry tummies and the cracked lips, with big dreams and tied hands. I might be able to for a while—if I kept really busy, but I think eventually I would begin to think and then I would not be happy within my little circle of security in my cozy house with my child(ren) and my partner. I guess I’ll never know if I don’t try—but I’d like to think I know myself pretty well by now, and I’m not sure I have time to stop caring while I figure out that not caring isn’t for me.

For that matter, I’m not sure the world (or certain places in the world at least—and the rest of the world indirectly) has time to stop thinking and stop caring. In five to ten years the forests of Honduras may be damaged beyond repair if things continue the way they are and do not change dramatically. Honduras will not be alone in their crisis. Will not be the only country facing the reality of exploitation and mismanagement of natural resources. With damage beyond repair and the loss of a million dollar industry the damage to the soils and water will intensify, and the people—of Honduras, of Central America, of the North America, of the European Union—will suffer, directly or indirectly. There is a timer tick tick ticking away and every moment we let go by without confronting these issues is another moment that we can never get back to help protect the places we live in as well as our way of life. Things are going to happen a lot faster than we’d like to think, and just like a week swimmer falling of an edge in the ocean, by the time we realize we are in over our heads it will be too late to call for help.

I think good intentions have unfortunately helped fuel people’s indifference. People are overwhelmed by the barrage of ‘issues’ they are asked to care about, to donate money towards, and to volunteer their time to. Put forth by ‘passionate’ people and spread by mass media we are introduced to exponentially increasing numbers of causes, campaigns, issues, and problems affecting every aspect of our societies. So many issues that peoples heads spin around causing them to get overwhelmed and choose not to focus on any of the issues at all, and rather on what to cook for dinner and what to do on the weekend.

Aids, cancer, poverty, clean water, conflict diamonds, floods in faraway lands, poor countries torn apart by earthquakes, dying children without mosquito nets, urban violence, police brutality, low voter turnout, municipal elections. What to care about? Where to spend (valuable) time? Who to give my money to? Saturated by causes, by information, by disasters, and sad news, people opt to block it out, to not think about it, and to do nothing rather than take advantage of the age of information, with everything at their fingertips…kind of reminds me of the bystander effect in psychology. With an increase of information, technology our interconnected world is causing people to withdraw into their secure, safe little circles of comfort and try to block out the bad news and bad thoughts.

We have time. Right? I don’t mean to be a downer, but I’m not so sure. ‘Bad’ and unavoidable things will start happening in our neighbourhoods in our backyards sooner than we would like to think. When these ‘things’ begin to happen we will not be able to ignore them. And by then it will be too late. The damage will be done, and there will be little to repair and we will have to suffer the consequences of denial, ignorance and indifference…but we also like to react to things we can’t ignore rather than acting proactively which is another rant just waiting to be unleashed.

Thinking about the Future (trying not to be entirely cynical),
Delaney C.


Never Forget

Before heading out to Santa Caterina we visited UNA (one of the main Universities in San Salvador). Coincidentally it was twenty first anniversary of the murders of the Jesuit Priests that took place on campus and there was a special exhibit. Its a pretty powerful and moving experience being in the same room(s) where the priests and female students were not murdered, violated, tortured and brutalized. For me it’s an uncomfortable feeling, but one that I cant end prematurely. Its an uncomfortable feeling I force myself to endure until my chest gets tight, I begin to feel claustrophobic and someone says its time to leave or move onto another section. I need to feel uncomfortable, I surround myself in heavy all encompassing feeling of the room in an attempt to make myself realize, truly realize, that people are horrible vicious monsters and just what they are capable of.

Part of the exhibit that is available to the public is photo albums with graphic pictures taken of the people who were murdered. Some people cannot look at them, the images are too graphic, too raw, and make the viewer feel something they can’t handle—too uncomfortable. I can’t take my eyes off of them. I remember the first time I saw them and not being able to look away, while at the same time being confused as to how I, as a compassionate human being could look at these images without becoming physically sick instantly (possibly some combination of desensitization and a biological protection mechanism), not to say that I wasn’t effected, I was, but I couldn’t help but thinking the images I was faced with were so disturbing I should be physically crippled and unable to go on with my day.

This time I looked at them, again unable to look away, wanting the understand how and why people [are able to] do such horrible things to each other; never wanting to forget what humans are capable of. It saddens and perplexes me how humans are able to do unimaginably atrocious things to each other, and how we continue to allow these tragedies to repeat themselves again, and again.

As individuals we may be able to learn from our mistakes, but as whole societies it seems that we are designed to continuously repeat the same tragedies time and time again not learning from past atrocities but rather introducing new techniques to inflict pain and suffering on others.

Like an Elephant,
Delaney C.



El Escalon

This school has a piece of my heart however I’m not sure even on my most articulate days I can express (with justice) how much this school, its teachers, and its students mean to me, but I hope that those of you who have been able to see me at the school have been able to see a glimmer of how important it is to me. The road to the bottom of the hill where El Escalon primary school is nestled is haphazard at best and becomes completely washed out in the rainy season making the walk (that the teachers and many of the students are subject to) illustrate their dedication and motivation to education. Kids play soccer in the dirt path in front of the chain link fence surrounding the entrance to the school that is pressed with curious and excited faces shouting both ‘Hello’, and ‘Hola’, and I feel like I have been welcomed home.

Being able to visit this school three times in the last three years makes me one of the luckiest people in the world. Being able to see these kids grow as our relationship grows has been a phenomenal experience that I won’t even try to explain. Admiration, respect, compassion, love and a plethora of other incredible feelings surge simultaneously through my body when I am around these teachers and children and every ounce of my being is elated and filled with an energy I have never experienced outside of El Escalon.

Due to the massive rains the schools kitchen, left vulnerable in the absence of a retention wall, was destroyed by a mudslide. Presently only two-thirds of the school is protected by a retention wall, and although the school itself remains intact thus far there is a chance that as the rainy seasons worsen one of the classrooms will follow the fate of the kitchen.

Regardless of my views on development, on the criticisms of the Alternative Spring Break Program, of all the nay-sayers, I would do anything for this school, its teachers, and its students, and without a doubt they deserve every good thing that comes there way (and a whole lot more). I hope that this was not my last time to visit El Escalon, and I know if I want to go back I will find a way (just like I have done). My pockets are full of cards written for ‘Trini’ and ‘Celini’ because Delaney is too tough for the Spanish tongues to pronounce, my camera is full of pictures of dancing butterflies and smiling faces of old friends, my cheeks are full of lingering kisses and my heart is full of new memories and lots and lots of love. That’s enough to make be feel (even if just for a moment) that the world is in fact a beautiful wonderful place and there is a little bit of hope left after all.

Full of Love,
Delaney C.

02 Noviembre 2010
Día de Muerte

I have always had a sort of morbid obsession with cemeteries and death. I’m not sure when it started but it was intensified when I took Death and Concepts of the Future in my first year—a course discussing how different cultures react to death and ‘afterlife’—and today I had the opportunity to participate in the Día de Muerte with my family. The Día de Muerte is a two day festival that celebrates those who have died and left this world. On November 1st is the Día de Muerte for children and on November 2nd is the Día de Muerte for adults. Central park is filled with merchants selling beautiful rich colored flowers, and plastic ornamental disks. Silvia bought an assortment of flowers and then we arranged them at the house.

When we got to the cemetery there were people selling food and children running around laughing and screaming. Not the typical somber and heavy atmosphere one would expect at a cemetery plagued by grey and black granite in a grid like pattern with dark eerie tombstones marking the place of loved ones decaying under the ground…but that’s not what was waiting for us inside the cemetery. Marvelous tombas covered in bright coloured tiles, pastel coloured coffins, upright artistically designed wrought iron crosses, vibrant flowers and ornamental discs displayed on ever grave and tomb. Children were running over and around graves laughing and playing, families sitting with loved ones (from the past and the present) talking, smiling and laughing. With no grid like order to the graves they seemed to fit together intricately, like a puzzle I did not know the rules to yet in a haphazard but beautifully elaborate way. This was not a day to be sad and mourn the dead, but rather a day to celebrate life and a part of life being—death. How revolutionary and uplifting, not to mention a much healthier way to deal with death. Instead of mourning and wallowing, crying about the loss of a life, the selfish grieving, the focus being on the one who has been left behind on this cruel life...the focus is on the loved one who is no longer here, on their life, and their great journey; of remembrance and of hope.

I have already decided that I don’t care if I am buried in a cemetery or cremated. Those are just details to me and that will be left up to whoever I leave behind as long as a tree is planted, near where I lay (figuratively, or literally); a big hulking, strong monster of a tree (not a sissy fern or shrub) that can bring me back to the earth and reach up towards the sky. But if I do find my ‘final resting place’ in a cemetery, I hope it is in one similar to the one I visited in Honduras; a cemetery that offers hope and love to the people who I leave behind, helping them rise up instead of bringing them down, honoring my life with celebration not with a dark cloak of mourning and too many tears.
Breath Deep, The World is Beautiful
Delaney C.

31 Octobre de 2010
Salt and Lime; Funerals and Divorce; Living for the weekend

I have never been one of those ‘I live for the weekend’ kind of people. I credit that to the fact that I have always loved what I was doing—whether it be work or school—so the weekend never seemed like that big of a deal to me—more of the same old stuff, mixed up a little bit. Here, in Honduras, I find myself becoming one of those people—waiting for the weekend, ticking down the work days mentally in my head, until Friday afternoon when I feel a sense of relief in that for the next two days I am on my own time—or rather my weekend routine. Why have I become this person seemingly overnight? Is it the warmer temperature…perhaps the Latin vibe?

I think it largely has to do with the fact that I lack direction at work. It’s not that I don’t love what I’m doing, it’s more that I rarely know what I’m doing. I show up because I have to but often occupy my day by looking for things to fill my time with.  Some that I don’t mind doing, like helping out with office stuff, reading documents, doing research for my report, practicing Spanish…and other things that I do just to kill time that make me feel useless like playing minesweeper and Sudoku (both of which I have gotten rather good at). I like the weekends, because I like not feeling the obligation of using up my time in the office. I like being able to walk around town or read a book in the sun. And I love going to Jutiquila on the weekends with the family going on walks with the kids and ‘trying’ to teach them English. I think (fingers crossed) it will get better in December (or once I get back from El Salvador), and I will be able to speak more and be able to talk to Jose Luis about starting to get into the communities to interview people. One of the problems with being the first intern for this NGO is that neither of us wants to speak up too loudly as to what their needs are so we both end up saying nothing. From my position, I’m really flexible either way, I just want to be doing something that won’t be a complete waste of time and that someone will benefit from on some level. Patience Delaney Patience.

The other day my stomach was feeling upset and Silvia told me to have some salt and lime. Interesting. This is the cure-all solution offered by Hondurans (like Windex in My Big Fat Greek Wedding). Take half a lime, squeeze the juice into a shot glass, add a repulsive amount of salt, mix it up, and slam it back and Tada! no more stomach ache, ear infection, broken leg, or lung cancer…well that last one might be pushing it. It was not nearly as bad as I had anticipated (although I wasn’t about to grab a second glass just for the taste). My stomach stopped aching, although it might have been because my body was so confused with what I had done to it that it just gave up. Interesting medicinal practices Honduras has going for them.

If I ever decide to live in this glorious country for an extended period of time I have locked down the two most profitable sectors to invest in…those involving Funerals and/or Divorce.There is at least a funeral a day here (although the city is rather ‘large’), but usually once every day I see a coffin in the back of a pickup truck covered in flowers and people weaving slowly through the streets followed by a mass of people toting umbrellas and children. Sometimes they sing and chant, and sometimes they are silent. I once had a professor tell me that the ‘death industry’ is recession proof—people are always going to be dying. However there does seem to be a funaria on every second street corner so maybe I’m not the first to recognize what a booming business this industry is...at least in Honduras.

Another area sure to leave you living quite comfortably in Honduras is divorce. O infidelity.  I have come to realize that everyone in Honduras has had at least three husbands/wives by the time they reach 35, sometimes starting as early as 16. I would also love to get my hands on someone’s family tree to figure out the tangled web of children, (ex) spouses, who belongs to who, who went where, who’s related and how ect.I left Thursday for the conference in Rio Plantón and everything was fine and dandy, however when I returned Sunday Claudia’s husband had (in the month they have been in Juticalpa) decided that he had found someone else and that he was leaving her…adios, see you later. Horrible. Although she didn’t seem as upset as I would have expected …more like her ego was a little bruised, as if someone picked her last for a team or her best friend blew off plans with her for someone else. I asked about their kids, only to find out they are not his. It was like opening Pandora’s box.

Claudia is 28, has two kids (not sure if they are from the same father) and will be going onto her 4th husband (soon I am sure…she had a date last night). Keyla (21) has two boyfriends at the moment, and one of them is married. And like I mentioned earlier Silvia’s husband left her (and the two kids) for his mistress but not before drinking and gambling away their money and properties. Not shocking enough—all of this is typical Honduran behavior…Mind equals blown.
I felt frustrated because I couldn’t comfort my friend the way I would like to, other than repeating over and over again, ‘todos los hombres es tontos’ which she seems to agree with (for the time being), and then I felt frustrated with normalcy of this situation.

I don’t understand how if all of these children grow up seeing their father(s) leave their mothers, essentially abandoning them time after time how i) the girls don’t grow up to be fiercely strong refusing to tolerate that kind of behavior, as well as refusing to add to the cycle and be the ‘mistress’ and ii) how the boys don’t grow up to be compassionate to their mothers/sisters situation(s) and vow to not cause that kind of hardship on their own families. In fact the opposite seems to be true and it is a social (and expected) norm. Sheesh. I am going to be alone forever.
Con Esperanza y Amor
Delaney C.

Mi Dia

Most mornings I wake up at 6 am with the sun streaming in through my windows and this very high pitched shrill bird (who may or may not have a nest inside my room it sounds so loud) going off on its ‘Good Morning World’ mating ritual routine. I splash some water on my face, brush my teeth and get dressed. I head to the kitchen and Keyla either cooks me something delicious or if there is milk I have some cereal. I grab my bag, say goodbye to Keyla and the baby and walk to my office, which is right around the corner. A crazy man, who hangs out by this little water hole, screams random things (that even if I could understand Spanish perfectly wouldn’t make sense) and greets me. He hangs out there and offers to wash the taxis that speed past for 40 limps. I usually get the office before Jose Luis, but on the odd occasion he beats me to it. We do work in the office, usually preparing for a conference, focus group type meeting, or paper work for the past week’s events. Jose Luis goes home for lunch at about 1pm and it is not uncommon to have a two or two and a half hour lunch break. Sometimes I go home for lunch (if I have bought apples), and other times I stop by a pulperia for a Baleada, enchilada or something equally as tasty…and cheap. For about 10-50 Limps ($0.50 - $2.50 Cdn) you can have a delicious meal. On days when we are not traveling to Catacamus, Silca, Salama, or even Tegucigalpa (which is an entire day trip) I walk into town (about 30 minutes to the center) to meet up with one of my Spanish tutors who works at a resource center near the central park. On this walk I get yelled at…roughly 13-18 times, with varying aggressiveness and sleaziness. Wherever I walk there is a chorus of “Adios” that follows. Sometimes they say “bye” which doesn’t really translate well. People say “adios” like we would say “how’s it going,” “have a great day”, but keep walking to where we are going, so when they translated it to English and say “bye” it just doesn’t really fit—however it is entertaining to see a bunch of children chirping “Bye, bye, bye, bye” like a little flock of birds whenever I pass. I say adios, unless the comments are coming from a sleeze-ball, in that case I have been practicing my very annoyed death stare which I grace them with…although I’m not sure how intimidating I end up looking… but one can hope. I practice with her for two to three hours and then start to head back out of town. Sometimes I wander around, buy fruit, or sit at central park and watch people on the street—however when I do this, I usually have more people watching me, and people fighting each other over who will sit next to me on the bench, although they never talk to me…just sit beside me, smiling at their friends because they are sitting by the white girl. Most days I stop at the beauty salon Keyla works at and chat with her and the lady she works with. Sometimes I stick around until 6:00pm (when it is too dark for me to walk home alone) and I walk home with Keyla. We take a different route than I usually do which is nice, and even if I can’t participate in the conversation as much as I would like it is comforting to listen to her and her co-worker talk back and forth like people my age. Sometimes we stop and get Baditas (not sure of the spelling on that one), which are coconut and milk popsicles that some lady sells out of her window—they are delicious. We get home and I (usually) help prepare dinner, or work in my room on reports or translating documents for my personal use. We eat dinner (usually at 7:00 pm) together as a family, after dinner I play with the baby or Darien, talk with Keyla, Claudia, and Sylvia, and then go to my room at around 8:30 or 9:00pm. Sometimes I read, journal, or write blogs that I will post later and sometimes I pass out cold. Nothing I do is physically demanding (not even close), but sometimes my brain is so exhausted that I am pretty much K.O.’d. Sylvia and Keyla ask me if I am sad here from time to time, and I do my best to explain that generally I love it here and I love staying with their family, but during the week my brain gets destroyed by working so hard to keep up in Spanish, studying Spanish, trying to understand these new (to me) forestry laws and terminology, and also it’s an emotionally demanding job with some really sad themes. I’m not sure they believe me, but that’s what I try to get across.

On the days where we are traveling I don’t get to see my Spanish tutor, but I have another one that comes over to the house after dinner to work on grammar so those are usually the days I have him over—if I am not too tired…because my brain is useless if I am tired. On the days when we travel to Tegucigalpa Jose Luis picks me up at my casa at 5:30am and we head into the city. It takes about 2 hours to get to the outskirts but almost another full 2 hours to get to our office because traffic is so congested. When we work out of that office I talk with Sandra and help her with administrative stuff and sort of just fill in wherever I am needed.

The weekends mix things up a bit. On Saturday I usually sleep in till 8:00am. We drop Keyla and the baby off at work and go to the supermarket or the market place to get fresh vegetables, and the carnaceria to get meat. We head home and start cooking lunch. Usually we have guests (whether it is friends or family) for Saturday lunch. We bring Keyla lunch and come back home. Saturday is water day, when we get to do laundry, wash the windows and take a ‘real’ shower…which just means without taking a bucket shower with water from the pila. I read or practice Spanish, and try to keep Darien busy for at least a little while. We go pick up Keyla and the baby at 6:00pm, come home and make dinner. Sometimes I go over to my friend’s apartment (which is nearby but he comes to pick me up if it’s after dark because the road I live on is very dangerous for gringa’s to walk on alone after dark—three of the female volunteers for CECOM have been robbed or assaulted while walking home along the road after dark) and there are usually a couple of people there. We talk, sing karaoke (that someone has on their computer) or sometimes watch a movie that someone has downloaded. Sunday’s I sleep in till 8:00am. We have coffee y pan for breakfast. Sometimes I run errands with Sylvia, and we make lunch. After lunch the family heads to Jutiquila to visit the cousins, aunts and uncles. I usually tag along. Keyla’s eleven-year-old sister is infatuated with me, and I try to teach her English words and get her to help me practice Spanish. After it gets dark, we head back home and cook dinner. I hang out with the family a bit, and then we all go to bed.

The other day I had a chat with Jose Luis (my co-worker) about what my goals were for this internship, and what his goals were. We talked for a long time and I think I will have three main objectives, along with continuing to help with the advocacy, conferences, and administrative stuff:
1) Doing research and conducting interviews on the impacts of the illegal deforestation in Olancho by conducting interviews and facilitating focus groups with members of MAO in the different communities they live in.
2) Photo documenting the devastation by getting to go to areas of varying degradation ranging from untouched to completely deforested, and
3) Facilitating a workshop for the Youth Environmental group in Salama (if it goes well possibly other schools), to discuss the environmental issues they are facing in a more interactive way, and to look for ideas that they have that they can implement now. Also to discuss recycling and see if it is a project that can be introduced to their schools.

Of course I need to get better at my Spanish in order to do this, but I hope with the help of some other people I will be able to get the second and third one done, and then possibly find someone who wants to be my translator for the interviews because even if my Spanish gets to the point where I feel comfortable with it, I do not want to misunderstand someone while collecting information for research. Those are my goals for now…they will likely change fifteen more times (at least) before coming to fruition…O NGO’s, how I love thee.

Yesterday I did laundry and then sat in the yard reading my book (‘The Fountainhead’—which I recommend) and catching some sun—which was awesome because even though I’m in a country that is always sunny, I don’t get as much sun as you would think. At about one thirty we headed to Jutiquila to visit the family. We sat and talked for a while. They were cooking meat over the fire and we hadn’t had lunch so we ate. Estefani, Luis David, and Gerson took me for a walk through the Aldea. They showed me their homes; all the places they thought were ‘bonita’ and took me a little river they were proud of. I let them take pictures with my camera and it was cool to see the places where they live that they were most proud of. On the way back Luis David disappeared into a tree and started throwing oranges down at us. When we got back to the house they skinned them and we sat on the steps eating our oranges. The last time I had come to visit they had told me they wanted to learn English… so I tried. I started with teaching them the alphabet and having them repeat after me. We practiced for nearly three hours, and then I gave them homework to practice the ABC’s, and spelling their names. They are smart kids and they were dedicated enough to sit on the steps with me for all that time while their cousins and friends were running around screaming and yelling so I give them huge props, and hopefully by the time I leave they can feel like they have learned something.

I realized something about myself while by being continually surrounded by a swarm of children who are all want my attention. I never choose to give my attention to the kids that come barreling towards you begging for your attention, screaming, pulling and pushing, ensuring that they are the center of attention. That’s the obvious response, and that’s why I don’t do it. I always see the kid hanging back, at the edge of the group. Not because they are shy, but because they can wait, and don’t have to be the center of attention. I choose the calm child who is waiting for me to notice them because they are waiting and I don’t want to disappoint them. I think this is partially because I find the first type of kids obnoxious and rude, and I refuse to support that kind of behavior—ask my sister, and partially because I am that kid—now (not when I was actually young—hypocritically I was a lot more melodramatic—somewhat theatrical —when I was a kid). I hate asking for things from people, I don’t like putting myself in the center of attention (although I can handle it well—if its someone else who puts me there—on the behalf of a group of people, a concept or for a cause) and I don’t like drawing people’s attention to me (by begging for it) unless they have chosen to give it to me.

Last night without fail, my Malaria pills delivered noteworthy dreams, this time assisted by being startled awake by four gun shots at four o’clock in the morning. I don’t know about you, but it really got my heart going and for a split second my brain went nuts and I wasn’t sure of what was going on…‘Where am I—what’s going on?’ ‘Is my family okay?’ ‘How did someone get inside the gate?’ ‘What should I do now—go check on them, or hide?’ Bang, Bang, Bang, Bang, like my own personal gunfire. A split second later I had it sorted out, but my heart was still racing. I tried to fall back asleep and this time I found myself on the dirt road that my house is on. It was dark; there was no one on the streets, no cars passing by, and no sounds in the distance. I walked slowly—almost floating—down the road and I remember feeling apprehensive and threatened, knowing that it was a dream but that I needed to get out of there as soon as possible. Every so often I would see the glimmer of headlights through the dust, and I would search for an alley to run into, a driveway to hide in, until the lights were coming from all directions and I was stuck—like a deer in headlights—unsure of which way to run, trapped by uncertainty and fear. Not a good dream. Not one that I want to have again.

Breath deep, the World is Beautiful
Delaney C.

Link

Here are a couple of links that lay out the Forestry Situation in Honduras...or try to as it is rather complex. I also realized I have failed to explain my sort of day-to-day schedule, what I do at work, the projects I am working on, and all that good stuff that I overlooked...because I am doing it and instead have ranted (a lot) about development, garbage, accountability, driving, and everything in between. Sorry.

Also if anyone has figured out how to send objects over the internet (Like in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory), contrary to Dylan's bet that I would miss cheese first, I miss Spagetti Squash...and I would really like a pumpkin too, just in time for Halloween.

http://www.internationalreportingproject.org/stories/detail/509/
http://ipsnews.net/news.asp?idnews=50366 http://www.internationalreportingproject.org/stories/detail/510/

Also as a sneak peak (although in Spanish)
http://www.lwfcamerica.org/?art=1359&lang=es&tittle=Foro%20ambiental%20juvenil%20en%20Olancho
and
http://www.lwfcamerica.org/?art=1356&lang=es&tittle=Organizaciones%20ambientalistas%20en%20intercambio
%20regional">http://www.lwfcamerica.org/?art=1356&lang=es&tittle=Organizaciones%20ambientalistas%20en%2
0intercambio%20regional
are events that I have helped plan/facilitate, and take pictures for :)

Also...here is my SFD blog which is less frequent, and has a very differnt tone
http://www.sfdblog.ca/author/dcoelho/

Lots of Love,
Delaney C.

Another Day, Another Story

16 Octubre de 2010
A “Learning” Experience

Once upon a time there was CECOM. CECOM was a private school in Juticalpa at the end of a dusty dirt road (near my casa). One day there was a volunteer. He was supposed to work with another school but that fell through so he walked up to CECOM with his golden charm and talked to the administration about how he was a volunteer and they could become bilingual with such ease. The administration at CECOM (who were never trained to be teachers, but rather in business instead) saw dollar signs in his eyes and said, “When can we begin.” With a rash and hasty plan in his hand the volunteer got to work, and in a month after seeing an add on Idealist.org volunteers from Canada and the United States were on their way to teach math, science and English! Two months later Mr. Volunteer patted himself on the back for a job well done…the school was bilingual, and everyone was having fun. What a success! He moved onto new projects to grace with his presence should they be so lucky, and to do more good deeds single handedly saving the people of Honduras from themselves.

However the reality was…switching a school to be bilingual is much more complex, and there were [and still are] many problems. The volunteers arrived to a situation much different than the one they had signed up for—with no training, no resources, a corrupt school(*note 1) , hostile working situations, and no one to voice their frustrations to. Several left before the year was over, and new volunteers had to be found…creating even more instability for the students. The Spanish teachers didn’t want to be bilingual and are resistant to having English teachers in the school, the parents of the students don’t know English so it makes it difficult for them to help their kids with homework (*Note 2), the administration wasn’t ready for the transition and didn’t come up with it themselves, rather adopted it, because an ‘outsider’ put the idea in their heads (*Note 3), and the curriculum in both Private and Public schools in Honduras are in shambles so to speak. This raises a whole wack-load of issues…where to begin.

First, the administrators of schools in Honduras are rarely teachers but rather have went to school for business. This is a problem when the people running the schools are trying to maximize profits and don’t know how to teach students, or what teachers need, or what students need. Making education a business screams disaster. Because the schools are now a business grades can be bought—if you have the money. Teachers report that they each have a student or two in the class who doesn’t show up more than once a week, and who according to them is not meeting the requirements to pass on to the next grade, but the administration gets paid off by the parents overriding the teachers suggestions. This means there are 13 year olds who can’t read, or do simple addition or subtraction when they are supposed to be doing long division…and this also means that all it takes is one of these children in a classroom to ‘poison’ the dynamic of the classroom for the other children and effect their learning.

This raises several questions for me: What are these kids supposed to do after they graduate unable to read, or do math? Do their parents think they are actually helping them? What is a diploma worth if it’s bought? And what is in store for the next generation? I have been intrigued by the school system in Canada, and the States for a while now, and it seems to me we are headed for trouble. Canada and the States aren’t quite as bad as Honduras, but that’s not to say that they don’t have their own wack of issues cut out for them as well and are desperately in need of an overhaul. I am frightened for the next generation, “The Dumbest Generation” (*Note 4) and what is in store for them.

The teachers at the school, as well as being common at other schools, are not great teachers—and many receive teacher certification as part of their own high school diploma. They don’t really teach, and what they do teach…isn’t necessarily the things then should be teaching. Because the discipline system is all wonky, kids are rewarded for lying and tattling on each other, and investigation is never done to examine the ‘two sides’ of the story.

To recap, what we’re learning here is, you can buy your way out of anything, being mean and catty is rewarded, education isn’t important… and a cornucopia of other ‘great’ life lessons. ¡Ai-Curumba! (sp) What’s more is they didn’t (and still don’t) want ‘white people’ in their school…making this transition to becoming bilingual primed for disaster.

Now onto the issue of development—this reaffirms my thoughts that successful development projects are INTERNALLY initiated. The stakeholders involved think about what will benefit them, think about the pros and cons, do all the benefit analysis stuff, and if THEY think it’s a ‘good’ idea, development can occur from there. NOT from someone walking into a community and saying, “Here’s a good idea for you guys to try out…it works really well in A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT CULTURE.” Derrrrr.

Also, CECOM going bilingual seems to be a perfect example of the ‘tornado style’ of development. Whip in with a superficial solution, slap it onto the situation, take some pictures and cut a ribbon, name a baby after you, and whip out with a good taste in your mouth, leaving being destruction, and often more problems. I think that type of development is lazy, and the people that model that development aren’t really thinking about, seeing or understanding the communities they are working with as deeply enough as necessary to be effective. Development takes time, takes relationships, takes foundations, takes planning, and takes talking, takes listening…really listening; development takes being wrong, takes figuring out what DOES work, takes realizing you might NOT have all the answers, takes sharing (with each other), takes learning (from each other); takes unique approaches; takes thought and consideration.

What this volunteer told Breanne (one of the CECOM volunteer teachers) about this year was, “Well haven’t you learnt a lot this year? Think of it as a learning experience.” Derrr. I am all for learning experiences. I will be the first person to say, “Do it! Keep learning, learn lots, and never stop.” I love learning, however I think it is very important to be conscientious of, at whose expense do these ‘learning experiences’ come at? The parents who are paying money for their children’s education assuming that it is a better one than is offered at a public school? The children themselves, who are supposed to be getting an education? Who is loosing out while we are ‘learning’ from these ‘experiences’? I think you can learn without taking away from other people, I think you can learn from each other, and I think the best learning is symbiotic and reciprocal —where the teacher is also learning and the student is also teaching. I think everyone has something to offer as long as you are willing to see it and are willing to listen.

The Alternative Spring Break: El Salvador has been criticized along these lines (of taking more from the community while not giving enough back), and as it approaches its third year I have my own personal concerns and worries that it is headed to a place where good intentions have negative impacts, however if we are conscientious of our impact(s)—positive or negative—there are steps we can take to mitigate our negative impact, and ensure that our learning does not occur at the expense of others and we can avoid this ‘tornado development’ that often goes hand in hand. Instead creating something sustainable, something long-term, and something that [hopefully] in the end doesn’t need our presence at all.

Notes:
1)Want a good grade? Buy it.
2)Or do it themselves.
3)Development fail.
4)Good book

Con Esperanza y Amor
Delaney C.


18 Octubre de 2010
Sesame Street Style


The Word of the day is A-C-C-O-U-N-T-A-B-I-L-I-T-Y. Accountability: (of a person, organization or institution) required or expected to justify actions or decisions; responsible—as in a government must be accountable to its citizens. The word accountability is one of my favourites (and I LOVE words)…and not just because it has a nice ring to it—but rather for its definition. Unfortunately both at home and aboard (and all to often) there is a lack of accountability which, in my opinion [often] results in inefficiency, ineffective programming and quite bluntly in failure.

Why is being accountable so important? Accountable to whom? How is one held accountable? What instances are you talking about? I can hear everyone asking with urgency…maybe that’s just the thoughts in my head. Accountability ensures quality of goods and services; accountability ensures justice; and accountability ensures that if something does not go as planned, if something fails, if something breaks, there is someone to answer to my (the consumers, the voters, the beneficiaries) complaint(s). In The White Mans Burden, by William Easterly he discusses how lack of accountability in foreign aid is one of the failings—when a ‘plan’ fails, when aid doesn’t work…no one takes the blame, and no one takes responsibility for what when wrong…or what didn’t go right. He shares a story about a young Bangladeshi girl who was from a poor family who got a scholarship from USAID and the World Bank to finish secondary school. She is now is a bicycle paramedic for 515 families in the countryside around Savar, Bangladesh. She is the only health worker for these 515 families. She earns twenty-five dollars a month working for “the Peoples health Center”. Dr. Zafrullah Chowdhury created this program by training teenage girls to treat common ailments, deliver prenatal and postnatal care to pregnant women, and refer any emergencies to the hospital that he built. Foreign donors and the Bangladeshi government gave Dr. Zafrullah money, but he also charged his poor patients modest fees to expand services further. He found that even the poor were willing to pay for good service. “Charging the poor modest fees for health care—a notion that outrages Planners and anti-globalization activists—is a way to increase accountability for delivering health services.”(*Note 1) If villagers don’t get good service after they have sacrificed to pay for it, they complain loudly. “If a women dies, the worker has to face the village. Accountability is here.”

This example helps to illustrate a question I have been toying with for a while…Are free services necessarily the most effective way to extend aid to developing countries? Personally I am not so convinced. (*Note 2) I believe projects/programs with community involvement and some sort of community investment—finances, time etc—that ties individuals, the community, or the group to what is being provided and with an investment there comes accountability—because if something goes wrong, and my money, my time, my future is on the line I am going to speak up and try to right that wrong or ensure it doesn’t occur in the first place. It is to the person (people) receiving the good or service that you (the producer) are accountable; to the stakeholders…the beneficiaries of the ‘service’…whoever they may be.

There is an all to common occurrence of that if it is ‘free’, if the project is run by ‘volunteers’ there is an acceptance of cutting corners lack of regard to the details, inferior work and a sort of ‘you’ll get what you are given mentality’—even if it is a school, when really your community needs a good road to link you to markets, hospitals, and water sources. I’ve asked it before and I’ll ask it again what is the point of giving aid to programs or projects that the people they are created for will not utilize them—and who are we (Northern aid donors) to think that we know best for a community that we have never lived in, and are unaware of unique cultural needs? A waste or misallocation of resources, that if channeled into initiatives that actually listened to the beneficiaries by people that spent the time to get to know the communities, the beneficiaries, and the historical context could be well used. Which is also [one of the reasons] why we have seen billions and billions of dollars go towards foreign aid but don’t see any real comparative results and instead continue to our governments make vague general and utopian goals that under our current aid structure are unfeasible and often made by officials to remain politically appealing to the citizens (voters) of the wealthy donor countries.

Personally I would rather pay for something (a good, a service etc) and know that what I am getting is worth the small sacrifice because if it doesn’t work, I have someone (who I paid for the good or service) that I can talk to, hold accountable, and give me a product or service that satisfies the need that I PAID FOR, rather than getting something that wont work for me in my unique situation for ‘free’—most ‘free’ stuff is garbage anyways or comes with strings attached (*Note 3)…unless provided by thoughtful introspective individuals who take the time to get to know the communities they are providing this ‘free’ service for. And I’m not so sure those happen very often. This is also why I have no problem paying for my tuition. (*Note 4)

I would rather pay for my education rather then receive a free, or receive an education fully paid for by the government because by paying for the service of attending a post secondary education I am able to choose where I take my business, and if my chosen University doesn’t meet my needs or my criteria I can leave, and spend my money at an institution that does. It also means that I have a say as to what goes on at my University, and if I have a problem with my classes, with my level of education, with my access to resources, there are people who have to answer to me—because I am a paying customer. Paying also ensures a certain level of quality that if I were receiving a cost-free education would not necessarily be present—or possible. With institutions flooded with people, the best quality (within my price range) might not be possible, and when entering the job market there would be more ‘qualified’ professionals than the job market could support and I would be left unemployed. I think that education is an investment, and one that I value, and as and as Benjamin Franklin said, “an investment in knowledge always pays the best interest.” There are some sacrifices that come with being able to attend University, however for me the sacrifices are worth it, for the value I place on obtaining an education, and (hopefully) for the job I will be able to obtain once I finish my [formalized] education.

In Honduras University education is free for all Hondurans. However it is not necessarily the land of milk and honey or the utopian dream that you would think. (More later)

Although don’t put words in my mouth. I am not letting people off the hook and blaming everything on the system, the institution…the man (shudder). It is up to the people, to the customer, to the consumer to demand accountability and to do some evaluating and monitoring themselves. Individuals need to become involved in the process…ready…set…go!

Notes:
1)The White Man’s Burden, by William Easterly page 56
2)Unfortunately due to my limited resources and access to Internet I haven’t been able to further research this case study. I am not saying it is perfect, or without flaw, however it helps to illustrate the importance of accountability in development projects.
3)Structural Adjustment Loans.
4)This has the potential to turn into one of my UMSU rants…you have been warned.

Con Esperanza y Amor
Delaney C.