Skip to main content

Santa Ana

As much as I love sleeping in Saturdays I've been finding more and more that lately my favorite day of the week has been turning into just any other day of the week...there has been simply no time for Sponge Bob and chocolate milk in bed lo' these past few weeks. This past Saturday was of my own doing actually; it's been a while since I've seen my friend Felix who lives nearly an hour away in Santa Ana and pastors a tiny Mennonite church there. So I called him up, told him I would be swinging through and that I would have a few kids in tow. He said he and the Mrs. would be waiting and to get there in jiffy. It was a nice relaxing day actually, we visited a little, went swimming in the river and had bbq chicken for lunch. We enjoyed ourselves so much that we lost track of the time and nearly got stuck there, we made it of town on the last bus to Ceiba in fact - the national curfew hit at 6pm and we got back home just in time.

Pastor Felix

His Church

The Altar...they were preparing for a 'First Fruits' service the following day

Coming back from swimming cornstalks in hand. The boy to the left is Josue (Tati) and the boy on the right is Christian...Sergio took the picture.

I included this picture of Tati only because when Felix saw it he died laughing and said that if I sent this to UNICEF they'd send me all the funding I would ever need.
Waiting for the last bus out of town with Felix and Mavis' son Caleb.

- mlk


Popular posts from this blog

Coming to Honduras

The other day in philosophy class I was teaching about existentialism, a philosophy with which I have myriad problems. The universe is absurd, life is meaningless, authenticate yourself with irrational leaps of faith! Hopeless and disconnected from reality if you ask me. Get out of the café Camus, mix with some common folk! Nevertheless, as I was introducing the material I mentioned that the existentialists really probed the questions of Life's meaning and purpose:

"How do I create myself to be unique and significant?" "How do I live an authentic existence?" "How do I give my life meaning and purpose in an otherwise meaningless universe?"
These seem to be questions that are attendant to societies that possess extreme wealth and privilege and an over-abundance of leisure time. I have serious doubts that 15th Century English peasants or even nobles for that matter, spent much time contemplating how they might make their lives unique or leave a significa…

Art Day

I've been forced into an "art-day" by Girlfriend; against my better judgement I've decided to turn to the only medium that I'm remotely skilled at. It's been far too long since I've written anything of worth and as I sit here, pondering my lack of output in the last 4 years, I'm left wondering if I have anything substantial left to offer to "The Conversation". I think I did once, when my integrity and identity were intact and people were genuinely curious about my life here. For reasons too numerous to count though, not the least of which is my own retreat from reflective thought put down on paper, I can't shake the feeling that I've lost the ability to speak and be heard. Girlfriend and I are reading a book about marriage together given to me by my sister; we take turns reading it aloud to the other and as salient points are read we often stop and discuss our thoughts. Thus far it's been a fairly blithe and carefree romp through…

10 Years In Honduras

My good friend Jessiel Rivera reminded me the other day that it was 10 years ago this month that I arrived here in La Ceiba. I remember my arrival here from Costa Rica fairly vividly. I had been getting teary-eyed on the plane from a combination of sleep deprivation, my longing to remain with my friends in beautiful San Jose and some sad indie music on my iPod. It was a hot and terribly humid Sunday afternoon when I landed in the La Ceiba airport and when I stepped off the 10-seater hotbox of an airplane onto the tarmac I was sweaty, bleary-eyed and disheveled. I looked like a typical gringo backpacker except for my mountain of luggage that I had in tow. Two members of the Central Mennonite Church picked me up in their car; how they knew I was the Gringo they were supposed to collect was beyond me but they got it right. I remember them remarking on the number of suitcases I had brought (3) and their heaviness (maximum weight allowance); and the resulting weight of embarrassment I felt…