Skip to main content

College Days


this past friday we loaded up 20 kids from our u-12 soccer team along with one of their coaches and 5 gringo handlers onto a bus that headed out to the public university. this is becoming routine for us, these university visits but we like them. we like the diversion, the change of scenery, the feel of true learning in the ambience, the chance to play soccer on real grass.


the first thing we learned is that someone did not in fact paint this tree various colors. although about half of our kids were convinced otherwise.

we also learned that hondurans generally assume that any dog that looks like this is hell-bent on slaying you at the first sign you might have let your guard drop.

seriously, i've never seen a nation of people so weak-kneed at the sight of a puppy.

i try to tell them she's friendly and loves to play but they act as though i too am part of the ploy to lure them to their dog-mauled deaths and avoid both of us as though we were typhoid mary's.

the girls opted not to play soccer in the sweltering sun and instead chatted with the kids as they came to take water breaks.


this one should probably get hung up somewhere at emm's central offices.


look, we're no longer at university!

we ended our time there around mid-day and went straight to a nearby swimming hole.

where we spotted...

fish.

a blurry leap


nery found a perfect seat


i was a little chilly


but not too chilly to pose

learning is fun.

Comments

I think the tree is called "indio desnudo" - the naked Indian!

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…