So here I am.

So here I am. (Yes Honduras, under Mexico)

I keep thinking this is near impossible, to put this experience and these emotions into words. I should have already learned in life that everything is worth a try. Its an interesting sensation, part of me harbouring a certain crazy compelling urge to share, show and describe everything I experience, while my other half selfishly clings on to every precious moment. Yet I still think this is probably one of the hardest things I may attempt till now - putting oneselfs own story in black and white.
I feel that as my mind races on, my pen only captures a mere glimpse of fragmented thought, I think faster than I can process.
But its not a story yet, not exactly. Its a story in the making, a beginning leading to an undecided end, another chunk of memory which over time I will come to refer to as ´back then´. This is the beginning of an experience.

All I can say now, is that it was probably the best decision I ever made.
The roller-coaster of emotions, for that's the most apt description for now, pumps the life back into your veins making you feel more alive than ever.

My time here, although still quite short, has really made me rethink and reevaluate just about everything I had floating around in my cranium; the totally individualism and isolation from the past really allow the past truths to gain meaning within a larger scope.
There are no pillars to lean on. It is me, just me, with a bag and a brain, here, that and nothing more.
I am certain images could really aid me in my effort, and I am working on it, but there is one small problem. Honduras is a country full of fantastic shots, only thing is most areas have a simple rule: point to take a shot, and get something pointed straight back at you, only not measured in pixels but calibers and millimeters. A lot of times I just feel outright ashamed to even have a camera.
In the past few weeks I have been here I feel like I have, to a certain extent, in some uncertain way, ruptured from the past. The past becoming another closed chapter of life, a memory, a long intense dream. No matter where you go, there you are. I have come to realize I am here, and here is where the next year happens, this will become the setting for my life. This is not only a travel blog, this is also about the next chapter of my life.

"Another year, seen in retrospect,these images I collect,answers correct as we continue to break and connect" - Just Jack. Kind of reminded me of boat car guy those last few words...

The reason for this blog is simple. I hate how most experiences in life just fade away and erode into the abyss of forgetfulness, how they slowly get lost in the administrative chaos of the minds filing-cabinet. This blog will serve as my umbilical cord, the steam of substance between the new and the everything els. A way of preserving the past an nurturing the new, and a way for my to save time n not spend days typing countless seperate emails.

Several times the record jammed, and I looked around asking myself why I am here. The answer never fails to simultaneously present its self - because I can. Because I have the choice to be here, because I have that freedom. The times like these remind me how lucky I am, how privileged, how I have never had an impenetrable obstacle thwart my dreams and aspirations. I have that freedom. Honduras has that one problem, it is not free. One of my alternate job tasks is the sensibilisation and education of the 'people back home'. Not only to come here to experience and learn, but also bring back some of the new found knowledge and inform. Most Hondurans are not free. The average Honduran is caged by hunger, malnutrition, analfabestism, ignorance, extreme poverty and so much more. 40% of the population lives on less than a dollar a day while 13 children under the age of 5 die each day soley by the hand of diarrhea. There is no democracy here. Democracy cannot exist in a society where corruption is so deeply embedded, its suffocating claw evermore tightening its grip. While the English (fuckin colonialist pricks =D ) cheated the infantile government many years back into accepting a ludacris railroad deal; leaving the country sputtering with a 48000 million dollar foreign debt for about 100km of rail, the blooming drug trade leaves countless drugtrafficers and rampant gangs in its scorching wake.

This country has the most beautiful cloud formations I have ever seen.

Anywho.
Tegucigalpa, the city where streets bare no names, addresses are located by big trees and pink houses and shotgunned vigilantes stand guard outside of every shop, El Capital. Here was where the first steps were taken, and where the adventure truly began. The everlasting presence of heavy artillery lining the streets instilled slight uncomfortableness at first, but as one of my host brothers enjoyed emptying the magazine of his pistol in the garden, I guess its just another thing to get used to.
The first leg of the journey went textbook despite several slight irregularities; the cracking of the intercom informing you that the plane is pilot-less, leaving a terminal only to walk straight back in 3 hours later and spend the next 6 waiting, uninformed and unattended to in a neon-light prison slowly nearing the edge of sanity, waiting for the bad weather to subdue.
Hearing upon arrival that my host families uncle, owner of a dozen or so funeral-homes, was gunned down the day before and I was to attend the funeral.(Apparently his house had been set alight exactly 2 weeks ago as a warning. Word had it the mafia was moving) Other than slowly zombying around a funeral-home being greeted in a language you are totally foreign to, by people you know nothing about, awkwardly nodding and try to clarify you are, as a matter of fact, that Belgian volunteer who arrived just the other day, the first 2 weeks in Tegucigalpa (the capital of Honduras) were absolutely SMASHING. Spinning engines of nice cars around town, sipping lattés and watching the sun go down with 20y old models, hopping in and out of the bouncing night-scene; living life like I shouldn't be living it here. But hey what can I do, had an amazing host sister =]
Then came the my final Friday in El capital, Honduran style. Waking up without a family, (They had decided to go on holiday and had forgot to inform me) Hearing later that day my second, permanent host family couldn't host me due to 'structural damage to house caused by recent floods'. A solution would be found. What followed was exhilarating; not knowing where you're going, who your going with or what your doing, but just knowing there will be someone somewhere with 'A plan'. The total randomness of events, the lack of all form of control, choice and anticipation-ability. I think I heard about 5 different plans in just as many hours; a family on holiday at the coast I would meet for a fishing trip, being picked up by someone totally different and informed I was to spend the evening helping out in the an ER. The undecided end turned out as a fabulous break from the city in a little bit of isolated, man made slice of heavenly coastal life, baie fokken 'hemel op die platteland' ;)

Drives through the jungle on the back of a pickup ravishing succulent freshly picked mangoes, asking a toothpick and receiving a rusty old cement caked nail accompanied with a big-tooth-missing-grin. Staying in a block cement house, 20 odd chickens scurrying around the garden, an old rust-red shipcontainer sitting in the back yard serving as garden shed. Reggaeton and Punta blaring on every single soundsystem, Juan and Julio the 2 eversmiling host brothers. Macheteing the hedge, living in hang mats. A place where beer only comes in 75cl and every male over the age of 18 has had a few before lunch. A place where electricity comes and goes as it wishes, where a simple bike ride to the beach ends up in an adventure around town ; being chased by rabid dogs, backtracking to pick up all the lost pieces of the shabby bike (Where the fuck were you Indi) Racing down dirt tracks, stopping for the local streetfestivities. A place where every shower means an integration into a seperate individual biotope consisting of about 15 other species of insects where you know your shower is running to an end when the biggest fattest spider starts moving in to reclaim its territory. Where whenever you are driving a pickup truck random people decide to hop in and get a ride and there is always a football game on with which every goal grants the commentator the occasion to yell ggggooaaaalll for about literally fucking 20 odd seconds and then fills the next 2 minutes simply repeating goal like a parrot on speed. A town where a big shipwreck lies rusting 30m offshore, where old boat ropes serve as the local speed-bumps and massive ageless mountains permanently enshrouded in thick looming fog line the coast. I can only faintly image the pure fascination and awe of the first adventures to first set foot on the New Continent. A place I would love to live, but from where I know a return to Europe is nearly impossible. That chapter ended in nice sunset walk along the beach with some crab-hunting (and unlike the ducks we actually got some).

And yes, here comes the typical rant about those typical things which somehow still remain so memorable. Although everyone experiences them, hey, what is a travel blog about Honduras without them.
- Braving the local street food and enduring the complementary toilet restriction the following day.
- Getting the same meal consisting of beans, eggs, mantequilla and fried platanos for breakfast lunch n dinner.
- Underestimating the local brand of tequila and hearing someone had to clean up the trail you left behind without any recollection.
- Cruizing along narrow streets engulfed by the beautiful morning sun accompanied only by that same tequila hangover, sailing through a sea of barbeque smoke dodging stalls as you go, loving every moment of it and feeling perfectly at home with it all.
- Taking the intercity highways absently staring out of the window at the blurred flurry of "JESUS FOR PRESIDENT" tags flying by.
- Getting a call at 6pm only to hear a friend just had a machete sized knife planted against her throat by a phone-hungry thug.
- Where you feel like a banana and realize 1euro fetches you 20 bigger-than-your-average-chickitas at the local market.
- Starting to get used to the sight of 10year old boys cascading the streets dragging behind them machetes the size of their arms.
- Arriving at a c0mmission of transparency meeting, sitting outside for another 45minutes after the scheduled time still waiting for the door to be unlocked and noticing even the most predominant figures use kiddybikes as main form of transportation.
- Sitting in a cab and having the driver lean over slightly and tell me I should know Jesus loves me and is always there for me, and asks if I would like to join his branch of a certain church.


So,
its serious now, out with the streetracing trigger happy host brothers, in with the fulltime job and permanent host family.
Quick sketch of the situation - ME, tall ass lanky white boy, in a family where the tallest member is about 165cm, the longest bed is about 185cm (and bloody 2inch thick) and where god is.. literally everything. Except for the slept-on-bricks-sensation I get ever morning, I live relatively comfortable. Share a room with my 13 year old host brother, try to utilize bathrooms where I find it hard to turn 360·, study the bus routes as the fam doesn't own a car, and learning to use the Pila as they don't own a washing machine, still slowly attempting to make this city mine. One of the hardest thing is the lack of freedom. I am now the son of Paco and Leticia, they make the rules, they set the times - I cannot walk around my area alone, and cant be on the streets alone past 6pm anywhere but the city mall. The lack of decision in your own schedule and planning really get to you after a while.

Work (National Commission of Human Rights Honduras) is amazing; colleagues are great, hours are flexible, but its just quite hard to follow 3 hour seminaries about the new elections for the local commission of transparency (anti corruption agency) in a language I've only been speaking for about.. well, 3 weeks. (yes, Spanish). Currently I am not much use around the office ether, where people who, for example, have been illegally detained, extorted and thrashed by police come to file an official complaint. I'm usually on the road. Whenever I can I join my trusty colleague Julio on his old scratchy Yamaha XT to roam around our area of jurisdiction as the crimefighting motorcycle-caballero duo. And when I open my eyes, I am a tag along admirer of how Julio investigates the various reports of corruption, tries to help organise the elections for the commission of transparency or meets with school principals to organise the training of emergency-natural disaster-responce teachers. It brings up images from the motorcycle diarees. Flying up and down breathtaking mountains on lanky pothole-infested roads, where aggressive truck drivers seem to use you as bumper car targets, at 70-80 an hour, sometimes for hours on end. At first I was really amazed about how much faster speeds seemed on bike than in car, only later one night I realized the small print noting mph. (Guys we are definitely getting some 2 wheeled motorized beasts if we get into Burma). It does open eyes; the mountains around the central city are littered with thousands and thousands of families owning no more than what most of us would have used as a shabby tree house a few years back. In a country where the winter brings the quick up to 35, and the summer strides past 45, the scorching heat really makes wood the luxury material as most families make do with tin sheets and ripped-open re-used garbage bags. Other than our breathtaking excursions into the country side we are currently running a project to increase cooperation between various independent relief-organisations and the national commission. This project has taken me to offices dealing with HIV patients, domestic violence and gay-rights activist movements. Some of the conversations I had the honor to be part of were just absolutely extraordinary. I would love to be of more use, however I am currently no more that a purring kitten trapped between the great barriers of babel. Extremely frustrating to be honest. Just the other day I went up to an area in the mountains where the city moves all its homeless and poor - 110 000 and rapidly rising, to inspect what would become my area of responsilbiliy. Nestor, the local speaker on channel 99 - the house of El Cristo, would be my guide for the day, our goal : diagnose the problems and formulate an 'action plan'. The 30km bus ride, a near 2 hours drive costing about 10cents, gave him the occasion to describe what each of his 12 children was currently up to while I just sat back and absorbed everything around me. What followed was discussion about upcoming law suits against rich corrupt politicians, structural faults in the water-companies billing system which led to them cutting of the sanitation plant and long walks down dusty dirt roads which would be fitting for a national geographic documentary of a war torn region. This was my best occasion yet to capture some of those fantastic photos I hunger to make, but yet again, I just couldn't get it over my heart to pull out a camera.

There are 2 experiences which remain particularly vivid.
The first was an informal chat at a commission (of human rights) outpost in a nearby city.
There was a girl sitting in the corner of the room, introduced as a client and informed that she had spent the night sleeping on that very same chair. She claimed she didn't have parents anymore, just an older sister doing manual labour in a city 4 hours drive away but had lost contact. Her bony face and slightly unnatural high pitched voice indicated she had a story to tell. My colleague asked why she was there; the organisation she usually got food from had run out of funding, he proceeded by asking where she lived; she casually explained she used to sleep on the streets as a child, but now the men rarely left her outside. Not even a flinch.
She was 3 months older than me, awaiting her HIV-tests and hoping this office could help her. There I sat with my fucking camera and asics. A small black plastic bag lay slack between her legs, 'her belongings'. Here eyes were like none I have ever seen before.
Although her name is not unimportant, it didn't really seem to matter, I assume she is one of many that has come through these doors with a similar story...

The other was a on a friday evening. Just slacked off work, slowly made my way home getting ready for my first friday night in SPS. When the gate of my house flew open I was greeted with 'Hey whats up? Get showered, we are leaving at 6:30'. ... ?
A few hours later I sat silent in the car, parked neatly outside a public hospital looking down at my standard issue nursing uniform mentally preparing my self to pull a 12hour shift in orthopedics. My host brother was a med student. Public hospital...
Aggressive pupil dilating oders wafting around every corner, bloodstains on every piece of white in sight, patients crammed into wards (halls and corridors) like barn animals on every bed, chair and bench avalible. The first patient rolled in; 2 deep purple wrists the size of his elbows, 5 broken ribs, a staple in his neck and a missing nose. Work accident, fell of the second floor of a construction site. The sight of his inguries, smell of whatever and sound of his wailing send me inching for the door, trying to stay conscious and gulping for O2.
Upon my return the man lay untouched, untreated and unattented in the far corner of the room and a young girl sat smiling on the table with both doctors recasting her leg enjoying a friendly chat. A third docter comes in and its teatime; jokes n doughnuts. Every second heating my blood and every desperate wail the man in the corner managed to produce sending my fists clenching, it seemed to last forever. After 15 minutes I had to leave the room again.
"She is from the private clinic, he is a construction worker. Dont worry, thats how things go here" was the ratification I was forced to accept.
I wouldnt have made 12, I couldnt. After 3 hours external personal reasons obligated my hostbrother to leave the hospital, me silently tailing him.

Its Monday. I sit slagging around the office doing helping out where I can, but still feeling bored. I just got back from first trip in Honduars, a weekend in a beautiful old fishing village on the Carribean coast with all the other AFS volunteers and a few of our local friends. I want back.
Lying on the beach after a long morning run with a hang over and a Corona, the sea, the sun, the sexy coloured cocktails... The freedom to go and do as you like, the chance to party and dance the night away with a stunning 24y old model. The people, the culture, listening to salsa, batchata, merengue and punta(the local Garifuna music, fantastic to try dance) with a firm portion of everpoplar reggaeton inbetween. I loved it. Only when you dance with a real dancer do you appreciate and learn what latin dancing really is, well I did anyway. And she could dance. I was even told so by some local guy while I waited unintrested for the bathroom, who then later came back and unsuccesfully tried to make his move. I really needed this break from work and the family, just a short perfect stress relieving, alcohol consuming, carefree holiday.