I walked slowly up the long dirt stairway, using all of my senses to take in the slum around me. The tin roofs that glinted with the harsh afternoon sunlight. The unusually large cockroaches that scurried in the shadows. Children yelling in the street below, and the truck hocking produce rumbling by. The smell of urine. The loose dirt under my feet.
This is what I had been waiting for all month. We were finally in Sector F of Los Pinos, one of the most dangerous colonies in Honduras. A slum where people make their “living” by collecting garbage out of the dumpster. And if they’re really unlucky, they make their bed there too. Where teenagers hang out on the street sniffing paint thinner out of a coke can and doing whatever it takes to get their next high. This place has been described as “like hell.” And I couldn’t wait to get there.
The stairway came to an end, but we still had a ways to go before we reached our destination. I gazed up an impossibly steep hill and then my eyes fell to the skirt I had on and the flip flops that were on my feet. Huffing and puffing, I crawled up the hill, grabbing rocks and tree limbs for balance as my feet slid on the loose pebbles. Finally, I looked up to see Roni’s hand extended, his face barely concealing a laugh. He pulled me to the top and I stood to take in what I’d come to see. The home of Roni and his younger siblings, Ariel and Dania and their family.
(Ronnie on the left)
I took and deep breath and lifted my eyes. In front of me was a shack precariously perched on the side of the mountain. The boards were gnarled and weathered, some hanging at odd angles. The roof was made of tin and needed patched. The battered door hung ajar. I looked at Roni and smiled. He smiled back sheepishly, shrugged his shoulders and guided me to meet his mother, Noemi.
After hugs and kisses and “mucho gusto’s” (nice to meet you) we were ushered inside the 10’ x10’ one room shack and were begged to have a seat. We all piled on the only places to sit – two twin beds that took up most of the room. Noemi urgently pressed a bill into Roni’s hand whispering, “refrescas.” I looked at the ground, pretending I didn’t notice, but then Roni asked, “do you like Coca (Coke) or Pepsi?” We looked at each other, unsure of how to respond. Deciding we should honor their hospitality and generosity, we said Coke would be great, and Roni darted out the door and scampered down the hill we labored to drag ourselves up.
Noemi proudly showed us the few family photos they had and the pictures hung on the wall drawn by her children as we made conversation.
“How many people in your family live here?”
“Six.”
“How long have you lived in this house?”
“Seven years.”
It was hard to swallow the reality that we were sitting in the middle of.
And this wasn’t a reality of strangers. It was the reality of people we’d grown to love over the last month. And the strangest part of trying to process this reality – I felt no emotion. And that freaked me out more than anything.
I got up and walked outside to clear my head, looking out over the slum below and the city beyond that.
As I was praying for some clarity, an emotion to strike my heart, saddness, anger – SOMETHING, I looked down and saw Roni running up the hill, his arms full of Coke and plastic cups.
Taking the coke, I thought about how skewed my definition of "generosity" had been just two months ago. I gave away pocket change and thought I was making a difference. And now I'm standing in a slum in Honduras drinking coke that this family actually SACRIFICED money for so that I would feel welcome. I didn't know how to make it fit in my brain. And the disconnect in my mind was causing a disconnect in my heart. I felt nothing but numbness.
These kids I love live in a place people call hell.
And they are some of the sweetest, kindest, purest hearts I know.
And I'm actually here. This is real.
No matter what I said to myself or how much I took in my surroundings, I couldn't process it.
We finished our cokes, took some photos together, gave a round of hugs and said our goodbyes, slipping and sliding back down the hill.
That night, I talked to my team about it. I sat in my tent and prayed about it. Nothing.
Ten days and one country later, our visit is still on my mind, and I still can't swallow the reality or reconcile the numbness in my heart.
But even if I can't process it yet, I'm changing.
My life is changing. My reality is changing. My heart is changing.
And for that, I am grateful.
