pieces

Every time I leave a country, I feel like I'm leaving a piece of my heart behind there. It sounds silly, but it's completely true:  there's a little piece of my heart at the top of Machu Picchu, waiting for the sun to come back out from behind those rainclouds. There's a splinter of my heart in Greece, sitting by the Mediterranean sea. I left a shard behind in Kenya, where I know that my friend Sheila will always welcome me 'back home' with open arms. There's a slice of my heart in El Salvador, probably gorging itself on pupusas right now. Of course there's a fraction left in Spain - not just in Salamanca, but in Barcelona and Sevilla and Cordoba. Another piece is floating down the Zambezi river. My heart will never be the same after all those weeks and months spent in northern Uganda - those tiny towns of Pader, of Kitgum, of Gulu, of Amuru - and all the pothole-filled roads in between are still holding on to part of my heart that I will never get back. There's even pieces left in places that I've spent little amounts time - like Milano or Prague or Tegucigalpa or Drumnadrochit.

You might think this is very bad for a heart - all those cuts, all that scar tissue. Do you know how the body operates when you're weightlifting?  Muscles get all these tiny rips and tears, then the effect of rebuilding over those tears is how we build muscle. I think my heart has gone through something of that process. Not to say that it doesn't hurt - can you imagine feeling like you're never quite whole because part of you is longing for another place in the world?  Your other friends from Gulu, your other favorite coffee shop from Milano, your other cute salsa-dancing crush in Salamanca, your comfy pillow from Nairobi? It's a horrible feeling, especially in the midst of leaving.

Humans naturally build community - we seek like and not-so-like minded people to bolster our lives and make us feel whole. Here in Juba, it was hard for me to make meaningful friendships because people live such transient lives - you basically need a backup group of friends for when all your A Team friends go on vacation or are traveling to Bor.

I mitigate the pain of leaving by leaving a door open for my return - I don't think there's a country I've ever been to, and said, "Well, that's enough of that place - I am sure I'll never come back."  I could not say that, even if I tried. Leaving is the worst feeling in the entire world, but it also serves to remind of what bonds can be forged in unusual settings. I've met up with friends from abroad all over the world. So, with one week and one day until I leave South Sudan... my heart is in pieces around the world, and it feels like it's breaking all over again to depart.  So what do you do?  Cry a little, let your heart rip again, promise to come back, and look forward.

fotos

a few snaps from outside Tegucigalpa--

some little things

If you pack last minute, here are some things you might forget (based on experience):
-camera
-neosporin
-advil
-vitamins
-ipod charger
-workout shorts
-dictionary
-US dollars
-jeans
-sunscreen (hence the advil)
-swimming goggles

I don't know how so many things managed to sneak out of my suitcase!

deliciomundo!

That's a word that my brothers made up- but since they don't read this blog, I can take total credit for it: Deliciomundo means a whole world of delight surrounding you, touching all the senses, and lifting your spirit. It's best said in a shout, 'Deliciomundo!!!'

Here are some deliciomundo experiencias of Honduras from my first week:
1. Our first free night, my three colleagues & I went to a 'restaurante tipico' of Honduras (which we found out means that it's completely for tourists). While we ate mountains of food (taquitos, queso, pinchos, cerveza, vegetales, etc) and shielded our eyes from the gaudy decor, a mariachi band serenaded us with 'Que nos deja.' I learned of the dramatic Mexican mariachi music, and we spoke some hilarious mixture of spanish & english. I've never seen so many stereotypes rolled into one location, but it was great.
2. The hotel pool is so small that I can't swim laps back n forth, so I swim in circles... that's right.
3. One of the meetings we had with politicos was in someone's home - it's considered a great honor to host guests, and we were treated like royalty - special lemonade, fruit cocktail, & digestive biscuits. It was a challenge to focus on conversation with such delicacies in front of me - I am having that problem a lot here.
4. Hondurans speak in paragraphs - you ask one question, and it might be 20 minutes before the next pause. I've never seen anything like it.
5. Last night we drove up a mountain to this beautiful restaurant called El Picacho, and ate a fabulous dinner overlooking the city lights. The sprawling hills of Tegucigalpa and the evening air made for a fabulous setting.
6. My two colleagues (Carlos & Olga) and I got mistaken for a family. Carlos now calls me 'mi hija.' And he wants me to marry his son - not sure exactly how that is going to work.
7. My favorite part of being in a foreign country is visiting someone's home - to me, it's the best way to grow to love the culture. Olga, Mary & I were invited to the home of our dear local guide (her name is Andrea) for dinner. Andrea's parents of course treated us like dignitaries - but it was wonderful to see the inside of a home: the walls are covered in central american art - beautiful paintings, frescoes, and woodwork. The home is filled with ornate catholic symbolism, yet it feels peaceful. Moments pass, Mama leaves to check dinner with the cook (yes, cook), and everything feels very measured. Drinks are always flowing, food is delicious, and the conversation (still in paragraphs) is comfortable. You wonder if it's always like this - pleasant, courteous, formal yet kind -the epitome of hospitality. And just as kindly, the hosts usher you gently into the evening - and I guess you will continue to wonder. In Honduras, people welcome you into their home proudly: because they are your equal, it would be their honor to provide you a welcome into their country. What a lovely mixture of hospitality, national pride, and generosity.

Day 1, Tegus

That's what the natives call it - I'm in Honduras for 2 weeks of business meetings. A 3 a.m. trip to the airport, 2 plane rides, and 3 meetings later - it's 8 at night here, and I'm ready for bed! But first, here are some first impressions for this Central American capital:
-sunny? yes!
-sweaty? a bit.
-Tegucigalpa is in a valley, so to get from one place to another, you literally have to go down one mountainside and up another. Some streets are so steep, I wasn't sure we would make it up!
-narrow, narrow streets- many too narrow for 2 cars to pass one another - to me it is charming.
-flowers pouring over little walls, which are typically covered in politically relevant graffiti
-dudes with AK-47s outside McDonald's (remember the same in El Salvador?)
-the beautiful centro-american courtesy - it is ingrained in the culture, and I am trying to figure out how people get from this beautiful language, hospitality & kindness to kidnappings, drug killings, and hostage situations - maybe the class disparity? I think people have written books about this - I need to get myself to the biblioteca!
-colors on buildings - not gaudy (like I often think of in Africa), but they are a gentle reminder that no, you are not in the United States
-the streets are paved! my colleague Olga said, "Abigail after Gulu, of course Tegus is charming!" but somehow I'm trying to still be objective.
-walking is not allowed (for a gringa like me, anyway). Despite my new dark hair, if people can tell you're a foreigner, you are immediately a target for the moto-taxi gangs. don't worry, Mom, I'm not walking anywhere.

Would you believe I forgot to bring a camera? Hopefully one of my colleagues has one-- I'll post more soon!