Dancing In The Rain In Honduras

Fifteen years ago, I was finishing my college degree and I was clear about one thing: I wanted to go on my first volunteering trip.

Just like the best things in life happen, unexpectedly, a girl showed up in my life and started telling me about her experience in Honduras.

I still remember those pictures she showed me of crystal-clear waters, white sands, and palm trees and the excitement of combining such a paradise with humanitarian projects.

3, 2, 1... Decision made.

Two months later, I invested all my savings in a ticket to Tegucigalpa and boarded a questionably safe plane, accompanied by two friends I had met during my year in Erasmus in Italy.

"My Goodness gracious" was all I could think when I arrived in that city 50 hours later.

Nothing I had ever seen in the world resembled it.

The three of us stared without blinking at the crumbling buildings, the debris-filled streets. It looked like a mix between favelas and the cruelest war. Devastation. There seemed to be no end in sight.

Barefoot and dirty children walked alone in the streets, protecting themselves from mangy dogs. Not to mention the little girls who lived on every corner.

Well, it was quite a sight to behold.

The lucky ones with electricity had power lines adorned with hanging, worn-out sneakers.

The gangs used them as trophies to show who they had killed.

Quite a dream, huh?

There,

amid that marvelous image, was my little house where a cold shower awaited me if there was water, a mattress on the floor, and bars surrounding the entire house and every window.

We should keep those bars safely locked before 7 pm.

From that house,

I could hear gunshots at night and I prayed that the sounds of breaking glass were from someone who just wanted to steal it to sell, and not someone trying to break in for something else.

There,

I also experienced the tragic incident of not being able to go home for 2 nights because a 9-year-old boy had killed our 12-year-old neighbor, and the gang was waiting at his door to kill him.

That 12-year-old boy had raped the sister of the 9-year-old, and when he found out she was pregnant, he went to find her and ripped the fetus out with his hands.

Right there,

amidst all of that, was a boy named Daniel.

He was 4 years old and asked about his father every night because one day he left and never returned. He waited for him, unaware that men between 30 and 40 years old are more likely to be killed than to live in gangs' territory.

To Daniel, like most of us, his father was immortal, his hero.

Daniel would say he wanted to be a veterinarian when he grew up. His mother could barely afford daily rice.

After the initial shock, a spirited Honduran woman came to pick us up at 5 in the morning to take us to the first project we would be involved in.

Some children between the ages of 2 and 5 helped us cross the river of sewage they crossed every morning, which led to the little school.

Everything around there had been devastated by Hurricane Mitch, already 10 years prior.

The aftermath was still evident.

We stayed at that project for a couple of weeks, and perhaps it was the easiest one to digest.

Sometimes, I would get lost staring at lice the size of cats jumping on their heads. But besides that, I also helped teaching, feeding and playing with the kids. A little. Very little. It didn't matter what I did, it was just a small contribution to all they could need to be able to get to decent.

I liked Fridays because it was shower day, and the children were so happy to smell good. But Fridays also had a downside. On that day, the mothers accompanied the children because we also provided them with food.

It wasn't bad because they came, it was terrible because they tried to give me their children as a gift, and because they would steal food from their own children's plates.

Just to give you an idea of the desperation those people faced.

There, among mothers who would steal food from their children, and fathers who violated their daughters, I was.

I still thought about those islands I had seen in the pictures, apparently somewhere nearby.

They seemed to far from there to me.

Anyway.

I couldn't understand what kind of place it was. I couldn't understand why those children smelled of glue, why sick people were lying on the streets.

I didn't understand.

I still don't understand.

I couldn't comprehend how I could go on with my life as if nothing had happened.

I don't understand.

And above all, I didn't understand how they danced, how they laughed, how they offered me their rice, how they still dreamed of becoming veterinarians.

One afternoon, the heat was inhumane. Well, not just that afternoon, it was always scorching hot, but that afternoon was particularly unbearable.

I walked home as if traversing a desert, starting to see nonexistent water puddles. In my mind, the only image projected was that of a shower.

That cold water shower cascading down my vinegar-soaked hair to ward off lice, flowing down my legs, cleansing away traces of sewage and mud, it was the only thing I could think of.

I still remember the feeling of relief that enveloped my mind, fantasizing about those cold showers.

And then, for the fourth consecutive day, I turned the shower faucet, and no, not a single drop of water fell. I turned it to the other side because hope is the last thing to die... nothing. Nothing at all. Not a trace. Nada.

I didn't say much, didn't do much about it. That was my regular state during the 2 months that I lived there.

I'm still not sure whether my mood or my friend's mood, which happened to be nervously laughing 24/7, was better.

I entered the house with my two friends, locked the gates, and opened a beer, knowing that we ran the risk of someone coming later to steal the glass.

We didn't care. It was the only moment when the tension left our bodies a bit.

We heard a loud noise outside.

Once we realized it wasn't war but rain, we peeked outside to see how, within seconds, the arid land transformed into puddles.

There, typhoons arrive without warning, falling like a machine gun, demolishing many of those houses without foundations.

I didn't hesitate. I opened the gate and jumped. There was my cold shower.

I was amazed by how quickly I got soaked. It felt like being in a pool. The cold water made me jump. My two companions followed me, shampoo in hand.

I have a perfect memory of the three of us, drenched, jumping, laughing, and lathering with shampoo.

At that moment, someone entered through the door. The three of us froze because we had opened the gates after the curfew. And there was glass.

It was Daniel and his sister; they also wanted to play.

During those 10 minutes, I forgot about fear, the foul odor, and all the ugliness I had witnessed in those days. The only thing that mattered was that radiant child who wanted to be a veterinarian and the feeling of not wanting that typhoon to end.

That month, I experienced many things, erased some from my mind, and among others, I learned one thing:

I learned to dance in the rain.

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