I can't talk about Israel before I talk about HONDURAS

I'm currently in Israel, but I can't discuss this adventure until I talk about my trip to Honduras:

In March, I traveled to Honduras.  That was months ago, I know.  Still, I'm going to give it a blog post.

I went to Honduras with Public Health Brigades, a branch of Global Brigades.  We were stationed in El Ojochal, a rural village in the coastal Valle region, which is wedged between El Salvador and Nicaragua.

I expected heat.  Mugginess.  I'd been taking malaria medicine, and I'd stocked up on unscented soap so as not to attract swarms of mosquitos that could potentially carry malaria or dengue fever.  I expected dirt.  Grime.  To be escorted through the airport by armed guards.  (Tegucigalpa has one of the highest homicide rates in the world).

I wasn't prepared for this:

This is the interior of one of the homes we were working on.  It was a two room hut with dirt floors and large gaps in the walls, which allowed the chickens to enter and exit as they pleased.  The first picture shows a stove in the corner of the kitchen.  As part of our project, we built a brick stove with a chimney to help prevent respiratory problems.  It also requires less wood.  The second photo shows the sleeping area.  This family slept in hammocks, as did most families in El Ojochal.

Here we see the exterior of a typical home (at least, typical for the area in which we were working).  These photos are from Amapala.

I knew that Honduras was not a wealthy country by any means.  Still, I was struck by the abject poverty I saw all around me.  Everywhere I looked, I saw a decrepit hut, a malnourished child, a pile of trash littering the landscape.  It was bad.

At the same time, I was struck by the way life goes on.  I met some amazing people who were eager to share their culture with me.  We bonded over traditional Honduran folk music, food, and breathtaking vistas.

It's important to visit places like Honduras, which serve as reminders that there are severe problems in the world.  However, too often these places are seen for their problems alone.  Yes, the people I met wanted me to take and share photos so that others could see their harsh realities, but when we talked, they wanted to tell me about the beauty of their country.  It's important to remember that, too.

What is Magical Realism?

When I tell people I came to Spain to study literature (among other reasons, but that's the academic reason), they look at me funny, as though my freckles have turned purple.  Not many English majors venture to Spain; most American students go to the U.K. to study literature, which makes a lot of sense.  But the U.K. is a little chilly for my tastes, so here I am.  Plus, I really like Spanish and Latin American literature, probably even more than I like Brit Lit.

Márquez, considered the master of
magical realism.

For decades, Latin American literature has been linked with magical realism, though technically, the genre hails from France.  But as my professor told us, "Americans do it better."

Gabriel García Márquez.  'Nuff said.

But what is magical realism?  For some reason, it's a genre that we have a lot of trouble defining.  Often I'll look at a book that's described as magical realism, but really it's urban fantasy (or even just fantasy). Recently my professor gave us a good definition, which I figured I'd share:

Magical realism is exactly what the name suggests:  magical events happen in the normal world, but what separates it from genres like urban fantasy is that the events are told as though they're completely ordinary.  There is no sense of awe.  No wonder.  The characters show little to no reaction, and if they do, it's something like, "Hmm, that's interesting," and then they continue on with their lives.  They don't dwell on it, and neither does the narrator.  Magic is almost an aside:  "By the way, he was levitating.  No biggie."

In One Hundred Years of Solitude, for example, a character starts to levitate.  Why?  Because he drank hot chocolate.  It's passed off as totally normal.  Nothing special.  Happens all the time.

So say a character discovers that her next door neighbor is a witch.  If she freaks out (because who ever heard of witches actually existing?) then most likely that's urban fantasy.  If it's mentioned in passing, such as, "As Natasha walked to school, she waved to her next door neighbor, Mrs. Andrews, who happened to be a witch," then most likely it's magical realism.

A - Z Challenge: WORDS FROM WRITERS

Today we're just going to appreciate some beautiful words, written in Spanish.  I'm going to cheat a little bit, though:  the author of these words is Pablo Neruda, who is from Chile.  So he's not Spanish.  But I wanted to share these verses because they're some of my favorite ever written, in any language.  Really this poem doesn't have anything to do with Spain, except that I read it for the first time here.  Anyway, I think it's important, too, to learn to appreciate works in other languages :)  (I'll also be practicing my translation skills!)

Excerpt from Poema 20 by Pablo Neruda (Spanish)

Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.

Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo.

La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles.

Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise.

Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.

De otro.  Será de otro.  Como antes de mis besos.

Su voz, su cuerpo claro.  Sus ojos infinitos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.

Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.

Porque en noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos,

Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Aunque éste sea el último dolor que ella me causa,

y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo.

Excerpt from Poema 20 by Pablo Neruda (English)

The same night whitening the same trees.

We, the ones of then, are not the same.

I no longer love her, it's true, but how much I loved her.

My voice searched for the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's.  She will be another's.  Like before my kisses.

Her voice, her bright body.  Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, it's true, but maybe I love her.

Love is so short, and forgetting is so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms.

My soul is not content having lost her.

Even though this is the last pain she'll cause me,

And these are the last verses I'll write her.

Unfortunately, English doesn't do the poem justice.  It's gorgeous in Spanish :)