Tres

          Faded green buildings with brightly coloured pictures of flowers and suns painted on them playfully stood around a circular courtyard and in the center, a ravishing garden flourished.  The sight reminded me of a summer camp I went to in my childhood, where I collected a number of joyful memories.  The contrast between the beauty of the orphanage and the harsh reality of the streets of Tegucigalpa was alarming.  As I hopped out of the van and looked around me at the flowers and brightly coloured buildings, I found it hard to believe we were still in one of the poorest, and most dangerous countries in the world. 

          The team was directed to the building on the left of the courtyard. It was evident that this was going to be our living quarters where we would eat and sleep during the following week.  Though small, the building appeared to be very comfortable and homely.  A narrow hallway stretched from the front entrance to the very back of the building, with six bedrooms and a small kitchen all spread across the right hand side.  

Maddie and I were to be sharing a room with Shawna and Debbie; two very energetic  middle aged ladies who had been best friends since high school. Their constant giggling and high pitched chatter made me wonder if they still thought they were teenagers.  Though like Maddie and I, it was also their first experience on this mission trip.   

       I chose the top bunk closest to the door, right above Maddie’s bed and quickly unpacked my belongings. I proceeded then to join the rest of the team outside as they gathered in front of the volunteer building, waiting for Carlos’ instruction.  

           “Where are the children?” Maddie asked Brian, the lanky, balding middle aged gentleman who was in charge of the entire trip. 

            “They should be just finishing their dinner now, then they’ll be coming out soon to do their chores,”  the older man said through his spectacles as he checked his wrist watch.  As if on queue, a tiny dark figure emerged from the stone pathway that twisted through several narrow buildings which I assumed, led to the greater part of the orphanage.  The tiny figure was a chocolate skinned boy who, after noticing the foreign visitors, ran towards us in utter excitement.  

            “Lempira?” The young boy asked as he held out his empty hand and looked up at us with dark, pleading eyes.  

            “No Júlio!” Carlos’ stern voiced echoed from across the courtyard.  The little boy  looked around at the approaching man who continued to reprimand the child in Spanish.  

            “Lo siento,” the boy, whose name I now knew was Júlio, quietly murmured to us. With one last glance at Carlos, the now discouraged young boy ran back up the stone pathway where more children, all lighter skinned and more hispanic looking were now beginning to descend.  I looked around at the rest of my group, wondering if I was the only person who was completely confused with the recent events.  Brian must have  noticed the confusion engraved on my face because he leaned in toward me and muttered  “Júlio was asking us for lempira. That’s Honduran money.  We aren’t supposed to give any of the children gifts, including money and they aren’t supposed to ask for it.”  

            “Oh, okay. That makes sense,”  I replied as I watched the small children who were beginning to sweep the concrete around the courtyard.  This must’ve been one of their chores. As I was curiously wondering why Júlio was so dark skinned while the rest of the children appeared lighter,  Carlos approached the nine of us and began to speak through his heavy accent.

              “Sorry about tat,” the old man apologized. “Júlio is new, only been at El Hogar tree weeks. He’s still learning.  He was found on te streets of La Ceiba selling fruit.  As we know, he has no family.”

              “How old is he?”  Brian asked the Honduran man in a toneless voice.

              “Seven. Júlio is seven years old.”  I felt my heart leap into my throat at this knowledge.  That joyful looking little boy I just had the pleasuring of meeting was found on the streets having to fend for himself? At only seven years of age, he had no family- no home.  It was heart wrenching just thinking about it.  I looked at the children around me, wondering if their stories were similar to Júlio’s, and I suddenly realized I wanted to learn all of them; each and every story. No matter how long it would take me, I wanted to learn about each child, and what horrors brought them to El Hogar. 

              “Also, you may have noticed tat Júlio is darker skinned ten te rest of te children,” Carlos continued and I immediately focussed my attention on him as this was a question I did want the answer too.  “Júlio is a Garifuna. Garifuna’s are black people living in Honduras and other Central American countries.  Tey are descendants of African slaves who escaped from slave ships tat sank in te ocean.  Today, Garifuna’s live in colony’s all around Honduras. Tey also have teir own language.”

             “Does Júlio speak the language?” Maddie asked in curiosity.

             “We don’t know yet, he probably does.  We will learn in time, I’m sure.”  Carlos proceeded to check his watch and quickly switched gears from a friendly teacher to a man of professional authority. “Now, we must discuss te weekly plans,” he said briskly, handing out the papers I just noticed he had been holding in his hands.  The paper had a schedule for the week typed across it and I groaned when I noticed what time breakfast was to be served each morning:  8 o’clock, which meant I had to be awake by at least 7:30.  Anyone who knew me knew very well that I hated waking up early.   

         Carlos continued to explain how we were to be attending church the next day and on Monday we were going to begin working on the jobs he had for us.  My stomach churned in hunger and I looked at my schedule to learn that dinner was at five o’clock. According to my watch, that was in exactly five minutes.  Carlos’ voice became a whisper in the back of my mind as I watched in amazement as each small child continued to work patiently at their chores without causing a fuss or distraction.  Why couldn’t children in Canada be this well behaved?