Elisa Martinez
February 13, 2002

Advanced Compostion/ Memoir Assignment
Dr. Niiler

Vida Nueva

When I lived in San Pedro Sula, Honduras, I went occasionally to visit a nearby village. The village, a refugee project built jointly by the government and several humanitarian groups after the hurricane, was called Vida Nueva, new life. The group I worked with owned a building there, intended to house a medical clinic and adult education classes. The building wasn't fully finished, and the clinic far from opening, but we went to check on the progress of the landscaping and finishing work from time to time. One day, a very, very hot humid day, Alfredo, Cristina and I drove out to Vida Nueva. Alfredo and Cristina walked around outside, and I went inside and chatted with Juan, the man who watched over the property and did the landscaping work. It was just as hot inside as out.

About halfway through the afternoon, a girl wandered in. She wanted Alfredo to give her a piece of plastic tarp to make a roof for a porch, or a shelter of some sort for her house. It never ceased to amaze me how these people would ask for anything, claiming it almost as a right. We were rich; they were poor, and they knew it; therefore, we owed them... something. Whatever they really needed at the minute. Whatever they thought we had that they could use. So the girl came, and asked for a piece of tarp, and Alfredo told Juan to go find some extra tarp.

While she waited, we talked, sitting in cheap white plastic chairs near one end of the large, unfinished room. The girl had brought her son with her: a silent big-eyed, brown-haired toddler she said was three years old. To me, he looked closer to two, but it's hard to tell. He was dressed in absolutely nothing; I concluded later why they never bother to put clothes on their little children: they have no diapers. No use putting clothes on, if you have no diapers. Or, maybe they have no clothes. Either way, it made sense to me when I thought about it afterward.

The girl told me she was nineteen. She was very pretty, one of the prettiest women I ever met in Honduras: beautiful dark olive skin, luminous brown eyes, coquettish mouth, and about six months pregnant. She told me about her husband; she was his third wife, she said. I guessed he might be about thirty, maybe thirty-five. I wondered what he was like. I wondered what wives number one and two were like, and where they were, and how many children they had. She told me about her brother; she said he was very smart. And I wondered if she could read. So few of the people in Vida Nueva could.

We sat there chatting, and I tried to understand from her perspective what she was talking about, to imagine what she thought about what she was saying. I had no idea. She kept on talking, and I kept on listening. Small talk. The water problem in the village; the local government had turned off the water to the village, and she had to walk to the creek to get water every day. It wasn't very convenient. I agreed. It couldn't be very convenient. The heat was stifling, but not worth mentioning, even in small talk. It was always hot.

After a while, Juan came in with an oscillating fan, cheaply made like the chairs, and plugged it in for us. The simulated breeze helped to lift the heavy air a little, and it moved sluggishly around us, lifting damp wisps of hair around the pretty Honduran woman's face. She looked at the oscillating fan, jerked her head toward it, and in a voice meant to impress, turned to me and said, "I have one of those."

I realized then that she needed a response. I was supposed to be impressed. I tried; I'm not sure whether or not I succeeded. "Really? How nice. How convenient it must be with the heat."

She continued, "I have electricity in my house, too." I continued to nod, an appropriately respectful look on my face. Half of the houses in the village still didn't have electricity, and I knew it.

"That must be very convenient."

I also knew that the people who had electricity looked down on the people who still had none. The people who had houses looked down on the people who still lived in makeshift shelters. It had all come from humanitarian sources, but they managed to look down on those who had less. "Yes, electricity must be very convenient. And the fan, too, especially when it's so hot." A Bible verse floated around in the back of my mind, "What do you have that you did not receive?"

The girl listed more things: a washer. She had a washer. Not an electric clothes washer, but one of the waist-high concrete basins that they use to wash clothes. You fill one of the two sides of the basin with water, and soap, if you have any, and let the clothes sit. On the other side, a ridged basin like a washboard, you rub the clothes across briskly, piece by piece, until they're clean. Or cleaner. I used one of those washers for two months myself, and was never sure about that. Do the clothes really get clean when you wash them that way? On the other hand, do the clothes really get cleaner with brand-name detergents and brand-name washing machines?

The girl continued talking about her house, and I tried to look impressed. I couldn't get her words out of my head. "I have one of those." I thought about the things I had. My family's house, our cars, our clothes, our things. Or, I may have tried not to think about these things. I might have felt guilty for having so much. So, I sat there, working on being impressed by the nineteen-year-old mother with the oscillating fan. More small talk. After about an hour, Juan found her some tarp, and she left, the little naked boy trailing behind her.

I may have failed to respond appropriately to the Honduran woman. I didn't offer her anything. I think now that it would have been an affront to give her anything. The dignity with which she informed me she had an oscillating fan tells me this. I had nothing to give her, but to be impressed by her fan.

I remember her words, when I become dissatisfied with the way things are going. I think about this when I become bored with my job, or wonder why I'm in nursing school, or when I'm just not content with what I have: I once met a girl who had an oscillating fan. And electricity. And a concrete washbasin. And I was impressed.