Monster balls of sweat coagulate on my nose and neck. The merciless Honduran sun pierces my eyes and ravages my skin. It’s been 20 minutes and I’ve only cleared a small section of grass. Sweat is pooling in my thick, over sized rubber boots. I desperately grasp the slippery handle of my machete and take another swing. Voices float above the tall grass, tangling with each hearty blade. I wipe my eyes on my shirt and they begin to sting. My nose, inspired by my sweat glands, is running Olympic-style down my face. I feel the sun’s sinister fingers reaching for my delicate skin. Secretly I am glad that soon I must leave to open the pool. I methodically launch the blade of my machete into the insubordinate grass. This grass isn’t the innocent, velvety golf course variety; this is juvenile detention center material, the don’t-mess-with-me-or-I’ll-pop-you-one kind. I grit my teeth with each swing, grabbing the handle now with both hands. My pitiful contribution is laughable, but no one says anything. The kids have been out here all morning, all week, all month. They’ve probably cleared more grass by hand than I’ve mowed on my dad’s riding mower. They come to me for Band-Aids, to cover their blisters and calluses, their hands worn raw from hours of hard labor. Even Elias, who is 7 years old, helps clear land every afternoon. Not only is this machete business hard work, it’s dangerous.
Today a scary thing happened. Cindy, one of the girls at the Hogar, was clearing brush with her machete and cut her knee. I didn’t see it happen or see the initial cut. When I walked out of my room for lunch I was shocked at the crowd gathered around a few seated figures. Nelson, the man who started the Hogar in 1996, was bent over Cindy. I didn’t hear her cry or scream, even though he’d just injected a strong dose of pain killers and was stitching the cut closed with a needle and thread. After lunch she was back in the kitchen washing dishes. Please show me an American girl who would be back at work less than an hour after her leg was sliced open. This afternoon I gingerly peeled away her bloody bandages to put on fresh gauze. Course, black thread zigzagged across her knee like the trail of a runaway horse. No tears, just a face scrunched in pain and discomfort. I wanted so badly to make her feel better, but there was not much I could do.
While her accident frightened a few, they had no choice but to continue to clear the field after lunch, and that’s when I joined them for a measly 20 minutes. I returned to my room plastered in sweat and sporting an ugly sunburn. I hated every second of it, but I am determined to do it again soon.
Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.
-Matthew 11:28
3 comments:
Hannah, aka "Beti la sudando" I know that doesn't work, but anyways... Keep up the good work. I'm praying for you dear! Didn't get that thing totally written, but a "book" is coming your way. Love you and miss you!
"...weary and sunbur[de]ned..." We have my machete in with the kitchen knives. An interesting niche, if I do say so myself, but still beautiful. What a tough little girl you described. I've never had stitches myself, but am [almost] jealous of the kids who have. Like my bro. Twenty-something stitches during childhood. Many incidents were in very close proximity to me. I don't know how I "escaped."
Bet you,d rather wield the machete than the needle and thread though!
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