The last month and a half has been busy, so busy that I forgot I had this page to update. (I hope that is a acceptable excuse for anyone who still checks this). It was full of Comedor days, teaching English in my 4th grade class, a trip home to meet my nephew Brendan, a medical brigade at Comedor, the birth of our friend Marlin's first granddaughter, a weekend in the mountains in La Mojada Verde, Semana Santa (Holy Week) events, the beginning of a job search (only 3 months left!), Talanga's own Kimberly Romero winning an American Idol like Honduran singing contest, the list goes on. Every moment here is so full of life that I could never fully describe even one day, let alone a month and a half's worth of activity. And so, I will tell you, in great detail, all about making mango salad.
The Comedor Infantil Pasionista nows serves 24 kids daily, 2 of whom are Blanca (4 years old) and her brother, Jefferson (9 years old). Not to play favorites, but their family is awesome. In addition to these 2, there is 12 year old David, 10 year old Chele and 1 year old Marjorie. These 5 kids seem to have a certain ownership over their neighborhood, a certain swagger in their walk and by some stroke of luck, a certain affection for me. Their mom, Milaby, is 28 and works when she can find it. David sometimes work as well. Jefferson and Blanca are at the Comedor Monday through Friday, which leaves Chele at home to take care of Marjorie. A few times a week, either before or after Comedor, I stop in to spend a little time at their house.
I'm usually spotted before I make it up the road and my arrival is announced to the rest of the house, "Viene Nina!". The front door is almost always open and Spanish reggaeton is blaring from inside. The moment I walk through the wooden gate at the street's edge, I am bombarded. Jeffers wants to know when he can come visit my house, David shows me his homework from night school to look over, Chele asks what song I want him to put on, Blanca needs help brushing her hair or finding her shoes, Marjorie should be held or fed or bathed. I never know what the visit will bring, except the one predictable thing: one of the kids will insist, "Let's make mango salad".
In the empty lot next door, a stone's throw from the dumpster, is a mango tree. As soon as the idea is uttered, everyone runs to it, the ones with shoes giving piggyback rides to the barefooted ones, as to not step on mysterious dumpster dangers and fills a bowl with unripe mangos. As I sit on the stoop of the front door, I'm handed a knife and begin to peel. Contrary to safety precautions, I peel towards my body and without fail, it is noted each time. Sitting next to me, one of the boys also peels, in the more correct, away from your body, manner. Gabriel makes his way over from across the street. Christopher and Carla catch wind of the activity and soon come over. Before all the mangos are peeled, there are at least 10 kids crowding around the small stoop. When we get down to the last mangos, someone runs to another house to borrow a little salt. I shell out 2 lempiras (10 cents) and send another to the pulperia to get the spices. The salt and spice are poured over the sliced mangos, mixed up, and many dirty hands, mine included, dig in.
I can't stress enough the importance of this ritual. Mango salad has made me a part of Milaby's family. Before mango salad, my time with them was limited to the Comedor hours. Since mango salad has become a regular part of my days, I have gone with the kids to get their flu shots, taken them to the river to swim, visited their grandma, sat day after day chatting with Milaby, helped with homework, been given endless Spanish classes by the kids, been taught how to use a slingshot and how to ride 3 people to one bike, again, the list goes on. The PVI program is all about building relationships, putting in the time to let them grow, knowing you can't force them. And it was all that mango salad that gave my relationship with Milaby and her family the chance to grow.
