The usually exaggerated and bordering on ridiculous uniforms at TGI Friday's today seem to have become even more absurd, as the dumpy, charmless waitress with a moustache and fluffy pink tea cosy on her head waddles towards me and asks me what I would like to drink. I inform her that I have recently placed my order with her colleague and a confused look washes over her round face as the stares at me for a while, stammering... "But... they told me to ask you what you wanted."
I am not sure how she wants me to reply, as I smile a little awkwardly and tell her again that I have already been taken care of. The matter remains unresolved as she walks away, scratching her head. I can only imagine how uncomfortable that absurd hat with the knee high socks and braces must be in this tropical heat.
I think there must be some kind of a TGI system in place that neither the staff nor the customers are entirely clear on. To begin with, the fact that 90% of the time there are more staff than customers for me, raises the first flag, although I have to confess that this evening, this tacky, bright, loud and arduous place is actually reasonably full.
As far as I can deduce from my few visits here (I am somewhat hostage to TGI Friday's, being the only place within walking distance- although not recommendedly so - and half a ratchet above Pizza Hut) all the staff have varying and separate roles. Some greet, others serve, some stand dreamily starting out the windows and the rest I think are there for show. But it throws this little hierarchy in to confusion if you ask someone who isn't your designated server for something unexpected. I think that was the problem today; the receptionist who led me to my table asked what I would like to drink, thus bypassing a couple of steps in the ladder and getting above her station.
It is curious that this place of excessive loudness, waitresses with florescent uniforms, bright lights, screaming babies, inflated prices and a menu as wide as a phone book with absolutely nothing appealing on it (even the salads are dripping in BBQ sauce or three kinds of cheeses) should be my chosen place of refuge.
A large crowd of staff with dozens of buttons on their braces and tambourines in hand, gather at the table behind me and begin stamping, singing, clapping and rattling their instruments in a deafening, head-splitting racket. I am a little perplexed as I try to deduce their words, assuming that it is a birthday party or something. Yet it is a strange song I don't recognize and I wonder if it is a TGI policy perhaps for when someone orders a certain dish; fajita fever or triple jack burger, or something along these lines.
Groups of happily chattering diners surround me and to my left, a couple with a baby bouncing up and down on the table. I think I am the only person in the world that would go to TGI Friday’s looking for solitude, dining alone; writing.
Yet somewhere within this multi-coloured hyperbole and mayhem of blaring TV screens and 80's music, combined with kids screaming and spontaneous singing outbursts, I find a kind of find peace. It's almost as if in this peculiar place, all the conflicting noises, thoughts and ideas that race through my brain constantly, never allowing me to unwind, spill out here, like a Dali painting.
I observe the painfully slow waitress, as she returns to my table without my order. I have been developing a theory recently, or perhaps just assuming to an existing one; the brain functions something alike the body; if you don't exercise it then it will quickly become out of shape. Running from one meeting to another; one office after the next, all filled with vacuous assistants staring at the wall, at each other, at their nails, or (the ones with half a spark) at facebook, incapable of forming real sentences, or answering a simple question.
This tidal wave of brain deadness is not limited to here by any means; it is a pandemic that seems to run throughout societies and any government run institution in any country in the world. This little joke might upset some of you, but still makes me chuckle - “Question: What do you get if you have 100 lesbians and 100 civil servants in the same room? Answer- 200 people ain’t doin' dick”.
If the most challenging things you read in a day are the instructions to opening a carton of milk and the highest culture you have access to is the telenovela (or in England, the soap opera) I suppose it's only logical that your brain correspondingly, literally slows down to the intellectual pace you are working at. It isn’t just about natural born intelligence, but a cultivated, degenerative decrease in brain wave activity.
"Eso no es normal, eso no es normal" (this isn't normal) stresses Anko, the little muscle in the side of his jaw pulsing in and out as he begins to get agitated at repeating his last name 6 times, or as we wait 45 minutes in reception before it occurs to anyone to inform us that the boss is actually out of the country.
This widespread lack of common sense, intelligence, ignorance, or however you wish to call it is, as I said, certainly not limited to Honduras. In England I have been asked how I liked Africa when I said that I had just come back from Nicaragua, or when talking about Thailand, asked if I had "walked the Inca trail".
I have been served by petulant, po-faced, disinterested shop assistants, busy texting their boyfriends, staring daggers at me for deigning to disturb them to seek assistance. In the Western World it is a whole movement of people blatantly disinterested in what is going on in the world of others around them.
In Honduras, I think, a huge factor is the sweeping divide between the rich and the poor and the low standards of education available. In a country where most have to fight on a daily basis to feed their family, they simply don't have the opportunity to go to, or let their children go, to school. Lilian, the single mother I met on a bus travelling south had to drop out at 13 when she ran away from home from an abusive brother and alcoholic father, to work in a melon plantation. With an average per person of 5 years spent in education and an unemployment rate of almost 30% it’s a constant struggle.
This is a fertile and breathtakingly beautiful land, with coffee, bananas, tobacco, minerals, and tourism destinations - everything the country needs to be progressive and abundant -all in the hands of a few rich and powerful families.
Some of the quotes of the week for me definitely came from our meeting yesterday, as the subject of security problems in Honduras arouse. Waving a Bvlgari adorned wrist, our interviewee disclosed that her family was not "showy" unlike some (and she dropped names) that went everywhere with 5 bodyguards, grotesquely displaying their wealth. She personally had only two (both trained in martial arts and body combat and, of course, fully armed - but just two).
She continued enthusiastically, widening her eyes adding that, as a self proclaimed lefty, "look at all the poverty here; frankly it's just tacky to spend your money in front of these people. At least have the decency to go abroad, to the States or somewhere and spend your money there". I find myself nodding in agreement, as I tend to do during these shallow encounters, and leave scratching my head. Would it not be better off for the country is she were less considerate and at least circulated her wealth on Honduran soil?
On more than one occasional we have heard CEOs of companies proudly declaring that they don't hire any doctors/lawyers/managers who haven't studied abroad and preferably in the United States. It struck me as ironic that the rectors of all 5 of the Universities that we went to, both private and public, waxed lyric for an hour about the quality of higher education in the country, only to purse their lips and frown at the question of whether their children studied there. "Of course not!" was always the answer; their children are educated overseas.
Well I certainly am not in a position to speak about standards of higher education here, or in any country for that matter, and I certainly wouldn't recommend either of the Universities I went to. I can only go by what I see and hear. Carla, a tourism student who works part time as a waitress in one of the places I sometimes go to eat, sent me some of her work to help me with my research. Although the subject matter is solid and the overall article interesting, it is written with the most shockingly bad grammar possible; and graded without correction by University professors. I am not even a native Spanish speaker and yet the errors gaped out at me from the page like the chasms in the highway.
I see the waitress hovering nearby with the bill and realize that I have written a lot. In some deep, dark place inside of me, I secretly like TGI Friday’s. I can snuggle myself away in a corner booth and conduct my own little social experiment.
21 Sept 2010
Rainy Season Begins
Day suddenly becomes night as the thick black clouds envelope the city and the rumbling thunder breaks into an ear-shattering crash. The wind begins to gather force and, almost without warning, the rain starts to pound down hard on the frail roof of the restaurant, blowing in from all sides, soaking us within seconds, as we scramble for our things, shrieking loudly, running down the stairs and under cover.
A ray of lightning collides against the earth a few meters away, shaking the building in its wrath and the restaurant falls into darkness as the electricity short circuits across the neighbourhood. The unrelenting force of the storm is deafening and it is hard to maintain our conversation as we sit in the semi darkness that has descended upon us at midday.
The claps and flashes begin to pass over the city and away and we order the bill and walk towards the car, the gushing water flooding towards the over spilling drains and the fallen debris scattered about the street. Our driver has the radio on and we find out that one of the walls of the national stadium nearby has collapsed with full force on top of a taxi stand, killing one driver instantly and wounding several others.
Winds of up to 60k an hour teamed with violent thunder and an electric force in all its glory hit the stadium without pity and the wall disintegrated into a fountain of dust and brick. Trees, rocks and branches have fallen all over the city and many areas have been left without power.
My heart fills with trepidation as I think of all the desperately poor people in their fragile houses, one atop of another, so vulnerable to mudslides with their weak foundations and precarious structures. The rainy season has begun in full force and this city is extremely exposed.
Tegucigalpa, "city of the mines" is (if you listen to the most pessimistic accounts) on the point of collapse. The current capital developed due the precious stones that were abundant in this area, and the huge potential of the mineral industry. People flocked here from across the country to work the mines and the city expanded at an unimaginable pace, sprawling out across the hills. Construction upon construction of dilapidated and badly put together dwellings place ever more weight upon a fragile surface above underground rivers, caves, and mines, providing a horrifyingly weak base.
It was only recently recognized that this city also lies on top of a hotbed of seismic activity, that’s small but regular shocks are evidenced in the zigzagging cracks in the streets that run in the same direction.
According to some, it is literally a question of time before Tegucigalpa crumbles into the ground, as the fragile earth cannot take the weight of the buildings, the rain, the traffic and the people. Weak at its very foundation; a honeycomb of hollow earth beneath, the roads regularly bubble up into holes and even collapse completely, and houses slide down the hills towards the river.
I pray that today's battering won't leave too many scars, but there is little hope of things getting better before they get worse as hurricane season begins. Why is it always those who have the least that have to lose the most?
Christina Comben
A ray of lightning collides against the earth a few meters away, shaking the building in its wrath and the restaurant falls into darkness as the electricity short circuits across the neighbourhood. The unrelenting force of the storm is deafening and it is hard to maintain our conversation as we sit in the semi darkness that has descended upon us at midday.
The claps and flashes begin to pass over the city and away and we order the bill and walk towards the car, the gushing water flooding towards the over spilling drains and the fallen debris scattered about the street. Our driver has the radio on and we find out that one of the walls of the national stadium nearby has collapsed with full force on top of a taxi stand, killing one driver instantly and wounding several others.
Winds of up to 60k an hour teamed with violent thunder and an electric force in all its glory hit the stadium without pity and the wall disintegrated into a fountain of dust and brick. Trees, rocks and branches have fallen all over the city and many areas have been left without power.
My heart fills with trepidation as I think of all the desperately poor people in their fragile houses, one atop of another, so vulnerable to mudslides with their weak foundations and precarious structures. The rainy season has begun in full force and this city is extremely exposed.
Tegucigalpa, "city of the mines" is (if you listen to the most pessimistic accounts) on the point of collapse. The current capital developed due the precious stones that were abundant in this area, and the huge potential of the mineral industry. People flocked here from across the country to work the mines and the city expanded at an unimaginable pace, sprawling out across the hills. Construction upon construction of dilapidated and badly put together dwellings place ever more weight upon a fragile surface above underground rivers, caves, and mines, providing a horrifyingly weak base.
It was only recently recognized that this city also lies on top of a hotbed of seismic activity, that’s small but regular shocks are evidenced in the zigzagging cracks in the streets that run in the same direction.
According to some, it is literally a question of time before Tegucigalpa crumbles into the ground, as the fragile earth cannot take the weight of the buildings, the rain, the traffic and the people. Weak at its very foundation; a honeycomb of hollow earth beneath, the roads regularly bubble up into holes and even collapse completely, and houses slide down the hills towards the river.
I pray that today's battering won't leave too many scars, but there is little hope of things getting better before they get worse as hurricane season begins. Why is it always those who have the least that have to lose the most?
Christina Comben
20 Sept 2010
Sopa de Mondongo
We stand in line, container in hand, waiting to buy the family lunch. Large clay surfaces with wooden fires below sustain heavy cauldrons of burning soup. I look around and exchange a grin with a little girl in a faded pink dress, shuffling from one foot to the other. She smiles at me coyly as she retreats behind her father's legs and then peeps one eye out to look at me again. Sonia greets the people that she knows - a warm exchange between extended family - and friends that have been absent for a while. Queuing up at this little business with red brick walls and a corrugated iron roof is a Sunday tradition in Choluteca.
An extremely overweight lady with thick folds in her arms and neck, has a ladle in her hand, an orange tunic covering her large form and a vibrant violet T-shit underneath. She dishes up large servings of sopa de mondongo (tripe soup). Beads of sweat form on her forehead, as she wipes her brow and rubs her hand across her apron. It's brain drainingly hot-35 degrees of heat with a humidity that literally sucks you towards the earth - and this awesome lady is standing above a cauldron of piping hot soup.
Enormous vats of this elaborate dish simmer and spit from the fire underneath. Her face lights up as she greets every new customer in line, reserving a special hug and kiss for Sonia. It amuses her and her helpers that I take photos of what is for them, the most normal event in the world. They stand back so I can snap a shot of the bubbling pot in its entirety, giggling between themselves at this curious foreigner with pale skin and a camera in her hand.
There are flocks of people patiently waiting to collect their lunch and the seamless coordination and agility of service is impressive. This is a well-run business with each and every ration carefully complemented with an extra cob of corn here; a handful of spicy vegetables there, or a pinch of salt and pepper atop the slippery texture of the intestines. Sopa de Mondongo, bubbling hot. Just another Sunday in this sleepy corner of the globe.
An extremely overweight lady with thick folds in her arms and neck, has a ladle in her hand, an orange tunic covering her large form and a vibrant violet T-shit underneath. She dishes up large servings of sopa de mondongo (tripe soup). Beads of sweat form on her forehead, as she wipes her brow and rubs her hand across her apron. It's brain drainingly hot-35 degrees of heat with a humidity that literally sucks you towards the earth - and this awesome lady is standing above a cauldron of piping hot soup.
Enormous vats of this elaborate dish simmer and spit from the fire underneath. Her face lights up as she greets every new customer in line, reserving a special hug and kiss for Sonia. It amuses her and her helpers that I take photos of what is for them, the most normal event in the world. They stand back so I can snap a shot of the bubbling pot in its entirety, giggling between themselves at this curious foreigner with pale skin and a camera in her hand.
There are flocks of people patiently waiting to collect their lunch and the seamless coordination and agility of service is impressive. This is a well-run business with each and every ration carefully complemented with an extra cob of corn here; a handful of spicy vegetables there, or a pinch of salt and pepper atop the slippery texture of the intestines. Sopa de Mondongo, bubbling hot. Just another Sunday in this sleepy corner of the globe.
15 Sept 2010
Don't cross the Line
Sitting on the step with pen in hand I find it hard to express how I feel. It's been such a hectic week. I feel like I'm on a high speed train accelerating through a tunnel. A frenetic pace that had me nearly vomiting from fear and exhaustion at times. Most days the alarm went off at 6, although my eyes were already wide open and heart pounding long before its shrill tones pierced the air.
One night we started our last meeting late and had to drive around in the dark looking for a coffee factory in one of Latin America's infamously most dangerous cities. Banging upon the gates of an apparently derelict facility, that were opened finally by security guards with eye-openingly large guns. I walked into that meeting legs quivering with nerves; I wasn't sure that they would support me as I shook hands and introduced myself.
The first day we arrived in San Pedro Sula there was a massacre in a shoe factory. Assassins armed with AK47s just went in and brutally murdered 18 people, apparently without motive. Although that is not entirely clear. It's generally accepted that crime here isn't so random; more often than not it takes place between gangs, over territories, because of drugs disputes or settling accounts. This is a part of the world where life is cheap, particularly if you mix with the wrong people. A place where you can pay a hit man to finish someone who has crossed you for a 100 dollars or less, or where sheer desperation may lead to a killing over a cell phone.
Although this city has clearly marked zones that are simply no go at all times. You don't "cross the line" - about two blocks from the central plaza - unless you want to get yourself in trouble.
You see a bit of everything here. Going out for dinner, the parking lots are full and yet there are hardly any diners inside the restaurant. Many people circulate with their own personal security system at all times and have their bodyguards waiting for them outside. Crime might be mostly organized, but you also hear about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
We met so many people this week; some of the richest and most powerful in the country. One entrepreneur with his own island, houses all over the world and more money than he knows what to do with. One of our interviewees died before we could see him, although through natural causes; he was 80 years old and still worked a full day every day. Helicopters flocked into the city from all parts of the country to attend his funeral. He was one of Honduras' most respected and influential figures; a man who created an entire sector and who continued to dominate the textile industry until his death.
Of course it's all relative. If you maintain a low profile, keep your car doors locked and don't cross the line you should be fine. As this ridiculously wealthy businessman told us; he goes everywhere in the city without any problem, even below the line, to visit one of his stores; security really isn't such an issue here. We felt better until we left his office and he accompanied us, on the way to the funeral, jumping into an armoured car with two bodyguards in front and a second van full of guards with guns trailing him out of the car park.
I won't mention any names. Honduras just became the second most dangerous country in the world for journalists, after Mexico and before Pakistan, with 9 deaths in the industry this year, and the shutting down of an important independent news channel last week. Although it’s certainly true that you can create a kind of hysteria that is rather exaggerated if you get caught up in the sensationalist headlines.
This has been a crazy experience. We've seen and heard stories of corruption that make your hair stand on end. I regularly finish my day in tears; or laughing incessantly until my sides hurt over a beer and with new friends, looking at the lighter side of this madness. I don't think I have ever been through so many extreme lows and highs in my life since I started this job.
A coconut thudding from a tree in the distance shakes me from my thoughts, and I remember where I am. Try as I might, I can't shake the overwhelming intensity of this week. The rainforest hums, the Caribbean glistens under the moonlight and I breathe deeply, at last some sort of peace falls over me. I just try to block out the fact that somewhere in the distance people are being killed, giant laboratories buried deep in the jungle are fabricating illegal drugs and weapons are being smuggled across the borders.
The ministry of tourism's official slogan is "Honduras; todo esta aqui" (everything is here). Nothing could be closer to the truth. This chaos with crumbling cities, streets with deep cracks like wide open veins and constant poverty at every turn, is balanced out with a people so warm that they melt your heart, a tropical climate, beaches to die for and fried fish that you eat with your hands, topped with juicy jalapenos. My oh my, beyond doubt, everything is here.
Christina Comben
One night we started our last meeting late and had to drive around in the dark looking for a coffee factory in one of Latin America's infamously most dangerous cities. Banging upon the gates of an apparently derelict facility, that were opened finally by security guards with eye-openingly large guns. I walked into that meeting legs quivering with nerves; I wasn't sure that they would support me as I shook hands and introduced myself.
The first day we arrived in San Pedro Sula there was a massacre in a shoe factory. Assassins armed with AK47s just went in and brutally murdered 18 people, apparently without motive. Although that is not entirely clear. It's generally accepted that crime here isn't so random; more often than not it takes place between gangs, over territories, because of drugs disputes or settling accounts. This is a part of the world where life is cheap, particularly if you mix with the wrong people. A place where you can pay a hit man to finish someone who has crossed you for a 100 dollars or less, or where sheer desperation may lead to a killing over a cell phone.
Although this city has clearly marked zones that are simply no go at all times. You don't "cross the line" - about two blocks from the central plaza - unless you want to get yourself in trouble.
You see a bit of everything here. Going out for dinner, the parking lots are full and yet there are hardly any diners inside the restaurant. Many people circulate with their own personal security system at all times and have their bodyguards waiting for them outside. Crime might be mostly organized, but you also hear about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
We met so many people this week; some of the richest and most powerful in the country. One entrepreneur with his own island, houses all over the world and more money than he knows what to do with. One of our interviewees died before we could see him, although through natural causes; he was 80 years old and still worked a full day every day. Helicopters flocked into the city from all parts of the country to attend his funeral. He was one of Honduras' most respected and influential figures; a man who created an entire sector and who continued to dominate the textile industry until his death.
Of course it's all relative. If you maintain a low profile, keep your car doors locked and don't cross the line you should be fine. As this ridiculously wealthy businessman told us; he goes everywhere in the city without any problem, even below the line, to visit one of his stores; security really isn't such an issue here. We felt better until we left his office and he accompanied us, on the way to the funeral, jumping into an armoured car with two bodyguards in front and a second van full of guards with guns trailing him out of the car park.
I won't mention any names. Honduras just became the second most dangerous country in the world for journalists, after Mexico and before Pakistan, with 9 deaths in the industry this year, and the shutting down of an important independent news channel last week. Although it’s certainly true that you can create a kind of hysteria that is rather exaggerated if you get caught up in the sensationalist headlines.
This has been a crazy experience. We've seen and heard stories of corruption that make your hair stand on end. I regularly finish my day in tears; or laughing incessantly until my sides hurt over a beer and with new friends, looking at the lighter side of this madness. I don't think I have ever been through so many extreme lows and highs in my life since I started this job.
A coconut thudding from a tree in the distance shakes me from my thoughts, and I remember where I am. Try as I might, I can't shake the overwhelming intensity of this week. The rainforest hums, the Caribbean glistens under the moonlight and I breathe deeply, at last some sort of peace falls over me. I just try to block out the fact that somewhere in the distance people are being killed, giant laboratories buried deep in the jungle are fabricating illegal drugs and weapons are being smuggled across the borders.
The ministry of tourism's official slogan is "Honduras; todo esta aqui" (everything is here). Nothing could be closer to the truth. This chaos with crumbling cities, streets with deep cracks like wide open veins and constant poverty at every turn, is balanced out with a people so warm that they melt your heart, a tropical climate, beaches to die for and fried fish that you eat with your hands, topped with juicy jalapenos. My oh my, beyond doubt, everything is here.
Christina Comben
12 Sept 2010
El Paraiso, Honduras
My skin quivers as I plunge into the crystal clear water of the deep pool. The waterfall thunders behind me and the spray enters my eyes; the delicious coldness providing a welcomed relief from the steaming heat and omnipresent threat of insects dwelling and vibrating in the dense, throbbing, green jungle around.
I close my eyes and can hear the humming of insect life and the curious shrill of a tropical bird, calling perhaps for its mate; hidden by the palm leaves, and out of sight. We had to drive up a dirt road and around several obstacles to get here, including a donkey and a small river; a colony of red ants and a swarm of hungry mosquitoes.
There is a group of tourists at the falls when we arrive. I'm not sure from where, but they are Hondurans, from another part of the country. Despite the 35 degrees of heat and humidity levels that must reach 100% at times, they are all dressed in jeans. I feel a little out of place as I shrug off my dress and dive under the water, semi naked, in my bikini, compared to the rest of the women tentatively entering the pool in full clothing; shirt and jeans.
A young boy with a beaming smile back flips off of the rock and dives deep down to look for a caracole which he hands to me triumphantly and with a contagious smile, displaying the gaps in his white teeth. The gesture is undeniably sweet and I am truly thankful; but I have a snail in my hand, which doesn't want to stay in its shell. Thanking him for the gift, I place it on the mossy rock beside me, and a few moments later, almost rocket through the air as I feel the slimy trail of the creature making its way up my thigh.
The people laugh and frolic, the sun shines, the children play and the jungle throbs. This is such a forgotten corner of the world. I hope no one tells Club Med.
Christina Comben
I close my eyes and can hear the humming of insect life and the curious shrill of a tropical bird, calling perhaps for its mate; hidden by the palm leaves, and out of sight. We had to drive up a dirt road and around several obstacles to get here, including a donkey and a small river; a colony of red ants and a swarm of hungry mosquitoes.
There is a group of tourists at the falls when we arrive. I'm not sure from where, but they are Hondurans, from another part of the country. Despite the 35 degrees of heat and humidity levels that must reach 100% at times, they are all dressed in jeans. I feel a little out of place as I shrug off my dress and dive under the water, semi naked, in my bikini, compared to the rest of the women tentatively entering the pool in full clothing; shirt and jeans.
A young boy with a beaming smile back flips off of the rock and dives deep down to look for a caracole which he hands to me triumphantly and with a contagious smile, displaying the gaps in his white teeth. The gesture is undeniably sweet and I am truly thankful; but I have a snail in my hand, which doesn't want to stay in its shell. Thanking him for the gift, I place it on the mossy rock beside me, and a few moments later, almost rocket through the air as I feel the slimy trail of the creature making its way up my thigh.
The people laugh and frolic, the sun shines, the children play and the jungle throbs. This is such a forgotten corner of the world. I hope no one tells Club Med.
Christina Comben
7 Sept 2010
How do you hold on to time? Tela, Honduras
Stretched out like a lazy lizard, drinking in the sun, I had one hand buried deep in the sand. Rolling the grains between my fingertips and filling up my nails, eyes gently closed, playing with the grains; lost in my thoughts. I didn't even notice the little Garifuna girl staring down at me, until I felt a shadow blocking my sun. Sleepily I opened my eyes to see a curious face with dark eyes, fringed with thick lashes, grinning down at me. A shrill giggle escaped from her lips as she realized the game was up and she had been caught looking at me. She grabbed an empty beer can from the side of my sun lounger and ran towards the sea, letting out a yelp as she bounded across the sand towards the water's edge.
Using the empty container as a toy, she scoops up the sand, tipping it out in swirling trails in the air; shrieking as the wind changes direction and the grains enter her eyes. She splashes excitedly in the waves, letting the water lap in and out of her toes. The sun gently setting behind the ocean transforms her dark shape into a silhouette against the sky; her curling braids beaded at the ends, exaggerated in size in the shadow of her nimble body on the shore behind.
Temporarily her basket of "tabletas de coco" is left on the sand and for a few fleeting moments she enjoys being a child again. Just for a short while she is not trudging barefoot in the hot sand up and down the beach selling home baked goods in the heat. The disappointed frown I had seen as the people rejected her offer of coconut delights has dissolved into a grin, and the beer can, sand and waves provide all the pleasure that she needs.
I think of all the things that I need to make me happy. And the list is considerably longer. I can't take my eyes off her and her laughter is contagious. For a few moments, I too forget the constant pressure of work; the need to perform; the nagging unrelenting internal push to do more. For a few moments the child and I are staring at the same sea, laughing at the same scene and bathing under same sun. Tomorrow everything will be different. We will both be working again. I wish I could capture this moment, but snapping a photo won't make it stand still. Time slips through your fingers like the grains of sand on the beach.
Christina Comben
Using the empty container as a toy, she scoops up the sand, tipping it out in swirling trails in the air; shrieking as the wind changes direction and the grains enter her eyes. She splashes excitedly in the waves, letting the water lap in and out of her toes. The sun gently setting behind the ocean transforms her dark shape into a silhouette against the sky; her curling braids beaded at the ends, exaggerated in size in the shadow of her nimble body on the shore behind.
Temporarily her basket of "tabletas de coco" is left on the sand and for a few fleeting moments she enjoys being a child again. Just for a short while she is not trudging barefoot in the hot sand up and down the beach selling home baked goods in the heat. The disappointed frown I had seen as the people rejected her offer of coconut delights has dissolved into a grin, and the beer can, sand and waves provide all the pleasure that she needs.
I think of all the things that I need to make me happy. And the list is considerably longer. I can't take my eyes off her and her laughter is contagious. For a few moments, I too forget the constant pressure of work; the need to perform; the nagging unrelenting internal push to do more. For a few moments the child and I are staring at the same sea, laughing at the same scene and bathing under same sun. Tomorrow everything will be different. We will both be working again. I wish I could capture this moment, but snapping a photo won't make it stand still. Time slips through your fingers like the grains of sand on the beach.
Christina Comben
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
