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Published: September 30th 2008
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I tried not to have any expectations for this trip, but I couldn't help myself. I had dedicated the last year of my life entirely to learning Spanish so I could return and talk to the people who had changed my life the year before. If the trip was amazing and life altering when I didn't even speak Spanish, I could only imagine it being that much more awesome with a fluent understanding of the language. Back then I knew just enough to promise that I would return. Most rolled their eyes and smiled sadly as though they wanted to believe me but couldn't. They had seen many volunteers in the past come and help briefly only to leave and never be seen again. I was determined not to be one of these people.
When I returned to the US I got right to work. I started by labeling most items in my house with their Spanish names (on post-its). I carried verb flashcards with me everywhere and would flip through them while waiting for the bus or standing in line at the bank or if someone was really boring me-- really whenever I could. After a month of doing
La Chureca
houses made from trash this, I hopped on a plane to Peru by myself where I travelled and volunteered alongside locals who spoke no English. When I returned, I took advanced Spanish classes, volunteered at the bilingual elementary school, started a spanish club, and befriended Mexican immigrants. After one year, I was essentially fluent and ready to return as a translator.
I spent most of my semester grocery savings on the plane ticket. I thought it would be worth it. But as the date approached I started to get a sinking feeling in my stomach. I became depressed and tired. All the activities I had taken on in preparation for the trip had burned me out a bit. I boarded the plane, but the trip was already not off to a good start.
I was going with the Poverty Matters class again. We were there to do humanitarian type work as we had done the year before. This time the villagers asked for help building an orphanage to house street kids. I was excited to get to work on this new project, but the main purpose of my return was to show the people from the year before that I had not
forgotten about them and was dedicated to continue working with them on making the sustainable changes they wanted to see in their communities. Unfortunately, when we arrived, I found out that the first two people I thought I would see, to whom I had promised I would return, had at the last minute decided not to participate this year. I was disappointed, but shrugged it off. There were plenty more people I still looked forward to seeing-- the kids in the dump, most importantly. I went to sleep that night with high expectations for the next day.
We boarded the bus at 6am and drove to the city dump to pick up the kids. We took them out to museums and nice parks. The idea (my professor's) was to take them places they wouldn't have been allowed to go otherwise due to their poor attire and otherwise untidy appearances that labelled them as street children and therefore garbage in the eyes of many. I know she had good intentions, but as the day wore on and we eventually had to bring them home, I started to wonder if we were doing more harm than good. Basically, we were showing
them the life they could have had were they born to wealthier parents, then dropping them off back home in the dump. It was a tease.
The next day was dedicated entirely to exploring the dump, to walk around and meet the kids families (if they had one). Going back to the dump was another major reason I decided to return to Nicaragua. I was hoping to run into some of the kids we had "helped" the previous year. And... none of them remembered me. Apparently hundreds of volunteers come into the dump every day. Tons of people pass through, trying to "help" these kids. Before I had thought conditions there were bad because not enough outsiders were trying to help. I had the naive, self-important opinion that all the world needs is more people trying to make a difference, doing the things I do. Oh man was I wrong. There are plenty of people like me: coming in from the outside, trying to make a difference in the lives of people whose language we barely speak, whose cultures and lifestyles we could only pretend to understand, and most of the time just making things worse.
Of the
fires spontaneously erupt
burning the barefoot childrens' feet kids I did see, two were barely conscious from glue sniffing and one, a twelve year old prostitute, was pregnant. Her eyes were vacant. When we got back to the hostel at the end of a 16 hour day, I broke down in tears. What had I dedicated my life to? We were not helping these people. Who was I? Major identity crisis. I thought "maybe I should leave" and talked to my professor about it. The next day, we would be leaving for Jalapa and then I wouldn't be able to turn back. If I was going to leave, it had to be then. I wanted to give it a few more days, but I couldn't risk being stuck there. I felt that my depression and existential questioning was out of place in that group. Everyone else was still idealistic and hopeful about making a difference. I would only slow them down. I decided to go home.
I've shied from humaitarian work since then. I wrote my BA thesis on the potential harm that it can do. I'm still not so sure. I used to believe in it so deeply... maybe some day I'll find a reason to
again. Until then...
NOTE: This is very late entry! This trip took place in March 2007.
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Ben
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Hola Katie. Estube leyendo tu blog sobre tu viaje a Nicaragua el año pasado. Es muy triste que te hallas decepcionado al encontrarte con la gente que conocistes el año anterior. Hopefully by now you are feeling better emotionally and have your thoughts clear on how to contribute to make this world a better place for all of us. I am sure there is lots of people who see you as their hero. Have a wonderful day. Adios muchacha :)