Posted in Nicaragua by Justin Marshall on 4/16/2012
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Posted in Nicaragua by Justin Marshall on 3/19/2012
We spent the last few days as a squad in a hostel in Granada. You learn to love simple things on the race, so killer fast wifi and cheap smoothies make for satisfying mini vacation. I had a citrus smoothie made with passion fruit, pineapple, and lime that made my knees wobble. Granada is hipster/backpacker paradise. There are Europeans, and locals, and all kinds of lost American twenty-somethings searching for something. I’m still not sure what. It’s the Kafka and unfiltered cigarette crowd that I saw so much in college. So, if you’re looking for the hipster scene, come to Granada.
After a few days debriefing in Granada, it was time to push on to our new ministry site in Nicaragua. Travel days are always interesting. This time our journey came with kittens. Ada, our animal loving weirdo, rescued two baby kittens abandoned alongside the road so of course they came along too. Traveling five hours on three buses and one taxi, with kittens, is actually pretty incredible. She’s a superstar. Travel in Central America is hot, cramped, and really confusing. Seven of us, along with all our overstuffed packs, crammed into two Honda civic hatchbacks that taxied us to our home in Candelaria. Half our packs dangled out the back of the hatchback while Kathryn hung on to them with one hand stretched around from the backseat. Well, we made it.
We went swimming yesterday. Along trails cut through the sugar cane fields, we walked to the dam. Joey cracked open a sugar cane stalk and peeled it with his teeth. He says it gives him the buzz of coffee, but without the shakiness. I haven’t found that to be true. It’s just sugar. The sun is blisteringly bright here. It feels like I’m stuck in an oven, set to broil. The water by the dam felt warm near the surface and freezing a few feet down. Crater and Joey jumped off a small cliff nearby and took turns doing flips off the bridge, trying to outdo each other. We threw sticks at a mango tree on the way back, trying to dislodge ripe fruit from the branches. I must have eaten half a dozen. I’ve still got those orange strands stuck in my teeth. I’ve been trying to get them out for the past day.
It feels like an indulgence to have a bed this month even if it’s just a foam pad. It’s the first bed I’ve had on the race, and it’s like heaven. I sleep like I’m dead. The heat is draining and I find it hard to make it past ten every night. The sun is like a sponge that just saps all your strength. Tomorrow is the beginning of our weekend and we’re going to the beach in Leon. I promise to drink my fair share of lattes and smoothies while trying to get all the sand from between my toes. It’s a tough job.
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Posted in Honduras by Justin Marshall on 3/10/2012
The stench of rotting garbage burns a hole in my nostrils as the van rolls into the dump. Anonymous faces travel back and forth carrying loads of trash over their shoulders. Their clothes look foul, the dirt clinging to their jeans like a virus. Masks cover everyone’s faces and the air smells of sickness. Hope seems absent.
Vultures crisscross the sky and thick steam funnels out of steep piles of garbage. Trucks arrive, bringing even more trash. Men dash for the truck and climb aboard before it has a chance to deposit its payload. It’s a race to grab the garbage first. I’ve seen pictures of this sort of thing, but to smell it and be there is different. It’s more visceral.
We didn’t wander far from the van. Even amidst of all the pungent aromas of rotting garbage, a group of gringos still smells like money. All the passing stares made me a bit uncomfortable and we only stayed a half hour. There’s a part of me that wants to go back and an awful lot of me that never wants to see anything like this again. The images are burned in my mind like a branding iron.
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Posted in Honduras by Justin Marshall on 2/17/2012
After seven hours of driving, one ice cream sandwich, a big bottle of Salva Cola, and two trips to the bathroom, I arrived at Zion’s Gate on Saturday. Our whole squad is hunkered down alongside a mountainside road with eighteen wheelers whizzing past so loud, you can hardly hear your own breathing. The nights get cold. Any warm temperatures are tempered by a constant mountain breeze that cools the air. I knew my fleece hoodie would come in handy somewhere along the way.
All forty three of us are encamped on a twenty acre property just outside Tegucigalpa, the world’s murder capital. The ministry, Zion’s Gate, serves street kids from some of the toughest neighborhoods in Tegucigalpa. The kids have survived difficult circumstances full of gangs and paint thinner and absentee parents. It’s the desire for change or just the promise of free satellite TV that draws them here, but they’re present and that’s the important part. Transformation is a process. The boys are a bit unruly and they like to ride their bikes indoors, speeding past all our computers as close as humanly possible. Take a normal North American boy, feed him five Red Bulls and you probably have a close approximation of one of these kids. They have boundless energy with a dash of boyish violence. Yesterday, one of them invaded the shower while I was getting dressed. I guess you get used to it. They’re starved for attention.
So far things have been laid back. As in El Salvador, nothing happens on time. You have to hold to the schedule loosely. We’ve been doing manual labor around the property. Next week we’ll start moving about, exploring different areas of the city and working in some of the poorer areas. Our goal is to infect these areas like a plague, bringing living hope to people who are probably just curious to see what forty Americans are doing there.
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Posted in El Salvador by Justin Marshall on 2/4/2012
About two weeks ago, our neighbor died. Overhearing their mournful wails, I felt convicted. We’d been working with two communities just outside of Apastepeque, but had ignored our own street. Since that night, we’ve taken time walking our street, looking for open doors and opportunity.
A few days ago, we wandered to an old house, tucked away in the back of a field and asked to pray for an old woman and her grandchildren. Another house we visited overflowed with children playing music and singing. Far behind the road we talked with a few people, held some bunny rabbits, and prayed for the older woman with health problems.
We walked down the main road near our house and a man stumbled toward me clasping a bottle of vodka in his right hand. He wanted me to take his picture. Something told me to pray for him, but I never did. I just took his photo and kept walking. We strolled all the way to the basketball courts on the other side of town and on the way back I glanced down side streets, hoping for a second chance to speak with him and pray. My heart pulls for people like that. I know what it’s like to give up.
I never found that man, but along the way back I spotted another man, filthy drunk, clinging onto a lamp post. His jeans were wet with urine and his words slurred. It made me sad. We all paused and prayed for him. I’m not sure he understood anything we said, but I know there’s power in prayer.
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Posted in El Salvador by Justin Marshall on 1/25/2012
I’ve been living in a bungalow in Apastapeque with thirteen other racers for the past two weeks. At times I feel like I’ve been here forever, but then I remember that this is just the beginning. My Spanish still needs a lot of work. The language barrier can be frustrating, but I’ve become a master at gesturing. It’s kind of like playing charades all day, everyday.
All of us piled into the back of a yet another pickup truck and drove to a large dirt soccer field outside of San Vincente. The guys got schooled, playing soccer against some far better competition. There was a baseball game happening in one corner of the field and Bethany played drums laughing along with a few children. Americans or foreigners in general, seem to attract a crowd, and when we walked next door for some worship songs and a few skits, they all followed. We piled into a tiny backyard next to the field and did our best to sing along in Spanish. The pastor of the local church shared the gospel and we gathered around to pray. Through the crowd we laid hands on people and prayed. Prayer has the power to break through all language barriers, and it felt so good to finally feel heard.
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