Brushes with Death

Since moving to Honduras, I am quite sure that my chances of a premature death have at least quadrupled. There are the “normal,” expected hazards that are associated with life here: perilous mountain roads, gangsta drug traffickers, students angry at their latest test grade, and so on. But lately it seems like my brushes with death have been too frequent and, well, somewhat odd.

Take our recent trip to the tropical island of Roatán. We decided to trade in a relaxing spring break for something a bit more strenuous: a scuba certification course. After a harrowing first day of diving in stormy conditions, our second day of diving proved to be even more eventful. After descending for Dive #2, I had some intense ear pain and had to return to the surface. Our dive instructor told me to sit the rest of the dive out and told me I’d be fine swimming back to shore by myself. Then he disappeared, leaving me to battle two separate sets of breaking waves on my way to shore. Let’s just say that this particular experience ended up with me being thrust upon the top of the reef again and again in circles. I couldn’t stand, I couldn’t swim, my weight belt fell off, and I was all alone, at the whim of the ocean’s currents. My two thoughts were: 1) all this blood from my scrapes and cuts is going to attract sharks, and 2) I am probably going to be blown to smithereens if my oxygen tank continues to get smashed against the coral reef. So I did the only logical thing anyone would do at a time like this: I started bawling. And then yelling for help, although nobody was in sight. Somehow, miraculously, I did actually make it to shore on my own. But only after rolling on a sea urchin. I still have a scar on my ankle from said sea urchin. But I survived.

And another brush with death… Last week some of us American teachers decided to set off some fireworks in town. This is a very common occurrence in our town, or so we thought. Unfortunately, the house nearby where we were launching the fireworks mistook the explosions for an attack, and they started yelling and shooting at us. Um, yeah. How were we to know that this very family had been attacked three years ago by a Mexican gang and two of their children were kidnapped for ransom? Luckily, nobody was hurt. And another valuable lesson has been learned: choose your fireworks locations very carefully.

Also last week one of the doctors (who was 29 years old, like me!) at the clinic across the street from our school died of a mysterious illness. Turns out her mysterious illness was confirmed as dengue fever, which has since put our town on full alert. We even had to fumigate our school to kill off as many mosquitoes as possible. Although I am not yet smothering myself with Off, as advised by certain relatives, I am now very aware any time I get a bug bite. Stupid dengue.

Here’s another one. Earlier this week, an eight-year-old student happened to find the school gun in our library, along with the gun’s bullets. And he decided to play with them. Like a toy. The gun. And the bullets. Since when do we have a school gun?! And who thought it would be a great idea to hide it in the library where a third grader can find it?! Thankfully, nobody was hurt before the gun was apprehended.

And finally, this morning while riding our motorcycle to school, one of our seventh grade students almost collided with us when he pulled onto the main road from a side street without even looking.

So do you see what I mean? Is it just me, or are Death and all his friends messing with me lately? Crazy stuff happening in Hondurasland.

I am again reminded of how quickly life changes, passes, ends. And I am grateful for the gift of being alive, of taking great big gulps of air, of feeling the sun warm on my face. Now that I have a fresh perspective on life, I am hoping that my near-encounters with death will taper off… Cheers to another day of livin’ the dream!