Zurzular

I know that I don't talk much about my job on this blog--I'm trying to keep it less about a daily documentation about my life and more about stories and experiences.

BUT.

The Public Health Program recently completed work in the community of Zurzular, Honduras. We have been sending brigades since December of last year, and since then nearly 650 students built all four infrastructure projects in 87 homes. Fittingly, the last day of construction coincided with Dia de Los Niños, so the whole town was out, celebrating youth, life and community! It's bittersweet, as Zurzular is a community the Public Health program has called our second home for ten months, but also fosters feelings of accomplishment and gratitude.

santa lucia

It’s always rainy here. Mist gets caught between the pines, the dampness sits on our skin, a different kind of sweat. Not the city sweat anymore. Cold humidity causes hair to curl at the nape, paint to slowly peel, and breeds the life that gave our new home its nickname—the moldy mansion.

We (American staff) moved, out from the city into a town in the mountains, Santa Lucia. Primarily for safety reasons, we are told, but mainly to get us to stop going out at night. As the office still remains in Tegucigalpa (in fact, in the same building as our old apartment), to the city we go every day for work. Local transportation isn’t an option, laden with laptops and blackberry’s and kindles, so we have a private bus pick us up every morning and take us home every night. One by one, we filter out in the morning, backpack packs, lunches made, coffee mugged, ducks in a row. Sitting ducks, it sometimes feels, because even though we are out in the country, groups of 22 gringos tend to stick out. Especially those on a routine schedule. But, this is the situation, and so we go.

It has been an adjustment. Our new place is a mansion by Honduran standards—by anyone standards, really. Ironic that the biggest house I’ve ever lived it comes at the same time I’m building latrines and stoves for rural families who live on dirt floors. I guess it has to be to comfortably house twenty-plus bodies. But at the same time, it feels concentrated, crowded, and overwhelming. Once we are home from work, there is nowhere to go. Walking is unsafe on the unlit mountain roads, buses stop running at sundown, taxis are non-existent; friends with cars live in the city. I’ve read three books since the move two weeks ago. Solace is the balcony connected to my room, where I can escape. Climbing over the side to the roof, I can lie back on the shingled incline, out of everyone’s view, under the sky, for hours.

Not without its perks, there have been some upsides to the move. I can be in one area of the house and not be an active part of a conversation happening four rooms away. Mountain air is crisp and biting, I can snuggle down in my comforter and finally can wear my alpalca wool socks and woven poncho. Smoke wafts from roadside elote stands, grilled corn quickly becoming my favorite snack. We pick fat yellow lemons off the trees the size of softballs, a fruit I haven't seen since I moved to Honduras. I don’t fall asleep to gunshots in a country with 20 homicides a day. And the beauty of the area is staggering. Green oozes of the trees, the photosynthesis nearly visible, the color tangible. My favorite byproduct of the rainy season. It’s just isolated, a compound cleverly disguised with master bedrooms and marble countertops.

So life has been a bit different lately. Don’t worry, true to form, I have already found a couple promising bits of social life—albeit a ten minute drive away. On the weekends, we can hop on buses to Valle de Angeles or walk to downtown Santa Lucia. I plan to flag down a passing chicken bus one day, just to board it and see where it takes me. We are planning a huge Halloween party, and I’m hoping I can find dry ice for our indoor waterfall (yes, that is right). Pitbull and Prince Royce, some of reggaeton’s finest, are in concert, and the night has potential to get crazier than when Daddy Yankee was in town. And a visa run to my favorite city in Nicaragua is on the schedule for the first week in November.

Things are good! Just a change of scenery. A breath of fresh air. With just a touch of mold.

don't tell mom

This is the third time this week I've fallen asleep to multiple rounds of gunshots. Thanks for reminding me of where I live, Tegucigalpa.

glimpse

If you have a few minutes, check out this video by Oscar Valenica, a Medical Brigade coordinator for GB Panama who was visiting for the week.



Just a small glimpse into a couple of our programs, communities and the work Global Brigades is doing in different parts of rural Honduras.

la catarata escondida

Is it bad that I secretly love it, that I get an adrenaline rush, that I feel slightly bad ass, when the thought, "maybe, just maybe, this wasn't the best idea," crosses my mind?

As such, that was precisely what I was thinking whilst clinging to the jutted rock face underneath a gushing waterfall in the midst of a downpour somewhere in the middle of the Honduran jungle. Maybe, just maybe, trekking to the hidden waterfalls, las cataratas escondidas, during the height of the rainy season wasn't the best idea.

Getting there wasn't without it's share of mishaps. A couple mix-ups with cab drivers between Comayagua (the bus we wanted) and Comayagüela (dubbed the most dangerous area of Tegus-which is really saying something), Dstrong assuring us that "he would know where we were going when we got there," which inevitably resulted in all six of us gringos getting off the bus only to realize we were one stop too soon and had to turn around and re-board, oh, and the steady storm of rain. Typical.

Dstrong and Frank had done this same hike a couple of weeks ago, albeit with the sun shining. Hence, without the slick rocks and mudslides, conditions that were only slightly exacerbated by the precipitation.

The initial hike to the top of the waterfall was short, a quick ten minutes through a muddy but well-worn path, the meditative sound of forest rain replaced by the gradual thunder of the falls. Amid the dense canopy of green, misty fog was suspended low in the valleys, wispy fingers stretched through the cloud forest. Standing at the mouth of a 300-meter waterfall cascading into pools below, it felt like we had stumbled across a place hidden and Jurassic--despite evidence of previous visitors in the form of a homemade rope-swing dangling from a hanging branch over the small pool before the falls. In true Honduran fashion, the swing was made from thick black electrical wires. Why wire? That's violating the first rule of living in Honduras without getting frustrated by what could be perceived to be a complete lack of logic and reason-don't ask why.

I got as close as I could to the edge, peering down the drop below. That's where we were headed.

The descent down wasn't easy. Our hands swung from tree branch to exposed root, our feet sought firm footing on the mossy rock, taking calculated steps when we found them and testing the roots strength when we couldn't. A couple times I just resorted to the good ol' ass slide. The rain was steady and strong, but I didn't mind it-it actually added to the whole ambiance. At the river bed, I quickly hopscotched and weaved between the rocks up to the main pool, a successful descent instilling confidence in my rock-balancing skills. Murky green, colored from the churning water, the pool looked frigid and less than inviting, but according to Frank, the only way was through the pool, up the rocks and onward to the falls.

Stripping down to suits, in we went, one by one, the shock of the freezing water momentarily taking my breath away. Never have I been so cold in Honduras. Treading, partly to keep warm and partly to ward off any underwater creatures, we swam to the base of the first falls. The boys, naturally, made the climb look easily, channeling their inner Spider-man skills. The other two girls gave up, headed back to land. I figured we had come this far. I started the climb, Dstrong and Tony dictating where I should grab as I pulled myself from rock to rock. Only once did they point out a grip only for that rock to break off in my hand. Thanks, guys. The water was rushing over me, my contacts sliding all over my eyeballs. Reason #523423 why I need Lasik--so I can ninja-climb my way through waterfalls. Sometimes I would have to pull myself up to the next hand hold without knowing where my feet were going, legs desperately slipping against the wet granite, relying on muscle and trust in my own body. Ok, so it wasn't the biggest climb, but getting to the top I was shaking with adrenaline. And probably hypothermia.

Onward, inching on tiny rock ledges, we finally made it to the base of the main falls. The sound was thunderous, the power palpable. Mist mixed with the rain, creating a hazy fog so that the falling water all but disappeared. The current was so strong that getting underneath the actual falls was nearly impossible. One of those moments when you are that close to something so strong, so natural, so ancient, you realize you are a very small part in a very big world, you feel both humbled and empowered, but overall, grateful to experience nature in one of its purest form.

Roadside coconuts while waiting for the bus topped it all off. With speed and dexterity (I never know how a finger isn't lost), the coconut top was sliced off, straw inserted, delicious coconut water to be had. The man waited for me for me to finish the juice, then macheted the shell so I could eat the meat as well. We were planning on celebration cervezas, but a coconut will always be a sufficient replacement.

Bad idea? Totally worth it.

tear gas

That one time I went for a walk to get a coffee and ended up getting tear gassed instead.

The Global Brigades office has no windows. It is also located in my apartment. Meaning that if I was to work in said office all day, I would never go outside nor see the sun. Some days exactly that happens. I do not like when this happens. I like windows. I like sunshine. I like venturing outdoors, inhaling fresh air, getting vitamin D, and an assortment of other crazy things. So, I take walks.

Alas, our neighborhood leaves much to be desired in the leisurely-amble realm. It’s mainly residential, with the token pulperia and pharmacy, a Chinese restaurant here and a ferreteria there, and the empty lots serving as makeshift car garages where I can always count on a gaggle of hisses and kisses from the working men, sometimes even a perfect imitation of Joey from Friends “how you doin’?” It’s no stroll in the park, but beggars can’t be choosers. There are exactly two malls within walking distance: Casacadas and the slightly seedier Plaza Miraflores, and not a whole lot else. So when that moment hits me, when my legs get figdety and my eyes overly computer-strained and mind wandered, that is where I go.

Today, I chose Miraflores.

Meandering around the mall, I hardly noticed the extra police force. I hardly notice police, or military, or guns, actually. The fact that there had been riots and protests last week at the university across the street didn’t really phase me, and after a couple months in Central America, you learn that AK-47 is never too far away. I’ll never become immune, always a little shaken by that constant over-arching reminder of insecurity, but you accept it for what it is—life.

I headed toward the gates that led to the street outside, but the policemen directed me otherwise. It was locked, I would have to try another exit. Not thinking anything of it, I headed down the side of the mall, up the stairs and across the overpass. That gate was locked, too. I started to get a little inkling that maybe something was wrong, especially when I saw some people, not running, but hurrying back towards the mall. Crowds had begun to gather in the entrances, and just as I scooted back into the mall, security guards started hauling down the grates, clanging metal sealing off the exits. Men literally dove under the grates, scrambling to get back inside before the bars slammed to the ground. It was like that one scene in Indiana Jones (of course), where Indy rolls past the stone door moments before it grinds to a close. Except this was real. What the heck was going on??

I called Liz in the office. “Um, hey, I’m barricaded in Miraflores. Just thought you guys should know in case, you know, I’m not back in a hour or something. I think it has something to do with the university protests.”

Still, no cause for panic. The food court was still packed, a safe haven of Subway and Wendy’s in the center, far away from the chaos at the entrances. I assured my co-worker that I would wait it out for a bit, assess the situation, then get my gringa butt on a cab home.

A couple minutes passed, the grates opened a halfway, the brave walked out, the tentative stayed inside. I peeked through the crowd, wondering what my next move should be, wishing I spoke better Spanish, wishing I didn’t stick out so much, wishing I wasn’t alone. Looked okay, almost like business as usual, but there was hesitancy in the air.

BAM.

A cloud of toxic smoke exploded from the tear gas canister. Shots, were those shots? The metal grate fell to the ground. People were running, screaming, pushing others out of the way. Bars immediately barricaded store entrances, inviting neon signs quickly covered with dull metal. Some tried to roll under before they shut, seeking the asylum behind. This is not a drill, warning, this it not a drill. My first taste of a mob mentality, of what a riot would feel like, of having no control and every man for himself. I ran.

There was a minute there when I was really scared. Hell, the Hondurans were scared, why shouldn’t I be? I had no idea what was going on, no idea who was going to break through the mall entrance, no idea where to go or what to do. A moment when I was thinking, “Eff. This could get really bad.”

The food court was deserted this time. Mascara streamed down women’s faces, eyes glazed over and watery from the gas. Men covered their mouths with scarves. I was breathing through my sleeve, the air was toxic and thick, my throat was burning with every panicked gulp. Tear gas BURNS. I just wanted some coffee!

Slowly, things calmed down. Grates open, people breathed, I detected the faint semblance of nervous laughter; oh wait, that was my nervous laughter. The vibe was interesting—people seemed shaken up, that much was palpable, but somehow not completely thrown. A semi-normal occurrence, maybe, but one to which you don’t get accustomed. I didn’t really want to venture out to try to find a cab, but wasn’t particularly keen on staying, either.

Adding insult to injury, the cabbie ripped me off on the drive home. I tried to haggle him down from 50 lempiras to 30, but I guess when you are fleeing the scene, you lose a little bit of bargaining power. Needless to say when he denied my lower offer and began driving away, I went running after, “No, no, ok, ok 50 lempira!”

Shaken, not stirred.

So I survived my first—mob? riot? tear gassing? Whatever you call it, it was by far the most…unexpected experience I’ve had in Tegus thus far.

But hey, I lived to tell the tale.

just an average thursday conversation

Daniel: Hey, those riot police throwing tear gas aren't wearing any green!
Me: Think we should pinch 'em??

--St. Patrick's Day 2011, Tegucigalpa, Honduras.

lago miraflores

There wasn’t any warning.

Maybe the wind slightly picked up, whipping the pages of my notebook as though trying to hurry me through my work, maybe the clouds turned a slightly sinister shade of gray, sneering at the sun as they thickened, maybe I had to move from the balcony to finish a phone call because I felt the smattering of rain drops. But it was the dry season, is the dry season, will be the dry season until May. So dry that the water only gets turned on twice a week. So dry that whatever little bit of moisture my body manages to drink in, I sweat out.

Then the sky opened up. To heck with the dry season, mother nature says, bring on the rain.

Rain pounded on the rusty tin roof. Deafening and without mercy. It took me about 30 seconds to realize what was going on, my first thought being, logically of course, that we were under attack. “Oh my god it’s the Russians!!”

“What is going on over there, a stampede??!” asked the club president I was on a Skype call with at the time.

“Oh, nothing, it’s just a little rain in Honduras.”

The balcony was deserted, my sunshine haven battered and defeated, the braided hammock, once a symbol of breezy relaxation now heavy with water and storm, a damp reminder of sunny days past. Sheet and sheet thundered down in torrents. Only one thing to do with rain like this-play in it.

People are look as us like we are crazy gringas anyway, so why not reinforce the image. Like animals let loose from a cage (we really do live in a cage, bars and wire and all—pictures to come), screaming banshees dressed in rompers and tanks and sandals set free upon the earth. Wading through muddy rapids up to our calves, dancing and whooping and embracing it all. The boulevard was flooded, the river grew strong with currents that could sweep me away. The rain was so intense you couldn’t see, couldn’t open your eyes. We ran, we stopped, I stood looking up at the sky, laughing uncontrollably because this is my life. What is it about playing in the rain that is so liberating? The act of spontaneity, the child-like wonder and awe at the power of nature, the refreshing feeling of water against skin, the metaphoric cleansing, the release of inhibition—all sheer joy in one of its purest forms.

Chicas locas, laughed the Honduran staff. Crazy girls. An hour later, I wrung out my clothes as best I could, leaving a trail of footprints weaving through the house, and went to resume work, only to find a lake in our living room. Second floor living room, mind you.

Water had leaked through the tin roof, waterfalling and cascading down, flooding the room. For a couple minutes we just stood there, laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation, only in Honduras. Mopping it up with towels, we filled five buckets completely full of water. As we live in a neighborhood called Colonial Miraflores, we lovingly dubbed it Lago Miraflores.

God help us during rainy season.

amapala

Chaotic crazy cacophony of a city one day, idyllic illusory intoxicatingly ideal island the next . Seems as if I’m in an alliterations-esque mood at the moment. I’ll stop.

I had only been in Tegus for a week, but when someone dangles a little Honduran fishing village in the middle of the Pacific in front of my face, I have to take the bait (Get it. Fish. Bait. Puns!).

A wild Friday night of salsa turned into a too early Saturday morning, but after Jordan banged on my door a couple times, I managed to pull myself together enough to throw a bathing suit and some lempiras in a backpack, and off we went. We were quite the duo, Jordan and I, the blind leading the blind, really. Only six full days into the country, my directional bearings were still being fine-tuned and I didn’t know west from Nicaragua and had no idea how to get where we were going, but from what I knew from Central America, there surely wouldn’t be a direct bus. Jordan had never been either, but had written instructions scribbled on a piece of paper. Ok, one instruction, the question to ask our Choluteca-bound bus, “¿Cuándo es la parada del autobús a Coyolito?”

As Tegus lacks a central bus station, the taxi simply dropped us off in front of a rather nice-looking bus surrounded by vendors and luggage. “Aqui, aqui esta el bus.” Honduran-style door to door service. Seats were found, vendors boarded selling everything from bags of sliced yellow mangos and plastic squirt guns, and I was reminded ever so fondly of Central American bus time schedules-hourly departures be damned, you leave when the bus is full.

I sought sleep during that three-hour ride, but it evaded me time and time again, distracted by the roadside show out my window, the green Honduran countryside painted in broad strokes before me, lazily yawning and stretching it legs in the morning light, wrinkled men napping in the shade, street children hiding behind small wooden shops popping out to throw rocks at the bus, goats meandering, the unfortunate deluge of litter, coke bottles and chip bags obscuring the scene.

Just when I was dozing off, the lady next to us nudged me and pointed out the window. We were at a nondescript fork in the road in the middle of a blank landscape, marked only by a gas station (which, by the way, had a designed rest area with hammocks!) and collection of tiny ramshackle huts and benches, apparently the turn-off for Coyolito. The wave of hot air felt like I had walked into an oven. Not like Tegus is cold by any means, but the heat here was thick, oppressive, unforgiving. Beads of sweat formed immediately, forming little rivulets down the small of my back. Get me to the beach, ahorita!

Hitching was the plan, but the bus came before any viable options passed. A 1979-era U.S. school bus, filled to the brim with locals. We climbed in through the emergency exit in the back, trying to awkwardly find space to stand while balancing our backpacks and the beers we decided to buy while waiting. I found myself face to face with a grinning gold-toothed Honduran. Personal space? Foreign concept. The heat and the bumpy ride was starting to get to me, so I fashioned myself a surprisingly comfortable makeshift seat between gasoline cans and rucksacks of rice next to the open window. Breeze is a beautiful thing. The scenery changed, from the countryside to the tropics, and then, my long lost lover, the Pacific Ocean, was finally in view.

The smell of the ocean was intoxicating, salty and sweet and nostalgic. Small motorboats lined the dock, bound for Isla del Tigre. Tumbling out of the bus, again through the emergency exit, armed with seafood suggestions, beach recommendations and an invite to the beach party that night by our new friends, we climbed into one of the boats heading to Playa Burro and puttered off toward the island.

There was one place to stay on the beach, a restaurant meets bar meets hotel, but as it was Valentine’s Day weekend, there were no rooms at the inn. However, in true Honduran fashion, the dueña knew a friend who had an uncle who worked with Jose who had a sister who’s mother had a guesthouse. Turned out to be this tiny little freestanding room, a humble abode, in the back of a family’s home. We literally had to walk through the backyard, passing the daughters scrubbing laundry and dodging the chickens and roosters wandering freely. The shower was more like a leaky faucet, we had a stubborn wasp for a roommate, and there was no knob on the bathroom door so if you wanted to get out you had to knock, but it was near the beach and did the trick.

The island is a gem, an diamond in the rough, nearly complete devoid of tourists except for the Honduran variety. A quiet fishing village, a few niche beaches, tuk-tuks whizzing you around the inactive volcano. Restaurants don’t have menus, men haul their days bounty from a rickety lancha, an hour later a whole fish is on your plate, eyes tail fin bone, an freshly fried adventure to eat, pick and prod. My cevichetarian ways came back full-force, but I was out of practice. It takes skill to successfully maneuver your way through whole fish. Put it in front of a local and all that will be left is a perfectly intact skeleton. Me, I pathetically needed help from a little beach kitty in the end.

The beaches themselves were small, little inlets of beautiful relaxation. I love when the dense canopy of forest and palms press right up onto the beach. It makes it feel wild, undiscovered, tropical. Playa Grande was first, groups of kids playing soccer on the sand, hilarious Honduran tourist in speedos, round belly’s hung over, wading their way into the surf, sunset beers in plastic chairs at the thatched-hut bar, the ever-present reggaeton as background music. In the ocean we befriended a little boy, Carlito, who instantly became our sidekick. Jordan chucked him across the water, he stole my camera and took pictures of himself in my sunglasses, we all watched the sunset spread a brilliant orange sheen across the sky, suspended between twin volcanoes in the distance.

The rest of the weekend passed by with breezy ease, sun, cervezas, an all-night beach karaoke party that the entire island showed up for, ceviche and coconut shrimp, so far from pollution and cars and horns and hisses and internet and hot water showers. If I was just traveling, I could see myself staying for a week, two, a month. For now, it was just a weekend, but I will be back, Amapala. I can promise you that.

san diego sunset, honduran sunrise

Drumroll please, the first glimpse of my new home! I would have been able to take more pictures through the window, if the drunk Marine sitting next to me, who single-handedly went through nearly three bottles of fine Delta Merlot (Not like I'm judging, because I wouldn't have minded a glass myself if I hadn't been feeling nauseous from a combination of turbulence and nerves. Which was too bad, because I couldn't eat my scrumptious and delectably palatable first class meal of cheese ravioli with an artichoke and mushroom sauce, "freshly baked" french roll and butterscotch cheesecake. And yes, if you were wondering, they really do give you hot towels) hadn't been talking my ear off about how this was the 4th worst airport to land in the world. He sure really knew how to put me at ease.

But, alas, I made it to Tegucigalpa safe and sound--and as soon as I stepped on the tarmac, squinting (and sweating) in the bright Central American sun, I knew I made the right decision. Goodbye's were hard, they always are, but as I've found, the end is truly the beginning.

By the way, for anyone who doesn't know what I'm doing in Honduras, the one-line version is that I got a job as a Travel Coordinator for a non-profit called Global Brigades and my position is based in Tegucigalpa (say that five times fast--but do it quick, because from here on out it will be referred to as Tegus).

Passports stamped, customs passed, bags checked, dollars changed, lempiras received, badda bing badda bang. My dear friend Michelle was waiting at the airport, which was a wonderful surprise and surprisingly comforting, because as much as I hate to admit, I was nervous, and seeing a friendly face was more than reassuring. We lugged my bags to the car, piled in and headed off to Colonial Miraflores. Michelle turned to me in the car, "I'm sure you're really tired and everything, but I thought it be fun if we all went out tonight." I was running on about an two hours of sleep I managed to get in the dusk hours in the Atlanta airport and a triple-shot of espresso, but my adrenaline was keeping me awake, and I knew if I stopped I would crash. So out we went.

First, a stop at the apartment. It's a bit hard to explain the set-up. Basically, there is one big building, consisting of two conjoining apartments and the GB office, and a house about five minutes away. 15 staffers live in the apartment--including myself--which crowded, crazy, but somehow all works. I really think the best way to describe it is 'Real World-NGO', because everyone lives together, works together, eats together, etc etc etc. Except we are actually doing some good for humanity, too. And it's not broadcast to the world via MTV. Although that would be interesting. To say it wasn't intimidating and slightly overwhelming would be lying. I somehow have my own room AND bathroom, which is pretty VIP 'round these parts.

It's weird how familiar everything seems. The electric showers, that look like some sort of death contraption with wires and plugs coming out of places (like the shower head) that every logical bone in me says should NEVER be near anything with water but yet provides me with a steamy delight in the morning, the crazy taxi drivers, the guys guarding little tiendas with massive guns, the way everyone says "Buenas" to each other, fresh liquados served on the side of the road, street food in general, the concept of 'Honduran time.' I missed it all.

Saturday night was spent at AGAFAM, or Asociación de Ganaderos y Agricultores de Francisco Morazán. I'm sure that really explained it for you guys. Think the Del Mar Fair, with a Honduran twist. Market stalls peddling everything from generators to posters of the heartthrobs Aventura to the out of place Victoria's Secret stand, stands serving liquados and slightly smoky cotton candy that instantly turned your tongue bubble gum pink, games consisting of shooting neon G.I. Joe figurines with BB guns, prizes of cigarettes and rum, a Ferris wheel with an average 100mph rotation (seems the Hondurans missed the whole "romantic" concept of the ride, because it looked vomit-inducing), cerveza cerveza cerveza and a dinner of pupusas with quesito. We left on the earlier side, hordes of young locals heading in, tight and bright and ready to get their AGAFAM on. All in all, fun night and a great introduction to the county.

And, I actually celebrated SuperBowl Sunday. We projected the game onto the side of the wall, a makeshift flat-screen TV, seven-layer dips and fajitas and even artichoke dip made an appearance. The only thing missing was commercials--we only got the Honduran ones--but from what I've heard, I didn't miss much. Two years running with no SuperBowl commercials-but I think I'll survive.

The rest of the week has been pretty much consumed by a whirlwind of introductions, both to the staff and my job. More on that in another post. Below, a picture of my new familia on Global Brigades Day. To wrap up, I'm incredibly excited to be here. My only other experience with Honduras was on my last trip, and that was largely confined to the Bay Islands without much exploration of the mainland, besides what I saw out the bus window. Looking forward to getting to know a new country, new people, and embark on this next adventure.