Reflections from the Global Health Front: A Medical Mission to Honduras

I considered snapping a picture on my camera phone of the Dunkin’ Donuts sign at the Tegucigalpa airport, marveling at how American culture had managed to spread its tentacles all the way to Honduras. As we loaded our luggage into six enormous pickup trucks, 10 percent personal belongings and 90 percent supplies for our brigades, I waited for the moment when it became clear that I had entered the Third World. Certainly, Tegucigalpa was like no capital city I had ever seen before: no subways, no skyscrapers, no businessmen clutching their lattes. But what I saw of the city also did little to uphold my stereotype of a developing nation: no vagabonds, no gang fights, no bonfires made of newspaper to endure the freezing nights (we were, after all, in Central America). Before arriving at our camp, but long after having diverged from the luxurious paved roads of Tegucigalpa, we visited Hogares PedroAtala, a boarding school for children who would otherwise have been expected to accompany their mothers to prison. Kids from ages 3 to 18 flocked upon our arrival, eager for someone to embrace them and hold their hands. Yet another stereotype— that of the meager, repressed, abandoned orphan— flew out the window; these children simply wanted, both literally and figuratively, to be touched. Seemingly oblivious to the fact that most of us spoke no Spanish, each one grabbed an adult to whom they could show their jungle gym skills or latest art projects. Fourteen-yearold Stephanie gave my brother and me a detailed tour, happily enduring our rusty Spanish for the sake of a somewhat fluid conversation. From the detailed chore schedule on the wall to their bedrooms, crammed with eight bunk beds containing as many stuffed animals as each one could hold, their home was immaculate. Sadly, after what felt like an instant, we gave each child a pair of red Crocs and a handful of candy and had to say goodbye, to which Stephanie replied, “No adios — hasta luego.” We reached camp exhausted and excited with hours of preparation ahead of us. I wondered immediately how the youngest (8-year-old Eric) and oldest (some volunteers were in their mid-60s) of our group would stay awake to work. I would soon discover that not working was not an option: Diamond earrings came out, sleeves were rolled up, and we dove in. Prescriptions, fluoride, medical and dental tools,