Kalotaszegi dance

This short piece is a collection of dance moves from the men's dance competition in Sancriau, Romania.  Watch the feet!  They got moves!

Lad's Dance

Andrew took the time to show me this dance after a hour long teaching session.  He was covered in sweat.  "There is no equality when it comes to dance, nothing is ever the same.  The Lad's dance is an opportunity for a man to show that he has the most power.  Not power in the sense of brute strength, but grace and intelligence."

Rain in Kalotaszegi

 

After 72 hours of madness the last sloppy drunken notes left the last standing violin as I was waking up at 8a.m. after 2 hours of sleep on Thursday.

Over the next 6 hours exhaustion finally took hold of everyone combined with what I believe was food poisoning from the main cafeteria.

The sky takes a deep blue and the rain began pouring as an old man in river boots mozies under the canopy where I am having coffee.

The shop lady struggles to keep what is breakable dry and delivers a palinca and whisky to the local old farm hands.  It looks like it takes a lot to them drunk.  Big mustaches.  Palinca is the Romanian answer to moonshine.  I had bought a round for the gypsies band in Budapest and I paid off the next day in a terrible hangover. 

The rain is pounding.  I would ask for another coffee but everyone is trying to save either themselves or something from the rain.  Booming thunder and every breath of wind empties gallons of rain collected from the top of the tarp.  The barista is almost giving up and the roads are looking like a swimming pool.  The man has taken off his shirt as the barista grimaces and I realize it just started to hail. 

At this point in the story it is too wet to hold ink on the page and anyways I have to help with the unloading of rain from the tarps. 

I took this shot of two elderly townsmen half drunk and arguing with each other.  This resulted in 20 minutes of back and forth gesturing and incomprehensible Hungarian culminating in them giving me their signatures for some strange reason. 

Rhapsody in Sâncrai, Romania

I left Budapest for Huedin, Romania at about 11pm for an 9 hour trip through lightening next to a sweaty stinky man.  I got off the bus in Huedin at 9am as two old ladies argued while sweeping the sidewalk with homemade brooms.  There were no restaurants or cafes but many bars so I stepped into a bar and drank coffee as the old men of Huedin were getting started with their first brew puffing away at their cigarettes in classy hats.  The bar was adorned with lotto machines, naked lady posters and the barkeep looked like a Floridian grandmother. 

From there I hitch-hiked to Sâncrai where a folk dance was to be held.  Very soon I was picked up by an older couple and what I assume was their younger daughter.  Nobody spoke english but the daughter had a tattoo on her arm reading, “I love you baby.”

I walked into town in a sleep deprived haze and plead my case to the operators of this event.  Music was ringing out of several buildings, the sounds of feet pounding the ground and the swelling of over 20 violins chiming the same melody. 

As I write this it is 4a.m. and I can still hear them out the window chanting tougher in an ancient language to songs that begin slow and bittersweet and build until the floor is packed with dancing, singing, spinning and slapping knees and feet in rhythm to a melody that weaves through changing time signatures and builds for about half an hour.

Flat bridge violas keep rhythm as fried sausages are sold for 2 lui each (half a dollar).  The joy spans the faces of multiple generations who are entranced in a frenzy of exuberance. 

What I would pay to import this atmosphere to the U.S.  This was built over the course of many generations and carefully fostered and protected.  Bluegrass comes close but doesn’t have the amount of regional nuances and skilled dancing as the music of Eastern Europe.

Something that makes you sad and joyful at the same time is worth heading into.  This music pushes towards obsession so it is no surprise that the performers and scholars of this music are so detailed about its technique and origin.

Here is the first of what I hope to be many films that explore this culture.  My only limitation is my time here and I have a decent amount.   

Pure Lung: Short film on Honduras

This film represents months of filming and editing with the help of many Hondurans and friends.  This film is not the whole truth, this film focuses on a problem.  The true Honduras has more beauty and kindness then I could fit into a camera.  This film should show the problems facing a typical Honduran living in a city.

Last thoughts on Honduras

Most everyone in Honduras is in the same spot of scraping for work and wondering if it is all worth it.  Most all are young, full of energy and what the U.S. would consider poor. 

One thing this trip has made me consider is the broad definition of the word "gang".  The battle between gangs is the repeated objection against gangs from Honduran people.  The second major complaint is the "war tax".  The "war tax" is essentially extortion for what gangs claim are protective measures from the enemy gang in the neighboring barrio (neighborhood).  The safest neighborhoods are the ones where there is no question as to who runs it, thus not as much bloodshed.  

 One of my last interviews was with an high ranking officer of FUSINA.  We talked about the repeated offenses of murder and kidnapping by people dressed as the police and he explained to me that somehow gang members steal police uniforms.  I think we both knew that it is very likely that the gangs didn't have to steal anything.  

We also talked about how the police wear masks to protect their identities.  If one is to be a legitimate police officer they will be in great danger to live in just about any of the barrios within Tegucigalpa.  However if the police are as corrupt as most of the people in Honduras have told me, then an honest legitimate police officer will be in great danger being within the police force as well.  

How deeply this corruption might perpetuate throughout every branch of government is beyond my knowledge.  Without doubt though, Honduras is percolating, full of desire, potential and possibility.  Full of people wanting to work.  

But it would be wise to not pity them for being poor.  As the amputee migrant told me in an interview, "poverty does not mean death or even a miserable existence."  I would add that perhaps it is easier to live a miserable experience within wealth and with the fear of losing your wealth, hence miserly.  

Being poor means to be tightly tied to a bigger community, whether by choice or by necessity.  Each individuals fate is closely tied with the fate of the whole much moreso then within the wealthy communities.

A friend described it to me perfectly the other day, he said he was saving up some "Fuck you" money.  That is money that gives him the security of knowing that at some point he can tell his boss "Fuck you."  Eventually he can save up enough "fuck you" money and move to Tahiti if he so desires.

This affluent independence makes our communities weak.  It also makes us more prone to depression.  It is difficult to fortify this concept in words and it sounds trite coming from an outsider whose economic existence has always been somewhat better.  My only defense is that I can feel this truth, in every barrio and village I walked into.

I want my share of comfort and the power of being able to walk away independently.  There is nothing wrong with that desire, but with its acquisition comes unintended consequences. 

Ultimately the strength of every community and individual must come down to resiliency.  

There was a man that spoke English in El Chimbo that I ran into occasionally near the banana stand.  His front neck was scarred from the removal of a large tattoo.  He was waiting a year to try to cross the border again because he was on probation.  The probation specified that if caught trying to cross again he will be in prison for 7 years.  He told me all of this tired after a 10 hour shift of heavy construction labor for which he profited the equivalent of one hours pay from McDonalds.  Frustration seethed from him as we talked. 

He was at such an economically rigged disadvantage and yet with this knowledge he still awoke every morning for an honest day of work.  How much stronger Honduras would be if only he could be paid his worth in his own country, rather then feel the need to leave for a foreign land and to send his honest pay back.*

It is inherently unfair and is hard to fix, but is not beyond repair.

* This (remittances) actually accounts for around 20% of Honduras GDP - http://www.indexmundi.com/honduras/economy_profile.html

  

A Death in the Market

Oscar the candy-man and I met up for another run around town. 

Oscar the Candyman

He doesn't sell much and his sales pitch is him tapping on his hard wooden box with a twig.  The most expensive candy Oscar sells (the cookies) costs 5 Lempiras, roughly 25 cents.  At this rate his profit margins probably never exceed 1 lempira (5 cents).  Despite this, he is gratuitous with his candy.  Shoddy looking disheveled men without money approach him for a sweet and he hands over a sucker with a smile.  A sucker that probably represents a half hour of his profits.

After sitting down for an interview I picked up his candy box for him and I was shocked at the weight.  I had assumed it was about 20 pounds but what I lifted felt around 35 pounds.  He has not once complained about his job. 

Masked Homicide detective at scene of murder in market

As we walked through central market we heard shots nearby, which isn't unusual.  In the faces of the hundreds of people flooding the streets I see a brief flash of concern and quickly they return to the hustle and bustle. 

We came to a crowd and worked our way to the yellow tape and the dead man.  He was running through the market trying to escape gang members.  He was running through a sort of maze inside a musky building past the smells of butchered meat.  As he dashed outside unto the light upon the street he took his final step and was shot. 

I took this photo of the masked homicide detective perusing the scene and looking menacing.  After I took the photo he quickly jumped on his bike and drove off.  Our passage was blocked and so we turned around.

Girl at murder scene

Within about 10 steps of turning from the murder scene a truck doing a three point turn almost plastered Oscar the candyman to the wall.  Oscar is a bit fearless in his handling of traffic but this time the truck was clearly being an asshole.  We waited for the truck to finish turning and walked behind it. 

However, the truck driver was pissed and decided to let Oscar know his feelings.  Oscar wasn't having it.  He gave the fat driver a piece of his mind.  The scene escalated and the driver got out and lurched toward Oscar.  This fat man was a good match for Oscar and I thought my friend might need some assistance.  I decided to forego photography momentarily and began looking around the tables of the vendors for some form of weapon while saying over and over again, "Cuidado hombre."  As fat man came closer Oscar pulled out his garbage bag wrapped machete which promptly caused the truck driver to get back in his Toyota and drive off in a flurry of curses. 

View from Picacho

Oscar and I made our way to mount Picacho which I kept calling mount Pikachu.  Picacho is at an apex of Tegucigalpa that offers a stunning view of the city.  We had to leave his candy box with the Honduran military at the gate.  The military ended up stealing his cigarettes while we took in the scenery.  Thank God Oscar didn't make a fuss about getting robbed by one of the many Honduran military men equipped with AK47s.  One of those military guys was giving me the stink eye as I walked in, I bet it was him.

We decided to go to the zoo.  The monkeys were stretching their hands out of the cage trying to get fed by the people outside.  One baby monkey hid in the corner sucking on a lollipop.  Whenever a smaller monkey managed to get food he had to run, swing, jump and eat all at the same time while escaping as he was pursued by several screaming jealous monkeys intent on robbing him. 

 All monkeys confined to this small space of land and surrounded by borders trying to escape and getting dumped back in the cage.  Arms outstretched through the wire for help.  Whenever one monkey gets something nice he is targeted by jealousy and endangered by his good fortune.  Meanwhile the man at the gate makes money off the show.