The Dump House

Probably the most unforgettable experience in Honduras was a visit we made to a family's tin shack near the Tegucigalpa trash dump. There was no denying the depth of poverty as we stepped into that small shack that housed two women and three kids; a grandmother, her daughter, and three grandchildren. The insides of the home looked like an extension of the dump itself. It wreaked of urine and rot that made you think twice before even breathing in, worrying that you'll be breathing something that will eventually make you ill. Every breath I took after the first was through my mouth, finding the smell unbearable.

In the middle of the room was a newborn child, probably a few months old that was sleeping on a foam pad and wrapped in a blanket. A cloth mosquito net was stretched above as added protection. On the opposite side of the shack from the door was the kitchen. A three-year-old boy who looked too small to be his age halfway hid behind a broken off piece of particle board that made a makeshift wall. I peeked around the kitchen wall and snapped a couple pictures of the cooking area. A pot was resting on some scraps of wood and rubber that were burning beneath as smoke mostly drifted out a hole in the roof. All around was trash.

As Pastor Jony spoke with the women to get an update on their lives, Renee slipped out the back door, and to be honest I also wished for the clean air outside, but the door was blocked by Jony. These women asked me to take their picture and I did.

This was one of nearly 400 other families that will spend each day from birth to death living from a trash dump.