From the window of the bus

“That girl can be no more than 15,” I say to myself as I watch her climb down from the bus, shifting her 3 year old child onto her other hip as she pays the bus driver 20 lempira’s for the ride. From my seat at the back, I watch her make her way down the dirt road, struggling with the weight of her daughter. Here in rural Honduras, education is yet to reach these villages and life continues as it always has, young females obediently living out expectations of motherhood, passed down through the generations. Perhaps the only sign of change are plastic bags, choking the roadsides and still- beautiful rivers on which these people rely.
Moving to the developing world has been eye opening, even for me. At the age of 30 and in the name of love, when most of my friends were having babies and settling down, I chose a simpler life. Not being one for monotony, I now live in Honduras, a place where one looks upon running water with wonder.
I always considered myself an open minded person, who has travelled to 24 countries (at the last count). I’ve sipped borscht in Moscow, marvelling at the opulence of the neuveau- riche whilst outside it’s -14 °C. I’ve observed the reverence for kimchee and the passion for baseball in Seoul, I’ve sat amongst rose petals in the souks of Morocco eating delicate lamb’s brains and had my banana stolen by an endangered black lemur in Madagascar. But none of this prepared me for the way of life in beautiful, drug- torn Honduras.
“How old are you?” Walter, a friendly local taxi driver asks as we discuss the topic of family the next day on my journey home. I look down at my feet and scratch at my legs; the sand flies are eating me alive today. “I’m 32” I say with a wry smile, guessing what he’s going to say next. “What, 32 and no children? Don’t you think you better get on with it?” Perhaps, I think to myself. But if I’d had children at 15 like most girls in Honduras, how would I have got to experience all this?