Personal Narrative: Pickup Girl

It felt as if the bed of the pickup truck was having convulsions underneath my feet. As the driver navigated the ruts and turns of the roads in Guaimaca, Honduras, water from the 2,000 gallon black tank sloshed over us as we were thrown about against the metal cage that kept us from falling out of the back of the pickup truck like Raggedy Ann dolls. Gradually, our girlish shrieks ceased as we were mesmerized by this strange new world. The truck stopped, and out of nowhere dozens of women and children appeared and surrounded us, carrying any container they could find, buckets, plastic water bottles and bleach containers. We filled up each one. Although we could not understand one another, we spoke instead with the language of smiles. We did this over and over again, stopping in new places until our tank was empty. Once back in the truck, we threaded our way back to the mission base where we were staying.
As we drew nearer, they jeered at my friend and I and shouted out what I recognized as sexual slurs even with my very limited knowledge of Spanish. I wondered who those men were and was surprised at being so openly objectified by a large group. Why were they standing idly on the side of the road with Cokes and beers in hand heckling at young girls while women and children were left to carry buckets of water that were half as heavy as they were? For the first time, I grasped the meaning of patriarchal