WILLIAMSVILLE — It's 8 a.m. on the first day of the eye clinic. A line of people weaves along the side of El Cruz Rojo, the rustic Red Cross building that serves as a temporary home base for the eye care clinic in El Mochito, Honduras.
Inside, Dr. Lynde Kimball, an optometrist from Brattleboro, and his wife, Connie Kimball, bustle about in preparation.
The Kimballs, who spearhead the clinic, pop open wooden crates, revealing glasses of all shapes and sizes, categorized according to the strength of their prescriptions.
Neatly arranged in small plastic bags, these glasses will soon be matched with the people waiting outside.
Acquiring proper glasses is usually unfeasible for the majority of rural Hondurans. It's an incredibly expensive service, and it's available only in cities.
So today, the turnout is good. The people in the diverse group buzz in obvious anticipation at the prospect of having their vision corrected for free.
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It is February, 2009. When I arrive in Honduras to rendezvous with the Kimballs, my senses awake from a brutally cold New England winter to the mild tropics of Honduras, a landscape brimming over with warmth and life.
I followed Lynde and Connie on their trip to Honduras in February of 2009 to document their clinic and compile images into a compelling photo story. My goal was to share these images and spread the word about their efforts and hard work, as well as to communicate the spirit and help offered from the Honduran people in general, all of which have inspired me greatly.
As I navigate the city of San Pedro Sula, I smell everything from diesel fumes, to sizzling food, to the sweet scents of exotic plants.
My ears try to interpret the sound bites of Spanish. Dogs bark. Car horns beep. People listen to radio programs blasting lively music.
Snaking through banana groves and coffee plantations, the roads that lead to El Mochito make the journey an adventure. The crowded bus takes me up and over a mountain pass, and then descends into El Mochito.
Nestled amid the mountainous terrain of southwestern Honduras, El Mochito is a small rural town economically dependent on a zinc mine, and still void of the American fast-food franchises that pervade larger towns and cities.
Beautiful shades and textures of dilapidated sheet metal, long since shiny and reflective, mesmerize my eyes as they meld with outrageous colors. No opportunity to cover a surface with a bold color is squandered here. By the diversity and color of the plant life, nature seems to agree that there is never an excuse to be subtle. Fresh bananas, pineapples, and oranges hang from open storefronts and pushcart stands, as if their deliciousness were almost secondary to their ornamental extravagance.
In this celebration of color and warmth, El Mochito is where Lynde and Connie have returned, soon to run an eye clinic for the inhabitants of this lush terrain, seeking to improve the vision of as many people as possible during their stay.
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Devoted to their cause, the Kimballs have provided eyeglasses to people in rural areas of Honduras since 1981, holding upwards of 20 clinics throughout the country.
During this time, they have continuously fine-tuned their modus operandi. Initially, they conducted their services through connections with the Vermont chapter of Partners of the Americas.
As the years went by, and their connections inside the country grew, the Kimballs moved their eye clinic to El Mochito. Here, they have established a systematic approach, enlisting the help of local Hondurans and eighth-grade translators from an international school connected to the town's zinc mine.
Within the confines of limited time and resources, the Kimballs have, not surprisingly, endured plenty of tribulations during the past 30 years.
One year, they were unable to contact a specific town prior to arrival. They ended up going to a rural village and were told they needed approval from the town's mayor. He gave them the okay, and their eye clinic was a success.
At another point, Connie recalled an incident when they needed more glasses for their clinic.
The Kimballs had held a clinic in the Yucatán peninsula and knew that there were glasses left over at the facility, stashed away in crates. They ended up driving a small trailer there to retrieve the surplus glasses so that they could continue to treat people at the clinic in Honduras.
“It's all about connections,” Connie says.
Most notably, one of these longtime connections is the selfless Rodilio Pacheco, an El Mochito native. In the mid-1990s, Rodilio served as a helping hand. He is now the main point person for the Kimballs' work in his country.
The Kimballs, with Rodilio's contributions, have helped thousands of people by giving them the life-changing gift of improved vision. From farmers, to nurses, to security guards of various indigenous backgrounds, these are people whose stories and accounts of gratitude are vast and emotional.
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To say that the Kimballs are well prepared would be an understatement.
Over the years, the Kimballs have recognized patterns in the need for prescriptions of certain strengths. They've generally been able to recognize the predominant and recurring eye and vision conditions for people in the rural villages where they hold their clinics. Knowing these trends, they can anticipate which types of glasses they will need and keep a detailed inventory of the donations.
In 2009, 18,000 pairs of glasses were donated by individuals and organizations, including the Lions Club, which helped provide many of the needed supplies.
That stockpile, however, does not translate to 18,000 pairs of glasses being shipped to Honduras.
A massive and comprehensive sorting is required, a daunting task that Connie attends to.
The process of sorting the glasses is a triage-like procedure consisting of multiple rounds of assessment. The first to get weeded are glasses with exceptionally delicate frames. The last thing Connie and Lynde want is to set someone up with glasses, only to have the glasses break soon thereafter.
Glasses with a different prescription in each lens are also discarded.
Radial distortion and specialized lenses are used in correcting very unusual eye conditions. To give such glasses to someone not living with those conditions would do the patient much more harm than good.
Unfortunately, some organizations will sometimes bring such glasses to Honduras and leave them behind. Inevitably, the glasses are sold or given to friends and family, with good intentions but adverse ramifications - a seemingly small detail that ends up tainting the reputation and effectiveness of the more thorough operations like the one the Kimballs run.
Once the unneeded glasses are discarded, next comes the laborious task of assessing the strength of the prescriptions in the ones that remain. Connie uses a lensometer to measure the lenses and organize them accordingly.
Connie estimates that she spends 75 to 100 hours completing the process of sorting and assessing the giant stacks of glasses, tackling the project in three-hour chunks at a time.
When all is said and done, the 18,000 pairs of glasses are whittled down to about 3,000 to 4,000 pairs with adequate, usable prescriptions.
* * *
Arriving in Honduras, Lynde and Connie hit the ground running - knowing full well that their time is limited and that it will be a strenuous, work-filled week.
Prior to their arrival, Rodilio has taken care of a crucial aspect of the operation: to schedule days when people from nearby towns and villages can come to the clinic. In addition to the clinic, Rodilio has established a foundation that supports the people of El Mochito. The foundation has built a school, organized a home for the elderly, and is creating a local coffee manufacturing plant.
Rodilio's help is invaluable, and his logistical groundwork lets Lynde and Connie focus their time and technical abilities on giving the eye exams. Any prior work in spreading the news of the clinic serves to broaden the number of people who will get attention.
The first stage of the clinic consists of gathering background information and details on the specific eye problems that people are experiencing. Two volunteers record the information on a form that the recipient brings first to Connie, and then to Lynde.
Connie performs the first vision test, assessing each eye's ability to read and see numbers and letters from a distance, and then up close. Because of a high rate of illiteracy in the area, there are two charts: one with numbers, and the other showing directional characters.
While the Kimballs are able conduct their respective components of the exam in decent Spanish, the interpreters translate specific questions, concerns, and needs.
Sometimes people already have glasses that they received from other brigades - the term local people use for medical groups - but they still experience eye problems.
“The glasses don't work,” a patient tells Connie.
In such cases, she conducts another exam. More often than not, she finds that the prescription does not work for that person.
After Connie's preliminary exam, Lynde diagnoses definite eye conditions, determining a proper prescription that fulfills the individual's daily needs.
Sometimes eye problems are acute and beyond Lynde's expertise. In these cases, he has to deliver the undesirable news that only eye surgery will remedy the patient's condition - or that there's nothing anyone can do.
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Once the clinic is under way, the days are long and the pace rigorous. Any lull in the number of people waiting to be seen is more like the eye of a storm, most likely signaling that a line of people will soon stretch along the outer perimeter of the building.
In addition to the people waiting to have their eyes examined, there are assorted onlookers of all ages. Cowboy hats adorn the heads of people casually conversing in the sun. Intermittently, people exit the clinic wearing new glasses - and a smile.
Others reach into a pocket and extract a pair of glasses as they come out of the clinic at the insistence of those still waiting, who are eager to share in the thrill. An occasional horse strolls by.
I circulate through the different areas of operation as Lynde and Connie conduct their exams. They both fill me in on what's been happening there while I'd been photographing another section of the clinic.
At one point, Connie tells me enthusiastically that she had worked with an 86-year-old man who had walked to the clinic from a good distance. He was there hoping to have his vision improved so that he'd be able to use his machete better. It is in such accounts that I see the resilience of the Honduran people.
The Kimballs also talk about other patients - like the nurse who formerly couldn't distinguish her fingers from one another, and who can now do sutures. Or the truck driver with 20/100 vision in each eye, who can now avoid obstacles on the road. Or the student who couldn't read for more than five minutes without significant eyestrain, and who can now read comfortably.
Lynde and Connie aren't sure when they'll be able to return to Honduras. As always, elements beyond their control need to fall into place beforehand.
I know that the colors of El Mochito will remain strong and vivid among the rust, mirroring the spirit and positive nature of the people living there.
I hope that, in future years, circumstances will enable Lynde and Connie Kimball to hold more eye clinics to help these strong people see those colors more clearly.