Thursday, December 16, 2010

Espanglish

One of my motives for extending for a third year was to improve my Spanish language skills. Happily I report that they have improved, if only slightly. Finally my statements elicit appropriate responses. People have even been heard to laugh when I’m joking and this laughter, while not riotous, is distinct from the awkward “haha…” which really means, “I have no clue what you just said but I’ll laugh, albeit awkwardly, because you’re laughing.” I have, however, given up on sarcasm which typically fails to translate and usually provokes a matter-of-fact “No” followed by a polite explanation of why what I just said was indeed incorrect.

My comprehension has also improved which basically means that I can now attach meaning to the non-distinct noises made by my fellow campesinos. Furthermore, I now understand most Reggaeton lyrics which, given their tendency for repetition and lewdness, makes it even more embarrassing to admit that I continue to be a big fan of the genre. I say most lyrics because some still remain just outside my grasp of understanding. For example, I have nearly convinced myself that one of the most popular songs of the moment is titled “Tu eres varicela” which translates as “You are chicken-pox.” Doubtful, eh?

Am I ready to be a UN interpreter, you say? Probably not. Half of the local slang is still lost on me and I still make frequent errors. Just the other day, with an unfortunate slip of the verb fallecer in place of fallar, I implied that my counterpart had not failed me but rather that he had died on me.

Of course, all improvements in the Spanish language department have come at a price. I am well aware that I have developed some major deficits in my command of the English language. Spelling in English has become a distinct challenge and I empathize with anyone trying to learn it as a second language. Literally seconds ago I had to look up the word bureaucracy in my Spanish-English dictionary (mind you, I had to look it up in Spanish) because the computer was telling me that I had spelled it incorrectly. My spelling, which I’ll provide here for your amusement (beaurocracy), was so far off that the computer could not even provide me with the correct spelling.

In my defense, the Spanish language makes much more sense, at least in terms of spelling. Take, for example, the word committee. In Spanish, it is spelled comité. What’s up with the extra m, the extra t, and the extra e in the English version?! Just a bit frivolous if you ask me. I won’t even get into what I think of the word bureaucracy.

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For anyone truly interested in the latest reggaeton lyrics, the mysterious chicken-pox song was all so elusive precisely because the key word is a Spanglish word. The word which I thought was varicela is in fact partysera, a spanglish word which means partier.

Monday, December 13, 2010

Raincoats

Almost no one in El Sauce owns a raincoat, which is beyond me since it rains here with frequency. One man owns what appears to be a strong collection of down jackets but no raincoat. The women, and a handful of more sensible men, use umbrellas. However, the majority of the men forgo the ultra-feminine umbrella in favor of the all-purpose plastic tablecloth. Given tablecloth designers’ propensity for floral designs, this choice is, in my mind, distinctly more feminine than the umbrella. Yet, the tablecloth prevails. Daily, tough men wielding machetes march by my house towards their farms donning pink and purple tablecloth capes. No one but me seems to think that this is strange.

Light

After a good long wait, El Sauce finally got electricity in November of 2010. One community leader told me that they had been attempting to finance the project for the last 25 years—since the 1980s. Months ago, a local politician proudly proclaimed that I could thank him for installing the wooden posts which had been standing there serving absolutely no purpose for over a year. There were many broken promises along the way, but finally the local municipality came through, more or less.

Never before did I imagine what an entertaining fiasco the installation of power lines could be in a developing country. No machines were used in the entire process, meaning that, at any given time approximately a quarter of the men of El Sauce were needed to move hulking rolls of cable or to pull the power line to the next post. Of course, at any given time, at least half of the male population could be found hanging out at the light-post of the moment, socializing and, more generally, displaying genuine interest in power line installation.

The evening the streets lit up was cause for celebration. Unlike Peruvians, Hondurans do not find any excuse to party, but the arrival of electricity was the exception. There were speeches, a small dance, and bread and Coca-Cola for all. (Note: Coca-cola arrived in El Sauce decades ago.) The untrustworthy, young males of El Sauce were setting off obnoxiously loud firecrackers (Brand name: Outrageous Noise)with no particular concern for safety. Case in point, one was set off inside a house. Yet, despite the unusual merriment—which was honestly nice to see—the entire town was still in bed by 10 PM.

Now, approaching mid-December, only two homes have installed electricity. People seem amazingly content despite the fact that they must settle for enjoying the streetlights from their ever-dark houses. Probably half of the town is too poor to afford the installation, which runs from $50-$100, while the other half is wading through the bureaucratic process set forth by the less-than-efficient national electric company. There is a slight chance that I’ll have electricity in my house by Christmas, just in time for my departure.

Monday, November 15, 2010

Photos

I finally got around to posting new pictures. Here's a sampling and the rest can be found here.





Really?!

My dad forwarded me the link to this article from Yahoo News and it is just too ridiculous and too typical of Honduras not to post. To see the original article click here.

5 Men Rob Plane From Military at Honduras Airport

Mon Nov 1, 3:49 pm ET
TEGUCIGALPA, Honduras – Five armed men broke into a military base at the major international airport in northern Honduras early Monday and made off with a small airplane that authorities seized last year in an anti-drug operation.

The theft occurred at La Mesa International Airport in San Pedro Sula, about 180 miles (290 kilometers) north of the capital, Tegucigalpa. The airport is one of the busiest in the country.

Security Minister Oscar Alvarez said the gunmen attacked three guards at the entrance gate, went to the military hanger near a runway, started the engine and flew away. Their identities and destination were unknown.

"It was a very professional operation," Alvarez said during a news conference.

The plane had been in custody at the military base while the government was deciding whether to donate it to a state agency.

"It was really a temptation for organized crime or drug traffickers to have the plane there," said Alvarez.

The theft was reported around 3 a.m. to police. Armed forces command officers formed a commission to investigate the incident and the base commander was suspended indefinitely, according to the vice minister of security, Armando Calidonio.

"We are fighting a struggle against organized crime and drug trafficking," Alvarez said. "We always expect the worst."

Honduras is experiencing a wave of violence unleashed by gangs that are financed by drug trafficking and other crimes. According to the government, nearly 800 tons of cocaine each year passes through Honduras from Colombia to the United States.

Friday, October 15, 2010

90 cm²

In the last few days I have seen the town of El Sauce in a truer light. Mind you, I have never looked upon El Sauce with naïve partiality; however, with the commencement of latrine building, all of the town’s myriad flaws and imperfections, as well as unexpected kindness and understanding, shot to the surface and slapped me in the face.

Day one of the latrine construction training started off more or less okay and ended more or less okay. My neighbor, the local latrine “expert” turned out to be off on measurements for the rebar by an entire 30 foot length of rebar. In total, that’s just about 1000 feet for all of the latrines. Also, he reneged on his previous claim (pre-budget) that PVC elbows were not necessary, approaching the matter in a typically machista way and feigning that it was my error. He also chose to joke, in front of everybody, that I obviously can’t distinguish between r’s and d’s because I mistook his pronunciation of codal for coral. I chose not to tell him that I can’t actually understand half of the things he says because he mumbles, but rather took this as another machista jab meant to make me look bad because I’m a woman in charge of a construction project.

Day two. The PVC tube did not fit onto the toilet. The men approached this dilemma in a bullheaded charge, jamming a burning log into the tube to widen the end. Eventually, they realized this approach was clearly not working and moved on to another task. About this time I began to worry. I called the hardware store owner who agreed to change the tubes and also to send us PVC elbows and extra rebar in exchange for rock, thereby solving our material issues. Satisfied, I returned to the training and slowly began to comprehend that things were not going smoothly. People started to critique and point fingers.

Furthermore, it became very apparent that not everyone participating in the training was gifted with the same aptitude for construction. One of the younger participants is the town’s notorious marijuanero or pothead. As the other men were busy forcing the flaming log into the PVC pipe, he was on the other end joking about smoking it. In that particular incident, I’m not sure which of the men came out looking more intelligent. One man, after the day concluded, came to my house to inquire about measurements and our conversation went like this:

Him: So, the concrete slab is 3 feet?
Me: Yes, it’s actually 90cm by 1m.
Him: Okay, yeah, so it’s 90cm².
Me: Actually, it’s 90 by 100cm.
Him: So, 90cm². Okay.
Me: It’s 90 by ONE-HUNDRED.
Him: Like what? Show me with the measuring tape.
Me: Here is 90 and here is 100cm. So, it’s 90cm on this side and 100cm on this side. I’ll draw you a picture.
Him: So, it’s 90 cm on this side. And, on this side?
Me: One hundred.
Him: (Looking at the picture which was labeled on only two sides, not four.) So it’s 90cm wide and 100cm long, but what about this side?
Me: 90
Him: And this side?
Me: 100
Him: And this side?
Me: It’s a rectangle.

Incredulous, I labeled all four sides and wrote a note explaining the rectangular shape of the slab, hoping that someone else in his house would read it and explain it to him. And, I realized that placing the remaining construction into the hands of the trainees was out of the question.

Also, I started to understand just how complicated coordinating a town project can be when you throw in unaccounted for town politics and animosities. My community partner, Juan Carlos, explained to me that the neighborhood where we were doing the training is known as the Barrio Rojo (Red District). He said this with a knowing nod and a chuckle, as if I should have understood the exact meaning of Barrio Rojo. I assume that red was meant to have a negative connotation. Repeatedly people told me that I’d have to watch out for the Barrio Rojo and the Barrio de Abajo (Lower District), spouting out the same two phrases: “Esa gente no sabe agradecer.” (Those people don’t know how to be thankful.) and, “Cuesta trabajar con esa gente.” (It’s hard to work with those people.)

Word started to reach me that some people had no intentions of returning extra materiales. One family said that they were planning to hide whatever was left over. How, I’m not sure, as 6’ x 4’ pieces of tin aren’t easily “lost”. Also, more than one person kindly warned that it was likely that someone would break into the house where we were storing materials to steal them.

One evening I returned to my house, appetite gone, sat on the floor in the dark and momentarily cried until I realized it wasn’t worth it. For a few days I was on the verge of being distraught, wondering what on earth I’d spent the last, somewhat miserable year doing if, in the end, people were going to be so greedy and ungrateful.

The elderly next-door neighbor attempted to single-handedly combat the bitterness being displayed by some members of her town with a steady flow of food which she sent over with a renewed vigor comparable to when I first moved in. She even sent me an entire pot of coffee, with sugar and creamer already added. Her daughter and co-coordinator of the project, Juana, also helped me immensely. When some families started to complain about the quality of the materials, other people expressed their regret with words, reassuring me that at least some people in El Sauce are compassionate and understanding. Some have gone above and beyond to let me know that they appreciate my efforts. One woman in her one-volume (extremely loud) voice—my sister accurately described it as sounding like a chipmunk—berated the ungrateful people in her town and said that she knows that God will reward me because I am calidad de gente (a good person) to the point where I was almost embarrassed.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

My good friend and fellow PCV, Susan, who is currently working as a Peace Corps Volunteer Leader in Peru, traveled nearly an entire day to visit me in Honduras. After a delayed take-off in Mexico City due to a malfunctioning air mask, she finally landed in Honduras to find that there was an impending hurricane and that we would have to travel half-way across the country to a relocation point in the dusty and unremarkable town of Siguatepeque. She handled the news with grace, and a laugh particular to Susan that said, “Of course there’s a f---ing hurricane!” In the end, the storm turned into a tropical depression and, after a two-day stay in Siguatepeque, we returned to my site.

I was ever-so-slightly apprehensive that Susan would be bored by her stay in Honduras, namely because I didn’t make any plans to travel during her 10-day visit. Of course, I need not have worried, after two years spent together in Peru, endless combi rides and chats in the Pacora plaza, we could probably talk for years without getting bored. Numerous hours of her visit were spent playing Boggle, to which Susan quickly became addicted. My sister will be proud because Susan also became addicted to making candle holders out of aluminum cans and left me with a plethora that I’ll eventually have to explain to the neighbors. Also, we hiked the trail in the woods and braved the freezing cold water in the stream for a quick dip.

The day before she left we returned to San Pedro Sula to revel in the delights of the big city, mainly the Supermarket and Subway. I had no idea how amazing Subway sandwiches were until I went without eating one for three years. They even had cheddar cheese to put on them at the City Mall in San Pedro. Susan was particularly excited by the Honey Bunches of Oats available at the supermarket and her sole souvenirs were grocery items such as olive oil, pancake mix and parmesan cheese!

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One of the reasons I was hesitant to travel while Susan was here was because I just didn’t want to deal with anything like what I went through at the end of my parents’ trip. However, I also wanted to stay in site in case I needed to take care of anything for the latrine project. As I’ve discovered in the Peace Corps, if it’s not one thing, it’s always another. And, true to any PC project, the latrine project is no exception.

The municipality came through on the funding but, from the beginning they were unclear about when we would actually get the supplies. One day, the vice-mayor called to ask why we hadn’t picked up the supplies, which took me by surprise because I had no idea we were supposed to in the first place. Two days later he called to say that we couldn’t actually pick up the supplies. Nonetheless, everything worked more or less smoothly and yesterday the majority of the supplies were delivered to El Sauce.

On Thursday, six members of the project are going to participate in a training session to learn how to build the latrines. My neighbor, the sole builder in my town, will be leading the training. While he has been sporadically very helpful, often I feel like I’m talking to a controlling brick wall. Yesterday he informed me that we would need TWICE the amount of rebar than we asked for. Read, we asked for the amount that he specified when I specifically asked him to go over the materials list two months ago. He literally wanted to know who had told me to ask for only 2 bars per latrine. I was incredulous but unsurprised. He is constantly giving me what I assume to be accurate information and then, when I repeat it later he looks at me like I’m crazy and changes the number.

I’m crossing my fingers that all goes well. It’s difficult to keep track of all the things that might go wrong. The truck that hauls the sand might literally cause the road to collapse. The cement might go bad because it’s the rainy season. The project might not be complete before the coffee-picking season commences in November which would lead to a whole slew of problems. More than likely though everything will turn out more or less okay and I will have fretted my way through the project for nothing.

Friday, September 10, 2010

More Visitors

My parents recently left after a two week visit to Honduras. It was wonderful to host them and I do believe they got a good feel for Honduras at its most candid. Unlike most Karen-planned vacations, it was not quite so ambitious, and we spent a fair amount of time relaxing and exploring my site. We did, however, visit Copan Ruinas, where we stayed at a restored hacienda with a great view and excellent food. As I was left in charge of buying the bus tickets, we arrived in Copan on the cheapest bus available rather than the luxury line, probably confusing the hotel owner and permanently damaging my father’s knees. While there we visited the ruins and also a beautiful tropical bird sanctuary.

From Copan we took a string of buses to Santa Barbara, before heading to my site the next day with as many groceries as we could carry. Between the onset of the rainy season and a lull in work we spent a lot of time at my house reading, cooking, washing clothes and playing boggle. My mom in particular took a liking to washing laundry by hand and fastidiously shuffled it back and forth between the clothesline and the house to ensure that it dried (not always an easy feat in El Sauce.) Fortunately the mornings were mostly clear so we were able to walk around and also hike into the national park. The quebrada (ravine) is currently running full, adding to the already striking scenery.

My dad, per usual, did his part to provide amusement. During our first dinner in my site, still unaccustomed to my ripped pouch of black pepper, he proved incapable of controlling the flow and dumped an outrageous amount into his soup. Nonetheless, he stoically ate the soup without complaint until he could take no more. Thinking he was exaggerating, I attempted to try the soup myself. My nostrils were literally burned by the pepper fumes before the spoon ever made it to my lips.

On another occasion, out of my site, my dad was signaled by the bus attendant to sit at the front of the bus on a fold down seat that my dad failed to notice. Rather than sit on the lap of the other passenger, which he later admitted he thought had been a distinct possibility, my father chose instead to squish himself onto the dashboard, much to the delight of our fellow passengers who were ALL watching. It was somewhat reminiscent of the time that he “locked” himself inside the ATM booth in Cusco.

Oddly enough, people everywhere we went thought they recognized my parents. My dad apparently looks Guatemalan, though I’m still trying to discern the Mayan features. My mom, as we were repeatedly told, is the identical twin of my neighbors’ Tia Chela (Aunt Light-skinned Woman.) As Tia Chela happens to be the sister of my 78 year old neighbor my mom is hoping that she is the much, much, much younger sister. People also insistently spoke to my parents in rapid-fire Spanish, often oblivious to the fact that they didn’t fully comprehend. One guy even asked my dad for directions.

After a week in my site we came down the other side of the mountain to see Lago Yojoa, a beautiful lake nestled between two national parks including Parque Nacional Montaña de Santa Barbara, where El Sauce is located. While there we also visited the Pulhupanzak waterfall and had plans to hike in Parque Nacional Cerro Azul Meambar.

Our plans, however, were deterred by one last punch of Honduran authenticity. On our way up to the park we were robbed by 4 young men donning ski-masks and wielding machetes and a rifle. The owner of the hotel we were staying at – John from Vermont – was driving and had kindly stopped to show us the reservoir at the base of the park when we turned around to find four men running out of the woods towards us, motioning for us to get out of the car. I, well-trained by Juan Carlos the Peace Corps security advisor, came out of the car with my valuables in hand and told them to take whatever they wanted. Probably confused by the authoritative, Spanish-speaking gringa who handed over her stuff from the get-go, they never touched me. They searched everyone else's pockets and were the most forceful with my mom. Obviously nervous, they didn't search thoroughly and left my parents credit cards, as well as the money in my bra and my mom’s. They did, however, take my parents’ camera (with all the pictures from their trip), binoculars, my mom’s fake wedding ring and money from John, among other incidentals. I handed over my cell phone, Honduran residence card and debit card. I was trying to get my ID back when another truck started down the road and the men ran off. We continued up the road to the park office whose staff called the police. A younger officer took down a “report” on a piece of blank scratch paper and told us to pick up a copy later.

When we arrived later for the copy, we found one officer manning the nearly unfurnished police station. The report abounded with misspellings, including John which appeared as Joho. When I asked for the copy he told me I’d have to do it myself down the road. He nervously entrusted us with the official book of police reports—the only record they have since they have no computer—and we went to make copies. The copy machine was not large enough, go figure, so the report was copied in sections.

We were all shaken up by the incident and I know it made it that much harder for my parents to leave me here. For my part, I was not so much scared but disappointed by what happened. It’s easy to wonder sometimes why I’m here, so far from home, doing work that is often inefficient and slow-coming. The work I do is seldom recognized by community members. Hence, to be robbed like that was disappointing. It is also disappointing to many Hondurans who have commented that it’s such a shame my parents had to see that side of their country. I’m sorry too.

Finger Pointing

Apathy about the violence and corruption in Honduras is, in my opinion, one of the largest stumbling blocks toward development. The population is largely passive and people merely shrug their shoulders in the face of blatant abuse or mismanaged funds. In Honduras, it’s every man for himself and few people are willing to work for the common good. The rich ensure the continuing corruption while the poor often act as pawns, making it difficult to point fingers. Yet, people are pointing fingers left and right, placing the blame, sometimes on foreign players like the United States.

The teachers of Honduras were on strike for more than 3 weeks in August, halting classes across the country. The government institution in charge of managing the teachers’ pension had embezzled millions of lempiras, so the teachers protested until they arrived at a solution. Perfectly acceptable. However, consider this: teachers are some of the most highly-paid professionals in Honduras, they pay no income taxes, are given instant tenure, and many work only half the day. Ninety percent of the education budget in Honduras goes toward salary. To teach at the primary school level only a high school education is required. I’m sure there are some excellent, first-class teachers somewhere in the public school system of Honduras, but I have yet to meet them. The curriculum they use is antiquated and unchallenging. With no fear of losing their jobs and no pressure to achieve academic excellence, some teachers, if not most, are downright lazy, encouraging lazy, underperforming students. Yet, the only thing the teachers are willing to protest for is the money which they probably don’t even deserve. It’s a case of teachers pointing fingers at the government when teachers are not completely blameless themselves. I have yet to see a teacher protest to have the education system overhauled or the budget reworked in favor of the students.

It’s also difficult to point fingers when the majority of the population has no legal recourse. For those who have the money to pay bribes, etc. there is a certain amount of security, but, for the poor it is basically non-existent. Violence is accepted by the system. Take the police report we filed after being robbed–nothing will ever come of it. Fortunately, what was taken from us will not impact our lives. However, numerous people in my site have had their entire profits from a coffee harvest stolen, a loss which is surmountable but a major hardship. It may be the difference between educating their kids and not. Others have lost their lives.

The situation in Honduras won’t change instantly, as proven by the antiquated education system which is only pushing them backwards. The population is also numb to the violence. Graphic photos of murders are just as likely to make the front page of the newspapers as any given politician. One man, when I told him about the robbery said, “Well, at least you weren’t murdered.” But, in order to change, I am of the opinion that the violence and corruption must be reined in and Hondurans must start pointing fingers at themselves.

Friday, August 20, 2010

Throw Your Hands Up

Informal bus vendors are ubiquitous in Latin America and their presence is an expected part of any trip on public transportation. On one four hour bus ride along the central highway between La Guama and Tegucigalpa, probably 15 different vendors walked the aisle of our bus, each attempting to earn a few lempiras in his own “unique” way. It doesn’t take long to pick up on the patterns of stereotypical vendors.

For example, the herbal medicine “specialist” that came on board is a common breed among bus vendors. Touting a laminated poster with pictures of the myriad intestinal parasites, as they all do, he expounded upon the maladies caused by these parasites, describing intestinal discomfort in the vaguest way possible and linking all of your problems to parasites. Fortunately, he was selling the magic pill to cure our ailments. In the end, he sold people non-herbal medicine of the packaged pharmaceutical kind, divvying up the pills in the box as if he knew the proper dosage.

One man, an evangelical, instructed us to put our hands up and find salvation in the Lord Almighty. After praying for a solid 20 minutes and insulting all of the Catholics on the bus, he got to the sales pitch. Selling mini-flashlights and pens, which looked normal to the untrained eye, he explained that they were indeed blessed. My fellow passengers not only bought his products but applauded him.
Other vendors got straight to the point. One man, selling toothbrushes, fixated on the amazing tongue cleaner on the back. He threw in a free pen with purchase. I ended up buying a barely palatable cheese-flavored cookie topped with caramelized sugar because the woman selling them gave me a free sample and then promptly asked how many I would be purchasing. I couldn’t say none without feeling guilty. I also bought fresh boiled corn-on-the-cob which I actually wanted.

We were in turn visited by a clown and various others selling the normal goods – pop, water, plaintain chips, rosquillas (dried cheese rings), candied squash, etc.

The Upper Crust

Large concentrations of wealthy Hondurans are hard to come by, primarily because wealthy Hondurans aren’t all that prevalent. However, they tend to congregate in certain places, one of them being expensive private hospitals. I recently made a trip to Tegucigalpa to see an allergist and the Peace Corps sent me to the Honduras Medical Center. Despite expecting something nicer than the average public health clinic, I still wasn’t expecting the grand fountain in the lobby. I almost laughed out loud, the juxtaposition was so ridiculous.

As I sat down in the waiting room, I quickly realized I was surrounded by Coach purses. The woman in front of me was wearing Chanel glasses. One family was taking pictures with a digital camera. Observing the scene you might assume you were waiting to get in to a fancy restaurant. Pearls. High-heels. Copious amounts of mascara. One young woman was visiting the doctor in a dress and stilettos.
There was also a fish tank in the waiting room. And directly outside of the pediatric unit, absurdly enough, there was a well-placed candy bar stand. Nonetheless, despite the outwardly fancy appearance of the hospital, it’s still necessary to throw your toilet paper in the trash can.

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Maybe it’s purely a cultural difference, but I can’t help but think that many Latin American women, at least in Honduras, Peru and Ecuador, are stuck in gender roles of the American 1950s. No one exudes this quality more than the upper class. Just last week in one of the biggest newspapers, there was an article which, very seriously explained how a proper woman should act. Cell phone rings while dining in a restaurant? Daintily exit to your right but make sure to re-enter your seat from the left. Also, you should never reapply your makeup in front of people which to me implies that you should be wearing makeup. And professional women should always wear high-heels.

Go figure, I don’t remember most of the list.

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Politics as Usual

Juana (my neighbor and a member of the latrine committee) and I, recently paid a visit to the municipality to verify whether or not they had decided to fund the latrine project. This is how it went: We arrived at 8:00 am and sat in the mayor’s waiting room for awhile. No one bothered to tell us that the mayor wouldn’t be arriving for another two hours. Meanwhile, I was hit on by the sixty-something year old municipal board member who once told me that my ticket into his swimming pool would be free, with the condition that I wear a string bikini.

We left and came back a little after 10:00 to find the waiting room full, primarily with people waiting to ask the mayor to pay for their most recent medical bill. (It’s literally like case-by-case welfare.) The creepy board member entered and, on his way by, both caressed and squeezed my arm, allowing his hand to linger for a highly inappropriate length of time. A couple of people were attended to before a corpulent pair of television reporters burst in and went straight into the mayor’s office. The mayor proceeded to allow them to conduct an interview. As the reporters left, two more entered and were let into her office in front of everyone else. At this point, Juana called Franklin, the vice-mayor who also happens to have a farm in El Sauce, and told him that we were waiting to see the mayor but couldn’t get in. Soon thereafter we could hear the mayor talking with Franklin on the phone. The door promptly opened and the “people from El Sauce” were asked to come in. Mind you, we were still not actually addressed. The reporters, still in process of interviewing the mayor and various others, had come to inquire about the pressing political issue of the soccer stadium. Apparently, I learned, it is to be renamed after the creepy municipal board member. The mayor was repeatedly interrupted by her cell phone but finally asked us what we had come for while someone else was being interviewed. She answered our inquiry with one sentence before her cell phone rang again.

We were informed that the project will be reviewed on the 29th of July. That’s it. That’s all we wanted to know. I can think of several more efficient ways that this information could have been communicated to us. Before leaving I got in one more question, which was to ask to borrow the projector. She yelled out to her secretary, whose eyes were completely rimmed in shocking electric-blue eyeliner, to check it out to me. We waited for another inordinate amount of time while the secretary typed out the necessary form with two fingers. Just two.

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To raise money for the ecotourism committee we hooked a DVD player and speakers up to a projector, powered them with a car battery and created a temporary movie theater in El Sauce. One little boy called it the gran tele or great T.V.. Only 3 families in El Sauce have televisions and no one has electricity, so it was a popular event. I’m sure that for some of the kids and perhaps even for some of the adults it was really special, something they’ve never done before. The movie selection, however, was a bit odd in my opinion; they chose to play Valdez, an old Burt Lancaster Western dubbed in Spanish. First of all, I’d never heard of Valdez and I certainly never expected to see it in Honduras. Secondly, I expected Burt Lancaster to be Burt Reynolds and was therefore slightly confused for the entire length of the movie.

The big dilemma is that what people really want to see is violence. Quality of is no importance. A movie starring one of the following action stars is preferable: Jackie Chan, Jean-Claude Van Damme, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Steven Segal, The Rock or Chuck Norris. What these men may not realize is the extent to which they are idolized in Latin America. In an isolated community in the Peruvian Amazon, my friend Michelle snapped a priceless picture of a large mural of Jesus with his arms embracing Jackie Chan and Jean-Claude Van Damme.

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The other day I was inside my house when I heard what sounded very much like my scrub brush being scraped along the built-in washboard of my outdoor sink. Alas, I opened my door to find my neighbor, the same one with whom I discussed the merits of my pee bucket, lovingly scrubbing my brush back and forth along the washboard. She wasn’t washing anything. Oh no. She was merely observing the excellent quality of my scrub brush. She wasn’t embarrassed to be caught in the act of admiring a scrub brush but, rather, she continued to caress it while commenting on its remarkable attributes.

Untitled

It’s been ages since I last posted a blog, primarily because I’ve been uninspired. On the one hand, those incidents and observations which once struck me as noteworthy or ridiculous have long since slipped into the mundane. Furthermore, for whatever reason, I spent a good deal of the first five months in Honduras just plain unhappy and, hence, uninspired.

Thankfully, I’ve been busier than I ever was during the first five months in Perú or I might have gone insane, literally. In short, I’ve been helping the community to organize a latrine project, teaching sporadic environmental education classes and helping the local ecotourism committee to get off the ground. Here’s a brief synopsis of each if you want more info:

Latrines:
My parents informed me that many people don’t actually know what latrines are, which frankly blew my PC oriented mind. To clarify, latrines are outhouses. Currently, half of the population of El Sauce shares one large communal bathroom—the great outdoors. The other 50% uses latrines. The goal of the project is to provide 100% of the population with latrines and, therefore, avoid environmental contamination and infectious diseases. Thus far we have formed a committee and determined the basic structure of the project, which I wrote up in the form of a grant proposal. We are currently looking for funding. The total cost to repair and construct 46 latrines will be roughly $6,600.

Environmental Education:
At the local primary school in El Sauce, I do various activities with the kids to teach them about their natural resources and the importance of living sustainably. They don’t always comprehend, of course. Once I asked what trees are good for and a young boy enthusiastically responded, “Burning!” They seem to enjoy the classes which are a welcome change of pace from the monotony of normal classes which they spend mindlessly copying information.

I’m also working with the 9th grade class on both a tree nursery and a waste management project. Supposedly, they are supposed to be running the show. Instead, I offer them the training they need and then I’m surprised when both they and the teacher fail to do anything with it. It is the most disinterested group of kids that I’ve ever worked with. Enjoy is not a word that can be used in the context of this 9th grade class. It’s stereotypical. They stare at me blankly, talk, throw things, flirt, read magazines, wander off, etc. Finally, during the last class, I told them that they were the worst class that I’d ever worked with and that I couldn’t believe the extent to which they were throwing away their education. And, for the first time, they were silent.

Ecotourism:
Work with the ecotourism group is going surprisingly well. Basically the group consists of members from three communities that all lie within the buffer zone of the Parque Nacional Santa Bárbara. Honduran law allows for and encourages the co-management of all Honduran National Parks , meaning that a national or international NGO may formulate and execute a management plan which allows it to oversee the proper management of a given protected area. On paper this law is excellent because it eases the burden on the Honduran Government to invest significant capital in the management of their national parks while allowing for dedicated NGOs with adequate experience to pick up the slack. However, in the case of certain parks, such as the Parque Nacional Santa Bárbara, there is no co-manager which results in no management, no investment and no tourism. The overarching goal of the ecotourism committee is thus to one day obtain NGO status and transition into serving as the co-manager of the park. In the short term, we are starting to implement a community-wide environmental education project.

Besides work…

In June, my sister came and kept me company for an entire month. She probably wasn’t too thrilled when she had to lug her very heavy backpack, including a tent and myriad things for me, up the mountain to my site; but, after that, we had an excellent time. Literally, we were never much more than 12 feet apart for the entire month. We washed clothes by hand, cooked 3 meals a day, hiked around the mountain, rode in the back of pick-up trucks, drank licuados, perfected the art of tortilla making (almost), and talked about my neighbors by candlelight. My sister is probably one of the few people who would actually enjoy a comprehensive tour of the latrines of El Sauce while on vacation.

Besides hanging out in my site, we also visited Copan Ruinas (an impressive Mayan archeological site), Parque Nacional Cerro Azul Meambar and my friend Ellie, and Cayos Cochinos ( a marine reserve in the Caribbean). We even managed to hitch a ride on a catamaran to Utila, another Caribbean island off the coast of Honduras. We also stayed in one of the world’s sketchiest/dirtiest hotels in Tela and had a bunch of bananas thrown at us by an angry market vendor who, for good measure, yelled after us, “Vayase a la mierda,” because Kelly accidently broke some of the over-ripe bananas from their stems. My sister’s visit allowed me to enjoy a place that I haven’t really enjoyed because I’ve no one to enjoy it with. Plus, she taught me to always look under the toilet seat for spiders and left me with a surplus of semi-functional but creative, hand-crafted candle holders.

When my sister left for the States, so did I, which made her departure all the more bearable. At the last minute, my neighbors tried to send all sorts of strange and impractical gifts home for my parents—freshly made, un-pasteurized cheese, green peppers and dried cheese rings. They wanted to send coffee but, alas, none was ready. I can only imagine the sheer quantity of coffee they’ll attempt to send with me when I leave.

I went home for the week, primarily to attend my friends’ wedding but also to spend time with family. It was a wonderful week, uneventful but relaxing. Since I was just home six months ago, nothing was new or shocking. Though I was, admittedly, baffled by the punctual start time of the wedding, something my sister was not surprised by. Really, I thought the start time of 6:00 meant that most of the guests would be arriving at that time and that the ceremony would start at some time thereafter. To my sister’s dismay we were among the last guests to arrive.

Rather than finding the American lifestyle to be wholly overwhelming, as some PCVs experience, I felt slightly disconnected from it. We went to a local flea market and antique show and I felt like I’d walked straight into a Michael Moore film highlighting typical Americans. And, I still don’t understand the phone machines. People can justify them left and right, but I’ve survived for 25 years, nearly 26, without instant internet access, GPS and other cell phone applications and I DO NOT understand why everyone feels like THEY need those capabilities at their fingertips or they might, heaven forbid, not be able to what? I don’t honestly know. Anyway, instead of feeling out of sorts, I feel quite happy to feel just a little bit disconnected.

Back in Honduras, I reentered Honduran time. I was only gone for two and a half weeks, yet one young woman commented that I’d been gone for at least two months. Two months! Nonetheless, warped sense of time or not, the United States is never very far removed from Honduras. Case in point, yesterday, I met a young Honduran girl named Oprah.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Living alone?

When I moved into my house a couple of weeks ago, some of the excitement of living alone had worn off and, thus, my first night was passed in a state of melancholy. However, my spirits began to pick up again as soon as I ate my first piece of whole wheat toast with peanut butter rather than a plate full of fried plantains topped with cabbage or that dreaded bowl of soup chock full of plantains, potatoes, cassava, rice, pasta, and another unknown bland carbohydrate.

Ironically, I seem to have less privacy now than when I lived with a host-family. Unless I hermitically seal the house and otherwise pretend that I’m not there, I have visitors. They come in the front, they come in the back, and they peer in the windows. Some are genuinely interested in visiting while others are just nosy. The latter kind just wanders in and starts looking around. There is also that breed of visitors that I am wholly unaccustomed to – the mute loiterers. Seemingly contented by my mere presence, they silently follow me around as I continue to uncomfortably go about my tasks as if they were not there.

My neighbors surpass the limits of any kind of friendly-neighbor scale. Unfortunately or perhaps fortunately (I haven’t yet decided), they have chosen to express their kindness almost entirely in the form of food. The first night my landlord gave me around 5 pounds of potatoes. On the second night, when they discovered that I wasn’t making tortillas, they disappeared and came back with two, which quickly turned into a steady flow. I now have tortillas coming at me from all sides. The grandmother was thrown into a tizzy when she realized I also wasn’t eating beans and she herself presented me with my own personal pot. They make sure to check up on my egg supply and they’ve given me more than enough tomatoes and green peppers. I think they’re afraid that I may very well starve on their watch so they’re watching very closely. I even caught grandma peering in my window more than once.

My neighbors aren’t the only ones giving me food either. I’ve been given an entire head of lettuce, a squash, two ears of corn, eggs, and cassava. On one day alone I was given four pieces of cake, four plantains and two tamales. Really, it’s too much food for one person to consume. I actually attempted to give the corn away to a needy family and instead they just cooked it for me on the spot.
The squash recently went bad and, because I felt guilty about wasting food, I attempted to dispose of it by throwing it into the trees behind my house under the cover of night so that no one would notice. Unfortunately, I threw it straight into a wet towel which I didn’t see in the dark, making a huge racket in the process. Part of the squash stuck to the towel and half of it ricocheted back onto the house. I ended up having to wash the towel and the house to dispose of the evidence. I never found the other half.

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One of my neighbors recently complemented me on my pee bucket which I had left outside to dry. She literally told me how nice it was and started estimating how much it must have cost me. It wasn’t until I caught myself telling her that I thought the color was really nice that I realized how absurd the conversation was to begin with.

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Some young boys (third grade and younger) paid a visit and told me that they liked my ponchito. Maicol, the 4 year old that has a crush on me told on them. I had to ask him for clarification because I didn’t know what that word meant. He pointed to his crotch and told me they were malcriados (badly behaved.) Obviously, it means vagina. Honestly?! They are in primary school!

Monday, March 29, 2010

More Pictures from Site

I posted several more pictures from my site and the surrounding area. To check them out look in the Honduras folder!

Saturday, March 27, 2010

Moving Out

I think that it would be difficult to convey just how ready I am to live without a host-family. I'm oh so ready. It will be a welcome change after living with host-families for more than two and a half years. Currently I'm on host-family number 8, if you include when I studied abroad. I could probably write a book about living with host-families by now, not that I'm any kind of expert. It takes a certain personality to make it effortless. In my case, it has never been effortless.

My current host-family is great. But perfection is hard to come by in a host-family. My host-father, for example, likes to blare reggaeton right on the other side of my wall. He gets really enthusiastic about his favorite songs and turns the volume up several notches with each favorite song. He has a lot of favorite songs. Of course, he also never turns the volume down so that, after about three of his favorite songs have come on, the house is practically shaking. My host-mother is a great cook, but, like most Hondurans, she's a big fan of the manteca (congealed vegetable oil that comes in disconcertingly large tubes.) It says cholesterol free on the outside of the package but that's not fooling me. It seems to be reusable and any food product that's reusable can't be healthy.

Luckily, I found a house to rent in El Sauce, which was no easy feat given the general lack of houses. Someone recommended that I live in one of the two houses which were recently abandoned - abandoned because the men from my site who were murdered lived in them. Instead, I'll be living in the house of a young bachelor, who decided he would rent to me after I explained that I would only be renting it for 10 months. He chuckled and said that he didn't want to commit to renting for any longer than a year because, goodness, what would he do if he found a cute cipota (young girl) that he wanted to robar (steal/marry)?!

The house is certainly nice by my community's standards, nicer than most of the houses, with cement floors, a shower, doors and windows. However, it's basically the one of only two houses that meets the Peace Corps security standards. My host-family doesn't seem to care that it is a completely secure house and can't fathom a single female living by herself. Proudly, they seem to have resolved this issue by reassuring themselves that they will just send my 10 year-old host-sister to live with me when I move out. While this is a perfectly normal custom in Latin America, I find the prospect none too thrilling. I just hope they’ve forgotten within the next two weeks!

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Clandestine Photos

I finally got around to taking a few snapshots of my site, although I will admit that I've been afraid to take pictures for fear that my camera will be stolen which is most likely a ridiculous notion in El Sauce. I'll try to take some better pictures soon.


Friday, March 12, 2010

Stream of Consciousness

“Va a llover literally translates to, "It's going to rain." It is also, without a doubt, the most commonly spoken phrase in my community. Since it rains all the time, I erroneously took the expression literally and was, for the first two weeks in El Sauce, perplexed by the frequency with which people commented about the impending rain, especially when it was already raining. I was also confused every time the expression was repeated multiple times within the same conversation or when someone randomly said it was going to rain while talking about a completely unrelated topic.

I still don't know what “va a llover really means, but I finally figured out that it is not referring to rain. My host-mom couldn't really explain what it meant either, but she got a big kick out of the fact that I had interpreted it literally. She attempted to clarify the meaning by saying "va a llover" multiple times in a row. My best guess is that it means something like "whatever" or "yeah right."

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Time is certainly fluid in El Sauce. While conducting household surveys one elderly woman of 76 told me she was 50. Her daughter-in-law corrected her, informing me that her id card placed her at 76, to which the woman stubbornly replied that she thought it must be incorrect because she was most certainly in her fifties. Another woman, age 79, told me that she’d been living in El Sauce for a mere 3 years. Her son just laughed and said, amused, “Three years?! At least forty!”

Another man who was attempting to guess my age said, "You guys are just so big that it's hard to guess your ages." He guessed my age to be around 17.

Sadly, I also misjudged two teenage boys, age 14 and 15, to be around 7 and 9. They come from the poorest family in town and the only explanation for their small size is malnutrition. I’m still having trouble wrapping my head around it but it’s just not right.

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I encountered a 10 year-old girl with her own bottle of Boone's Farm which she proudly showed me. She offered a taste as well. Her mom was right there and didn't seem to think anything of it.

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My host-family unabashedly asked me to tell them English slang words for vagina. Under pressure, I only managed to come up with three: cherry, fish taco and axe wound. Unfortunately, I translated them into Spanish.

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By the end of one year here I am predicting that I will have been converted into a devout Catholic or Evangelical either because of the sheer number of prayer services I will have attended or because the crime rate will have convinced me that prayer is our only salvation. It's a pretty close toss-up between the two. My current activities include the Wednesday prayer group, Friday night rosary, and Sunday mass. I’ve also been invited by the evangelicals to attend “the cult” which, while it sounds a little frightening to me, is literally what they call it. So far I’ve managed to avoid “the cult” but I’ve promised to go next Wednesday.

As for the crime rate, it's rather alarming. The murder rate is at about 67 people per 100,000 which is really high. Consider that in Peru it's at 2 per 100,000. Obviously, some of the crime is localized to the bigger cities, especially around San Pedro Sula where there is a lot of gang activity due to the cocaine trade. However, crime extends pretty much throughout the entire country. Guns abound and Hondurans take the law into their own hands because of a non-functional and corrupt legal system. The school director comfortingly put it to me that he could kill me on the spot with my host-sister watching and nothing would happen to him as long as he paid off the lawyers.

The subject arose because two weeks ago at 2:30 on Saturday morning, 4 local men, 2 from my site, were forcefully taken from their homes, shot numerous times in the head and left in a cornfield in a neighboring community. The story goes that men in police uniform came to their homes and claimed they were taking them in for investigation, which was plausible because that actually happened to 9 other people the week before. All of the men who were shot, as well as the men taken into custody the previous week, were members of a local gang who for the last couple of years has been robbing people and delivery trucks and possibly killing.

The bodies were never taken to the morgue and were buried the very next day so you can imagine that any kind of investigation will be rather limited in scope. No one knows who is responsible for the deaths but people refer to them as either the “Death Squad” or the “Gang of the Grey Truck.” Personally, the first name instills a little bit more fear in me than the latter. It is also possible that the police were actually responsible. The lack of legal recourse is, to me, possibly the saddest part of the entire situation. Local people have expressed opinions ranging from sadness and fear to relief. Several people commented to me that they got their just desserts. Clearly, no one wants the threat of a local gang hanging over their heads but I still can't help but thinking that the situation could have been resolved more peacefully. One of the people killed was only 19 and all of them had children.

Two weeks later, some people are still fairly shaken up by what happened. One man told me that he and his four brothers are so concerned that they’ve been sleeping outside for part of every night. I’m not really sure what their logic is but obviously they don’t feel safe. I’m not sure I blame them either given the incompetent, by all appearances, local police force. I recently witnessed them on patrol blaring, “Who Let the Dogs Out” by Nelly – not exactly a confidence booster. At 11:00 PM the other night they went on patrol and blasted off several gunshots at random intervals just to let people know they were patrolling. Not surprisingly, this had the opposite of a calming effect and only served to frighten the people more.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Reject Rides

Transportation to and from my site is provided by a fleet of 3 rickety, reject school buses from the States. The bus-of-choice to get from my site to Santa Barbara is light blue, from Portland and currently out of service. None of the buses actually depart from my site, but usually a truck is sent up to take people down in order to catch the bus. However, on Thursday, I awoke at 5:15 in the morning to wait in a dark, cold rain for a truck that never came. Thankfully, it came the following morning or I might have walked down the mountain.

After leaving my site at 5:45, we made it to Santa Barbara at 8:30 am. In terms of distance, it's really not that far from my site to Santa Barbara, nor is the road that bad. However, it is precisely the kind of road that sane people would never venture to take a school bus down, especially not one filled beyond capacity.

That said, I am under the impression that most bus drivers are simply not sane. I'm still not sure what my parents were thinking putting me on the school bus each morning as a child. As I recall, those one hour bus rides through the Illinois countryside were cause for concern - veritable roller-coaster rides sans seatbelts. The best seats were at the back, where a hill would send you flying into the air. I wouldn't be surprised if the bus even got air. Of course, if the school district had screened its drivers, the rides would have been less eventful. I remember one of our drivers was frequently late and once he just didn't show. He was promptly fired, as the bus company finally realized that he was a drug addict. There was also Carl, the man who drove us to school for several years. I suspect that Carl took up school bus driving as a hobby in his retirement years because he must have been in his seventies and his glasses were thicker than the windshield. Carl alternated between reading the bible and the dictionary. His favorite refrain, always shrieked, was, "Get your seat of the pants on the seat of the bus." Despite his obvious lack of vision, he drove that bus like a race car driver. I recall that once, during the same ride, he took out one of the middle side windows with a tree branch and later backed into a huge oak tree that a blind person could have avoided. Nonetheless, for kids on a country school bus, these rides were just normal.

Much as the school bus ride was for me, for most of the passengers, particularly the elderly gentlemen, the ride to Santa Barbara was like a jovial social hour. I enjoyed the ride, despite being a little squished, by taking in the beautiful view - a mix of forest, coffee farms and cornfields. A mere 3 hours after arriving in Santa Barbara, I resumed the bus ride again to return to my site, arriving at 2 pm.

Friday, February 12, 2010

Back to Square One

I arrived at my new site, El Sauce, on Friday afternoon to find that, indeed, there are no willows in El Sauce. However, from my backyard there is a clear view up into the cloud forest of Santa Barbara National Park. The scattered houses of El Sauce dot the hillside along the edge of the nuclear zone of the park, with farm plots creeping upwards, creating a clearly discernable line between the remaining cloud forest and development as El Sauce knows it.

My new house is nice by my standards, with an indoor bathroom, tile floors, windows with screens, couches and no holes in the walls. There are also no rats running across the rafters like there were in my first house in Huaca Rivera. It is certainly one of the nicer homes in town. My bedroom is, however, roughly the size of my laundry room in the States, with less storage space and entirely occupied by an enormous queen-sized bed.

Of course, my new home also includes a new host-family – two parents, two girls (10 and 5 years old) and a baby boy. Everyone in the family is very nice and the girls are particularly calm. The 5 year old does, however, have the particular habit of racing to finish her food before me every time we eat which is a little alarming because, while she does a fairly impressive job, it always ends in a few disconcerting gasps for air.

Honestly, this family is pretty hands-off and understanding in terms of allowing me to maintain a certain level of independence. After having lived with about 8 different host-families, I’ve learned how to make myself at home pretty much instantly. Nonetheless, it is never really that comfortable. Once again I’ve reverted to feeling a bit like a child. For example, I now have shiny pink toenails complete with floral decorations courtesy of my host-mom. I’ve never had decorations on my toenails, but she insisted.

Also, the other day I wanted to go for a run so I asked my host-mother where exactly I could run. She informed me that I could either run up or down the hill, with the condition that if I ran down the hill I could only run as far as a certain concrete fence. I opted to run down the hill, assuming that the fence would be a reasonable distance away. Well, as soon as I left my house I could already see the fence and I arrived at said fence approximately 30 seconds later, probably less. So, I turned around to run up the hill which was around a curve and, thus, not readily visible. The top of the hill was roughly 15 seconds from my house. It was quite the run.

Amazingly, my host-mom gave me the option of preparing my own breakfast. Nonetheless, when I asked to borrow a pan to fry an egg she took it upon herself to add about ½ cup of oil. I actually tried to get her to take some out and she simply replied that the extra oil would remain in the pan once the egg was cooked. Then she cooked the egg while spooning copious amounts of the extra oil on top of the egg. Indeed, some oil remained in the pan but at least half was absorbed and, therefore, ingested.

Also, along with living with a host-family comes the usual slew of awkward questions: Do you believe in God?, Why don’t you eat meat?, You know that our meat is healthier?, Why won’t you at least try this endangered armadillo?, How much did that box of tea cost? Of course, even if that box of tea cost $6.00, once converted to Lempiras, it might as well have cost you $100 because that’s what it seems like to them.

In terms of work, I’m back to square one, with nothing to do. Hopefully I don’t go crazy because I’m not sure I can handle the lack of productivity again. I saw my counterpart at the Sunday church service and asked when the next water board meeting would be. Since he is on the board and my counterpart for precisely that reason, I assumed it were logical that I would attend. He was like, “Oh, I doubt you’d want to go.” As I suspected I would be, I’m concerned that this site has not been developed at all in terms of PC site development.

Monday, February 1, 2010

Transitions

My one month break at home came and went in a blur. After over two years away, one month at home was kind of a tease. Once again I boarded a plane and left the States for the Peace Corps, although this time for a one-year extension in Honduras. I was less than thrilled that the Peace Corps insisted on booking my flight at 5:30 AM. I was in Honduras by noon.

The Protected Areas Management program specialist picked me up at the airport and bought me a baleada, a flour tortilla filled with refried beans, cheese, egg and drizzled with mantequilla, a sauce similar to sour cream. She told me there wasn't anything more typical of Honduran food than the baleada. I liked it. Less than a week later I realized that baleadas or some version there of are pretty much all that Hondurans eat. Sometimes they mix it up with corn tortillas.
Pretty much upon landing the PC staff whisked me away to the office to commence my own personal training. Admittedly, the one-on-one training was kind of intense compared to my experience in Peru. Doing participatory activities when you are the sole participant is not exactly a ball of fun. Also, going it alone was far more difficult than I imagined it would be. On day two, I cried in the office bathroom.

After a week in the office, I was sent off to shadow a fellow environment volunteer for 10 days. Her site is located in the buffer zone near the Parque Nacional Azul Meámbar and has beautiful views of Lago Yojoa, the largest natural lake in Honduras. We passed the time visiting various places and organizations in the area. On my second day there we actually made the trip to La Esperanza, a larger town about 1.5 hours away, for the annual potato festival. It struck me as being a bit ironic since I just came from Peru, the home of the potato.

We also visited the lake which is really beautiful and surrounded by hills and two national parks - Parque Nacional Azul Meámbar and Parque Nacional Santa Barbara. Through a connection of the volunteer's we also went to visit a nearby lead and zinc mine. We ended up meeting the owner (a Canadian) and the second-in-command (a Chilean), who met each other in Peru at a mine in Ancash. We were invited up into the lounge of the mine's admin staff and I felt like I had stepped back into the 1950s -- picture foreign engineers with their fancy wives drinking wine and cocktails. Of course, the people who actually work the mine live below in shacks while the admin staff lives in a gated community with a pool and hot water and the owner makes $55,000 a month. The mine does do a lot of social work and the workers are well compensated compared to most Hondurans; however, there is something very telling about the blatant disparity in wealth.

On the weekend we went to visit a Honduran friend of the volunteer's who lives in San Pedro Sula, the largest city in Honduras. Hot and crowded, there isn't much to recommend about San Pedro. We paid a requisite visit to City Mall, a super fancy mall which looks silly in juxtaposition to the urban squalor of San Pedro. San Pedro and the highway leading to San Pedro from the south are among the most dangerous areas of Honduras due to intense gang activity related to the cocaine trade. Nonetheless, the search for opportunity and jobs brings people from all over the country.

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Unexpectedly, the transition from Peru to Honduras has been really hard for me. I know no one. The culture is very different while still maintaining certain similarities, which perhaps makes it more disorienting. The official language is still Spanish but very different nonetheless. The language here is more formal which makes me uncomfortable--they even use the formal Usted form here with children. In Peru I obtained a certain comfort level which is now gone. When it comes down to it, I'm homesick. But I'm homesick for Peru. I'm sad that I'm not there. I'm sad that I won't live there again. I miss it. I miss the people, the food, the weather, the market, the bus rides, the moto-taxis. I miss it all. I even miss Lima which is saying something.

During the first two weeks, I found myself constantly comparing Honduras to Peru. It was even difficult to find beauty in the verdant, rolling hills of Honduras because I kept comparing them to the stark peaks of the Andes. Finally, however, I realized that I could cherish and miss Peru without directly comparing it to Honduras. Personally I think the transition hit me hard because I felt guilty about moving on so quickly, about leaving Peru behind and going someplace new, about leaving. When I think about my little host-brother it still brings tears to my eyes, but there is no way to tell him that.

I'm finally starting to feel a little more settled. Taking the bus back to my host-family's house no longer makes me extremely nervous. Also, they finally gave me information about my new site so I can at least picture where I'll be for the next year. My new site is a small, mountainside community of 350 people called El Sauce (Willow). It's located in the buffer zone of the Parque Nacional Santa Bárbara, a national park which harbors cloud forests, subtropical wet forests and highland pine forests. It is also home to Santa Barbara Mountain, which at 9,000 ft. is the second highest mountain in Honduras and, also, the only high-altitude limestone mountain in Central America. The community has expressed interest in the following areas: latrines, environmental education, chicken coops, eco-tourism and household gardens.

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If you are interested in finding my site on a map, here's how: Look first for Lago Yojoa, the big lake between Tegucigalpa and San Pedro Sula. The National Park Santa Barbara is located on the NW side of the lake, and my site is on the northern side of the park. On a good map you should be able to find a town called San Luis Planes which is my district capital and fairly close to my site. If you can locate Peña Blanca and the town of Santa Barbara, San Luis Planes is pretty much directly in the middle of those two towns.