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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.