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.

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.