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.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
-------
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.
-------
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.
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.
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