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.
Monday, November 15, 2010
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.
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!
-------
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.
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!
-------
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.
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.
-------
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.
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