Headlocked in the (Sweaty) Armpit of Honduras

"En Progreso?" Hondurans are generally astonished to find Americans working in their country's fourth-largest city, a backwater provincial town on the road between San Pedro Sula and La Ceiba, popularly considered the armpit of the country. A poetic way of explaining why I am always drenched in sweat.

It lacks a functioning postal system. One of the men with one of the nicer homes along the main highway explained to me that his mailbox was mostly decorative; he only received a few bills (for which his address was a lengthy description of his home and location, there are no street names). So while Dan was good enough to pick me up some postcards, I may not be able to send them.

The craziest thing in this dusty city are the walled pockets of wealth, a megamall and new university, built with money from Hondurans living in the States. Another American export is the Baptist mission trip. 20 North Carolinians came through and gave us the temporary relief from being the most obliviously stereotypical Americans in the region. They were on a dental mission to a rural village eight hours away, probably because half the colonias around here, with their "Iglesia Evangelica" signs, are already "saved". (By which I suppose I mean lured away from the salvific power of the sacraments for a bag of vitamins.)

We, by which I mean Rodrigo, gave a presentation on our project at UTH to recruit some collaborators on our project that know the country, the language, and most importantly have cars or trucks. Our surveys, which will compile data both for our project and SHH more generally, have been written and translated. As Rodrigo and I translated them (80%/20%) over at SHH headquarters, Dan, Tian, and Brandon managed to get locked in the hotel room by the maid. They called about a half-hour later, before we had the crisis of conscience to go rescue them, to say that they had been let out and the doorlock had been broken.

Last night we also started making plans for a trip down to Nicaragua the second week of July, which Bobby, one of the SHH volunteers, is possible to make cheaply. The plan would be to take a chicken bus (because they "stop at every piece of chickenshit") first to San Pedro, then down to the capital, and finally go by yet another bus to Managua. Though I don't know if Val (or anyone) would be willing to host whatever we look and smell like after a month here. The trick, we've been told, is to look as much like scruffy penniless backpackers as possible. Dennis and Tim, mark down this stretch of the continent for an excursion (like Eustace Conway), we would be in our element.

So the plan is to break out of Progreso for a few days for a little excursion or two, to the beach at Tela del Mar and the Mayan ruins at Copan, on the chicken bus.