As if driving through Honduran traffic wasn't dangerous enough, we decided to put our lives at risk once again by going to watch the Honduras U.S. World Cup qualifying match at the movie theater in the nearby mall. Any doubts we had about how important this game was to the country were quickly dispelled by the entire shopping center packed with Hondurans wearing the national team jerseys. Our fearless leader, El Boludo, caved in to the enormous pressure and actually decided to support the local team by wearing one of these jerseys, for which he received severe ridiculing from Rob and me.
As we walked into the theater, we were greeted by obvious glares from the locals, perhaps a little confused as to why we would try to walk into a standing-room-only theater full of screaming Hondurans. After sitting through an hour and a half of painful soccer the Americans came out on top 2-1 after which our group quickly made our way to the exit. I tried to keep a low profile while Rob and Bobby (a good friend from SHH) wasted no time in talking trash to a couple of ten-year-old Honduran kids in broken Spanish. We were invited to the local club "504" by a couple of very pretty catrachas but decided this would be pushing our luck a little too much. Plus, we have to be up tomorrow at 5 AM to leave for the Mayan ruins of Copan; I think "504" can wait for next weekend (or monday, every day is a party here).
Jun 6, 2009
Barenas en Tela
Alternatively to be titled "Best Day Ever".
We went to a village near Tela del Mar called Triunfo del Cruz with three of the SHH folks (Bobby, Samantha, and Christian) where for about $10 you can drink beers on the most beautiful white sand beach you've ever seen and float naked in the clear water of a totally deserted beach. (No fish took the worm, gracias a Dios.) That also included a great fish I had, which had been caught that day and fried up (Fiesta Cove-style) with the head still on him. These are the first photos I'll send back when I can, though I doubt it will reassure UVA that its funds are being well-spent.
Rodrigo observed that you could hold the bottle of Barena (Honduras's Corona) up against any background in sight, and it would look like a commercial for the most fun anyone was having in the world. A few of the local black children brought over their bongos and convinced our fearless leader, El Boludo, to dance La Rumba. By all accounts he failed to shake his hindquarters adequately, and the negritos were not at all impressed. Therefore he had to pay them 5 lempiras.
The road to Tela is one of the most notorious sites for kidnapping in Honduras. (Which in the second most dangerous country in the Western Hemisphere is pretty badass.) This sort of sordid business happens when you have to stop to cross a temporary one-lane steel bridge over a beautiful gorge. We made sure to do both in daylight, and everything went smoothly except for a red pickup truck with a yellow tarp (presumably whose melons were filled with cocaine) that got pulled over at the heavily-armed police checkpoint.
More dangerous was the traffic. The major highways in the country are two-lane roads where you pass over the yellow. Ideally when there is no oncoming traffic, although most Honduran drivers are oblivious to the possible health risks of a head-on collision. We saw approximately six close calls and the remains of a police truck that had no miraculously narrow escape.
Tonight we declined to go out to the club (although Saturday night is where it's at, apparently...) after the Honduran-U.S. soccer game which we watched in a crowded theater (the entire megaplex was sold out and showing only the game). Even though Rodrigo wanted to grind on this orphan. Mostly because tomorrow we'll wake up at 4:30 to catch the bus out to the Mayan ruins at Copan.
We went to a village near Tela del Mar called Triunfo del Cruz with three of the SHH folks (Bobby, Samantha, and Christian) where for about $10 you can drink beers on the most beautiful white sand beach you've ever seen and float naked in the clear water of a totally deserted beach. (No fish took the worm, gracias a Dios.) That also included a great fish I had, which had been caught that day and fried up (Fiesta Cove-style) with the head still on him. These are the first photos I'll send back when I can, though I doubt it will reassure UVA that its funds are being well-spent.Rodrigo observed that you could hold the bottle of Barena (Honduras's Corona) up against any background in sight, and it would look like a commercial for the most fun anyone was having in the world. A few of the local black children brought over their bongos and convinced our fearless leader, El Boludo, to dance La Rumba. By all accounts he failed to shake his hindquarters adequately, and the negritos were not at all impressed. Therefore he had to pay them 5 lempiras.
The road to Tela is one of the most notorious sites for kidnapping in Honduras. (Which in the second most dangerous country in the Western Hemisphere is pretty badass.) This sort of sordid business happens when you have to stop to cross a temporary one-lane steel bridge over a beautiful gorge. We made sure to do both in daylight, and everything went smoothly except for a red pickup truck with a yellow tarp (presumably whose melons were filled with cocaine) that got pulled over at the heavily-armed police checkpoint.
More dangerous was the traffic. The major highways in the country are two-lane roads where you pass over the yellow. Ideally when there is no oncoming traffic, although most Honduran drivers are oblivious to the possible health risks of a head-on collision. We saw approximately six close calls and the remains of a police truck that had no miraculously narrow escape.
Tonight we declined to go out to the club (although Saturday night is where it's at, apparently...) after the Honduran-U.S. soccer game which we watched in a crowded theater (the entire megaplex was sold out and showing only the game). Even though Rodrigo wanted to grind on this orphan. Mostly because tomorrow we'll wake up at 4:30 to catch the bus out to the Mayan ruins at Copan.
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.
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.
Jun 4, 2009
Making Purses
Today Rodrigo and I made purses with our team and its fearless leader, El Boludo. The women of Siete de Abril make handbags woven tightly out of discarded plastic wrappers folded over shreds of newspaper. The result is an ingenious and handsome product made 100% out of post-consumer product. I got one for my mother, whose birthday is today. (Feliz Cumpleanyos, Mama.)
Dan keeps us laughing with his preoccupation that (despite wearing a cowboy hat...!) he is readily identifiable as a 'gringo'. His goal is to be completely inconspicuous in a few weeks. Some of his solutions include not wearing both a hat and sunglasses at the same time, and wearing jeans, since virtually none of the Honduran men wear shorts.
Dan keeps us laughing with his preoccupation that (despite wearing a cowboy hat...!) he is readily identifiable as a 'gringo'. His goal is to be completely inconspicuous in a few weeks. Some of his solutions include not wearing both a hat and sunglasses at the same time, and wearing jeans, since virtually none of the Honduran men wear shorts.
Where "Gringo" Follows You Through Town
The first thing you notice is how bright Honduras is. As glaring is the contrast between old and new, rich and poor, often separated by walls, barbed wire, and armed guards. A thoroughly modern megamall stands next to the slums and squatter villages that extend out of the city. Horsedrawn carts plod by American fastfood chains that are among the most expensive restaurants in town. A new state-of-the-art university campus separated by walls and a moat from goats grazing under a rusty corrugated tin roof.
Locals whistle "gringo" from cars, motos, and old painted school buses that race crazily by on the main highway that runs along the Mico Quemado (Burned Monkey) mountain range. El Progreso, the provincial city we're in, is a busy maze of one-way streets off this highway. Elsewhere narrow dirt roads, only a car-width wide, proceed up into the mountains framed by palm fronds and mango trees. It's a beautiful place.
Between the stares, shouts of "gringo", and the language, you're constantly reminded how foreign you are. $1 buys 20 Lempiras, which means that a relatively small amount of American currency translates into a thick wad of Honduran bills. Relative wealth is palpable, especially in a country where our hotel (the nicest in town, with a courtyard garden, pool, etc.) is $7/night, and a steak dinner at the city's premier restaurant translates to about $5. Most importantly, beers are cheap. Salva Vida is the best domestic beer in Honduras.
Our project is slowly taking form as we meet with members of Dan's organization, an American student-run nonprofit called Students Helping Honduras. We have also been having meeting with students and faculty at the local technical university, Universidad Technologica de Honduras. It's opening up options for us. We are considering implementing our computers in a learning center being built by SHH in a village of cinder-block houses they are building to move people out of a squatter community. First, we have a lot of work surveying these populations for our research on the effectiveness of internet connectivity to transform a developing community.
Locals whistle "gringo" from cars, motos, and old painted school buses that race crazily by on the main highway that runs along the Mico Quemado (Burned Monkey) mountain range. El Progreso, the provincial city we're in, is a busy maze of one-way streets off this highway. Elsewhere narrow dirt roads, only a car-width wide, proceed up into the mountains framed by palm fronds and mango trees. It's a beautiful place.
Between the stares, shouts of "gringo", and the language, you're constantly reminded how foreign you are. $1 buys 20 Lempiras, which means that a relatively small amount of American currency translates into a thick wad of Honduran bills. Relative wealth is palpable, especially in a country where our hotel (the nicest in town, with a courtyard garden, pool, etc.) is $7/night, and a steak dinner at the city's premier restaurant translates to about $5. Most importantly, beers are cheap. Salva Vida is the best domestic beer in Honduras.
Our project is slowly taking form as we meet with members of Dan's organization, an American student-run nonprofit called Students Helping Honduras. We have also been having meeting with students and faculty at the local technical university, Universidad Technologica de Honduras. It's opening up options for us. We are considering implementing our computers in a learning center being built by SHH in a village of cinder-block houses they are building to move people out of a squatter community. First, we have a lot of work surveying these populations for our research on the effectiveness of internet connectivity to transform a developing community.
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