The Last Don(s)

Days like this make me feel that this may not in fact be the anal tract of the North American continent.

Rodrigo and I woke up early (despite a beer pong run that rivalled our last appearance on the U.S. circuit) feeling quite refreshed. Our breakfast baleadas at Comidas Rapidas were especially delicious. I have been a little remiss in describing this routine. We walk into this little busstop restaurant and order three baleadas and pear juices. The young manager hurries to kick the Honduran patrons off their plastic benches so that Rodrigo and I can (unlike everyone else in the establishment) each have our own. Then come the baleadas, which are eggs, butter, and (surprise!) refried beans on (surprise!) a tortilla. It is delicious, cheap, and an exemplar of good service. I highly recommend it to anyone who has the misfortune of passing through here.

Then it was off to Alvaro Contreras School in Las Brisas for a meeting with Director Cano about installing our computing project there. English and computation skills come at a high premium here in Honduras, but they are necessary for getting good jobs in the cities. The director complained that corrupt officials had stolen computers from him. To prevent their theft this time, he excitedly talked about electrifying entire building (doors and metal bars) where the computers would be held. Imagining a six-year-old getting fried, Dan was able to talk him into using a simple alarm system instead.

As a quick aside, Hondurans either look very young or very old to us. Apparently the reverse is true; we are often pointedly asked "are you married?" or by the most hopelessly confused, "how many children do you have?"

Therefore, it is as 'Don Rodrigo' and 'Don Roberto' that we will be teaching classes starting the week after next at Alvaro Contreras. I could not be more excited. I am also excited that we have finally stumbled upon a practical plan for our service work.

After our very productive meeting, we caught the bus to Tela and spent another day on the beach, this time complete with a frisbee and a little avocado that doubled well enough (for one of us) as a tennis ball. The freshly caught fried fish were once again up to par. And although it apparently rains in paradise sometimes, the general consensus was that this only made bathing in the sea more refreshing.

Maybe as refreshing as having clean clothes, hand-washed in some dirty river, beaten on a rock, and sun-dried. We all smell like we are coming from a barbecue, except someone switched the charcoal with old tires.

Tomorrow we stake out for Nicaragua, some way, some how. The basic plan is that if we leave here at 3:45 AM, we will not need a good plan, and will be able to stumble and barter our way to the grand visage of civilization (enthroned on porcelain) that lies to the south.

Keep praying for us. (We can't outrun those.)

Phased Withdrawal Plans

You know you are in Honduras, Rodrigo says, when the ladies of the night come out at 8pm. And when they are in fact men, it is irresistible even for a CNN hero to send El Boludo their way.

Yesterday we finished our Brisas surveys with military precision. This is the end of that routine of calling "Hola, Buenas", plastic chairs being brought out, and fumbling through questions. We spoke with the director of the village school, where we plan to implement our computing project. So baseball lessons for the youngsters (in exchange for fresh mangoes) will continue long-term. The boys of Las Brisas looked convincingly crushed that Arkansas beat Virginia.

Also convincingly crushed were our clothes, which were washed by a kindly matron from Villa and dried by beating them repeatedly against the rocks. It was high time.

Our next task will be to compile and analyze the survey data and prepare our report, which will also be used by Students Helping Honduras to pursue a grant to build a learning center in the new community being built behind Las Brisas. Rodrigo and I will take our work on the road, a withdrawal from the war-zone for a few days which will include a visit to our friend Valeria in Nicaragua via the Honduran capital, Tegucigalpa. So it's off to the southern half of Central America, which looks like the very heights of civilization from here.

This morning we went to visit a nutrition center where malnourished children aged one to five years are brought from orphanages and poor homes. The volunteers play with the children, they eat periodically like machines, and go to scoot around on plastic pots until they have discharged their last meal. Then it's siesta-time.

The good news for this week is we found a site which allows us to draw up a tangible plan for implementing a service project and launch a social business with a lot of growth potential. And after spending some long days compiling our data, it's time for a little vacation (from our vacation).

"Don't Walk Around So Confidently"

A new question on our survey asks about security concerns. If we make the obvious comparison between dusty, scorched Las Brisas and Iraq, then on Sunday Rodrigo and I walked through Fallujah. Our newest questions got some zingers. The mud houses at the back of the colonia, furthest from the (relative) safety of the highway, back up to a palm plantation where the gangs hide out and carry out their execution-style murders. After hearing some grisly stories, an old woman scowled at the two of us and advised, "Don't walk around with so much confidence."

When we walked back from the cathedral after dark, it occurred to me that we had passed two people on maybe a mile walk through the center of town, not counting the shotgun-toting guards. People just don't walk around here at night. Better to speed around in a pickup truck blasting country music with a dozen or so other gringos. And yet we are surprised when the young women we interview in Brisas say they recognize us.

Which, I might add, makes it easier for Rodrigo to tack on "what's your phone number" as a final survey question. (Or did, once.)

To rebuild our confidence when we are flying solo, this morning we walked into the bustling market at the center of Progreso and bought the three most lethal-looking machetes we could find, two of which fit snugly into the briefcase I keep our surveys in. The perfect thing for young men our age to play with. (Straight out of Crocodile Dundee. "Rod-rye-go. That's not a knife. That's a knife".) Between these fearsome blades, our increasingly grungy appearances (though we are in the process of contracting out our first loads of wash to one of the village women), and our growing number of friends in the village, I think we have never been safer.



I am also pleased to report that Las Brisas has fielded a promising youth baseball team. The youngsters are now aware the diamond has four bases, not five, although they still play with sticks and a small plastic soccer ball. Still, considering just yesterday they were playing a primitive game kicking that ball between two stones, their progress is remarkable. I am half-expecting to find paved roads and maybe a Wal-Mart when we go out there today. Though I would settle for the Marine Corps.

A Man Called Christmas

Rodrigo and I are tired out from a week of sweating through t-shirts surveying Las Brisas. I can only imagine having to perform actual labor in this heat. Or you can just see the wear on the bodies of the people we interview. Again, Natividad (the man called Christmas) comes to mind like a Motorcycle Diaries montage. But mostly for us, I think Rodrigo is on to something, being so out of place and helpless takes a psychological toll. I have not started dreaming in Spanish, yet, but I realized today that my dreams are eerily in the washed-out colors of this sun-bleached country.

The great disparities between rich and poor has become a way of life for us as well. By day we go through the shanty towns in the back of the colonias. At night our friends come over for parties by the pool. Rodrigo and I have a new favorite eatery, Autopollo, next door. The open-air roadside bar only serves chicken (halved or whole) with a side of sliced bread out of a bag. A massive dinner and two beers for $4. We gorge ourselves with food and drink, head to the pool, and fire up our laptops to reflect on what might be wrong with that.

Sadly, Jose Santos, the man who stands outside our door at night with a pump-action shotgun, exposed the false rumor that a couple dozen contestants for an international beauty contest were staying in our compound. Just more Baptist missionaries.

Last night Rodrigo and I went to the big nightclub in town, 504, with some friends from Students Helping Honduras (Shin, Samantha, Michelle, Christian, and Walker). No sooner than we were in the heavily-guarded door than the game of "which one is the woman of ill repute" began. Fortunately I lucked out at first with a friendly soft-spoken young woman who awkwardly taught me the Bachata. The next time I guessed wrong to a particularly aggressive reggaeton song (complete with discordant tractor-trailer horns), and when she started talking about money and leaving, I suddenly pretended not to understand a word of Spanish, and sought out the rest of the gringos.

Rodrigo, however, was a sight to behold. Literally for the entire nightclub. In the truckbed on the ride home, he explained that he quickly realized that the timid Honduran men had not even his modest salsa confidence. For the better part of an hour he and Michelle (who also gets the credit of being a good dancer) were virtually the only ones on a dancefloor ringed by awed Progreseños (and me).

We had to get up for another work day today, compiling survey data and meeting with officials from another village, Las Minas. Rodrigo sat next to a MS-13 gangbanger on the bus to Santarita who showed him his gunshot wounds (one in the back of his head), L.A. County jail and deportation papers, gang tatoos, heroin needle scars, and the drugs in his pockets. He recounted unrepeatable stories in unintelligible ganglish. Rodrigo was happy to get off at the bus.

There one of the community leaders, Don Hermelindo, insistently told us five college students on an internet connectivity project in this place that, "The United States is a practical country!" Actual irony, at last.