Rabbit Redux

Today the teachers surprised us with a grand convivio to celebrate the completion of our project. Thanks to the skipper's diligence, the centro informatico now consists of nine computers, a security system, and air conditioning. They rented out a nearby open-air restaurant with a raised dias for dancing and a U-shaped table around it. The affair was one of traditional dances by the students, grand speeches by the faculty, stuttered thanks by your quite nervous trulies, and the exchange of diplomas and comprobations. I was humbled to watch them crease plastic bags over the certificates we printed acknowledging their 30-hours of computer training (even if they hadn't beat Bowser). And we were given certificates saying (loosely translated) that we are Heroes of the Soviet Union. Cano gave a speech describing how we had searched all over Honduras and singled out his school, and how four major world powers, the United States, China, Argentina, and Germany (like the real Stalin, he mistook this ally, for some reason thinking Brandon was German) had combined to build his computer lab.

Despite their gratitude, there is little cultural respect for the uptight stranger at such a party. Without even giving us the chance to liquor up, the girls were sent in their traditional dancing costumes to give us a very public trial-by-fire in the 'Choluteca running polka'. Stalin's next human wave of teenagers subjected us to a pounding and somewhat scandalous reggaeton song. And finally we had to play musical chairs, where the loser was to sit and pop a balloon that would contain the next humiliation. Rodrigo had to dance salsa like a monkey, Dan like a horse, Tian the punta, Brandon merengue, and me, of course, to a dreaded reggaeton beat.

I swear I heard Director Cano begin to choke up as he said that we had chosen his school for their refusal to strike, that they now had the best school in the district, and it was sure to grow and expand in enrollment, prestige, and financial means. Then we trotted out to the lawn and drank Salva Vidas until I passed out in a hammock, while El Boludo played on the swingset with the fourteen-year-old girls.

Tomorrow I return to the United States, si Dios quiere. Because of a continental.com screw-up, I will make this final trip without Rodrigo or our trusty comrades, who depart Friday. Bring on the culture shock, and some pictures, hopefully.

The Last Crusade

Our 'wake up early without a strategy' travel strategy worked famously on the way to La Antigua Guatemala, and Rodrigo, Tian, and I were in that gorgeous old city in the mountains thirteen hours and dollars later. At one time the capital of Spanish Central America, Antigua is nestled between three volcanoes and home to some of the most beautiful churches I have ever seen. When one was ruined by an earthquake, the Spanish would erect a grander one elsewhere in the city. For that reason it looks like Old Europe deposited in the middle of volcano jungles. The shrine of Peter of St. Joseph Betancur at San Francisco Cathedral was particularly impressive, and its relics included the 17th century saint's rope underwear. That's the inspiration I needed to tough this trip out reusing mine.

On Sunday we climbed Pacaya, an active volcano popular for the lava oozing out near the top, with a group including a few Israeli girls who had just finished their compulsory service. We intended to roast marshmallows over the lava, but it was so hot that we could not stand any closer than a few feet away, and so contented ourselves throwing sticks, rocks, and the marshmallows into the lava and watching them immolate on contact.

Rodrigo got burned almost as badly at chess on Monday, after we bought a handcrafted set (including one plastic pawn, we later discovered) during our tour of the city. We strolled through the market, and bought some souvenirs before discovering how broke we all were. For example, I have less than $100 in the bank and a trip from El Progreso to San Pedro to Houston to Washington to Baltimore to New York to Stamford ahead of me.

But these things work out, gracias a Dios. We had no problems at the border, except for the Guatemalans who had never seen a Chinese passport before and scrutinized Tian. On Tuesday, however, we arrived in the Copan region of western Honduras to discover no buses were running to San Pedro Sula. The single road was blocked by strikers, which is why we saw so many tractor-trailers pulled over to the side of the road in Guatemala. But we refused to be stuck like the other desperate tourists. What was a simple $5, four hour leg of the trip to Antigua became an adventure. A bus from Copan to Santa Rosa. Then a chicken bus to the traffic jam behind the bridge the strikers had seized. Next we walked through the protest itself, a lazy affair of dance music, only evidently political by the graffiti, rocks strewn across the street, and a line of watching police. Then we took another chicken bus from the other side to San Pedro, and escaped the fate of the untold thousands stuck on the road in the traffic jam.

Rodrigo and I have become pretty arrogant about our aptitude for traveling across the region, and it has brought us closer together. Except yesterday I made the trip with a Mayan-knit floral-pattern tote bag souvenir I bought for my grandmother's birthday. Amid all of the chaos and despair, Rodrigo took the time to comment that I looked like a fag.

The others stayed back and got lost on a mountain. Dan took our friends from the squatter community to KFC for dinner, but they threw up the mashed-potatoes-and-gravy. Then the fourteen year old girl proposed to Dan. The skipper leads adventures of his own sort.

Tomorrow, Rabbit redux.