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).
Jun 19, 2009
Jun 16, 2009
"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.
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.
Jun 14, 2009
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.
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.
Jun 12, 2009
The Breeze of Liberty
Today was our third day of conducting surveys in the town of Las Brisas de la Libertad (The Breeze of Liberty). As our fearless leader, El Boludo, likes to explain: " Estamos conduciendo encuestas." This translates to "we are driving surveys."
The first two days were pretty rough, partly because we were still experimenting with the format of the surveys, but mostly due my inability to hide my dry personality and awkwardness for the whole situation. It's not easy to walk in to a wooden shack and ask a work-hardened, middle-aged woman about her children's education, her financial status, and how familiar she is with computers. The humility and melancholy in the villager's eyes can be contagious. By the end of the day, my shame and frustration at being so ignorant to these people's situation was clearly evident and was begging to sink into a depressive mood.
Today, I knew I had to take a different approach or I wasn't going to make it through another day. Our group's goal became less going from 1 to question 2 but rather engaging the people in conversation. And it seemed to work: we were more friendly, we cracked jokes, we talked to the children and the people replied by being more open and sharing more of their personal lives. We actually got a couple of pretty cool stories.
One man was a US citizen on vacation staying with his wife. He is a metal worker in Baltimore and he explained to us the history behind the word "gringo." According to him, around the time of Cold War, the communist states bred distrust in Honduras of Americans out of fear of US control of Central America. Thus, when the Americans came down and handed the impoverished Hondurans dollars as a sign of charity the people disliked the green currency and said: "green, go!" From here rose the word "gringo."
Another woman asked us to examine a sheet of paper that she had been keeping since her retirement from one of the local sweatshops. It was in english, so she had no idea what it was but she knew it was important. After looking over it, Rob and I realized that it was a stock title for 2 shares of the Gildan Athletic Wear company, which we later found to have a value of about $34. In very simple terms, I tried to explain to the woman what she had in her hand (mostly because even I didn't know how talk about stocks in Spanish). As the newly appointed stock brokers for this community, we promised her that we would return with the price of that mysterious piece of paper.
As we continued our interviews, we began to be amazed by the number people still suffering from the effects of Hurrican Mitch in the late '90s. One group of 9 adults and 4 children were sharing a property consisting of mud and stick house with wood oven outside. One old man complained about how the flooding had forced them to sell everything and move to this infertile higher ground. "You find work where you can," he said, "it's too hard to farm here." Yet even in these words I found a hidden enthusiasm that encouraged me to keep going and find out more about the interesting stories behind the lives of these people.
The first two days were pretty rough, partly because we were still experimenting with the format of the surveys, but mostly due my inability to hide my dry personality and awkwardness for the whole situation. It's not easy to walk in to a wooden shack and ask a work-hardened, middle-aged woman about her children's education, her financial status, and how familiar she is with computers. The humility and melancholy in the villager's eyes can be contagious. By the end of the day, my shame and frustration at being so ignorant to these people's situation was clearly evident and was begging to sink into a depressive mood.
Today, I knew I had to take a different approach or I wasn't going to make it through another day. Our group's goal became less going from 1 to question 2 but rather engaging the people in conversation. And it seemed to work: we were more friendly, we cracked jokes, we talked to the children and the people replied by being more open and sharing more of their personal lives. We actually got a couple of pretty cool stories.
One man was a US citizen on vacation staying with his wife. He is a metal worker in Baltimore and he explained to us the history behind the word "gringo." According to him, around the time of Cold War, the communist states bred distrust in Honduras of Americans out of fear of US control of Central America. Thus, when the Americans came down and handed the impoverished Hondurans dollars as a sign of charity the people disliked the green currency and said: "green, go!" From here rose the word "gringo."
Another woman asked us to examine a sheet of paper that she had been keeping since her retirement from one of the local sweatshops. It was in english, so she had no idea what it was but she knew it was important. After looking over it, Rob and I realized that it was a stock title for 2 shares of the Gildan Athletic Wear company, which we later found to have a value of about $34. In very simple terms, I tried to explain to the woman what she had in her hand (mostly because even I didn't know how talk about stocks in Spanish). As the newly appointed stock brokers for this community, we promised her that we would return with the price of that mysterious piece of paper.
As we continued our interviews, we began to be amazed by the number people still suffering from the effects of Hurrican Mitch in the late '90s. One group of 9 adults and 4 children were sharing a property consisting of mud and stick house with wood oven outside. One old man complained about how the flooding had forced them to sell everything and move to this infertile higher ground. "You find work where you can," he said, "it's too hard to farm here." Yet even in these words I found a hidden enthusiasm that encouraged me to keep going and find out more about the interesting stories behind the lives of these people.
Jun 11, 2009
I Know It's Not Precisely "Irony"
I realize that five sweaty Americans riding around in the back of a pickup in Honduras isn't exactly called "irony", but you would know what I meant. That's what we spend a lot of our time doing. Last night we went ape back there with a case of the cerveza nacional on the way to the El Salvador-Honduras qualifying match in San Pedro Sula. The atmosphere of a Central American grudge match (keep in mind a major war was fought over this exact match forty years ago) is pretty memorable. First you have a 20ft trench running around the field, the inner wall of which rises into a 15ft fence inclined towards the stand, barbed wire running along its length. Should the mob break through, you have the cordon of riot police and soldiers around the entire circumference of the field. They also had to add a second line of riot police on either side of the Salvadorian section, after a major fight broke out. Lest you think the law has the upper hand anywhere in Honduras, the stadium packs 50,000 and beers are 75 cents. And we couldn't resist buying a round every time the guy in the Virginia Cavaliers shirt passed by selling his.
Honduras won the match 1-0, which means free drinks tonight at all the bars. We survived the human tide squeezing itself through the little gates back into the (chaotic) parking lot after the game. You can actually feel the crowd surging back and forth, as if the entire mass of people wants to get through the two-person-wide gate all at once. Dan and I also survived the irresistible turtle eggs one of the vendors was peddling. It just tastes like washing something of a strange consistency down your throat with hot sauce.
We have begun surveying one village, Las Brisas, to determine what kind of media access and education levels exist there. For such an awkward scenario, they have been going pretty well. The villagers, although politely confused, are for the most part enthusiastic to participate. Their children (curious and out of school because the teachers have gone unpaid) trail us through the streets so that by the end of the day we have a massive following of shirtless kids parading behind us. Our clipboards and American accents grant us some legitimacy, even if I walk around all afternoon with a tired toddler on my shoulders explaining in rambling four-year-old Spanish how best to be a burro. It's cute.
The sum of all the little things here push it beyond reality. Dan shimmies up a palm tree to get a coconut when we're thirsty. No flushing the toilet paper. The giant wad of L.500 you shell out for two soccer tickets, a relatively enormous expense, is actually $25. The shower shocks you because live wires run to the electric showerhead water-heater. A young girl shows Dan and Rodrigo proper machete technique. A tethered monkey climbs on the roof next door. And there are still no traffic laws.
I know its not exactly irony, but nothing here really syncs with any reality I am familiar with.
Jun 8, 2009
Rabbit, King of the Murcielagos
We've settled into a nice habit of sipping gin and tonics in the poolside courtyard garden next to the ice machine, Rodrigo and I.
Day Two in Copan, the Mayan ruins three hours away on the Guatemalan border, and its lovely little town with its cobblestone streets, three-wheeled taxis, and more hippie-gringos with Macbooks than I would have thought possible in Honduras after my experience in grittier Progreso. Unfortunately we missed Secretary of State Clinton on the chicken bus, she was whisked in and out by helicopter yesterday. Copan is the most intact example of an old Mayan city-state, once called the Bat-City/Ciudad de los Murcielagos (A second compelling reason, Dennis and Tim, to visit). The king who built the massive stone temple and ball courts was named Rabbit, further convincing me that I am his reincarnation. Turns out to be a more epic nickname than Joe Jablonski might have expected, I'm pleased to discover. Except for the part about the king having to pierce his tongue and genitals in front of the people as part of a religious ceremony.
Maybe worse, imagine what kind of hell it was carrying stones on one's back to make these altars of human sacrifice in the middle of a jungle. Appropriately, our guide was one Virgilio. He was pot-bellied with an outie as enormous as his smile. The city of the mucielagos was eventually brought down by a rebellion of the lower class in the 800s, for those who would claim that Honduras is the only Central American republic without a major leftist revolution. When the Spanish arrived, they found only ruins; archaeologists like Virgilio have been trying to put it together for about a century. Except for the Americans who stole Eighteen Rabbit's stone (all the kings have hieroglyphs that run up the huge staircase of the pyramid-temple) and brought it to the Peabody in Boston. Where he is living without a visa, a smiling Virgilio added.
We took some good pictures climbing around the temples (and you will spot more than the occasional macaw) that I will share as soon as I find a way to upload them.
Huge ceiba (silk cotton) trees grow out of the temples and their gigantic roots (think Tarzan-scale) crumble the ruins. For the Mayans, they were a symbol of life, stretching down into the underworld and up into the heavens. Rodrigo commented that its a great image of nature outlasting and overpowering passing human civilization. But you can also see it as a dramatic symbol of the great life of this civilization. So I enjoyed the vibrant two-hour Mass, the only white person in the Church of San Jose, conspicuously standing two heads taller than everyone else and fumbling with the Spanish. The Mayans still do human sacrifice right.
Tomorrow we start our surveys. God bless.
Day Two in Copan, the Mayan ruins three hours away on the Guatemalan border, and its lovely little town with its cobblestone streets, three-wheeled taxis, and more hippie-gringos with Macbooks than I would have thought possible in Honduras after my experience in grittier Progreso. Unfortunately we missed Secretary of State Clinton on the chicken bus, she was whisked in and out by helicopter yesterday. Copan is the most intact example of an old Mayan city-state, once called the Bat-City/Ciudad de los Murcielagos (A second compelling reason, Dennis and Tim, to visit). The king who built the massive stone temple and ball courts was named Rabbit, further convincing me that I am his reincarnation. Turns out to be a more epic nickname than Joe Jablonski might have expected, I'm pleased to discover. Except for the part about the king having to pierce his tongue and genitals in front of the people as part of a religious ceremony.Maybe worse, imagine what kind of hell it was carrying stones on one's back to make these altars of human sacrifice in the middle of a jungle. Appropriately, our guide was one Virgilio. He was pot-bellied with an outie as enormous as his smile. The city of the mucielagos was eventually brought down by a rebellion of the lower class in the 800s, for those who would claim that Honduras is the only Central American republic without a major leftist revolution. When the Spanish arrived, they found only ruins; archaeologists like Virgilio have been trying to put it together for about a century. Except for the Americans who stole Eighteen Rabbit's stone (all the kings have hieroglyphs that run up the huge staircase of the pyramid-temple) and brought it to the Peabody in Boston. Where he is living without a visa, a smiling Virgilio added.
We took some good pictures climbing around the temples (and you will spot more than the occasional macaw) that I will share as soon as I find a way to upload them.
Huge ceiba (silk cotton) trees grow out of the temples and their gigantic roots (think Tarzan-scale) crumble the ruins. For the Mayans, they were a symbol of life, stretching down into the underworld and up into the heavens. Rodrigo commented that its a great image of nature outlasting and overpowering passing human civilization. But you can also see it as a dramatic symbol of the great life of this civilization. So I enjoyed the vibrant two-hour Mass, the only white person in the Church of San Jose, conspicuously standing two heads taller than everyone else and fumbling with the Spanish. The Mayans still do human sacrifice right.
Tomorrow we start our surveys. God bless.
Jun 7, 2009
Horseback Diaries
It turns out that Rob and I skipped the night club last night for no reason. We got up at 4:30 AM to catch the 7 AM bus at San Pedro Sula only to find out that it didn't leave until 11 AM. Disappointed, we made ourselves comfortable at the bus station; 7 hours later we were standing on the cobblestone streets of the City of Copan, home to the most famous Mayan Ruins in Honduras. It is picaresque city surrounded by a sprawling mountain range, this country's version of an old European mountaintop village. The air is crisp, the people friendly, and, contrary to most of Honduras, the streets are safe at night. Our late arrival made it impossible to visit the ruins, so we left it for Monday. Instead, a couple of SHH folks and I decided to take some horses to the top of a local mountain.
I can't quite describe how epic this was. The journey began with a pleasant walk through the city streets as we struggled to steer our horses around the incoming moto-taxis that zip about Copan. We continued over the Copan river and through the local farms, in which our horses normally toil. Being my usual self, I tried to turn our expedition into a race and repeatedly attempted to urge my trusty mare Princesa into a gallop, but she refused to go beyond a quick trot.
Once at the top of the mountain we dismounted to take in our destination, the Hacienda San Lucas. I could not help but be entranced by the breathtaking serenity of this place. On one side, a curtained gazebo covered in cushions overlooked the postcard-worthy view of the Copan valley. A Hippie couple followed us in as we immersed ourselves in the Zen-like atmosphere amid the aroma of cocoa, coffee, and banana. Following in the tradition of the place, we performed a Yoga sun salutation as the Honduran sun began to sink behind the mountains. We then proceeded to quietly sip wine while observing the fantastic view once more.
As moving as this was, I don't think anything got close to my conversation with our humble but very knowledgeable guide Ruben, a local campesino struggling to find work farming corn and beans. He explained how many of the rich families were usurping the fertile lands and refusing to use them for cultivation. As I looked at this earnest, hard-working man fitting so well into this landscape, I couldn't help but picture this as a black and white flashback from the Motorcyle Diaries.
On the ride back down, I was estatic with joy at the fact that I succeeded in urging Princesa into a canter for a total of five seconds. Just for the record, I also won the race.
The night culminated in the "Lun Club", a local gringo bar with a ping pong table that I soon took over. As the night drew to close, our group was approached by and gang of Honduran machos and their girls looking to avenge their soccer loss the US. Their starting man was struggling, so he handed the paddle over the Honduran National Table Tennis Champion. After Bobby was narrowly dispatched, it was my turn to carry the American/Argentinian torch. Despite severe disadvantages, including a heavily Honduran crowd, severe inebriation, and a 5.6 earthquake, I mounted a valiant comeback to win the match 23-21.
Epic day, if you ask me.
I can't quite describe how epic this was. The journey began with a pleasant walk through the city streets as we struggled to steer our horses around the incoming moto-taxis that zip about Copan. We continued over the Copan river and through the local farms, in which our horses normally toil. Being my usual self, I tried to turn our expedition into a race and repeatedly attempted to urge my trusty mare Princesa into a gallop, but she refused to go beyond a quick trot.
Once at the top of the mountain we dismounted to take in our destination, the Hacienda San Lucas. I could not help but be entranced by the breathtaking serenity of this place. On one side, a curtained gazebo covered in cushions overlooked the postcard-worthy view of the Copan valley. A Hippie couple followed us in as we immersed ourselves in the Zen-like atmosphere amid the aroma of cocoa, coffee, and banana. Following in the tradition of the place, we performed a Yoga sun salutation as the Honduran sun began to sink behind the mountains. We then proceeded to quietly sip wine while observing the fantastic view once more.
As moving as this was, I don't think anything got close to my conversation with our humble but very knowledgeable guide Ruben, a local campesino struggling to find work farming corn and beans. He explained how many of the rich families were usurping the fertile lands and refusing to use them for cultivation. As I looked at this earnest, hard-working man fitting so well into this landscape, I couldn't help but picture this as a black and white flashback from the Motorcyle Diaries. On the ride back down, I was estatic with joy at the fact that I succeeded in urging Princesa into a canter for a total of five seconds. Just for the record, I also won the race.
The night culminated in the "Lun Club", a local gringo bar with a ping pong table that I soon took over. As the night drew to close, our group was approached by and gang of Honduran machos and their girls looking to avenge their soccer loss the US. Their starting man was struggling, so he handed the paddle over the Honduran National Table Tennis Champion. After Bobby was narrowly dispatched, it was my turn to carry the American/Argentinian torch. Despite severe disadvantages, including a heavily Honduran crowd, severe inebriation, and a 5.6 earthquake, I mounted a valiant comeback to win the match 23-21.
Epic day, if you ask me.
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