The System Is Armed

To make our martial law-imposed curfew movie night more comfortable, we barricade the mattresses into a makeshift couch. The room is a mess. Everywhere you look are opened-up computers, and the alarm system is strewn out all over in a mess of different-colored wires. To complete the bombmaker-chic look, our machetes and Sandinista paraphernalia are also lying around on the floor.

Enter fifteen policemen with helmets, body armor, and semiautomatic rifles. They're walking by our window looking for the prominent Zelaya supporters staying in the hotel. But we don't know this, and dash frantically to stash away our cache of suspicious-looking equipment. Aware that most guests here are Americans leaving Honduras, we are a little worried for the first half of Walk the Line. A good choice. The runner-up, Enemy at the Gates, might have seemed like an ominous choice.

(Hopefully you're laughing at us. We were perfectly safe the entire time.) The point is that when the excitement happens here, it's a little more crazy and confusing then the international press presents it. But of course the New York Times only has so many inches to devote to a country like Honduras. It's not a straightforward right-wing military coup resisted by a marginalized left-leaning underclass. The laws matter less than the guns behind them, and both sides hold them in contempt. So right now it's a panicked situation where frightened people are making decisions under tremendous pressure.

That's the idea if any would-be thief breaks into the administrative building of Alvaro Contreras school to steal the computers there. We spent today playing with power tools, drilling holes in the cinder block to install the control box, keypad, siren, and motion sensors for the alarm system we purchased. Tomorrow, on go the grisly-looking metal doors that look like something out of a horror movie. Then we will finally be able to move the computers and our hotel room will return to looking like a primitive armed encampment, rather than a highly sophisticated terrorist hideout. It's good to be physically putting things in place. At the end of the day we were dirty, hungry, and exhausted. I took a brief siesta on piled sacks of donated World Food Programme corn.

We think it might be poetic if we go operational on the fourth of July.

This will be an awfully fun report to write. We have been here for earthquakes, rising gang violence, a veritable mass murder next door, and now a coup d'etat. And that was only the first month.

How to Survive a Coup d'Etat

1. Be unpredictable. Travel back into the country and through the capital city on the very day the coup takes place.
2. Don't panic. Especially if you are wondering why nobody is in the largest bus terminal the night the president is forced into exile.
3. Head for the hills. Or in this case, don't let the State Department dissuade your travel plans to to tropical islands.
4. Relax. May I recommend snorkeling in the world's second-largest barrier reef system? You will see some truly otherworldly beauty.
5. Have a stiff drink. This is crucial. Don't let martial law and a nationwide curfew stop you from finding a dive and boozing.
6. Never back down. So the police are carting curfew-violators off to jail? If you were promised free seconds, don't pay the full meal.
7. Pray. Four hours of this will do the trick if riots are blocking the only bridge out of town. Your bus will get through on its third try.

The events of the "coup" are all over the news, although we are surprised that word is being used so much. Until Sunday, President Zelaya's actions were widely interpreted as a bid to give him unconstitutional power. The referendum to extend his term limits were declared unconstitutional by the court, and his decision to fire the chief of the military looked like a desperate political move to counter his unpopularity by seizing control of the army. So is it the old Latin American military coup or the other two branches of government intervening to save the constitution from a Chavez-style semi-takeover? Depends on who is really in charge now, which is very confusing for everyone here. Interestingly, the newly-declared president is from El Progreso.


Three guerrilla fighters in Utila outfitted in matching faux Ray-Bans.

We have traveled the length of the country, from the Nicaraguan border to Utila in the Carribean Sea, as the coup has unfolded. Except for more police checkpoints, worried conversations, and a small demonstration in the port of La Ceiba (that blocked a bridge and delayed our return here to Progreso by four hours) the country we have seen is tranquil and confused. There is a 9pm nationwide curfew, though the only difference is this seems to be decreed by martial law instead of the gangs.

We're safe despite earthquakes, gangs, and the putsch. More worrying to us is the probability of a teacher strike that would delay our project indefinitely. And threats resulting from gang disputes in Las Brisas that have made our partner organization temporarily pull out of our work-site.

Better than safe, actually. Utila is a mecca for divers and backpackers, which makes it a tropical paradise that is both cheap and predominantly English-speaking. Though the average Utilitarian has no sense of justice (see #6), most are the very interesting and off-beat people. We would really like to go back and get our diving certifications; the reef and its fish are strange and beautiful and vividly colorful. And you can go either for L25 ($1.25) or if you buy a beer. Ironically the most relaxed I have ever been in Honduras has been in the middle of this military coup of sorts. So I thought I'd share some tips.

Next: some tips for surviving third-world regional conflicts when the Venezuelans send the Nicaraguans over the border.

Adios, Nicaragua

Adios, Nicaragua. We said our goodbyes to the Terans and their enchanting country of lakes and volcanoes. Valeria could not have been a better guide. We spent Friday in Managua, where the scars of this nation's history are most evident in its near-abandoned main plaza. The ruins of the old cathedral, abandoned after a devastating earthquake in 1972, stand eerily between Sandinista shrines and disused government buildings. We later got the chance to tour the stately national theater, named for Ruben Diario. For good reason, I think, Nicaragua loves her poets better than her politicians.

Today we again woke at 3:30 to take the Tica Bus back to San Pedro Sula. The clerk at the Managua station tried to swindle an extra 100 cordobas from Rodrigo and I (about $5) but was thwarted not by our shrewdness at 4AM, but because we spent our last cords on a hammock dyed UVA-colors and Sandinista paraphernalia.

We had been warned that the situation back in Honduras was especially tense. While we were in Nicaragua the president, Zelaya, sacked the head of the joint chiefs in a bid for control of the army. This was condemned as unconstitutional by the country's congress and supreme court. Sr. Teran told us that soldiers were leaving their posts, and we might find unrest in the ramshackle capital.

We were twice detained at police checkpoints and had to submit our passports, although despite this we made better time between Managua and Tegucigalpa. Fortunately, our worst problems stemmed not from the tense political situation in the capital, but torrential downpours that washed out the road to the port of La Ceiba. So instead of heading straight out to the islands, we came back to El Progreso to spend the night with a suspicious-looking taxi driver angry that we had argued him down to a cut-rate fare. At one point during the trip he rummaged through the glove compartment, giving Rodrigo and I the same impression that he was about to pull his gun on us.

It was a long day, especially when you're running on a glass of milk at 4AM and a bag of Chips Ahoy cookies. Time for another vacation. So tomorrow will be another early morning, setting out to join our friends on the coast.

Sandinistas, Sand, and Islas

We're on a boat, and it's going fast, and... lightning over Lake Nicaragua at nighttime illuminates the silhouettes of distant volcanic islands and, for fleeting instants, connecting the stars above us. A grand presentation of the Teran family isletas worthy (dare I say?) of backing vocals from T-Pain. The first stage is the plaza of the gorgeous port city of Granada, its beautiful yellow cathedral (which does not suffer a Sandinista monument like the cathedral of Leon), and a particularly strong Michelada on a soft-lit very old-colonial-looking street. Then comes the aforementioned boat trip, another delicious dinner on the island, and cue eight-hours of suspense in the dark waiting to see the paradise we stood upon.

And in the morning, of course, it was beautiful. Palms and mango trees everywhere. Hummingbirds among the hibiscus flowers. The less-fortunate tourists floating by in canopied boats. I finished Coetzee's unseasonal Master of Petersburg laying in a hammock. The only thing reminiscent of the book on St. Isabel Island are flies floating in my glass of milk; the gnats (the lone source of annoyance here) swarm over this overripe land.

These islands were vomited out of Mombacho (speaking of which, Rodrigo is feeling much better!) in 1570. It gives you the sense that you stand on the very newness of the New World. You can picture the pirates that plagued Granada from their volcano-island redoubts. Rodrigo prefers to picture us as the pirates, absconding with treasure from the university (to the tune of $72/day, we calculated), to terrorize Central America. We're not quite William Walker yet, but give us time (and those Marines who still haven't been deployed...).

We were not intercepted by real pirates while water-skiing through the maze of islets and along the shore of the volcano. There was, however, one close call where a couple of spider monkeys on one of the skerries swung out and attempted to board us, but thought better of the possibility of plunging headlong into the water. Rodrigo categorically rejected this logic, but did ultimately get up on the skis (his first time). A good sign that he's hale enough to pass the swine-flu inspectors at the border.

A final note from President Ortega and the Sandinista Front for National Liberation: "To serve your country is to serve God." No lie. Happy 30th Anniversary of the 1979 Revolution.

Mombacho y Cerro Negro

"I cannot carry your sandboard Mr. Frodo. But I can carry you!"

Despite a fever and stomachache, Rodrigo retains his sense of humor. And despite our adventures, for us there is still that deep-seated nerdiness. So I admit that the second guided volcano climb in as many days looked an awful lot like Mordor from the Lord of the Rings movies, all black volcanic rocks and boulders. And that Rodrigo was starting to look like Frodo. This is Cerro Negro, which lies outside the very beautiful old city of Leon, one of the world's most active volcanoes.


And this is me 'sandboarding' down (with Rodrigo taking notes) flying along the lava rocks after a long s-shaped climb to see the two steaming sulfuric craters. It's a lot like snowboarding, except in the breezy tropics where you can see miles of rainforest all around you. Valeria has clearly planned out a really marvelous week for the two of us and Hana.

Which is fortunate, because our beloved Autopollo, next to our hotel in El Progreso has apparently in the meantime been the scene of a quadruple homicide. We have informed our project team we do not plan on returning until it is reopened. (And cleaned, somewhat.)

Yesterday we climbed Mombacho, an older volcano overgrown with cloud forest with rare fauna (including seven of the ten species of Central American orchids), howler monkeys, and wild cats. Well first the SUV climbed it. Then we hiked a few miles around the circumference of the main crater, whose 1570 eruption formed the chain of islands that we will travel down to tomorrow evening.

(Dennis and Tim, this is a road trip that needs to happen.)

Rodrigo and I are in a happy home. We have been seeing a lot of Vale's family, including her sister and sister-in-law who have dropped by to share jubilantly news that they're expecting. And the food! If only I had half the vocabulary or the palette to explain exactly what it is, I am sure I could double the length of these trip-notes going on and on about Gallo pinto, Tostones, Quesillo, Cacao, Michelada, &c. The latter is beer, Worcestershire sauce, lemon juice, Tabasco sauce, and salt. Tabasco on mangoes, anyone? Or guava jelly on potatoes? Tough to say whether this has been a greater adventure for my eyes or my taste buds.



If scaling the Black Hill and a quick prayer in Leon's beautiful cathedral (intended for Lima until a blueprint mix-up) didn't do it for Rodrigo by tomorrow morning, we will have to find Fernet-Branca.

"Bus Diaries"; Not Quite That Ring, But...

Coming down out of the Comayagua Mountains, I was shook into the realization that everything had gone right. See, the suspension on the bus was so shot that we all bounced about like Mexican jumping beans (if you'll please pardon the somewhat culturally insensitive metaphor). Things had really fallen into place. That morning our ride left at 3:45 for San Pedro Sula, where indeed a bus left at 5:00 for Tegucigalpa. And on cue, the mountain pines became palms once more, the lush tropical plains west of the Comayaguas came into view, and raindrops leaked through the roof of the bus just to remind you it wasn't South Florida. We arrived in the sprawling capital at 8:30, and found a handsome city built into the hills, with neighborhoods on cliffs and muddy rivers that cut through.

Dan and the technical team were left behind for implementation week, which may or may not include electrifying the new computer room at the Brisas school in order to turn any would-be thieves into refried beans (if you'll please pardon the somewhat culturally insensitive metaphor).

There appears to have been some double-talk. Rodrigo's visa troubles proved to be a bureaucratic phantom, daunting only in invented legalese. It was very easy to convince the Americans to let us escape to Valeria and Nicaragua, all our problems solved. The Americans were about as much of a hassle as the Nicaraguan customs officials who did not even ask to see our passports. A nod will suffice, probably because we qualify as asylum-seekers. So were in Managua in time for the 7:00 Mass (to which Rodrigo was dragged) and a sumptuous dinner afterwards which strongly suggested we are in a country of great culinary virtues. A delicious jalapeno and cream sauce on the beef. Even the beans were tastier. (And of course the impossible-to-pronounce Worcestershire sauce).

The Terans are exceedingly hospitable, and we are feeling at home here already. Every hallmark of civilization has been noticed. Four-lane highways with painted lanes, good beer that's not overcarbonated, and flushable toilet paper. Tennis courts and baseball on the front page of the newspaper. Looking at the christmas trees still up in the roundabouts (but now topped off with the number 30), you almost feel a tinge of ironic national pride on this thirtieth anniversary of the Sandinista Revolution. And some things that are better than home, like the eight fruit trees in the back yard, which include two or three varieties of delicious mangoes.

We have decided that Central America is the perfect part of the world for an American to stretch a summer vacation out of a small research stipend. And while we came for a change of scenery and a little relaxation, volcano hikes and tropical islands, our official academic footprint will look something like this:

Robert and Rodrigo travelled to Managua, Nicaragua this week for a summit meeting of regional JPC projects. Valeria Teran (ecoMod, Southwest Virginia) hosted the two along with Hana Abbas (Sustainable Social Enterprises in Bluefields, Nicaragua). As part of a week of social research during ongoing technical implementation back in Las Brisas, Rob and Rodrigo visited the offices of a major Central American regional initiative behind a Nicaraguan call center than demonstrates wealth-creation strategies centered around English-language learning. &c.

But don't worry about us working too hard.

No, no. We're on Val's back porch being served fresh mangoes and diced bananas in chilled glasses, watching a little yellow bird with a white plume dip itself in her pool...

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.)