the only person in talanga with a bike helmet

12 August 2008
Hey, chochachos! Life continues here in my dollhouse in Talanga, quite delightfully I might add. Today after a language test, my teacher took me out back behind his house where his host family (yep, even the teachers get host families during Field-Based Training) showed us around. Their yard is medium sized but it’s basically a mini-finca! A cluster of sugar cane grows in the back, and he wielded the omnipresent machete and hacked me off a whole stalk to take home. You just chop the outer layers off and chew on the tough, fiber-y insides until all the sugar-water is gone, then spit it out. I like to think of this as tropical chaw, and made several jokes along those lines. Then he saw me eyeing the mango tree, and invited me to climb to the top and pick myself a mango, which I promptly did. The canopy was beautiful and I saw a lot of really amazing-looking bugs I’d never seen before. Once I descended, he asked if I would also like a coconut, and proceeded to jab at a big bunch of them high in a tree with a two-by-four until they fell down. Again, the machete was wielded and I soon had an entire coconut to drink and eat. AWESOME.

Last Saturday was my one-month-versary of being in Honduras, which we celebrated with a big lunch at the restaurant my family owns, called Old House. All the gringos here in Talanga came, followed by a sizable chunk of PAM and Municipal Development gringos. We shoved a bunch of tables together, and before Dona Dulce knew what hit her she had over 20 plates to make up. I served as a waitress of sorts, handing out glass bottles of Canada Dry, Coke, and Fresca and marching out into the din of English every 10 minutes to bellow OKAY SO WHO ORDERED THE CARNE ASADA?! RAISE YOUR HANDS AND KEEP THEM UP!! It was the waitressing experience I’ve always dreamed of. Afterwards we trooped over to the Cocodrilo, the outside patio bar my sister Dulce Carolina owns, and hung out in the sunshine for a couple hours. It was essentially a giant English-speaking gringo-fest of ridiculous proportions. Sunday was also super tranquilo and, like all satisfying closures to a busy week, involved a minor spelunking adventure.

THAT’S RIGHT DUDES I TOTALLY FOUND A CAVE. And if by “found” you mean “was lead to by a gaggle of Honduran children” and by “cave” you mean “yes, a cave” then…YES. I got up at like 8:30, and after a typical Honduran breakfast of refried beans, fried bananas, fried eggs, half an avocado and several tortillas, I slathered myself in sunscreen and set off for the Parque Central (most pueblos have a little central park) to hook up with the gringas and their Honduran child-friends (my child-friend was uninterested). We paraded through town (whenever more than one gringo is in transit, it’s essentially a parade, minus free tiny-frisbees and crappy hard candy being chucked at kid’s heads). We wound through the dirt streets until we got to the base of a small hill, called Cruzita, because it has a giant Cruz (cross) at the top of it. If there’s one thing Honduras loves, it’s Jesus. Anyway, we clamored up the hill, then down the other side, then up a mountain. The view was AWESOME, we saw the whole valley and all the tropical/piney glory that is Honduras. Then we got to this little flat clearing, which upon leaving had filled up with a bunch of ninos playing futbol and preparing to bash open a piñata. Anyway, our kids lead us to the cave, which seemed fairly diminutive at first. Since this is Honduras, it was of course surrounded by a ton of garbage and a horse or two (everywhere you look here, there are stray horses). I had brought my headlamp, so I ducked in behind the bravest Honduran children you’ve ever seen. The entrance was small and cramped, I had to walk while squatting basically—but after the small tunnel we came into a big open room with high ceilings. It was warm and muggy inside, with tons of flying bugs. The floor had a sizable family of big, red cockroaches, but the best part was what was zooming all around us—little brown BATS (or murcielagos, in Spanish)!! They made the cutest bat noises (sounds a lot like, “eee, soy un murcielago! Eee! Eee! Somos murcielagos!”) and flew around all crazy-like. I had a linguistic adventure trying to explain the concept of echo-location and sonar to the children, and we stayed in there for about 20 minutes just admiring the bats. It was a little eerie being in total darkness except for my light, which was dimmed by the thick mist that hung in the air (which also totally fogged my stupid glasses, by the way). It was really awesome, my first time in a cave like that—but incredibly frustrating to see how much freaking GARBAGE people had thrown in there—burned plastic bottles, chip bags, even a rusty machete. The concept of tossing garbage in a garbage can isn’t a universally accepted notion here, and most people won’t think twice about chucking everything out the bus or car window.

Except for the rather blatant disregard for the environment, I’m still loving life here in Honduras. I do miss my old host family, but I also LOVE LOVE LOVE my new one. They’re just so chill. Dubal, the father, works in Tegus and comes home only on weekends, but he’s really cool. He used to be a Congressman, and seems to be heavily involved in the community—he even ran for mayor once! (If you know a child with a mayor obsession, don’t worry, there is literature available.) My mom, Dona Dulce, is just great. She’s very laid back, always smiling or chuckling, shuffling around the Old House kitchen or cuddling little baby John. We spent most of our free time in the restaurant, sitting in chairs behind the counter, watching telenovelas (soap operas) and sucking back sodas (holy moley do they drink a lot of pop here). We do all our eating there, which I absolutely delight in—I get scrumptious restaurant food three times a day! The only downfall is it’s scrumptious restaurant food, which means EVERYTHING needs to spend at least 10 minutes becoming delicious in several inches of oil before it’s served. I’m only here for five weeks though, so I’ve decided it’s not going to kill me and I might as well indulge. God, I love fried bananas.

I found an old junky bike in the back of the garage, covered in several inches of grime, with a chain practically rusted solid. I mentioned my interest in fixing it up, and Dona Dulce told me I could clean it up and she’d have it fixed for me! I gave it a bath the other day, while Alexa washed her brand-new shiny bike next to me. I came home from school the next day, and Dona Dulce handed my a bike registration card—she’d gone through the trouble of registering it with the police; apparently sometimes they stop people to see if they’ve got papers for their bikes. This sounds ridiculous to me, but at least I’m legal now. The chain was de-rusted and the rear wheel doesn’t rub too much on the frame anymore. The Peace Corps has a rule that if a Volunteer is caught riding without a helmet, it’s an automatic Administrative Separation, which is government slang for immediate sacking. Anyway, a fellow gringa found me a helmet in her family’s house, so now I’m cruising around Talanga in extreme style. The only problem is the same thing that happens to me in the states—as soon as I get on a bike, I lose any and all interest in ever walking again, and become quite irritated if I’m forced to ambulate.

I’m also loving spending time with my 26-year-old host sister, Dulce Carolina, who I alternately call Dulce, Carolina, or Caro. She’s got two kids, but seems more like a peer than anything else. She totes me around wherever she goes, whether it’s for a random Sunday-afternoon slice of cake with ice cream on top, out in the campo furtively picking wild mint with which to make mojitos, or over to the Cocodrilo for a licuado (smoothie). I’ve taken to hanging out there with her when it’s slow, chatting in the little kitchen and watching her or Yonari fry chicken wings. Dulce is just great because I feel like I can really talk to her like a friend. She’s sort of a tomboy, with a wicked sense of humor and likes a lot of the same things I do (such as hiking and biking). I can’t get over how great it is to have a Honduran friend my own age.

We just finished our first week of Field-Based Training, which I must admit was not very field-y. We just sat in a classroom all day long, with Spanish from 7:30-11:30, and Youth Development topics from 1-5:00pm. However, the stuff we’re receiving is all extremely important—we learned how to give a taller (workshop) on domestic violence prevention, and had one today on how to start maternal care groups. I think on Friday we’re going to finally start working in schools or other community resources. I had two interviews today, one which was an oral language exam to judge how my Spanish has (or has not) progressed. I entered at the upper-most level of Intermediate, and I’m hoping I’ll end up at the upper-levels of Advanced, but I don’t know. The more I study, the more I’m overwhelmed by how much I don’t know. The other interview I had was a Technical Interview, which deals with what I would or would not like to do in my two years here, and I want in a site. I stressed that I am willing to do anything, anywhere—but that I most love little children and I’d also love to be anywhere BUT the south. However, my project leaders were rather defensive regarding my negative generalizations about the south of Honduras (hot, flat, ugly), and some of their questions give me the suspicion that is precisely where they intend on sending me. I’d rather be out west, in the mountains, but I’m here to work, not relax, and que será, será, I guess.

I miss you guys a LOT. A lot a lot. I was looking at some pictures on my laptoppy and was overcome with how much I wish I could see everybody…and it’s only been a month. I don’t feel homesick, just peoplesick…send me letters!! Though I guess I should put my money where my mouth is and send YOU guys some letters too, instead of mass blog entries...oh heavens.

Well, it’s 9:50pm now, on this rainy Tuesday night, and it’s about time to crawl into my dollhouse and dream my tiny dollhouse dreams. Tomorrow I plan on lassoing a stray horse and taming it, hella Penny-and-Felicity style, so I’ll let you guys know how that progresses.
Paz,
Hayley
P.S. My new favorite Honduran joke: There are a lot of Mormon missionaries here in Honduras. A common slang term for testicles is “los Mormones.” Why? Because they always come in pairs, and one is always bigger than the other. They’re always sweaty, and they always knock at the door, but never enter inside the house. Oh, Honduras.