Douglas is uncomfortable that Noel gets to hold his red car, awesome gifts from mom's friends Leetha and Tai.
Alison with her little blue car....Douglas insisted on having two (one for each hand).
DELIGHTED.
Yesica, Noel, Alison, and Douglas with their new loot.
right before he gauged the other one's eye out! or, at least tried to.
this is exactly what i look like when i dance. Dancing Jaguar is my guru.
View of part of the Copan Ruins.
me and the folksies in front of a sepultura.
wendy kercher! also, andy kercher, questioning our crazy guide fidel.
god we're beautiful.
this picture looks hella dark...but it's us on a pier in roatan. maybe it will be brighter on your monitor, viewer.
the loins/womb of which i am the fruit, in the jungle of pico bonito.
dad and i hiked down to the base of this waterfall. this was after i broke my glasses but you CANT EVEN TELL.
mom and i chillin on a buttress root.
so jaunty!!
green jungle snake...on the side of the road.5 December 2009
Hey, chochachos!
Whoops, guess a month has dang near slipped by since my last post...I’ve been busy basking in parental affection and the like, so I suppose that’s a good excuse as any. I said goodbye to my folks exactly a week ago, who arrived on November 19th. As the date to fetch them at the airport approached, my landlords became increasingly anxious regarding the state of my home, lest the gringo parents judge them negatively for the healthy abundance of cobwebs in all corners of my dwelling, swaying heavily in the breeze, pregnant with dead bugs. “Clean those up!” says my landlady. “But they catch mosquitos!” says I. “Let’s cut your lawn!” says my landlord. “No, I like the green grass!” says I. “Clean up those old plastic soda bottles you leave strewn about like a hillbilly!” says my landlords in unison. “How do you guys know what hillbillies are?” says I. Etc. In the end I did a fair amount of sweeping the dirt outside, and mopped thoroughly inside, and cleaned up the spare car parts I’d let Cletus scatter about our front yard, and called it good. Nely announced she would like nothing more than to accompany me to the airport, as it was probably the only opportunity she would ever have to go there and was dying to see a plane land. So we set off early Thursday morning, first hitting up the market to buy a ton of ingredients for tamales, our planned parental menu. Then we headed to the airport, where we enjoyed ridiculously garnished coffee beverages (sweet heaven do I love me some whipped cream) and waited for the Kercher Parents to make their much awaited arrival. I was waiting for them at the gate with a handmade, meticulously painted sign bearing the name KERCHER, lest they be confused about which sweaty, red-faced wanna-be albino was theirs to claim. Many hugs and smooches were exchanged, and we hopped (after some ado) into our little rental car to head down south to Alubarén. After a 30-second panic that I had somehow guided us onto the wrong freeway (I hadn’t) and a rather unfortunate event at the gas station in which I allowed us to be swindled into filling the crappy Toyota with premium gas and be called names by a mean old lady (she called me a “stuck-up bitch” because I wouldn’t give her any money), we were finally on the open road, the sun low in the sky and the road-side horses plentiful (much to Wendy and Andy’s amazement). After about an hour and a half, we turned off the freeway (escorted by Andy’s diligent turn-signal application) and began a two-hour roller-coaster that I will never again attempt in a tiny sedan. Woefully optimistic about such a car’s abilities to navigate the rocky, steep dirt roads that lead to Alubarén, I foolishly did NOT encourage the parental units to rent a 4x4 or some other vehicle created for such conditions. As such, we spent the rest of the afternoon sloooowly picking our way up and down the hills, as the Little Carola That Could strained and clunked its way toward my pueblo. We did, however, make it one piece, save for a front bumper which detached itself in the journey—which my dad and an eight-year-old skillfully reattached with rusty wire, leaving it literally better than ever (the hubcabs, which were attached with zip-ties, held fast—which was good because I didn’t have any extra zip-ties).
We were met with a small hoard of excited neighbors, the kids throwing themselves around Andy and Wendy’s waists and the adults happily shaking hands and awkwardly trying to kiss the American’s cheeks, which is always hilarious. Nely and her mom had been planning to make us tamales the next day, but due to a family problem which required one of them to speed across the country to sit on an aunt’s sickbed, they decided to make the tamales right then and there. Tamales are an all-day affair, with a multiple-layered process and much prep work. Starting them at 6:30pm is just seven kinds of crazy, yet that is exactly what my selfless neighbors set themselves to do. We trooped into my house and Igor set about Phase One of his masterpiece plan “Worm My Way Into The Old Folks Hearts So They Let Me Live With Them For A Bit”, by dancing and licking and rubbing and gazing lovingly into their faces with his fixing golden eyes. After an evening of chopping potatoes, child-wooing, and skillfully-translated conversations, we trooped up to my house and collapsed in bed. The next day was spent relaxin’ in the ‘ol Tarantula Oven, playin’ baseball with Las Panteras, strolling around the town, and meeting my friends (usually followed by an invitation to sit down and drink some soda). I was in hog heaven combining my two worlds, and I know my folks loved getting to see and experience it all. Plus, it was a huge ego-booster for ‘em…the first thing out of everyone’s mouth after “nice to meet you,” was “Heeli, your parents! They are so young! Your father, so handsome! Your mother, so beautiful!” Seriously. I was starting to get an inferiority complex, they were getting hit on so much…then I realized I am the fruit of the coupling of such attractive people and I felt better about myself. I also learned a new, super-creepy Honduran euphemism for spending time with parents…as I introduced my folks to a neighbor, she winked and said, “Ohhh, Hayley, you’re gonna suck some titty tonight, aren’t you?” Uh…lemme ask my mom, but I wasn’t planning on it, no. I thought maybe just that particular woman was being lewd, but it happened several more times.
“Doña Maria, this is my mom Wendy and my dad Andy.”
“Oh, pleased to meet you both! Hayley, you’re gonna suck some titty tonight, I bet!”
PLEASE, HONDURAS. I myself am a healthy subscriber to coarse and vulgar humor, but I don’t like hearing that phrase coming from old Honduran women’s mouths. I suppose it’s a reference to being united with one’s parents once again, becoming a nursing babe once again…but as they say, once you can buckle your own overalls, you ain’t a suckling infant no more. Anyway. Gross.
That night we celebrated Andy and Wendy’s last night in the ‘lubes by gorging ourselves on tamales and soda and imported left-over Halloween candy. My neighbor Glenda presented mom and dad with a handmade embroidered pillowcase that said something about sweet dreams, and Tina presented them with an embroidered tortilla cloth that Nely had made for them with a basket of fruit and the words “Senor Bendice Esta Casa,” which means “God Bless This House.” We left for vacation the next morning after a group shot with all my neighbors, the kids running (well, walking due to the necessitated low speed) alongside the car and Tina crying. These folks are my family down here, and it was very special for me to be able to blend my two worlds in this way.
We then left reality and traveled into luxery-vacation-land, in which we jet-setted around Honduras, delighting (some of us more than others) in hot-water showers, fancy multi-course meals and comfortable beds with real, non-foam mattresses. Sweet jesus in a juice box, it was awesome. First we went to La Ceiba and spent two days in Pico Bonito National Park. Our beautiful B&B (Casa Cangrejal) was right in the buffer-zone of the protected area, so we ate our breakfast with the birds and the butterflies in the morning before hiking 10 minutes down the road into the jungle. We went on an amazing 5-hour roundtrip hike (with no sandwiches!) up the mountain, carefully avoiding the giant ant freeways and the amazing Blue Morpho butterflies, which are bigger than my face. My parents had never hiked in rain forest before, so it was a thrilling experience for them (and me as well, obviously). The trail was very well maintained and we saw almost no other hikers, which was nice. The middle point of the loop was an 80-meter waterfall, which pours down a rocky wall, covered with moss and leafy plants. Dad and I actually hiked down to the base of the fall, where I promptly sat down under the turbo-shower and only slightly broke my glasses (again). The next day, our jungle-appetites sated, we took the mildly-turbulent ferry across the Caribbean to Roatan, one of the Bay Islands. We stayed in a remarkably un-occupied resort called Fosters, which was located on the prettiest beach on the island. (I say remarkably because everyone knows the average traveler prefers their home-away-from-home to be stocked with mouse poop, grimy bathrooms and shoddy carpentry, and that is PRECISELY what this idyllic little bungalow offered). But, as my grandma says, it’s just a bed—no one goes to vacation on the beach to stay inside all day, reading Middlesex (ahem, Wendy Kercher). Just kidding, the literary habits were kept to a minimum and Wendy spent most of her standing—damn, can that girl stand!—in the turquoise, tranquil waters of the Caribbean, while Andy and I snorkeled till our mouths pickled themselves, gliding over the beautiful coral reefs and occasionally diving down into the deep blue trenches to slap eels and taunt small sharks. Twice, a Carnival cruise ship arrival and dumped like 2,000 people in the island, which is no doubt devastating to the natural environment; through excellent for the business owners. It made for pretty good people-watching, as Wendy and I strolled through the throngs of fat, greased-up Americans with a beer in one hand and a corn-dog in the other, bobbing waist-deep in the sea. They all had to return to the boat by 4pm, though, which left the late-afternoon delightfully solitary. Ugh. The food was also amazing, and I happily devoured my weight in many varieties of shrimp during our stay there (coconut thai shrimp, blue-cheese-and-sun-dried-tomato shrimp, etc). We found one restaurant, Bite on the Beach, so tasty we ate there TWICE, while I alternated between slurping down delicious minty cocktails whose name escapes me and rubbing their freaking INCREDIBLE home-grown lettuce on my cheek, declaring my love before slowly dipping it in olive oil and grinding it to heaven in my mouth.
To finish our family outing, we headed to Copan for two days, to check out the famous Mayan ruins. Andy, forever the recreational learner, had done some reading on the glyphs before our trip, and was able to supplement our guide Fidel, who made up for a shoddy command of English with rambling nonsequitors and a robust quantity-over-quality attitude. Still, it was amazing…the ruins were so much bigger than I imagined and Honduras has done a fair job preserving them. My favorite parts were the giant stadiums with impressive staircases, down which sacrificed heads would tumble during ceremonies; and the ball court. I also really dug on the sculptures, most especially the dancing jaguar, who, if my glyph reading is accurate, and I believe it is, seems to model his style much after mine…it’s amazing what the Mayan culture produced long before the rest of the world had so much as an inkling. We also spent some time poking around in souvenir shops, eating tasty food, drinking tasty wine, and enjoying each other’s company. The next day, we took an early bus to San Pedro Sula, smooched goodbye, and went our separate ways. I moped my way to a fellow volunteer’s house nearby, where I passed the elections (Pepe Lobo, the conservative candidate, won!). Now back in Alubarén, I am passing my time nibbling on the delicacies my loving parents brought for me (hella Swedish fish and chocolates, hells yes) and gearing up for an attempt to instill a love of literature in the Honduran youths.
Mom and Dad, thanks for comin’ to see ‘ol Hayley…it was the highlight of the year. And it’s not just ‘cause you brought my candy, neither. I love you guys.
Adiooooos
Hayley
Hey, chochachos!
Whoops, guess a month has dang near slipped by since my last post...I’ve been busy basking in parental affection and the like, so I suppose that’s a good excuse as any. I said goodbye to my folks exactly a week ago, who arrived on November 19th. As the date to fetch them at the airport approached, my landlords became increasingly anxious regarding the state of my home, lest the gringo parents judge them negatively for the healthy abundance of cobwebs in all corners of my dwelling, swaying heavily in the breeze, pregnant with dead bugs. “Clean those up!” says my landlady. “But they catch mosquitos!” says I. “Let’s cut your lawn!” says my landlord. “No, I like the green grass!” says I. “Clean up those old plastic soda bottles you leave strewn about like a hillbilly!” says my landlords in unison. “How do you guys know what hillbillies are?” says I. Etc. In the end I did a fair amount of sweeping the dirt outside, and mopped thoroughly inside, and cleaned up the spare car parts I’d let Cletus scatter about our front yard, and called it good. Nely announced she would like nothing more than to accompany me to the airport, as it was probably the only opportunity she would ever have to go there and was dying to see a plane land. So we set off early Thursday morning, first hitting up the market to buy a ton of ingredients for tamales, our planned parental menu. Then we headed to the airport, where we enjoyed ridiculously garnished coffee beverages (sweet heaven do I love me some whipped cream) and waited for the Kercher Parents to make their much awaited arrival. I was waiting for them at the gate with a handmade, meticulously painted sign bearing the name KERCHER, lest they be confused about which sweaty, red-faced wanna-be albino was theirs to claim. Many hugs and smooches were exchanged, and we hopped (after some ado) into our little rental car to head down south to Alubarén. After a 30-second panic that I had somehow guided us onto the wrong freeway (I hadn’t) and a rather unfortunate event at the gas station in which I allowed us to be swindled into filling the crappy Toyota with premium gas and be called names by a mean old lady (she called me a “stuck-up bitch” because I wouldn’t give her any money), we were finally on the open road, the sun low in the sky and the road-side horses plentiful (much to Wendy and Andy’s amazement). After about an hour and a half, we turned off the freeway (escorted by Andy’s diligent turn-signal application) and began a two-hour roller-coaster that I will never again attempt in a tiny sedan. Woefully optimistic about such a car’s abilities to navigate the rocky, steep dirt roads that lead to Alubarén, I foolishly did NOT encourage the parental units to rent a 4x4 or some other vehicle created for such conditions. As such, we spent the rest of the afternoon sloooowly picking our way up and down the hills, as the Little Carola That Could strained and clunked its way toward my pueblo. We did, however, make it one piece, save for a front bumper which detached itself in the journey—which my dad and an eight-year-old skillfully reattached with rusty wire, leaving it literally better than ever (the hubcabs, which were attached with zip-ties, held fast—which was good because I didn’t have any extra zip-ties).
We were met with a small hoard of excited neighbors, the kids throwing themselves around Andy and Wendy’s waists and the adults happily shaking hands and awkwardly trying to kiss the American’s cheeks, which is always hilarious. Nely and her mom had been planning to make us tamales the next day, but due to a family problem which required one of them to speed across the country to sit on an aunt’s sickbed, they decided to make the tamales right then and there. Tamales are an all-day affair, with a multiple-layered process and much prep work. Starting them at 6:30pm is just seven kinds of crazy, yet that is exactly what my selfless neighbors set themselves to do. We trooped into my house and Igor set about Phase One of his masterpiece plan “Worm My Way Into The Old Folks Hearts So They Let Me Live With Them For A Bit”, by dancing and licking and rubbing and gazing lovingly into their faces with his fixing golden eyes. After an evening of chopping potatoes, child-wooing, and skillfully-translated conversations, we trooped up to my house and collapsed in bed. The next day was spent relaxin’ in the ‘ol Tarantula Oven, playin’ baseball with Las Panteras, strolling around the town, and meeting my friends (usually followed by an invitation to sit down and drink some soda). I was in hog heaven combining my two worlds, and I know my folks loved getting to see and experience it all. Plus, it was a huge ego-booster for ‘em…the first thing out of everyone’s mouth after “nice to meet you,” was “Heeli, your parents! They are so young! Your father, so handsome! Your mother, so beautiful!” Seriously. I was starting to get an inferiority complex, they were getting hit on so much…then I realized I am the fruit of the coupling of such attractive people and I felt better about myself. I also learned a new, super-creepy Honduran euphemism for spending time with parents…as I introduced my folks to a neighbor, she winked and said, “Ohhh, Hayley, you’re gonna suck some titty tonight, aren’t you?” Uh…lemme ask my mom, but I wasn’t planning on it, no. I thought maybe just that particular woman was being lewd, but it happened several more times.
“Doña Maria, this is my mom Wendy and my dad Andy.”
“Oh, pleased to meet you both! Hayley, you’re gonna suck some titty tonight, I bet!”
PLEASE, HONDURAS. I myself am a healthy subscriber to coarse and vulgar humor, but I don’t like hearing that phrase coming from old Honduran women’s mouths. I suppose it’s a reference to being united with one’s parents once again, becoming a nursing babe once again…but as they say, once you can buckle your own overalls, you ain’t a suckling infant no more. Anyway. Gross.
That night we celebrated Andy and Wendy’s last night in the ‘lubes by gorging ourselves on tamales and soda and imported left-over Halloween candy. My neighbor Glenda presented mom and dad with a handmade embroidered pillowcase that said something about sweet dreams, and Tina presented them with an embroidered tortilla cloth that Nely had made for them with a basket of fruit and the words “Senor Bendice Esta Casa,” which means “God Bless This House.” We left for vacation the next morning after a group shot with all my neighbors, the kids running (well, walking due to the necessitated low speed) alongside the car and Tina crying. These folks are my family down here, and it was very special for me to be able to blend my two worlds in this way.
We then left reality and traveled into luxery-vacation-land, in which we jet-setted around Honduras, delighting (some of us more than others) in hot-water showers, fancy multi-course meals and comfortable beds with real, non-foam mattresses. Sweet jesus in a juice box, it was awesome. First we went to La Ceiba and spent two days in Pico Bonito National Park. Our beautiful B&B (Casa Cangrejal) was right in the buffer-zone of the protected area, so we ate our breakfast with the birds and the butterflies in the morning before hiking 10 minutes down the road into the jungle. We went on an amazing 5-hour roundtrip hike (with no sandwiches!) up the mountain, carefully avoiding the giant ant freeways and the amazing Blue Morpho butterflies, which are bigger than my face. My parents had never hiked in rain forest before, so it was a thrilling experience for them (and me as well, obviously). The trail was very well maintained and we saw almost no other hikers, which was nice. The middle point of the loop was an 80-meter waterfall, which pours down a rocky wall, covered with moss and leafy plants. Dad and I actually hiked down to the base of the fall, where I promptly sat down under the turbo-shower and only slightly broke my glasses (again). The next day, our jungle-appetites sated, we took the mildly-turbulent ferry across the Caribbean to Roatan, one of the Bay Islands. We stayed in a remarkably un-occupied resort called Fosters, which was located on the prettiest beach on the island. (I say remarkably because everyone knows the average traveler prefers their home-away-from-home to be stocked with mouse poop, grimy bathrooms and shoddy carpentry, and that is PRECISELY what this idyllic little bungalow offered). But, as my grandma says, it’s just a bed—no one goes to vacation on the beach to stay inside all day, reading Middlesex (ahem, Wendy Kercher). Just kidding, the literary habits were kept to a minimum and Wendy spent most of her standing—damn, can that girl stand!—in the turquoise, tranquil waters of the Caribbean, while Andy and I snorkeled till our mouths pickled themselves, gliding over the beautiful coral reefs and occasionally diving down into the deep blue trenches to slap eels and taunt small sharks. Twice, a Carnival cruise ship arrival and dumped like 2,000 people in the island, which is no doubt devastating to the natural environment; through excellent for the business owners. It made for pretty good people-watching, as Wendy and I strolled through the throngs of fat, greased-up Americans with a beer in one hand and a corn-dog in the other, bobbing waist-deep in the sea. They all had to return to the boat by 4pm, though, which left the late-afternoon delightfully solitary. Ugh. The food was also amazing, and I happily devoured my weight in many varieties of shrimp during our stay there (coconut thai shrimp, blue-cheese-and-sun-dried-tomato shrimp, etc). We found one restaurant, Bite on the Beach, so tasty we ate there TWICE, while I alternated between slurping down delicious minty cocktails whose name escapes me and rubbing their freaking INCREDIBLE home-grown lettuce on my cheek, declaring my love before slowly dipping it in olive oil and grinding it to heaven in my mouth.
To finish our family outing, we headed to Copan for two days, to check out the famous Mayan ruins. Andy, forever the recreational learner, had done some reading on the glyphs before our trip, and was able to supplement our guide Fidel, who made up for a shoddy command of English with rambling nonsequitors and a robust quantity-over-quality attitude. Still, it was amazing…the ruins were so much bigger than I imagined and Honduras has done a fair job preserving them. My favorite parts were the giant stadiums with impressive staircases, down which sacrificed heads would tumble during ceremonies; and the ball court. I also really dug on the sculptures, most especially the dancing jaguar, who, if my glyph reading is accurate, and I believe it is, seems to model his style much after mine…it’s amazing what the Mayan culture produced long before the rest of the world had so much as an inkling. We also spent some time poking around in souvenir shops, eating tasty food, drinking tasty wine, and enjoying each other’s company. The next day, we took an early bus to San Pedro Sula, smooched goodbye, and went our separate ways. I moped my way to a fellow volunteer’s house nearby, where I passed the elections (Pepe Lobo, the conservative candidate, won!). Now back in Alubarén, I am passing my time nibbling on the delicacies my loving parents brought for me (hella Swedish fish and chocolates, hells yes) and gearing up for an attempt to instill a love of literature in the Honduran youths.
Mom and Dad, thanks for comin’ to see ‘ol Hayley…it was the highlight of the year. And it’s not just ‘cause you brought my candy, neither. I love you guys.
Adiooooos
Hayley
2 comments:
Great to see a new post! I enjoy reading your blog, very entertaining. Looking forward to applying to the PC in a few years. In the meantime I'll live vicariously through blogs like yours!
Glad you had a good time with your parents.
Heather
ALMOST blind, Hayley. ALMOST.
love you TT-TT!
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