and then we high-fived that manatee

I AM TOO SMALL TO DRESS AS AN INDIAN. AS SUCH, I SHALL SADLY EAT THIS CORN.

I AM GONNA SHOOT THE HELL OUT OF THAT TARANTULA.

LOOK, I HAVE THIS CORN.

LOOK! I ALSO HAVE THIS CORN!

Alison, Noel, and Lisbeth. One little, two little, three little indians...jumping on the bed.

dramatic photo shoot while Igor shows off his new Look.

naum naum naum i love me some corn.

gabe, me, and phil, in our spelunking helmets they gave us to soar around the canopy in.

oh heeeeeeeeyyyyyyy

Jungle River Lodge at Pico Bonito. hells yes.

The river at sunset.

view from the janky little train that took us to Refugio de Vida Silvestre Cuero y Salado (wildlife refuge)

there she is!! best train ever.

here we are in our private swimming pool. the OCEAN. with DOLPHINS. (not shown.)

commence the jigglin!

angry monkey above our tent in Punta Sal.

a blue-assed baboon has infiltrated the sleeping quarters! QUICK SHOOT HIM. SHOOT HIM WITH A DART.

Another angry howler monkey, not pleased to have three smelly gringos bedding down in his lair.

19 July 2010
Hey, chochachos! Apologies to all you folksies, I did not mean to let two months go by without a bloggy blog but HEY LOOKS LIKE THAT IS PRECISELY WHAT HAS HAPPENED. This entry, despite such an unfortunate hiatus, shall not be as delightful nor long as usual, because a) it is extremely late (9:15pm) and b) my keyboard is being just 7 kinds of DICK right now, aka my delete and enter keys no longer work, which is surprisingly crippling (every time I make a typo I have to highlight it and then hit cut…GOD it’s tedious, but the nerd inside me refuses to let them lay). Also, weirdly, every time I hit the P key, the cursor automatically goes back a space, so all my P words require further maintenance. I suppose it’s to be expected, though, considering good ‘ol Laptoppy has been with me for 7 years. All I ask is that she stay somewhat alive until my service here ends and I can finish all my Documents, then I shall retire her to the lush, green fields of The Edge of a Country Road Where I Shall Dump Her, every laptops’ dream. All with wild poppies growin’ up all around her, hella tiny adorable mice makin’ their tiny adorable homes in her rusty battery hutch…someone get Bob Ross on the phone, he’s gonna wanna come paint this one!

In other news, hells of Items have transpired since my last e-missive. Lesse. My abstinence-Ed/sex-ed/female empowerment/life skills/planning for the future/please don’t get pregnant before you graduate workshops (also known as Yo Merezco, or “I Deserve”) have begun, one with the 6th grade boys and one with the girls. I tried to get a male counterpart to help me with the boys (no sixth grade kid I know wants to hear a sweaty gringa yammer on about wet dreams, boners and espermatozoides, whilst making little swimming motions with her hand to demonstrate the movement of a sperm), but the guy who was delighted to work with me was actually lying about his delight, and has yet to show up to a single workshop session (there are 11, and we’re halfway done by now) despite my constant needling. So, I’m doing it alone. And it’s actually fine…the girls are absolute ANGELS—every time we meet it feels like a support group for adolescent girls, which it should be, and the girls just adore it. They actually whine when it’s time to close the sessions up, which are always two hours long…unbelievable. And the boys, while slightly less mature and much more prone to rowdiness, still sit quietly while they are subjected to two hours of me bumbling around, saying the word “penetrar” while thrusting my index finger into my fist far too often.

That’s pretty much the only new development work-wise…reading tutoring with the little guys twice a week is going swimmingly, and it’s enjoyable because the results are tangible and relatively quick…all the kids without legitimate learning disabilities are advancing quite nicely due to the one-on-one attention, and the small handful that aren’t are at least progressing somewhat, even if it is at a snail’s pace. Most of the kids actually LOVE it, and fight over who gets to go next…the Treasure Chest is a very handy tool, indeed. And it’s nice because since I do the program in the library, which is usually closed due to our terrifyingly awful excuse for a librarian, the kids get to come in during recess and read books at the tables, which they normally would not be able to do. Obviously my keeping it open isn’t very sustainable, but then again, not much of what I do actually is. But don’t tell Peace Corps that.

The most exciting, delightful, adventurely, Blasty Blast event in the past two months, however, has not been helping my community. No, I have yet again taken advantage of my deliciously-flexible schedule and departed from Alubarén for a full two weeks to engage in jungly shenanigans with two of my dearest chums from the old college days (picture us wearing Letter jackets and hoisting steins of pissy beer), Gabe and Phil (yes, Gabe, the one in Northwestern’s Premier Drum and Dance Ensemble, Boomshaka…haven’t you heard? And Phil…of Wisconsin fame, the one who likes to fondle a sweater or two and isn’t afraid to crawl into bed with a clarinet when invited). The two arrived in San Pedro Sula one hot and balmy morning, and we thus departed eastly, cavorting wildly across Honduras’ North Coast, stopping to dip our toes in the warm, aqua water of the Caribbean and hurl our poo at howler monkeys (they started it!) along the way. It was AWESOME. First we spent a day or two in Tela, a cool little Caribbean town where another Peace Corps volunteer is fortunate enough to be located, hanging out, buying supplies, and watching one of the Honduras World Cup games on TV whilst stuffing our faces with tacos. Then, packs brimming with green plantains, rice, beans, tortillas, and smores fixin’s, we grabbed a bus to a little Garifuna town called Tornabe, where we spent a delightful night in a wooden cabin on the sand, and fell asleep listening to our stomachs digesting fried fish and the waves gently lapping at the shore. The next day, we got a ride in the back of a truck to a teeny Garifuna village called Miami, which is at the buffer zone of Punta Sal National Park (now actually called Jeannette Kawas National Park), which was our first destination. In Miami we paid entrance to the park, which is a long sexy peninsula covered by dense rainforest and edged in white sand beaches and clear, blue waters. It was incredibly beautiful. After paying our entrance, we paid a fisherman to take us across the bay in his little boat, thus cutting a 5-hour hike in the boiling sun to a delightful 15 minute jet across the water. Once on the peninsula (which really felt like an island), we tipped our hats to the lone ranger, Pedro, and set off in search of the perfect deserted beach to set up camp. After hiking the whole morning, however, we realized none of the other beaches were a good idea (either too rocky, too buggy, or too tiny), and grudgingly headed back to the beach where Pedro lived in a little hut, along with another family who sells over-priced meals to the tour groups that are dropped on the park for a couple of hours nearly every day. Still wanting to maintain our idealistic dream of camping alone on a deserted beach, we tramped about 6 minutes away along a shale-y path to a tiny little beachcito, and pitched the tent among the dried-out mangrove forest. PERFECT, we said. THIS WILL BE THE TITS. Famous last words. Don’t get me wrong, during the DAY it was awesome…hiking around the jungle, with troops of monkeys howling and swinging above our heads, huge butterflies shamelessly flaunting their weightless bodies, giant blue grabs edging around everywhere, snakes hiding on trunks and crazy jungle spiders stretching their webs between enormous mossy trees…it was indescribably gorgeous and wonderful. And of course, near-constant dips in our private little swimming hole, the Caribbean ocean (at one point, we even spotted a pod of dolphins leaping and swimming around, totally havin’ the best dolphin-time ever). But at night, our own personal Hell began. The tent transformed into a tiny little sauna, and the three of us lay sweating in each other’s armpits, too hot to sleep despite being exhausted. Then the tent began filling with chiggers, which are tiny enough to crawl through the tent mesh and perhaps the most infuriating thing in the world—meaning that not only were we sweating to death, we were also clawing the first layer of skin off our bodies. Then, the thunderstorms began, filling our crappy Honduran tent with water and making everything nice and stinky. The heat, however, did not decrease. Add all that, plus scary monkeys hooting above our heads and the vague warnings of hungry jaguars issued to us by Pedro, and I don’t think any of us slept a wink. We spent one more night on the island and then snagged a ride back to Tela with a tour group.

From there, we headed further east to the city of La Ceiba, where we spent a delightful night comparing rashes, eating delicious food, and sleeping under a pile of blankets in our OWN beds with the AC on Arctic-Tundra. It was maybe the best night of my life. Then we took a chicken bus out into the country, to the village of La Union, where we boarded a tiny little “train” left over from the Banana Republic days of Honduras’ exporting heyday and chugged off through the green drippy farmlands, toward the sea, to spend a couple days in the Cuero y Salado Wildlife Refuge, which is essentially a giant tributary, where two rivers meet the ocean in a mess of beautiful mangrove madness, filled with manatees, crocodiles, alligators, birds, snakes, turtles, and other critters. We stayed in a cute little bunk house and set out at 5am the next day with out teenage guide Eric, who deftly guided us up the river in his heavy canoe and into the beautiful mangroves. It was a bummer, though, because it was right smack in the middle of Hurricane Alex (well, not smack in the middle, actually, more like, severely to the left of) and it was raining nonstop all day. But no matter! Eric made Phil and Gabe paddle and instructed me to sit in the middle, “like a Queen,” which I most certainly did (though I did help Gabe paddle a couple times, for gender-equality’s sake). We totally saw a manatee and gave him a high-five! (Maybe.) We also may have seen a crocodile, and definitely saw hells of birds.

Then we headed back to Ceiba, spent another night in our delightfully icy hotel and had the most delicious food ever (I recommend Hotel La Italia for lodging and Mango Tango for dining, those of you who are taking notes….and Casa Jaguar for boozing.) The next day, we took a bus into the buffer zone of nearby National Park Pico Bonito, which is one of Honduras’ biggest (though most of it is off-limits). We spent three nights at the fantastically chill and beautiful Jungle River Lodge, balancing our time between leaping off giant boulders into the sweet clear swirling water below, rafting the Class I-V rapids, soaring through the treetops on zip lines, plugging our arteries with tasty German food from up the road (Omega Lodge), swirling around in the cool water under the full moon, reading paperbacks in hammocks, drinking icy Imperials, hiking two hours into the jungle to stand under 60m waterfalls, and chit-chatting with the other backpackers and local folks, while carefully avoiding the hugest Douche in the world, this guy from South Africa who, as previously mentioned, was a Huge Douche. Despite the douche, though, I think this last leg of the trip was our favorite, due to the unbeatable combination of natural beauty and the availability of cold beer. Also, no chiggers. Finally, the boys had to go back to the states amid tears and huggles and I had to go back to the Lubey Lubes, now fully vacationed and thus prepared to continue in my endeavors to develop the youth.

In closing, and in other news simultaneously, the corn harvest is in full swing and I have been eating myself sick with corn in all of its tasty disguises. Also, tomorrow in Indian Day, in which all the kids dress up like they imagine Indians might and parade around town. It’s awesome. Alison, Noel, and Lisbeth weren’t going to participate because Nely has been in Tegus all last week visiting her sister, so I declared I would help and spent the past weekend sewing little burlap skirts and Tarzan shirts, while the kids glued beans and rice into designs and braided hemp headbands which we then glued parrot feathers to. We also spent nearly 48 hours painstakingly sewing green corn husks to aforementioned Tarzan shirts, which, if I do say so myself, look positively bitchin’. Hooray for Dia Del Indio!

Dudes and ladies, I am wiped out and shall now retire to my mosquito-netted bed, thankfully so because due to the nonstop rain we’ve had since May, the mosquitoes are INSANE and you can’t breathe without inhaling 30 of them at once. Anyway. Igor and I send our love and shall report again soon. Until then, I love you guys.
Love, Hayley

ayyyy que lluvia

Yesica, my now 8-year-old neighbor, doing the obligatory "mordida" on her birthday cake.

ana, my now 25-year-old special buddy, doin the obligatory crooked-honker-thing.

Nely and her mom Tina on morther's day. She tried to hide douglas behind her because he wasn't supposed to be part of the mother-daughter photo, but he snuck in anyway. Tina dyed her hair black for the occasion.

This kid can put away bonbones (suckers) like it's his well-paying but without-benefits JOB. Oh, douglitas. (p.s. mom and dad, do you recognize that shirt??)

tina, my boyfriend, and myself.

27 May 2010
Hey, chochachos! Guess what? IT’S REAL WINTER!!!! Hot damn and hooray, the rainy season is officially upon us and life is awesome. It’s been raining non-stop for nearly a week, and everything is a spongy, negative-moist Drippin’ Situation. It’s almost…too wet. The buses haven’t been able to get down the mountain for five days (if you’re reading this, it’s because I managed to get to Tegucigalpa today), everyone is a nice splattery-brown from the hips down and the roads are soupy, gooey disasters. However, everyone was thankful it finally began because after our little “fake winter” of a week of rain at the end of April, we had almost three full weeks without rain—which wouldn’t have been an issue if people had waited to plant their beans and corn like they were told to (on the news!!). But all that rain was just too beautiful to pass up and everyone decided that God had sent us an early Christmas present, and planted their crops. And then we had three weeks of bright blue skies and not a drop of rain, and everyone’s little three-inch-high green stalks wilted and threatened to suicide themselves. However, the “real” rains finally did descend upon Alubarén, not unlike the rivulets of back sweat that ran into my Nether Region and caused several unfortunate episodes of the ‘ol Swamp Ass. But (no pun intended), as previously mentioned, it’s Winter now and all can rejoice in the little mini rivers of cow crap and dead frog guts rushing through town down toward the river. Mmm. And let me tell you, NOTHING smells as delightful as the rotting corpse of a toad the size of a football, just outside the house but close enough to my neighbor Nelo’s property that it is officially his responsibility, not mine (nor anyone else’s, which I learned when I heard not one but several folks mention in passing, in the typical joking passive-aggressive manner of Hondurans, that Nelo and Nelo alone was responsible for disposing of the calf-sized amphibian stiff).

The good news is that since rain is now old news, the sudden and extreme hatchings of crotch-diver beetles and their associates have tapered off and I share my hammock with perhaps five beetles per night, as opposed to the 5,000,000 I was picking out of my plate of beans a month ago (here I am referring to my dinner, not creating some sort of lewd new euphemism for private parts). However, the bad news is that the relentless rains have saturated the dirt around my house, and all the little critters that live in said dirt, namely snakes and tarantulas, come sputtering up to the surface, gasping for air, and when they finally catch their breath decide that they’ve had enough of the Swamp Ass and why not try that nice, dry den over yonder, the one that smells like wet dog and Swedish Fish (thanks Erika!)?? I’ve actually yet to have any wriggly snakes up in here, but I know it’s just a matter of time. However, several tarantulas have gone on evening strolls through my home, though you’d think they’d learn that that kind of recreation just leads to a slow and painful death. Just two nights ago, I was lying in my hammock, watching a movie on my laptop (some awesome documentary about wolves with a lot of Native American flute music in it), when I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. Creepy, scuttle-y movement. Movement that instills a sense of panic in the observer, causing one to leap out of the hammock and flap her hands around in a weird gringa-fied version of the finger-snap that Hondurans do to express surprise/humor/fright/exhaustion/many other things, and is really cool when they do it, but makes certain North American ladies look like they’re suffering from some kind of spastic mental problem because she doesn’t actually do the snappy thing but just shakes both hands as if flinging water droplets off….anyway. It was a big, black, furry spider, about the size of a grapefruit, with ambition the size of a soccer ball. I leapt out of my hammock and flapped my hands around for a bit, as previously mentioned, but was too scared to smash it with a broom because it was so freaking big and I knew it would get all splattery and such (for those of you who don’t know me, I am a huge arachnophobic. As in, I should be receiving government money to pay for my condition, it’s so debilitating.) Plus, my broom was outside by the pila. So I raced into my room and quickly found my can of cheap, Honduran-brand Raid (called Oko) and, trying not to pee my pants out of my butt, sprayed the bastard from an entirely useless distance of seven feet. He just kind of looked at me and chuckled, and kept on scuttling till he reaching the baseball duffle bags I have stacked up by the door, which he wisely hid behind. Too freaked out to dig him out and finish the job, I just slammed my laptop shut, hit the lights and leapt into bed, tucking and re-tucking my mosquito net around me like a kid with OCD. Trembling, I lay awake until about 6:30, convinced every scuttle-y noise was the sound of a vengeful furball coming to position himself directly above my face on the net, which is my absolute worst fear in life. Once the sun was up, I ran across the street, fetched my bleary-eyed neighbor Elias, and waited outside wringing my hands while he calmly pulled the bags to the side, smashed the spider with my broom, swept him outside, and went back across the street, no doubt to return to bed. Now I find myself glancing over my shoulder every couple of minutes (just now, for example), convinced I’m going to see another goliath in the exact same spot I saw the other one last night. (Nope, all clear.) Que patetica.

In other news, I am now officially done with this 3-month workshop I’ve been doing in the high school, for four hours a week. Designed to orient them in the job market, help them select appropriate future careers or jobs based on their skills and aptitudes, and learn how to be successful employees and/or bosses, it’s one of those things that has awesome material and is entirely useful, so of the course the teenagers couldn’t care less. Though I can’t blame them; if I was a bored high schooler and some foreign lady with just two different outfits and extreme pit-stains came and yelled at me about the future every week, I’d hate it too. They didn’t put much into the workshop, and it’s hard to say how much they got out of it, but it’s over, so thank god. I never want to work with high school kids again. I am a Babies dame through and through, and that’s the truth.

I also finally had my baseball clausura (obligatory closing-of-ceremonies, with cake and diplomas). I made a huge fruit salad (though accidentally including a rancid cantaloupe which people were too polite to comment on but almost killed me when I tried a piece), bought a cake and 18 liters of Coke. We also had a scary clown-ish piñata named Ruperto (thanks, Dona Marta!) and the kids all got fancy Peace Corps diplomas and some pictures I’d had printed up of them from the games. It was sort of slam-blam-thank-you-senora, but since a thunder storm was a-brewin’, it was for a best that we hustled along from speech-to-pinata-to-fruit-to-diaplomas-to-cake-to-adios. The parents sat around and slipped extra bowls of fruit into their purses to bring home to grandma while I handed out little awards for best batter and fielder, most improved, best attitude, and MVP (all of which I selected one for both boys and girls, except the MVP, la Mera Pantera). It was hella cute. I’ll miss playing baseball in the melting sun every day….and by miss it, I mean not a day goes by that I don’t wake up and give myself a high five for not having to play baseball today. WORST. SPORT. EVER. THERE I SAID IT. We should have started a professional recreational swimmin’ hole splashing team.

My little literacy project is going awesome. I’ve got about 10 second-grades and 10 third-graders, all of whom were selected to participate by their teacher because they couldn’t read. I come by once a week and pull them out of class one by one and hustle them into the library, where all the magic is. Each kid is given a Ziplock baggie with an index card in it, with a group of words (or syllables, if they can’t do whole words yet) written on it that they must practice at home. After a week’s time, we sit together again in the library, and if they can read the card without difficulty and errors, they get to select a prize from the Treasure Chest and move onto the next card. If not, they stick with the same card until they learn it. First we did vowels, then vowels paired with the letter ‘m’ (so they get a card with ma, me, mi, mo, mu), then words (mama, mime, mame, etc.). Once they pass ‘m’, they move onto ‘p’ and practice “papa, pipa, pepe,” etc. Then it’s onto Level 2, with “s”, “l”, “n”, and then onto level three….there are six levels in all. Almost all the kids started unable to identify the vowels and nearly all the children are now onto Level Two, so we’re slowly but surely making progress. It’s awesome, because these are the kids that usually sit in the back and aren’t given any school work because their lazy teachers know they can’t read and won’t be able to do the work anyway. But not anymore! Yay literacy!

In other library-themed news, I almost killed a man the other day. The roof in the library has been leaking badly for two years now, due to an askew piece of metal. Fixing it was just a matter of climbing up there and yanking the thing back in place, which we (the library committee) have been talking about doing for two years and keep putting it off. Finally, I got sick of waiting for “tomorrow,” which as we all know never comes, and took matters into my own hands. I marched over to this guy Tito’s house, who does odd jobs and had previously agreed to climb up and do the job, and dragged him with me and his little ladder to the school yard. He clamored up, walked along the metal-enforced beam along the middle of the peaked room, and fixed the hole in about two seconds. Then he came back and began to climb down the ladder, but felt insecure placing his left foot after his right, as it couldn’t quite reach the rung without him slipping down a bit more. So he climbed back up and started walking along the roof toward the other side, to see if he could climb down that way, while I’m still standing there holding the ladder. All of the sudden I heard a huge crash and some guy on the other side of the walls screams “TITO’S DEAD!” My heart stopped and I raced around the corner, chanting “ohmygodohmygod,” and ran right smack into Tito, who was strolling out of the library, brushing debris off his pants. “The roof is rotten,” he commented, and stooped to pick up his bike to head up the hill to open the water valves (one of his jobs in town). There was now a pony-sized hole in the roof, and the roof is not particularly low. When I asked him how in the world he wasn’t hurt, he just shrugged and said he landed standing up, “como Espider Mahn.” I couldn’t stop shaking, paralyzed with the thought that I’d almost killed a father of six, but he was totally nonchalant and even laughing about it. We spent the next week fixing the roof with three new sheets of zinc metal, to replace the rotten asbestos (yes, all the school and educational buildings here are made with poisonous roofs, and they don’t care it’s bad for you—it’s “much cooler than a metal roof,” so it’s worth it). We had to use nearly half of the money we had in our library fund…what was a 30 lempira project of 10 minutes turned into a 600 lempira week-long endeavor. So much for making a positive different in my community.

If my two-year adventure here in Honduras was a day, then I would now be bathed in the crispy golden light of late-afternoon. I still have enough time to scamper around and do several Items of extreme Fun and Utility, but soon the sun is gonna duck behind the green bowl of mountains that surround this pueblo and I’ll have to head home before the it gets too dark to watch where I step. Every day people ask me “Ya se va?!”, Are you leaving now?!, to which I always respond, NO of course not, I’m here till September! At which point they point out that’s only four months away and I won’t even be here for the squash harvest. No, I say, but at least I’ll be here for the fair and independence day. Yes, they say. That’s true. At least you’ll be here for the fair (which is a joke because the fair here sucks). Anyway, I haven’t really, TRULY begun to process that my life here is winding down, but I talk about it every day and I assume that soon real gut-feeling will kick in with those words. Until then, please enjoy my artful sunset metaphor in lieu of real emotional insight into what leaving my sweaty, loving home for the past two years feels like.

At least maybe once I get back to the states I’ll stop talking to myself so much. Seriously, I’m getting concerned. I do voices and everything.

Love
Hayley

P.S. Thursday, June 3, 2010 UPDATE!! I never did get to Tegus last week…soon after I wrote last week’s blog, what was delightful amounts of rain turned into a 5-day non-stop downpour of Extreme Negative Moist proportions, which is to say, hurricane-y. Or rather, there were several hurricanes “around” (like Guatemala and the Pacific coast) which turned into what any credible meteorologist would describe as “butt-loads of rain for H-town.” To quote little ‘ol Tom Robbins, “It rained a sickness. And it rained a fear. And it rained an odor. And it rained a murder. It rained an omen. And it rained a poison. And it rained a pigment. And it rained a seizure.” The river outgrew its banks like a one of those people with giantism might outgrow childhood pants—way to quickly, and to such a degree as to make people stare with grim nervousness. Which is exactly what Alubarén did. As the days progressed (eight days without electricity, six days without bridges in or out of town), the folks gathered near the river in tank tops and umbrellas to watch the crashing river take out entire trees and rush away with insane amounts of plastic garbage. All our bridges were under water, and people began stocking up on food, fearing that a lack of transport would result in a shortage (I just bought an entire sack of coffee, which we drank by the gallon daily). Folks here are pretty nervous about hurricanes, since Hurricane Mitch spanked the dickens outta Honduras 10 years ago, but we were fortunate and no one in my town suffered severe flooding in the house or anything like that. And once the rains began to let up a bit, people relaxed and it was downright enjoyable. No work, no school, just hangin’ around in shorts and sweatshirts (yes! it was below 90!) and drinking cup after cup of sugary black coffee until it grew dark; then rocking in hammocks to the flickery light of candles until established bedtime of electricity-less days, which is 7:30pm. Now it’s back to normal, but the river is still very strong. Be careful babies!

toad turds and pollywogs

crazy sunset cloud formations...doesnt that look like Snoopy, peering off a cliff during a full moon? I KNOW RIGHT?!

Yes Igor you DO look awesome bathed in late afternoon sunlight.

the hill david and i (and igor) scrambled up.

ambulatory bovine alert!!

the only photo of us together, ever.

lubey lubes on a humid afternoon.

Gary, my pet garrobo that lives in the random rock heap I have outside my home. He sits and suns himself all day long.

Las Panteras, after our championship.

dog pile of joy...despite losing. thats right children, pound out your misery.

Fernando on first!

Nely and her birthday donuts.

Little Geyli and her grandpappy.

My backyard on an early misty morning

my extremely pregnant landlady Mirian, who actually just had her baby the day before yesterday...a little baby boy named Eli! yay!

Rony and Mirian. Landlords of the future.

Little Elvin, practicing good oral hygiene.

My friend Aida's younger sister, Xiomara, with her new husband Marlon and their puppy, Tuta, in their new home.

Doesn't little Carlos sit like a king? He looks ever so benevolent, yet wise...

the little types of El Jicaro, scrubbin away.

Semana santa sunset.

permanent waves.

cotton candy evening

23 April 2010

Hey, chochachos! Guess what? IT’S FAKE WINTER!!!!! A little old man told me on the bus like two months ago that we would experience an “invierno falso” in April, and he’s totally right (real winter begins in the middle of May). If it ain’t fake winter right now, then I’ll eat my mittens and hat (though not really, ‘cause I need those puppies!). Actually, that’s a lie. When Hondurans refer to “winter” they mean the rainy season, which if anything is actually HOTTER than summer because of the moisture-induced humidity. However, the rain storms cool everything off and so it’s totally worth it, 100 times, 1,000 times. So anyway, a month ago I was bitchin’ about how hot and dry it is, how there’s no water, how all the plants are dead…please consider such insignificant groanings null and void. Beginning about two weeks ago, we’ve had late-afternoon thunderstorms maybe every three or four days, with deliciously squishy results, foliage-wise. My basil is completely on steroids, and all the trees have suddenly exploded with leaves and new twigglies. The grass and weeds are growing like they’re 13-year-old boys, only without the painful self-awareness and wet dreams. My pila is filled with water regularly every other day, and the swimmin’ holes have swelled marvelously (here I could make another puberty-esque metaphor, but I’ll refrain as there might be children reading this). However, the rainy season isn’t just all rainbows and tambourines—there are evils afoot, too, which I shall list below in no significant order:

1. The beetles. The rains make all these huge, crunchy beetles emerge from somewhere, and they congregate in the evenings around the light. This means that while lying in my hammock, eating or reading or whatever, I am constantly plucking this plastic-enforced monsters off my shirt, my hair, my food, my skin, etc., though it’s a rather fruitless battle because no sooner do I yank one off and hurl his little scarab ass across the room does another dive-bomb me—they seem to love it. Also, the hammock lounge position (feet together, knees bent like a frog) means that there are gaping caves between my shorts and thighs, which is the perfect target for such kamikaze pilots…which is why I spend maybe a fourth of my evening fishing donut-hole sized insects out of my crotch.

2. The amphibians. Now, don’t get me wrong. Unlike every single Honduran ever, I am not deathly afraid of toads and their slightly less grotesque cousins, the frog. I actually like them. The rains, however, have encouraged them to emerge from their secret lairs carved into the sides of remote mountain ranges and they are taking over the damn place. At night, the toads hop into my house and lazily hunt the beetles that have turtled-over and wobble on their backs, tiny sticker legs waving around hopefully. That’s all fine and good. The frogs, aided by sticky feet, spider-man-frog it around the walls and ceiling, hanging out by the light and slurping down any and all flying insects. Fine by me. They also fill the night air with an incredible cacophony of different chirps, squawks, and croaks—it sounds like an intergalactic laser gun fight. Also great—if you think there is better falling asleep music, then you’re a liar, ‘cause there isn’t. Wonderful. What I DON’T approve of, however, is the frogs’ collective decision to turn my bathing barrel and pila into an all-night bath-house…and here I am referring to the infamous bathhouses of ill repute. You can also imagine my pila as a shadowy truck stop along a lone highway in the 1980s. Either way, there is a lot of mixing of bodily fluids and I often go out for a late-night pee, only to find various slimy green couples playing two-frog twister. One Friday, I left to go to Tegus for the day to do errands at the Peace Corps office. My neighbor Tina called me, very distressed, at about 10:00am, to inform me that I had “thousands of frog eggs floating in my pila.” She said she scooped out what she could but that there was still a lot in there. I returned home Saturday to find a thick blanket of tiny black tadpoles carpeting the bottom of my concrete pila, wriggling around like spermies. The shower barrel was spawn-free, but had two toad turds floating in it, which look just like mini dog turds. DAMN YOU, ANPHIBIANS. I called the kids over and we carefully filled 10 baggies with tadpoles, which we carried to the creek and released in a very Free Willy-esque moment. The rest I drained out and scrubbed down with soap…same with Turd Island. I’m touched these young lovers are sneaking out of their burrows to come tangle at my house, but if it happens again I’m gonna have to take serious measures. Like filling my pila with ginger-ale…boiling hot, Texas-style ginger ale!!!

I guess that’s it, complaint-wise. I love the thunderstorms…the anticipation as the gray-purple mass forms on the horizon and heads toward us, usually from the north-east. I love the flash of light followed by sharp crackles and booms, all the crazy pageantry of nature that we Californians can’t understand (no summer rain!). I love the sheets of water pouring off my zinc roof, and the roar it creates, so loud I can’t even carry a conversation with myself (“Another peanut M&M, Hayley?” “WHAT. EMINEM SUCKS. WHAT?" And I love the sudden greenification of my house and the hills around it. So even if this is a fake winter…I’m diggin’ it. Just don’t plant your corn yet.

I won’t say much about Semana Santa except that it was awesome. I slightly overdid it the first day and spend every waking moment in the ocean, which resulted in a) a ridiculous sunburn, b) painful, blistered lips, and c) an inner AND outer ear infection, in BOTH ears. Totally worth it, though. The waves were 6-feet-high every day and my buddies and I spent our days rolling and riding around on them, eating toasty sandwiches and drinking icy beverages of fruity origins. Sand castles were also made, and I may or may not have pissed off an entire bar full of people by abusing my water-gun privileges and exercising my shoddy aiming skills. Fortunately, I averted the mob by blending into the crowd, something I do naturally in Central America.

Our baseball “championship” (April 17) went about as expected, which is to say we lost. Reitoca hosted it this year, but it sucked because unlike previous years, the Peace Corps has no baseball funds, or they seem to have it tied up in a mysterious “coaches training” that was supposed to happen in February and has yet to be mentioned. Either way, no dough for championships, regional or otherwise, and certainly none for the National Championship. In previous years it’s been held in Tegucigalpa in a real stadium, all expenses paid for the kids—they got hotel rooms, food, medals, even a trip to a children’s museum. Not no more…now we don’t even have funds to pay for a real umpire to come to the regional championships. Which, I suppose, would be pointless, considering there aren’t trophies or a National competition. Either way, with my buddy David’s departure date looming (this Monday! Tear.), we decided to have one anyway, so the kids could have some closure (since Reitoca is the only other community nearby with a baseball team, once he leaves, we’ll have no one to play against until they get another volunteer, which isn’t until September). However, it was essentially like any other scrimmage, except David marked the field with ashes and we made the kids sing the national anthem before they played (horrific disaster…one of my kids Kenssy conducted it, and none of the kids followed her…they finished the song six different times). I only brought 14 kids this time, because I’ve been having lower numbers (no one wants to be a loser, I guess). One of my best pitcher’s moms refused to let him come, because she was “sick of watching him lose.” Not that she’s ever been to a game. So poor Enner had to pitch the whole time. As it was, they played pretty good, and we even scored a run! Reitoca got three, thus beating us with a resounding 3-1 final score, and Las Panteras seemed no worse for the wear, as I suspect they now go into games assuming they will lose. It was fun on the way over, though…I taught them all Spanish versions of those dorky call-and-repeat spirit songs we used to sing in T-ball, as well as the ever popular “GIMME A P! (P!) GIMME AN A! (A!)…” etc. They belted them out all the way to Reitoca and begged to sing them on the way home, too, even though we’d lost. So at least they’re good losers…though when we entered Alubarén proper they all started screaming and cheering and shouting “WE WON! WE WON!” to the people outside, which we most certainly had not. I didn’t stop them, though. A little self-deception never hurt anyone, that’s what I always say.

As I mentioned, David, my “pretend site-mate” and one-man adventure cohort, is on his way out; his two-year alarm clock is finally going off. Since he doesn’t live in my town, my day-to-day life won’t change much, but I’ll miss him coming over on the weekends once a month, to scramble around in the hills behind my house, cool off in the swimmin’ hole, lie in the hammocks and stuff our faces with candy and trail mix sent from the states, all the while greasing the gossip chains of my neighborhood as folks stand around and whisper about how “that other gringo” spends the night and therefore must be my boyfriend. It’s hard to explain that actually, American culture permits that a lady and a dude can be platonic friends and spend our evenings alone together, not boning but playing Hangman on my wall with sidewalk chalk while eating buckets of homemade pesto and drinking two liters of Coke, each. Ah, the differences of culture. Anyway, David and I decided we should have one final fling, and he came over last week to celebrate our Closing of Ceremonies. We made a picnic (rice crispy treats, sandwiches (tuna and cheese on wheat bread; god bless you Tegus supermarket) and a big thermos of ice cold homemade lemonade) and we set off into the jungley hills behind my house, Igor racing around our heels. Determined to make it a genuine Adventure, we scanned the horizon and declared it time to finally climb the abrupt peak that juts out of the mountain but which we’d never scaled. We circled around behind it and, lacking a path, just bushwacked our way to the top. There we ate our lunch (Igor had dog biscuits sent down from gramma and grampa Kercher), peered down at Alubarén, and reflected on life. Getting down was, for some unexplainable reason, extremely treacherous and I led us down several VERY wrong paths (all ended in some abrupt abyss) until we finally stumbled upon the way we’d come up, which turned out to be the only way that didn’t involve “that god-damn gully AGAIN!”. Stupid gully. Then we tramped up and over and down and through the woods, along the cow paths, until we got to the swimmin’ hole, where we splashed around and ate the last of our ‘crispies and drank more lemonade. Finally, we headed up to my favorite sittin’ hill and watched the sun set, slurping down the last tangy drops of god’s gift to beverages. A remarkable Closing of Ceremonies, indeed. Then we headed back to the Tarantula Oven for a pesto, soda, and candy. So long, pal.

Such is life. My time to peace out is fast approaching (I only have 5 months left) and after that I have no idea where I’ll go or what I’ll do. Any ideas?

Bed tiiiiiiime………just me and Fanny the Fan.

Love,

Hayley

man i got the swamp-ass on my throat

Henri, my second-best pitcher.

Enner, my first-best pitcher.

Las Panteras de Alubaren!

On the bus ride over (before their souls were crushed by defeat)

well if that aint a rooster in a windowsill

mouth-themed art.

little guys coloring their mouths.

view from the path on the way to the school...alubaren is waaaay down there in the valley.

the third grade penpals! with their charming yet grossly incompetent teacher.

Igor and Kaiser, sopping wet after a trip to the swimmin hole.

leapin in!! dont break your face!

noel and his nature-made waterslide.

is douglas peering at us over those shades because he's cool...or because they're super-perscription and his eyes are aching?? child torture for photo ops is a large part of what peace corps volunteers do in the field.

three generations of amazing women (dona anita, chepa, and maricela). all great friends of mine.

27 March 2010

Hey, chochachos! So my buddy Patrick got this awesome purple-camouflage t-shirt, which, being too small for him, was bequeathed to me. It reads “BUTT SWEAT AND TEARS,” which is 1) hilarious and 2) entirely accurate of my current situation. I’m not actually crying (though I did weep slightly last night watching “Milk” on ‘ol laptoppy) but I got swamp-ass like you wouldn’t even BELIEVE. Seriously. Honduras is all like “oo, you likes the heet, si? I geef you MORE!!” and totally throwing the lever to the “Butt Sweat 24-7” level of solar radiation. Anyway. I just thought you guys might like to hear about that.

I also have swamp ass on my throat. Little weird blisters that pop and sting—right in the creases of my neck fat, formed from the slight inclination of the head as a result from reading in the hammock. March and April are the hottest time of year in the south of Honduras, as everyone gazes ruefully at hazy blue horizon, waiting for the rain clouds that won’t appear until mid-May (save for a freak rain shower that fell a couple weeks ago and rained out baseball practice! Delicious). All the plants have transformed into brittle, leafless skeletons and the dust is everywhere, coating all surfaces in a nice gritty filth. The cicadas drone incessantly and the toads hide in my latrine, looking for the Moist. Poor Igor just lies on the floor and pants frantically, though he is a warm-weather dog through and through and does much better here than I’m sure he’ll do in the states (the dope shivers with cold whenever we go to Tegucigalpa). The water shortage continues, though I really can’t complain because I have my whole pila to myself and most people have to share it with mom, dad, grandpa, grandma, kids, aunts, uncles…everyone in the house. So I let Nely come over and wash clothes and take baths all the time. Sometimes, I just lie down in my underpants and let Igor lick me clean…dog saliva is antibacterial, you know. The only good thing about the dry season here is the mangos are beginning to ripen, so I can switch from crunching on sour green ones (still tasty) to slurping down delicious sticky orange awesomeness. Also, “jocotes” are in season now, also known as “plums,” (ciruelas) though they do not resemble North American plums in any way (they’re like little round balls of sweetish flesh, about the size of a walnut, with a huge pit). Maranones are ripe now, which I have plenty of in my backyard. They taste like 100 gallons of butt sweat, though, so I give them all away. Fun fact—the nut on top of the fruit is where cashews come from! SCIENCE. Anyway, bitch bitch moan moan I’m hot and such, but it ain’t so bad cause 1) I borrowed the fan from the library, which has no electricity anyway, and 2) the swimmin’ holes still have water, so goin’ on adventures is always fun. Last week, Nely and the kids and I (plus Igor) hiked for about an hour and a half to get to these amazing pools that are SO deep…you can jump off rocky boulders above and never touch the bottom. Plus, there is a shallow pool where the kids can splash around. We brought little bean tamales and it was delightful.

Work is goin’ awesome. The little penpal project I started up with the third-graders is adorable—they sent letters back and forth with an incredibly smart first grade bilingual classroom in Minnesota, taught by a former Honduran Peace Corps volunteer, Anne. It’s kind of sad, because the kids in Minnesota are a) 6 and 7 years old and b) learning Spanish for the first time, and their letters are still better written than my third graders. But the kids get a kick out of it, and draw great pictures to accompany their letters (which I send off in a manila envelope). So far we’re only written twice, once introducing ourselves and talking about favorites and hobbies, and this past week, where the kids wrote about Semana Santa (Holy Week), which is exactly like American spring break, except instead of teenagers making bad decisions, it’s chock-full of Jesus, excursions to the nearest water source for swimming, and the consumption of fish-cake soup. The little letters explained as such. It’s funny, though, because the third-graders all write little adult-ish phrases in the letters, like beginning with a “Hello, dear friend, allow me to hope that you are currently blessed with fine health and your family as well” (though totally botched spelling-wise) and “may the tiny baby-God bless you today and always.” Those Spanish-immersion blondies in Minnesota are gonna be like “que????” Their letters are pretty funny too, though damn impressive—they throw the “le” and “se” around like it’s their job and their spelling is excellent. My favorite one was from a kid who wrote (in Spanish) “I’m so happy you are my new friend. I used to not have any friends, but now I have exactly 101 and you are one of them. You are my best friend in the whole world and I love you so much.” I want to meet this 6-year-old with so much love.

Aside from that, I’m hiking up mountains twice a week to visit two aldea schools for my oral hygiene project, totally yellin’ at ‘em about cavities and such. The kids are little angels and always so eager to participate—it’s adorable. This week, we colored pictures of the mouth and learned to identify all the different components. It’s a damn good thing I’m a Scientist. In my village journeys, I’ve been able to form a closer friendship with a woman named Aida and her family, including little baby Geyly, who is now four-months old. Every Wednesday, on my way down the mountain after Colgate, I stop at their bright-green, open-air house and have lunch with her. Or rather, she puts a huge plate of beans and rice and tortillas in front of me and watches me eat it, concerned with my “tiny waist” and lack of boobs (seriously!). In addition to little “Hayley,” she has a four-year-old son named Esteven who has the raddest bowl-cut ever. He likes to show me his blocks that his dad made for him, and is also a fan of watching me stuff my face with food. I’m also friends with Aida’s sister, Xiomara, and her husband, Marlon. They’re newlyweds and have decided to stay childless for the first couple years, which is very rare in Honduran culture. They’re in the middle of building a house (made of mud-and-straw bricks), and are sleeping in the half of it that has a roof while they finish the rest. They’re all really wonderful people and I’m delighted to have some real friends outside of Alubarén proper. It’s like Burrito Tuesday all over again (this thing my friends and I did in high school than involved eating burritos on Tuesday), only instead of burritos it’s beans and rice and tortillas, and instead of Tuesday it’s Wednesday.

Baseball season is, thank tiny-baby-God, finally almost nearing an end. We had our last “friendly scrimmage” today, in Reitoca. I’ve spent the past month convincing parents to let their kids play, despite the fact that no one wants their kid to be on a losing team, and did much damage to my “we’re improving everyday!” argument when Reitoca took us to school in the mini-van of Pain today, beating us 4-0 (our most painful loss yet). We took the bus over early this morning, all sweaty-eyed and bushy-tailed, dressed to the nines in our sassy golden get-up. The game started out all right, and we came very close to scoring runs several times (bases loaded, with my best batters at the plate…) but never managed to get a point. Meanwhile, Reitoca was playing just as crappily, with just one point to our zero. Then, in the fourth inning, with two kids on base, their best batter slammed a ball into outer-space and won them three additional points with his fancy homerun. After we lost, my kids didn’t seem too disappointed—we’re used to being losers now—and instead ran around giggling and hamming it up for the camera, while I took individual shots of them posing in front out our team flag, one knee up and one knee down, with their hand on a bat, just like the cheesy pictures we take in American little league. The parents were pissed, though, and much berating was going on until I finally lost it and yelled at them (the parents) that if they couldn’t support the kids positively then they shouldn’t come to the games (a message that needed to be said, but I shouldn’t have lost my temper, because know they’ll all talk smack about me behind my back). Anyway. We bused it home, I laid in the hammock and stuffed my face with avocado, tomatoes and basil salad (all local grown, chumps) and drank chai iced tea (thanks mom and dad!) with my new best friend, Fanny the Fan (I’m all like, Hey, Fanny, do you like tarantulas? And she’s all “Noo-oo-oo” while shaking her head slowly to-and-fro). Anyway, just three more weeks until the “championship” on April 17 (though it will be essentially the same thing as a scrimmage since Peace Corps has no money in the baseball program for trophies, trips to Tegus, or anything of that sort) and baseball will have ended until next year, at which point the next sucker volunteer can have ‘em. I should have formed a “hangin’ out in the swimmin’ hole” team.

Hella bedtimes, folks…I gotta rest up for my Semana Santa adventures, which are beginning soon and involve salt water and hammocks. MYSTERIOUS!!

Love,

Hayley

birth birth birth birth

muddy fingahs!!!!!
birthday partyyyyyy
mud cake and a mud heart!!
FELIZ CUMPLEANOS JILI SORPRESA
me and igor on the kitchen floor
douglas, the great chicken wrangler.
thankfully the toy is covering his business this time


11 March 2010
Hey, chochachos! If my writing seems more sage and geriatric today, that is because ya’ll are accustomed to reading the words of a 23-year-old, and this chochacha is now 24. So, please attribute any sudden leaps in wisdom and/or insight to my advancing age and the gifts—and burdens, yes, there are burdens as well—that come with it.

As the Hondurans say, I was “a little baby once again” this past Tuesday, March 9th. My second birthday in Honduras, this time fortunately bereft of extremely tiny panties, which were given to me in great numbers last year by various individuals. I woke up early because I had to get out to a village (Alto de las Mesas) to start a Colgate project with the school there, in which the kiddies brush their teeth with hopeless abandon every day after snack-time and receive weekly lectures regarding oral hygiene and the toothly sciences. This week, the lecture was just on how to brush your teeth correctly, though, which was nice and easy. Unfortunately, it meant brushing my teeth six times in 30 minutes, as I chose to do a demonstration with each grade, even though it’s a one-room school with one teacher for the whole lot (60 kids total). Let’s face it; I just love brushing my teeth. It’s so awesome. Anyway, I stayed the whole day, and clamored down the mountain (to get to the school from the dirt road, you have to walk up a mega-steep dusty narrow path that edges along the rim of a steep mountain, banked by corn and sugar cane plants) with the teacher, Maricela (who is also in my English class). As we approached the main road, we heard a truck coming (free jalon!) so I started to race down the hill like a dang goat, which was stupid because goat I am not. About 8 feet from the road, in plain site of the driver of the truck and several people standing around outside a house, I totally ate it and slid down face-first, my skirt all sliding around to suggestive leg-levels and my glasses all goin’ askew. I wasn’t hurt, except for a skinned leg and arm, but jesus in a juice box was I embarrassed. Everyone rushed over and was hella concerned, tryin’ to clean me up…meanwhile I’m covered in red dirt and laughing like crazy. Awesome. The driver of the truck did give us a jalon back to Alubarén, though, so that was rad. Then I went home for a quick shower and lunch before my 4pm English class. As I approached my house, the neighbor kids came streaming out yelling my name like they always do, trying to drag me into their house to see the surprise they had for me. Unfortunately, I had to pry their feeble little baby hands off my skirt and make them wait until that evening, because I was all kinds of rushin’.

Off I dashed to English class, where I told my class of teachers that I had prepared a special surprise for them, in honor of my birthday. Murmurs of joy spread throughout the class, which were abruptly extinguished when, cackling madly, I whipped out the manila envelope filled with pre-tests they all had to take (which I should have given to them on Day 1, whoopsies). The test was hellsa chunkity, like 5 pages, so I just sat and dangled my legs from the desk while they grumbled their way through it. As they finished about 50 minutes later, they wandered outside and waited on the little soccer-playin’-concrete-slab (or so I though). When the last teacher handed me her test, I stepped outside to call the others in, only to find them GONE. I was like AW HELL NO YOU CHEATIN’ DESERTERS and such, full of Anger, until I saw one of them heading back into the school with a huge bottle of soda in her arms. Yay! Birthday Soda! I ducked back in so she wouldn’t see that I saw her coming, and busied myself writing on the board while they whispered and giggled outside. Suddenly, all 15 of them burst back into the room, grinning like little kids, bearing a little sugary-bread thing they’d bought at the pulperia and covered with 24 matches. They began to sing “Happy Birthday” (in English!) and took pictures of me with their camera phones while I blew out the “candles.” Then they doused me with bags of water (it’s typical to attack the birthday girl or boy with eggs and other crap, so I guess I got off lucky), handed out bags of chips and lolly-pops and cups of soda, and we participated in the great age-old tradition of forfeiting school time for consuming delicious treats. By the time we finished it was 5:30, so I just let everyone go home half an hour early. I walked up the road to my house, where Alison, Noel, Douglas, Cristina, and Yesica were waiting for me. They made me close my eyes and lead me through the house into the backyard, before finally arriving at the base of a big orange tree. “SORPRESA!!” they all screamed, and I opened my eyes to find a succulent mud birthday cake waiting for me at the base of the tree, complete with 24 little sticks, masquerading as candles. They’d also made a giant mud heart with my name inside, and with cinders from the fire had carefully written “FELIZ CUMPLEANOS JILI SORPRESA!!” on the concrete. Then they made me sit down and each presented me with a little hand-made envelope, covering in drawings, with sweet little birthday letters inside. My eyeballs, they did sweat a little, I must say…those kids have a vice grip on my soul. Then we trooped inside and made chocolate-banana smoothies, like we did last year, and sliced open a big juicy watermelon. My landlords gave me a huge sleeveless muscle-tee that I can never wear in public, with a picture of a Honduran beach on the front. Maybe I’ll wear it to baseball practice one day and freak out off the adolescent boys. Tina gave me an apple and a chocolate bar, and Lisbeth gave me a pencil, an eraser, a pencil sharpener, and a pen (her pencil case seems to have gone on a diet recently, I wonder why that might be?). But the best was that mud cake, which is now dry and sitting on a paper plate on my shelf in my room. Though I will admit I snuck a tiny bite before I put it up for display…god, those kids know how to mix dirt and water. Like imported Swiss fudge on ‘roids.

That’s about it for the Birthday Special…baseball is goin’ great, my little misfits are having a wonderful time, and getting excited for our up-coming scrimmage in Reitoca on the 27th of this month. Colgate, Joven a Joven and TEAM are all cominn’ along beautifully, and I’m gettin’ ready to start a Nature Club in the school. Finally, I get to start the pinecone-art sweatshop I’ve always dreamed of (though pinecones don’t exist in Alubarén, I have a huge bag of them I collected when I lived in Santa Rita).

My bed just texted me “haylz come on man it’s so l8t, come put on yr shortz and loser mouth-guard and get yr slumberz on”…so I guess I’d better go.
Looooove
Hayley

P.S. Birthday Update: I got a sweet ride to Tegus on Friday afternoon and met up with some friends, who treated me to surprise party with cold beers and an incredible smorgesborge of fancy cakes (chocolate caramel, cheesecake with raspberries, and carrot cake ) and ice cream. And they sang so beautifully!! You guys is the best.