Quiz: Know Honduras
1. Everything in Honduras—cream, soda, water, milk, popsicles—is sold in:
a. aluminum cans
b. glass bottles
c. Tupperware
d. Plastic bags
e. Styrofoam cups
f. Clay pots
2. The most normal means of transportation among large cities is:
a. VW bugs with the tops cut off so they can fit up to 8 people
b. Old school-buses from the US that didn’t pass inspection
c. Slick Greyhound-type buses
d. Over-crowded mini-buses
Answer to #1: plastic bags. One of my favorite memories is of an ice-cold Pepsi in a plastic bag served to me after I volunteered to help my neighbors raise tomato-beds all morning. This practice would never go over well in Tanzania, where strangely enough it is illegal to give away plastic bags at the store due to the environmental implications.
Answer to #2: Old school buses. It was odd for me at first to see a line of school buses on a Saturday morning on a busy road. When I got closer and saw the majority of the passengers were bearded, grey-haired or carrying babies, I got even more curious. Before long I had become one of these regular passengers, holding in the urge to start up a camp song or look over my shoulder for bullies.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Pueblo
My host mom just laughed as a stream of milk cascaded down her arm where she squatted below the cow. My first few attempts at milking gave only a few measly drops, and finally, a small squirt came forth, but unfortunately was aimed at my host mom rather than the pitcher. I stood back to let her empty the udder, bringing forth a high-speed dollop of milk at every tug- reminding me of a soda fountain at a fast-food restaurant.
I’ve never met people with such a blend of mischievous sarcasm, curiosity and unfaltering, deep-down goodness, as in my field-based training site. I lived with a middle-aged, childless couple who had converted their living room into a bedroom for me, while they slept in a tiny windowless room. Hearing the fizzle of a match in their room at midday sent pangs of guilt through me. I often robbed my host mom of a few precious hours of sleep by dragging her to the neighbors’ houses for guitar sessions or chatting with her by candlelight until her eyelids drooped.
My host dad kept busy on his cucumber and corn farms, making people chuckle, and playing soccer in the evenings. For my host mom, the world revolved around keeping the house clean, keeping bellies full and people smiling, and being up on all the latest happenings in the town, and at this I have never met someone more capable.
Before I knew it I had fallen in love with the pueblo. It’s a place where the sweat of the morning’s farm-work is forgotten with a cool drink of fresh-squeezed mandarin juice. The evening entertainment is soccer and visiting, and nobody’s too cool to visit his aunt or grandma for a kiss and a coffee. They’ve got their own charming style—every man I asked claimed to have invented the fashion of wearing a radio on a string around his neck that has been adopted by all the young men in town. The farm-work is not seen as drudgery—teams of men work together and crack jokes and whistle in their secret whistle-language to those working on neighboring farms. At our goodbye party, the men of the village (ages 13-60) kept us always on our feet as they danced us around the school lawn.
I’m gonna miss that place. I’ve never gotten so attached to a town in such a short time. I will keep many of my host mom’s lessons on hand—not hanging your underwear outside because someone might steal it, and not bathing just after eating or working hard. I’ll remember the handy lesson from my host father on how to trash-talk on the soccer field. I just hope I will feel this comfortable in my new home, way out in the West.
My host mom just laughed as a stream of milk cascaded down her arm where she squatted below the cow. My first few attempts at milking gave only a few measly drops, and finally, a small squirt came forth, but unfortunately was aimed at my host mom rather than the pitcher. I stood back to let her empty the udder, bringing forth a high-speed dollop of milk at every tug- reminding me of a soda fountain at a fast-food restaurant.
I’ve never met people with such a blend of mischievous sarcasm, curiosity and unfaltering, deep-down goodness, as in my field-based training site. I lived with a middle-aged, childless couple who had converted their living room into a bedroom for me, while they slept in a tiny windowless room. Hearing the fizzle of a match in their room at midday sent pangs of guilt through me. I often robbed my host mom of a few precious hours of sleep by dragging her to the neighbors’ houses for guitar sessions or chatting with her by candlelight until her eyelids drooped.
My host dad kept busy on his cucumber and corn farms, making people chuckle, and playing soccer in the evenings. For my host mom, the world revolved around keeping the house clean, keeping bellies full and people smiling, and being up on all the latest happenings in the town, and at this I have never met someone more capable.
Before I knew it I had fallen in love with the pueblo. It’s a place where the sweat of the morning’s farm-work is forgotten with a cool drink of fresh-squeezed mandarin juice. The evening entertainment is soccer and visiting, and nobody’s too cool to visit his aunt or grandma for a kiss and a coffee. They’ve got their own charming style—every man I asked claimed to have invented the fashion of wearing a radio on a string around his neck that has been adopted by all the young men in town. The farm-work is not seen as drudgery—teams of men work together and crack jokes and whistle in their secret whistle-language to those working on neighboring farms. At our goodbye party, the men of the village (ages 13-60) kept us always on our feet as they danced us around the school lawn.
I’m gonna miss that place. I’ve never gotten so attached to a town in such a short time. I will keep many of my host mom’s lessons on hand—not hanging your underwear outside because someone might steal it, and not bathing just after eating or working hard. I’ll remember the handy lesson from my host father on how to trash-talk on the soccer field. I just hope I will feel this comfortable in my new home, way out in the West.
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