There are a few things you should know.
1. You may think you are eating alone, but really, hoards of ants are watching every bite you take. If you leave so much as a morsel of food or a molecule of sugar lying around, they and all their buddies will arrive on scene immediately, having activated the same mysterious system that makes sure your entire college campus knows the instant someone even thinks about throwing a kegger. I guess the Alaskan insects are uncoordinated and stingy by comparison… I grew up leaving cereal and cracker boxes open; if an ant ever did find them, he’d probably feel like he’d won the lottery. But he wouldn’t share, and he’d probably eat just enough to get a tummy-ache.
2. Your clothes and shoes are harboring a tiny odor-causing ecosystem, ready to wreak havoc on your nostrils when the temperature rises. A pair of shoes that you wore running only at -40 degrees, fooling you into thinking it was harmless, suddenly blossoms into a stunner of a stink-bomb with the 120F degree difference.
3. The people who live in these humid climates have magical sweat glands that they can close, much like their eyelids, on special occasions for which one is not supposed to sweat (conferences, festivals, TV appearances and dances). If you have not grown up here, chances are you haven’t mastered sweat-gland-control techniques. This could earn you some unpleasant nicknames.
4. If you have never lived in such a climate, you may reach a temperature in which you are no longer able to function coherently. You may become disgusted by the thought of interacting with people, even really attractive ones. People won’t take pity on you, or even understand you when you tell them that you’ve been denatured. They will look at your sweaty hair in disgust and tell you to get back to work. Worst of all they will remember everything you say as if it were said by a sane, sober person. Best to hide in your house until night-time.
5. People will tell you that you shouldn’t do certain temperature-related things, like get caught in the rain, drink cold things in the morning, or take a shower after exercising. You will scoff at them, and then promptly come down with whatever disease they said you would get. It may be karma, or it may be science.
6. Alaska has no snakes, but hot places generally do. And because indoor and outdoor temperature is the same, wildlife likes to waltz in like it owns the place. This is fine when it’s something cute and cuddly, or inherently cool, like a frog, but when a snake is doing the waltzing it’s not so great. People are supposed to have an innate fear of snakes, which makes them react even to something long and coiled that only remotely resembles the shape of a snake. You may have lost some of this reaction due to lack of use, which could be dangerous. Try having a friend place some shoelaces or hoses in different places around your house and practice shrieking with fright every time you see them.
In summary, in order to fit in when you find yourselves in steamy weather, you should probably practice obsessive cleaning, refrain from showering after exercising, keep your shoes in the freezer, and hide in your house while learning to blink your sweat-glands and screaming at your shoelaces. Otherwise people will think you are a freak.
Dear Every Sixth Man on the Street,
I know I’ve been playing hard to get, but I finally want to tell you how it touches me every time you shout sweet nothings at me as I walk by. It must have been love at first sight. How do I know? Well, it could have been the way our eyes met. Or it could have been the way you called out “I love you, little gringa” from 50 meters away from the back of a pickup that was pulling away on that first encounter. I wasn’t totally convinced, until, after calling my attention with a sound that doubles as a dog-shooing command, you said “what a beautiful little thing you are.” The originality of it just gets me you know? Every time. I know that every time you toss a “Beautiful little doll!” my direction, what you’re really saying is “I respect you for your mind.” And when you told me I looked pretty, well, that’s probably the moment I began to suspect we were meant for each other. I’ve got to say I was a bit confused at first as to who you were in love with, because you said “Hello babies” and “My loves” a few times when I was walking with my friends, but I knew you really just meant me. And of course I was SO impressed that you said it in English… I never imagined you knew English! By the way I’m sure your wife really doesn’t suspect anything when you make those kissing noises and call “Come here, my precious!” at me from your doorway while she’s washing your clothes. I have to say it wasn’t until the day you pulled up your shirt and inserted your ring-finger right into your belly-button that I knew I was smitten. And that thing with the eyebrows? Others might call it creepy, but I think it’s really one of your best attributes.
I know others probably don’t understand the depth of our complicated relationship, or might argue that you’re old enough to be my grandfather/use 2 pounds too much hair grease/view me as an object, but please just let me know how we can take it to the next level.
Love always,
Gringita preciosa
*Note: The majority of Honduran men I actually know are wonderful, bright, respectful people who are disgusted or at least amused by the actions of their peers.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Lessons I Missed
I kind of skipped kindergarten. But from what I'm told, they teach you that "sharing is caring". Hondurans are catching me up with what I missed.
Almost every day, a kid will come up to me and hand me a piece of candy, or an old man waiting for the bus will give me some bubble-gum. A neighbor will come over to give me some cucumbers or tomatoes, or a stranger will offer to pay for my internet time.
It's nice. I'm getting into the habit. But don't expect me to keep it up once I'm back in the States.
Almost every day, a kid will come up to me and hand me a piece of candy, or an old man waiting for the bus will give me some bubble-gum. A neighbor will come over to give me some cucumbers or tomatoes, or a stranger will offer to pay for my internet time.
It's nice. I'm getting into the habit. But don't expect me to keep it up once I'm back in the States.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Cage of Gold
The itch must be terrible. Every day Central Americans are bombarded with the same message from the media and their peers, "The US is a paradise. Money flutters around; if you can just get there, it will fall into your hands." I imagine the idea seeps into their subconscious. It's tough to think of anything but the United Moneybags of America. Central America starts to look like some form of hell compared to the shiny pictures in their heads.
A shaggy man in a cube-truck gives me a ride and explains his plans to go to America. This job pays the bills, but to him it's not enough. He's going as a mojado, he says, using a term for illegal immigrants referring to being wet from crossing the Rio Grande. He knows the dangers; he's been to the states before. He has relatives there who are earning far more than they could in Honduras. I ask: will he go with a coyote? These are the people who will take a large chunk of your savings in exchange for smuggling you all or part of the way north. He crinkles his nose and shakes his head; he's just going to ride trains. I swallow.
He knows the danger. Train-top riders risk amputation from falls, discovery by officials who take all they have and/or send them home, violent gang-members who beat them and take their belongings and leave them to die, starvation and dehydration. The journey can take months, and require you to stop and earn money for survival. Just riding the trains is treacherous, clinging to the tops of the trains despite exhaustion, anticipating branches and thugs and la migra, migration police. Many are jailed in Mexico until their families can raise the money to get them out.
In training I helped some workers on a farm stringing up tomatoes. Soon after, they decided to try and make it to the states, but called from a Mexican jail.
I've heard so many stories of people whose family members are in the States. A few are building the lives they dreamed of, but many who made it are still struggling in a strange place. So many promise their wives or kids they will be back in a year or two, once they've made enough money, but end up stuck in a cycle of earning and spending that never lets them get ahead. Julieta Venegas has a catchy song about a family of illegal Mexican immigrants in the US in which she declares that golden bars don't mean it's not a prison.
The stories that stick in my mind are of those who failed. The truck-driver remembers the stories of glory and riches. It rings of the prospectors in my hometown, Fairbanks Alaska, during the gold rush. Just a few success stories are enough to keep the people flowing.
I can understand poor urban-dwellers who own no land and see no hope of getting a good job when they are allured by the promise of the US. But the driver of the cube truck is doing well for himself; he has a lot to lose. I ask if he has any kids. A boy, he says. I try to convince him that being there for his kid is much more important now than sending him money.
I feel the familiar ache of guilt, simply for being from circumstances most of the rest of the world envies. The ride ends and I wave 20 lempiras his way, about $1, but he won't accept it. I thank him, wish him good luck, and swing down out of his rig. I just hope on his trip people will be this generous to him.
Another man who pulls his tired trap to the side of the road to offer me a ride turns out to be a (self-proclaimed) legend. He is a coyote. According to him, he is a hero in his community for the money he has donated, all of which he has made from this lucrative secretive business. He's enigmatic; he seems almost benevolent but not quite, almost slimy but not quite. I restrain myself to keep from asking the hundred questions swirling through my mind. I want to know how he smuggles people, how much it costs, how many people he takes each year, how did he get into the business, just how dark is this business, what's his success rate, etc. Instead I nervously answer questions about the fiancé I have just invented. As I clamber out of the beater, I thank him and hope out loud we shall meet again, and hope inwardly I'll get to grill him with all my questions next time.
A shaggy man in a cube-truck gives me a ride and explains his plans to go to America. This job pays the bills, but to him it's not enough. He's going as a mojado, he says, using a term for illegal immigrants referring to being wet from crossing the Rio Grande. He knows the dangers; he's been to the states before. He has relatives there who are earning far more than they could in Honduras. I ask: will he go with a coyote? These are the people who will take a large chunk of your savings in exchange for smuggling you all or part of the way north. He crinkles his nose and shakes his head; he's just going to ride trains. I swallow.
He knows the danger. Train-top riders risk amputation from falls, discovery by officials who take all they have and/or send them home, violent gang-members who beat them and take their belongings and leave them to die, starvation and dehydration. The journey can take months, and require you to stop and earn money for survival. Just riding the trains is treacherous, clinging to the tops of the trains despite exhaustion, anticipating branches and thugs and la migra, migration police. Many are jailed in Mexico until their families can raise the money to get them out.
In training I helped some workers on a farm stringing up tomatoes. Soon after, they decided to try and make it to the states, but called from a Mexican jail.
I've heard so many stories of people whose family members are in the States. A few are building the lives they dreamed of, but many who made it are still struggling in a strange place. So many promise their wives or kids they will be back in a year or two, once they've made enough money, but end up stuck in a cycle of earning and spending that never lets them get ahead. Julieta Venegas has a catchy song about a family of illegal Mexican immigrants in the US in which she declares that golden bars don't mean it's not a prison.
The stories that stick in my mind are of those who failed. The truck-driver remembers the stories of glory and riches. It rings of the prospectors in my hometown, Fairbanks Alaska, during the gold rush. Just a few success stories are enough to keep the people flowing.
I can understand poor urban-dwellers who own no land and see no hope of getting a good job when they are allured by the promise of the US. But the driver of the cube truck is doing well for himself; he has a lot to lose. I ask if he has any kids. A boy, he says. I try to convince him that being there for his kid is much more important now than sending him money.
I feel the familiar ache of guilt, simply for being from circumstances most of the rest of the world envies. The ride ends and I wave 20 lempiras his way, about $1, but he won't accept it. I thank him, wish him good luck, and swing down out of his rig. I just hope on his trip people will be this generous to him.
Another man who pulls his tired trap to the side of the road to offer me a ride turns out to be a (self-proclaimed) legend. He is a coyote. According to him, he is a hero in his community for the money he has donated, all of which he has made from this lucrative secretive business. He's enigmatic; he seems almost benevolent but not quite, almost slimy but not quite. I restrain myself to keep from asking the hundred questions swirling through my mind. I want to know how he smuggles people, how much it costs, how many people he takes each year, how did he get into the business, just how dark is this business, what's his success rate, etc. Instead I nervously answer questions about the fiancé I have just invented. As I clamber out of the beater, I thank him and hope out loud we shall meet again, and hope inwardly I'll get to grill him with all my questions next time.
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