Burying Old Man Can´t

I buried Old Man Can’t a while ago. That’s what Clarence Thomas´ grandfather used to tell him when he was younger. I don’t know Clarence Thomas personally, but my family got to know him a little better via a 20 minute spot on 60 Minutes last Sunday night. I wouldn’t be privy to said sliver of inspiration, not for lack of wanting to watch Morly Siefer, Lesley Stahl, Andy Rooney and the rest of the gang, seeing as it is my favorite television show…insert Huge Tool here…, if it weren’t for my wonderful older sister who forwarded it to me in an email. You see, between El Salvador’s version of PBS and the fútbol channel, there’s not much room for 60 Minutes on Southern Intibuca network television. And even if there was, it would come in all snowy, and who wants to watch snowy television, anyway?
60 Minutes is one of many, many things I miss about life in the states. If one wanted to make me even more homesick, they would add to that list: hot showers, Ina Garten´s cinnamon coffee cake, paved highways, timeliness, a queen-sized bed with down comforter and enough pillows to sleep a family of 5, privacy, personal space, not being stared at like I have 5 heads whenever I open my mouth.
Since I’ve arrived in Honduras, and, more specifically, to San Marcos de la Sierra, Intibuca, a lot has changed. I no longer spend Sunday afternoons reading the New York Times relaxing in my favorite chase lounge, nor do I jump into the navy blue BMW convertible to zip to Bikram Yoga and later grab a Grande Skim Latte from Starbucks. Instead I wake up to the sound of roosters crowing at 6 a.m. and run down the rock path as quickly as I can past the molino, geese, guyaba trees, et al… to the latrine to pee (one thing that hasn’t changed since I got here: my absurdly small bladder). I forgot what fresh blueberry muffins and pumpkin bread taste like because I eat tortillas and beans for breakfast every day. And I have a sneaky suspicion that the navy blue Beamer wouldn´t stand a chance against San Marcos´world famous absurdly horribly ugly and ill constructed dirt roads (in fact, I´d even be willing to wager that a monster truck would have a tough time).
At first glance it may sound like I’m whining and that is not at all my intention. Rather, as I sit in the municipal building waiting for someone to tell me to do something, I find it oddly cathartic to remember the life I’ve temporarily left behind. Maybe I’m weird, but remembering what I left behind helps remind me why I wanted to come to Honduras in the first place. I loved that life, I felt comfortable in that life, that life was easy. I didn’t have to think about getting out of bed—I just did it. And I reached a point where that started to scare me. What if I woke up and it was 50 years later and nothing had changed? Here, every minute is a challenge. Every time I want to say something, I have to think about it (What’s the third person of past pluscuamperfecto of hablar slash does that even exist?) Every where I go, people stare. I take my first real deep breath when I lie down to go to sleep. This is me Week 1. It gives me piece of mind to think much fun it will be to read this in 2 years and laugh, laugh at my ignorance, my impatience, my fears. Just because things here are different doesn’t mean they’re bad or wrong. In fact, the whole handmade-corn-tortillas-with-every-meal is already growing on me. Who knows, maybe in two years I’ll have forgotten have to speak English and shudder at the thought of drinking a cup of coffee without at least 10 spoonfuls of sugar in it.
A slice of perspective from John Steinbeck: Después de muchos anos, he llegado a comprender que no somos nosotros los que hacemos los viajes. Son los viajes los que nos hacen a nosotros. Roughly (and I emphasis the roughlypart) translated, Mr. Steinbeck means to say that After many years, I’ve learned that it is not we that make the trips, but the trips that shape us.

TIH

TIH has become the token buzz acronym. This is Honduras.
Case in point... this pic.

Heres a pic of the group in ElParaiso when we went to visit a cigar factory. Unfortunately no free stoogies were handed out.

Visited my site, San Marcos de la Sierra, Intibuca, for the first time this weekend. It was... overwhelming. Hoping that with time Ill adjust and learn to love it. For now, taking it day by day. Keep the email coming, i love getting the updates from the states! XO

PICTURE THIS

7:05 am on a Friday. Just returned from a run and am ready to jump in the shower. This morning is like many others in the past: no water, at least no running water. To be honest, showering using a bucket doesnt even cause me to flinch anymore, all part of the daily routine. So I cant go outside to the pila to full up the bucket from the pila because the monster German Shepard, aka our ´guard dog´, will literally rip my face off. So I ask my host sister to fill up my bucket for me. When I go into the bathroom to commence my lovely bath from a bucket, I realize two things: A) the electricity is out ... awesome ... and 2) my host sister conveniently forgot to give me another smaller bucket to use to pour the water from the bucket onto my head-body. This two-bucket system usually works fairly well. Id say on average I have about a 72 % success rate, which is to say that 72% of the water taken out of the bucket splashes some part of my body. Now, however, without this smaller bucket Im stuck in a bit of a pickle knowning that an attempt to use my hands cupped together as a quasi-replacement for my trusty mini bucket would plummet my water-to-body success rate to single digits, I frantically search for an alternative, as its now 7:10 and Im supposed to be at work in 20 mins (the walk takes 15). My Nalgene is filled with Crystal Lite Lemonade, so thats out. The plastic toothbrush container is fulled with mold and therefore also not an option-- yes, soaking that bad body in boiling water IS on my to-do list. The only other hard-shelled plastic container I can find is my soap dish. Not ideal but beggars cant be choosers. So I jump into the shower, in the dark, and rush to wash the sweat and mud off. However, because the soap dish only holds about 4 fluid ounces of water at a time AND I cant see a god damn thing, my water-to-body success rate is prob 20, 25% at best. I really wouldnt have bothered with this whole process in the first place had I not been pouring sweat (I have to run in long pants and long sleeves to thwart off the cat calls). When I go to put the shampoo in my hair, I notice that half of my head isnt even wet, which makes slathering it with shampoo really unfortunate. But I solidier on. I find that as I frantically rush to get the water onto my head in a (failed) attempt to remove the shampoo, Im actually sweating, which, quite clearly, completely defeats the purpose of this song-and-dance with the soap dish. When I try to lift the big bucket up over my head my arms quaver and I nearly fall over in the 4 ft. sq. space because, once again, I cant barely see my hand in front of my face. So after about two more mins of this charade I give up with the soap dish and start dunking my head in the big bucket, only I dont quite get the distance right the first time and slam the side of my head into said bucket, hence the lump on the side of my head that looks like a goyter. Of course, I stub my toe on my way out of the shower, and once i finally get into my room where, thankfully, theres sunlight, I realize that I´m pretty much covered in a soapy shampoo film. And its now 7:30 am. So as I´m sprinting (and sweating like a pig, I might add) I silently curse myself for not taking more advantage of my well-lite bathrom with a consistent source of high powered water pressure and electricity.

Looking for the glass that´s half full

Just arrived in El Paraiso for the start of Field Based Training and am experiencing my first downward spin on the roller coaster of emotions that defines life as a peace corps volunteer. The emotional ups and downs are just about the only thing thats constant in this environment. Well, that and rice and beans for dinner. That´´s also a sure thing.
I´ve been in country for a month, which is just enough time to start to realize that I´m about to make a 2 year committment to live alone in a foreign country. Up until this point this trip has felt more like a vacation rather than a 'semi' permanent move.
Last weekend Í talked to one of my PC buddies about all this stuff and he said something really interesting that caught my attention. As a buddhist, he strongly believes that there is no such thing as a self, that, according to Buddha, we´re all connected and that one man´s suffering is every man´s suffering. It struck me as a refreshing and invigorating way to look at my situation, that instead of dwelling on the small inconveniences I´ve encountered, like hand washing my clothes and constantly scratching at a gijillion mosquito bites, that I should focus on the bigger picture, the reason I came to Honduras in the first place, which was to make a difference, to be a part of something so much bigger and more powerful than me. And I´m only starting to understand what a humbling experience that can be.
I know deep, deep down in the bottom of my heart that I can do this, that I have the chops, otherwise theres no way I´d have made it this far. But that doesn´t mean all my fears of failure and self doubt simply melt away. Rather, with all this down time to think, I find they´re magnified, and it´s made managing them that much more difficult.
I´ve never known what its like to be totally and 100 percent alone, and I think the fear of that isolation, which is inevitable for at least part of my service, is a major source of my anxiety. How will I know if I´ll survive it until I´m in the thick of it... it´s a scary and uncomfortable thought.
At the same time, I´m also slowly starting to recognize that this is just a part of the much, much grander picture, that in 2 years I´ll be on a plane back home without knowing what hit me and wondering where the time went, and probably balling my eyes out because Spanish isn´t the official language in the States. Because lets be honest, Miami is an anomoly. As is practically all of southern Texas. And Langley Park.
In two years I hope that I won´t remember the nights I spent crying myself to sleep feeling sorry for myself because I don´t have air conditioning or a semi comfortable bed. Rather I hope to remember nights like last Sunday when I played cards with Jose Noah, a young Honduran boy who stayed at our house with his mom for the night after returning from the states. A non profit in Calif had paid for him and his mom to travel to the states so he could get a life saving operation on his heart. One of 7 children, Jose was close to death when the organization found him. His father is a campesino and his mother makes and sells corn tortillas. They had no resources for health care for Jose. I can´t begin to describe how much this boy touched my heart. The irridescent smile that he proudly wore from ear to ear made my heart melt. He was 14 years old, but because of his heart condition his growth was stunted and he didn´t look like he could have been older than seven. When he reached down to pull his shirt over his head to show off his foot long scar and jokingly nicknamed himself ''pescadito'' ... little fish, so as to say he´d be gutted open like a pike... I started bawling. His smile was the most honest and beautiful testament of the human condition that I´ve ever experienced. It made my heart hurt. That this 14 year old boy has been able to survive all that he´s been through with such a brilliant smile gives me all the hope in the world that I too will survive this experience. And what´s more, that I´ll come that much closer to truly understanding what it means to be grateful. Grateful for what I have, at peace with what I lack, but most of all, accepting of the fact that I can´t control the future. And maybe learning how to smile with Jose Noah.
Paz y amor.

Rain and birthday wishes

So definitly just got caught in a torrential downpour and am currently hovering over this computer at Cyber Alex--which by the way is a phenomenal name for an internet cafe--- furiously typing away with wet dog hair and soaking khaki pants. Im thinking that the hot pink underwear was not such a hot idea given the fact that my pants are now 100 percent see-thru. Oh well, i guess you could say at the very least im keep these Hondurans on their toes
First and foremost Id like to extend a very heartfelt and gracious thank you for the warm birthday wishes. And, boy oh boy, what a birthday it was. Who knew you could have so much fun without alcohol??? haha, just kidding mom
so i awoke at approximately 630 am, a full 15 mins before i actually had to get out of bed, to the sounds of Spanish Happy Birthday. My lovely host brother, Tito, thought hed so generously lure me out of my deep slumber with the sounds of an old spanish man screaming Feliz Cumpleanos. Not only that, but by the grace of god the song managed to last a good 10 to 15 mins. It was truly unfortunate.
Then, of course, I had to be serenaded at school, only this time i finally put my foot down and cut them off after verse 3. Some of my friends circulated a bday card they bought at the pulperia (basically honduras version of CVS, only on a drastically micro scale...) that looked a little worn and tattered, prob because it had to of been sitting on the shelf for at least a few years collecting dust. It is totally awesome, I read it every night before i go to sleep and each time, never fail, it makes me laugh. School sucked, per usual, but afterwards we got a group together of about 10 to 15 ppl to head out for a couple beers, which was also very nice because, lets be honest, we all know how i thrive on being the center of attention. As much as I wanted to stay and hang out I had to get back to my house by 630 for my special birthday dinner.
Now let me preface this part with a brief history-- so I live in a two floor apartment, and the bottom floor is basically a bunch of rooms that branch off of an open air mini-plaza. Its actually really cute and quaint. But moral of the story, all the neighbors can peek their heads through the wire fence, so to speak, to chat, theres a very communal feel to it all, not to mention that fact that basically everyone living within a block radius of my house is somehow related to the family. So in summary, theres this Japense exchange student, Satoru, living with the family thats across the plaza from us. And, lucky me, hes taken quite a liking to me (WARNING--note the sarcasm). Not to worry, hes way too awkward and horribly oriented with the Spanish language to approach me about this. Rather, he relies on his host mother-- who i believe is somehow my cousin-- to make awkward comments about how pretty I am... yeah, real uncomfortable.
So fast forward back to the birthday, so this Japanese man decided he wanted to cook me dinner, came over the night before and spent 3 hours cooking me an elaborate curry. So that was quite awkward because he brought his whole family over to stare at me while I ate it. One word--uncomfortable, but in a really hilarious way. Then some other family came over for brownie-cake my host mom made, of which i ate approx 7 pieces. it was awesome. if only i could of gotten my hands on some milk that didnt come out of a pouch. woof.
so that was the bday in a nutshell. good times.
In other news, we found out the other day that our project group will be heading to El Paraiso for Field Based Training, which means well be heading out there in a little less than 2 weeks. EL Paraiso is right on the border of Nicaragua in the south of Honduras, which means, yup, you guessed it, CRAZY HEAT AHHHHHHHH. im in no way prepared for that seeing as it gets nice and cozy here in the evenings, around 50s, which makes snuggling up with my sleeping bag the highlight of the day. Field Based Training will last for 6 weeks, well spend most of that time putting into practice all the boring theory and info that theyve been shoving down our throats for the past 2 weeks. Whoooooooooooooa! After FBT we return to Santa Lucia for a week to wrap things up, and thats when they finally tell us where were going to be living for the next 2 years, what kind of projects well be working on, etc...
So thats the update here. Im hoping ill have some more fun and interesting stories to share once i get out in the field. For now my awkward encounters have been confined to the walls of my spanish class, where we discuss such topics as How to let down (gently) the creepy Japanese man who may or may not be in love with you. Awesome.
BESOS!

One week down...

One week down, only 26 months plus 3 weeks to go...
Well im finally starting to settle into life in santa lucia, which on its own is truly no easy feat. Its difficult to describe how, but life here is WAY diff than in the states. lets see if i can think of an example-- everywhere i go, ppl stare, and its usually not the kind of stare youd want to solicit like youre looking particularly attractive that day, rather its more along the lines of i have something stuck in my teeth or i have a third limb. ive eaten more corn tortillas in a week than i have in my entire life. As a woman im STRONGLY discouraged from a) consuming alcohol in public 2) going to a place in public where alcohol is consumed and c) appearing to be have any amount of fun whilst in public (haha, only kidding... sort of).
on the bright side, my spanish is banging, which i have to admit most def caught me by surprise. today during my four hour spanish class we walked into town to visit --la casa de los abuelitos-- which is basically a safe hour for elderly ppl to go to to eat lunch and charlar, which means to chat. in true peace corps fashion, we arrived to find one elderly hanging out, don pedro, which made the whole interviewing process kind of moot, but nonetheless we learned that elders are basically IMPOSSIBLE to understand when they speak spanish, esp when they talk like their mouth is wired shut.
training for the most part of miiiiiiiiiiserable, and when i say miserable i mean to imply that its way too much time, aka 8 horas, of sitting and listening to ppl talk at you about development and what it means to be in peace corps. kill me. additionally theyve imposed all these really cute rules for trainees, eg--were pretty much not allowed to leave santa lucia without a member of our familia accompanying us, which is purely for safety reasons (tegucigalpa, the capital which is about 30 mins bus ride away, has the highest murder rate in all of honduras, whew!) but by the same token its made passing free time a bit difficult. that being said, a typical day here starts at 645 am when i wake up and scarf down breakfast before booking it to the training site, about a 10 min walk, by 730 am. were in training until 430, i go home for dinner, and by 9 pm im passed out in my sleeping bag-- SUCH a good call, GL. so at the very least im giving my liver a break.
for the most part i would say i still have a fairly favorable outlook on the future as a peace corp volunteer, but each day we get more debriefings about the safety risks and whack medical diseases floating around this country that def make you stop and think about the vastness of a 2 year committment to peace corp. all i can say is hopefully i make it through training sans malaria slash scabies. ewww
if you all are looking to send packages of swedish fish, trail mix, mini packs of crystal light or emergen-c, reeses peanut butter cups (because they dont selll those here... not cool...) or any other goodies you can feel free to, in fact i more than welcome it, but please be adivsed that the peace corps staff have told us that its best to send things in smaller padded envelopes instead of large boxes AND to send it to the Apartado Postal address. apparently theres a much better chance of me actually receiving the package if you send it there. so if you need the address again just send me an email or call mama tish and it can be relayed to you.
hope all is well with eveyrone, cuidense, and keep the comments coming, theyre always a source of amusement. paz y amor.

Arrivals

Welp never thought id actually say thing, but im sitting in an internet cafe in honduras. finally. getting here was no easy feat. a 230 wake up call brought us to the d.c. airport at around 330 where the staff of american airlines proceeding to defy the laws of logic with their incomprehensible incompetence. i cant even get into the details of their stupidity, but lets just leave it at many ppl in the group were stranding waiting inthe check out line for approx 1.5 hours and had to run to make the 7 am flight. to make matters worse, our flight was delayed over an hour in miami becuase, apparently, american airlines has some secret personal vendeta against me. we finally arrived in teguc around 330, drove to santa lucia, a tiny hamlet town inthe mountains surrounding the city about a 30 mins drive away, where we met our host families and went back to their homes for dinner, decanza (rest), shower and bed. i was mmost def conked out by 830.
this morning i awoke at a casual 645 am to make it to training at 730, which lasted for EIGHT HOURS. during that time i had the pleasure to acquire a handful of knowledge about things i never thought id be an expert in, like dengue fiver (there are four strands and in severe case you CAN die from internal bleeding, fyi)
my host family is rockin. i live with maribel and her husband, cristobal. they are prob in their mid 60s and have been hosting peace corp volunteers for almost 20 years. they ahve a son, tito, whose married and has a 2 year old named adrianna (who, it pretty much can go without saying, is obsessed with me). tito his wife and daughter all live with us so its a full house.
theres so much more to say but a) im pooped and 2) i dont know how much this costs per min so im gonna try to cut my losses before im forced to walk out on a bill and start to make some real enemies in this town of approx 200
paz y amor.peace and love. more TK...