According to Honduran folklore, during the 1500’s a massive Indian chief (cacique) from the Lenca tribe in the west of the country reigned supreme; his name was Lempira - “señor de la sierra”. Like most Indians, Lempira was the color of the earth, brown and red, with black hair that whipped in the air behind him whenever he deftly ran through the mountains. His body was like that of a panther - sleek yet strong, ever vigilant and ready to pounce in order to defend his territory. For the majority of his short life Lempira’s tribe defended their part of the land, El Cerique, against other indigenous groups in the area, until one fateful day… The Spanish had established themselves in Honduras with hardly a qualm when Governor Adelantado Montejo, in Comayagua, decided it was time to expand Christianity into the west of the country, to the remaining savages, so their souls could be saved by the ubiquitous, true, and righteous God – theirs. I assume it would also be easier to confiscate property under celestial pretenses, particularly if the heathens were easy to convert, as simple minded as they were thought to be. Not one for soiling his fine clothes, the governor sent word of this “cleansing” through a party composed of his loyalists and led by Captain Alonzo Casares. The team set off for the long journey on horseback towards the green, rugged and lush terrain of the west - long before deforestation would claim the mountains. Naturally, Lempira’s tribe scoffed at the requests of Captain Casares and swore to defend their land and freedom from the imperialists. While the Spaniards swiftly returned to the old capital and their governor, Lempira’s tribe united together with the other tribes in the area – the department now called Lempira - and made peace in order to show solidarity in the face of their conquistadores. They knew the governor would not be pleased with their adamant defiance of his new law and would soon be back to fight. The Indians would be ready and waiting - 30 thousand strong. War ensued and lasted for six months. The adept Indians could not be defeated on their own land; a land that nurtured them, fed them, sheltered them, and clothed them; a land that was their mother; and in order to defend her honor they fought hard - without the luxury of guns, cannons, and ammunition - and were invincible. On the other hand, the Spaniards succumbed to disease, exhaustion, and to simply not being skilled at mountainous warfare. Blatantly out of place wearing silly curved hats, hirsute faces, colorful garments, and pale skin they did not camouflage into the environment as the Indians perfectly did – after all, isn’t adaptation to one’s natural surroundings, especially in the face of adversity, a biological defense displayed in most animals: from the quaint artic fox to the mercurial chameleon? On July 20th, one such victorious afternoon, Lempira and his soldiers celebrated by performing religious ceremonies on top of a large rock that tore out of the mountain. Two Spaniards waving a white flag approached on horseback. “Venimos en paz”, they claimed. Without leaving the security of their beast, they urged Lempira and his followers to convert to Catholicism. They solemnly explained that if the answer remained negative then they would have no choice but to continue the fighting. Obstinately, Lempira reminded the gentlemen that his religion, and that of his people, was of equal importance to them as Catholicism to the Spaniards. Therefore, his refutation of their proposal would remain. Suddenly, one of the Spaniards pulled a pistol from a holster hidden out of view and shot Lempira in the chest. The cowards galloped away to their governor who would claim victory in the name of God and Spain. Lempira quickly died and with his blood ran the ideals he fought for - ideals that were laid to rest and apparently forgotten – for his once faithful followers, out of fear, confusion, and complacence, fled the scene of his murder, thus betraying him not by the action of fleeing, rather by the lack of action to fight for what they believed in. The rest is history. * * * Fast forward to present time. Lempira is now exalted as a hero. The national currency, the Lempira (18.50 L = $1.00), bears his name as does the western area of Honduras – the department of Lempira - adjacent to the department I live in, Copán. And every July 20th is a national holiday commemorating his struggle to remain independent of foreign rulers. The biggest celebration occurs in the town of Gracias, Lempira which also culminates the town’s annual festival. Unfortunately, due to work I was unable to travel to Gracias, thus leaving me to celebrate El Día de Lempira with my community in Corquín. Try, if you may, to take the melancholic events mentioned above, turn them into a socio drama, and place it at the mercy of 4th, 5th, and 6th grade boys. Now bear witness: As is the norm, the day’s events unfolded with a prayer followed by the very long himno nacional. A national anthem so time consuming, in fact, that it had to be officially shortened to five stanzas, yet still remains unusually lengthy. Afterwards the 5th graders sang homage to Lempira and the entire school sang along. I’ve noticed in the past that I often hear singing coming from classrooms and now I understand why; Hondurans are quite fond of giving tribute in the form of song. My personal explanation for this is that the often reserved and shy Honduran never volunteers to give a speech, recite a poem, or sing solo in front of others so the only way to attain any desired public speaking is in unison through song. I have trouble in my classes when I ask students to read what I have written on the board from the comfort of their own desks, which leaves me with the same children always participating to read out loud and more often that not it is the males that are willing to volunteer. Though I will quickly mention that I do have one sixth grade class in which virtually every student is eager to read out loud and participate in all activities. My flesh tingles when I request a volunteer and see every hand raised high in anticipation, not just the usual ones. Speaking of the usual ones, the singing was followed by the national dances of Honduras, performed by the usual active and intelligent children whom I have come to expect much from. There were six couples in order from youngest (and shortest) to oldest (and tallest). The girls all wore white cotton dresses with enormous skirts that had to be controlled by their hands for fear that they would move to a rhythm all their own. Their hair was tightly pulled back into a long braid and adorned with one red rose. Each wore several colorful plastic beaded necklaces and, along with a simple green, red, and yellow pattern embroidered on their dresses, was all the color they displayed. The boys wore loose white cotton pants and long sleeved cotton shirts, straw sombreros, and a red scarf around their necks. All wore black sandals. For fifteen minutes they smiled, twirled, hoisted up skirts, threw down sombreros, interlocked arms, and moved their feet to the same rhythm and flow. The dances were performed meticulously and received a loud applause from the audience. At last it was time for the play about Lempira. Every single one of the actors was a 4th – 6th grade boy, about forty of them. Those playing Indians were barefoot, wore shorts covered in brown cloth, had paint on their chests and faces, feathers in their hair, and had make-shift bows and arrows (thank God the “arrow” tips were blunt or people would have been seriously injured). Those playing Spaniards wore blue jeans and long sleeved white shirts, curved black hats made out of cardboard, and beards and mustaches painted on their faces. For the following thirty minutes they acted out the events mentioned previously, complete with the shooting of arrows and cannons (using powerful fireworks in the middle of the crowd which I was amazed didn’t harm anyone) and hauling the dead and wounded away from the fighting. I can’t imagine how much fun the boys must have had. Every boy plays cops and robbers, or Indians and Gringos, during their childhood and these boys took it one step further: complete with costumes and almost lifelike weaponry. During the entire show they whooped and hollered, ran and jumped, laughed and yelled, and emitted so much energy they could have probably lit up the school, if the school had bulbs to be lit. After the invigorating performance, a 5th grade and 6th grade team of girls faced off in a semi-final basketball competition. The 5th graders wore white shirts and blue jean shorts and the 6th graders wore light blue shirts and blue jean shorts, which just seems uncomfortable to play sports in. For the first, oh, 2 minutes of the game things seemed calm, almost “normal”, until Honduran “normal” took over. Can I properly convey the madness that ensued for the remainder of the girl’s basketball game? Probably not, but I will try. As the girls played their game, a serious one for them, children were running all over the place. They ran through the halls, up the stairs, on the court, outside the school’s gates to buy junk food, then back inside, then across the street to the other school, then back inside. The boys, some still in their costumes, were chasing others with their bows and arrows; children were playing tag; boys were chasing girls; girls were chasing boys (separate from the game of tag); girls were randomly dancing, although I heard no music; people were being chased and poked with sticks and toy guns. I saw kids wrestling; children playing on the same court that the game was being held on; kids were falling down and getting up and running into the basketball players; everyone was chewing or sucking on candy, chips, or soda and I heard the word “Anita!” whiz by me every couple of minutes. The entire time I sat on a bench accompanied by two sweet girls and one shy boy who gave me candy and seemed plenty satisfied sitting still with me, and we watched the chaos before our eyes. To them the chaos was normal and controlled; to me it was exhilarating and hilarious and when I left that afternoon I returned to my house with a sense of satisfaction I’d never felt before. This is life. I just returned from a charla I was asked to give to a group of 150 elementary children in San Pedro de Copan, a nearby town, and the need to relate my experience is urgent due to the surreal and dream-like quality of it. After months of planning and postponing this presentation today it finally happened. Previously, I had been told by Marina, a nurse at the health center in Corquin, that I would be doing her a great favor by giving a speech about adolescence to her son’s 4th grade class. When I met her at the health center to ride the 2:00 bus to San Pedro de Copan she greeted me with a kiss on the cheek and then the ominous phrase, “Fijase que…” Now what, I wondered. Apparently the school teachers decided it would be wise, or easier for them, to take advantage of having a visitor give a presentation about adolescence to all the children in the school and not just the one 4th grade class I was aware of. “Mas o menos, cuantos serán?” She did not know but assured me it couldn’t be too many, seeing as how the afternoon classes were only 4th – 6th graders. I sensed otherwise but remained quiet. Once we arrived at the school the kids were in recess and we were given a snack. I repeated my inquiry as to how many students would be attending the charla and was not so surprised to hear “cientocincuenta” (150). This would be my largest audience to date, and a rambunctious one, full of energy after having stuffed their faces full of chips, sodas, and lollipops during recess. Appropriately enough, my presentation for them was about the importance of exercise and nutrition during adolescence. I was introduced to the children as a psychologist from Texas. Try as I may to explain that studying psychology as an undergraduate does not a psychologist make me is irrelevant and futile. I am constantly called “Psicologa and Doctora” and although I admit that I love the way it sounds I do feel guilty every time because I don’t deserve the title. The presentation went as well as I had expected: at first everyone was quiet, listened intently, and took notes. About fifteen minutes into my speech I started to hear the wave of restlessness coming closer, about to crash. I had an activity planned for closing the session which I knew would have them jumping out of their seats; it was hot potato, and whoever held the hot potato when I finished clapping would have to come up to the front of the room and stick the drawing of a type of food under the appropriate heading – protein, carbohydrate, or vitamins and minerals. Sure enough the children, all 150 of them, went wild. By the end of my presentation I was literally yelling, but not in anger, in order to get my point across: “Y QUÉ TIENE EL POLLO QUE NOS AYUDA A CRECER???” When I had finished the presentation one of the teacher’s thanked me, then had the children give me a round of applause, then had one of the students come up and thank me, then give me another round of applause, and just as I thought I was home free a small group cornered me and asked me for my autograph…my autograph. I have no idea whom they thought I was, or if my silly yet exotic nature attracted them, or if they have that typical misconception that all North Americans are rich and famous, but all I can say for sure is that I spent five straight minutes signing my name on a countless amount of notebook paper. Eventually I had to turn down students because I didn’t want to miss the bus and, most importantly, because I felt so weird, so fake, like I was in a dream. The experience, rather than stroke my ego, has humbled me. What a peculiar world we live in.

My fickle nature is right on track with the dedication I’ve shown to this blog. It’s just like me to join the blog bandwagon and then stumble out and get lost on the road. Why is it that the only thing I do consistently is be inconsistent? I shall now attempt to summarize all the activities I’ve been involved in for the past several months lest my readers think that Peace Corps is all play and no work.

Since my return from Spring break in Panama and Costa Rica I’ve been busy with several projects. Perhaps one of my proudest accomplishments thus far has been the dedication I’ve shown to improve myself. Being a Volunteer in a developing country entails a tremendous amount of leisure time. And depending on how the leisure is spent, it can be a wonderful stress free and guilt free time. I have spent my extra time reading my heart out, working on crossword puzzles, improving my vocabulary, learning to cook, paseando with my neighbors (which means sitting around gossiping and stuffing our faces, and, incidentally, is part of my job as a Volunteer so I am working) and, most recently, getting into shape and contemplating my post Peace Corps life. As far as the former is concerned, my physique is slowly being toned, becoming taut, and flowing with energy due to a combination of Yoga, Pilates, light muscle building using bottles of water instead of dumbbells, and running in the mornings. Yes; running! I hope those of you who know me best are reading this with your mouths just slightly dropped open in disbelief. I wake up at 5:30 am every Monday through Friday, walk up the hill to Suyapa’s house, and we traverse a dirt road that leads through the base of the mountains laden with coffee plants, over a river, up to a soccer field full of chickens looking for insects in the dewy grass. There we run for twenty minutes and walk back home for coffee and breakfast. People often slow down their trucks or their gaits - both on foot or horse - to stare at the crazy women running in circles with nothing chasing them…

No one has called me gordita in the past couple of months so I think the exercise is working. Although being called gordita here is a compliment meaning one has a full figured body, perfect for child bearing, nurturing, and cuddling, like women are supposed to have. Just last weekend Kate and I had some female guests over from Potrerillos - a small village in one of the mountains surrounding Corquin- and over coffee and vanilla bread we were flipping through People Magazines in both Spanish and English. Brenda, a 19 year old with a fantastic muscular and svelte body due to daily manual labor, came upon a Hanes underwear ad featuring a female Hispanic plus-size model. She adoringly looked at the model and said “que chulo su cuerpo”, which means “what a nice body”. Unfortunately, my experience in The States does not comply with the conventional wisdom in Central America, thus I was left feeling sorry for myself every time I was called gordita which eventually led me to take up running in circles from ghosts and foregoing tortillas with every meal.

By the way, with all the spare time on hand I’ve also started flossing. Which is even more disbelieving than the running.

In other news: Next week my site mate, Kate, finishes her 2 year service and flies back to Massachusetts in the United States of America. When she is gone I expect my experience here to change drastically. No longer will I have someone to vent my Honduran frustrations with, nor to speak English with, nor to share meals with, nor to drink wine and rum with. Of course I’ll be able to eat with my Honduran neighbors that treat me so well but their food is usually full of grease and I prefer to cook for myself. Not only is it healthier, but it gives me something to do. I’ve been mentally preparing for the change and I feel that I’m ready for it, but I won’t feel the real difference until she’s gone. Kate and I have become like sisters over the past year, caring for each other in good times and bad, and it will be another of those Peace Corps challenges learning to adapt without having her around. I will miss being myself around her because I have to act conservative and positive around the rest of my community. No more daily bowel movement conversations, sarcasm, or hanging out watching DVD’s together. Such is life.

Ahhhhhhhhh (stretching). Another “3rd world” amenity that I love is the siesta, which I just woke up from. It is Sunday (Super Bolo!), after all, but tomorrow I will take another one after lunch, a habit I’m becoming accustomed to on most days. Unfortunately, my siestas will be interrupted by actual work this week but will resume on the weekend. Tomorrow I will walk about a mile to the nearest and only internet café in Corquin. There I will post this blog and send out a translation about medicinal herbs for people living with HIV (PLWH) to my project manager in order for him to edit it before including it in our support group manual for PLWH. The manual is something I have been working on with two other Volunteers over the past five months. I’ve spent hundreds of hours on it and am excited to see that it’s finally coming to fruition. In fact, upon my return to Honduras from my visit to Texas in late August I will be participating in a three day workshop promoting the manual. Basically, the manual is a guide to facilitating support/self-help groups for PLWH. It is broken down into many sessions and each session targets an issue specific to people with HIV/AIDS. Our hope is that by the end of the group meetings the individuals will have developed a better understanding of how to cope with the virus as well as achieved a sense of higher self esteem and well being. Similar to the outcomes sought from most support groups regardless of the problem. “And so on”…

This Tuesday I teach my beloved sex education classes to 120 5th graders – we will be reviewing the external and internal genitalia of both sexes by means of a game called “pin the organs on the bodies”- and on Wednesday I teach the 6th graders the importance of good communication. On Thursday I will travel to San Pedro de Copan – the nearest town 7 kilometers away – with Marina, a nurse from the health center here in Corquin. In San Pedro I will talk about adolescence to a room full of 10 year olds. I will tell them that their bodies, if not already, will begin to change and with these physical changes come tormented mental changes as well. I will leave the word “tormented” out as to not spook them by my cynical ways. Afterwards I will come back to Corquin and trek over to Suyapa’s house for a delicious despedida dinner for Kate. On Friday morning Kate, Byron, and I will hitch hike over to Potrerillos for a despedida lunch for Kate with the library committee she helped start and various other friends and “family”. The weekend will probably consist of our own private farewell and on Monday she will be gone and my Peace Corps experience shall change once again. And to quote Kurt Vonnegut, once again, and may he rest in peace, “And so on”.

Three months ago, as I lounged beachside in Trujillo imbibing a cold beer to commemorate one year spent in Honduras, Sarah and Ryan (sounds like a boy, spelled like a boy, but, nonetheless, female) excitedly chatted across from me about their plans for Easter break. I overheard them mention Costa Rica and Panama and inquired for more information. They were quick to ask me to rove along and I was quick to acquiesce.

My original plans were to go north to the Lone Star state but the image of dipping into the warm Caribbean waters seemed idyllic and more interesting than the banal Easter I’d spend at home. A vacation to the tropics appeared to be the perfect antidote to the weirdness that was rising in me, a slow and steady cadence, like the pace the tortoise used when he beat the hare. Therefore, I had no qualms with taking the eighteen hour bus trip to San Jose, Costa Rica.

The long drive through Nicaragua to Costa Rica is unworthy of commentary due to scenery, landscape, and people similar to that in Honduras, and, also, because there is only so much one can do on a bus other than sleep, eat, and daydream. We arrived, haggard and in need of back massages (which I still have not received; only $7.00 if anyone wants to donate to the “save Ana’s spine with one hour of deserved bliss for living in a country where commuting is done by school buses on vertiginous and often bumpy roads for hours at a time” foundation), to San Jose at midnight. We were quickly whisked away from crack head central, downtown, to La Heredia, Santo Domingo; the affluent suburb in Costa Rica’s capital. Once in the safe haven that is Adita and Miguel’s piquant Colombian influenced house we played the part of polite interlocutors for several minutes and then passed out as though we’d been engaging in wild debauchery for the past eighteen hours instead of merely fidgeting around on a bus.

Waking up to Costa Rica was like waking up to OZ after being in Kansas for so long. There is a blatant difference between the country I embarked from and the country I woke up in, even though they’re both developing and in Central America. The first thing I noticed, or noticed the lack thereof, was the trash. The sides of the streets were not the colorful array of messiness that they are in Honduras. I didn’t see anyone chunk Styrofoam plates out of bus windows and, by God, there were trash receptacles on street corners! And although we did receive several stares, being strikingly good looking, not one cat call was yelled. This was the best part of the entire vacation! We were able to roam around, block after block, without being verbally molested. Another shock was seeing people exercising on the streets, cycling and jogging. Hondurans do not jog unless they are being chased and cycling is their mode of transportation, not a hobby. At first we thought it must just be a freak coincidence, the cleanliness and politeness coinciding with Easter week, but, alas, the trend continued the week afterwards as well!

Costa Rica seems to be the paradigm of how the rest of the Central American countries should become (although there is still a large U.S influence there, as in virtually all Central American countries, which sadly means a decadence of culture and pride). How will this be achieved? With better education and a women’s rights movement. I’m doing my part now by educating women and children about sexuality and their responsibility and respect towards it and their own bodies. But it will take much more work and patience, and less influence from the Empire, specifically with such agendas such as CAFTA, which idealistically sound good but truly do take away a means of living for the poor just to erect a tacky and unhealthy Burger King in place of a meager baleada and empanada stand. I’ve heard from several Hondurans that eating in places like BKs, Popeyes, and Wendys is a sign of wealth, which is obvious in the grandiosity of these establishments in Central America and the plethora of expensive cars in the parking lot. What kind of brain washing is going on? Am I correct in my thinking that in the States eating dinner at McDonalds is a sign of poverty, laziness, and obesity, with just a splash of convenience?

Regardless of politics, our time spent in Costa Rica and Panama was fantastic. Most of it was spent lying on the silky white sand beaches of the Caribbean and floating in water so crystal clear you can see the sharks a mile away before they actually attack. We managed to visit one national park while in Costa Rica, Volcan Poas, but our sight of the volcano was blurred by the clouds and mist that decided to form that very morning. Still, the hike up was pleasant, the dewy and bright green vegetation beautiful and undeforested mountains a sight to behold and appreciate; albeit the reason for the trip was not to exert energy by hiking but rather to gain weight via beach hopping. Mission accomplished (unlike another mission…)!

We began in Guacimo, Costa Rica at Adita and Miguel’s charming tilapia farm. There we napped in humongous Colombian hammocks, took a dip in their clean pool, and ate a generous serving of golden fried tilapia, just fished from the ponds, with a side of patacones (slivers of plantains smashed into the size of coasters, slightly fried, and sprinkled with salt). We were then ushered by the delightful couple to a sleepy beach town called Cahuitas, where I ate the spiciest coconut shrimp curry this side of India. Afterwards we were taken to nearby Puerto Viejo, where we separated from the thoughtful Alvarez pair and were left to fend for ourselves. That night we strolled throughout the friendly old port town and ended up at a beachfront disco where we drank Cerveza Pilsen, listened to Reggae, and watched the dark, Amazonian, stunning locals dance the night away. The next day we walked till we found the perfect beach spot, isolated and shady. For dinner we ate a mixed plate of remarkably tasty sushi and then hit a local bar for happy hour. The following morning we took a bus to Sixaola, on the border of Panama. After having our passports stamped we were driven to Changuinola, a little town in which we boarded a small motor powered boat and sailed across the ocean to the island of Boca’s Del Toro. We could not help the feelings of giddiness that overtook us as we sped through the choppy waters and saw the gorgeous islands in the distance. We sensed that good times were in the immediate future.

During our three nights in Boca’s we slept in a humble hostel, Mondo Taitu, where we met many interesting travelers, most being wacky European backpackers who roam for months or years consecutively and float from hostel to hostel while working menial jobs to keep them from starving or doing volunteer work (like saving baby sea turtles) to keep them energized. I loved the amalgam of personalities, languages, and accents surrounding me, made even better with the tranquil atmosphere that marinates the Caribbean coast and the Reggae sounds that linger along. It’s virtually impossible to feel stressed. The most stressful issue is deciding which beach to soak in and which restaurant to eat at. We chose playa Rana Roja and playa Bluff, excellent choices, and ate a variety of food. Instead of settling for the plato tipico that we are all to familiar with we decided to splurge and ate mix seafood ceviches, bruschetta, hummus, risotto (with a bottle of Chilean cabernet), garlic and basil spaghetti, and even a spicy Indian breakfast consisting of eggs cooked in Indian spices, topped with lettuce and tomatoes, and rolled in a huge slice of Nan. At one of the food establishments we dined at I discovered the tastiest hot sauce: D’Elidas, Autentica Sazon Panamena, made with Habanero peppers. Delicious! Incidentally loyal reader, if you love me (and you do, YOU DO), you’ll write to them at delidas@cwpanama.net and order me a bottle because I’m almost out. At night, after happy hour, we would go dancing with the locals and foreigners at a popular disco featuring a sunken boat towards the back in the middle of a deck. Some of the aforementioned crazy Europeans would eventually jump in, unable to resist the aqua freshness after sweating away all their beer while dancing.

Needless to say, the trip was the perfect remedy for my creeping feelings of sadness and now that I’m back in Honduras I feel vigorous and excited to start working again. Let us hope I make it through my one year medical exam sin problemas…

Villa Verde is a small bilingual school, sans electricity, tucked into the forest of Mount Celaque, right off the beaten path used by backpackers and campesinos, hiking their way up to the peak of the pristine cloud forest. The mountain and school are part of a village, also called Villa Verde, that forms part of the colonial city of Gracias in the department of Lempira. Gracias is one of the many hidden treasures in Honduras that are often overlooked by most tourists whose only knowledge of this country are it's Carribean coast and the Bay Islands, where many people conveniently speak english, dollars can be used, and the abject poverty is more obscure.

In Gracias you have your modern conveniences, such as high speed internet, KOB's ice cream, some air conditioned restaurants, and Hotel El Capitan, which offers good food and cold beer while you lounge poolside or take a dip. But Gracias also has to boast it's traditional charm, such as the amazing nautral hot springs nestled in the middle of the woods, perfect for relaxing your mind and muscles and gorgeous on a cloudless night. There's also Fort San Cristobal, elevated enough that it overlooks most of Gracias as well as Mount Celaque. And if you look close enough at just the right spot you can see a waterfall high up in the forest. And if you walk down from the fort, back towards the city, 3 blocks south onto the cobblestoned main street, take a right past the chinese restaurant, you will encounter a quaint house with its doors wide open and if you walk inside you will be faced with a dizzying amount of jars of veggie and fruit encurtido, or pickled, and if you walk towards the back, behind the rows and stacks of jars, you will find three large freezers and if you lift open their doors you will discover 30 or more flavors of homemade popsicles. I recommend the guava, strawberry, peanuts with milk, and tutti frutti. For five lempiras each (about a quarter) you, too, can have your own smidgen of heaven.

It is this very popsicle and preservatives shoppe that we (Kate, Ryan, and I) chose as our reward for trekking down the mountain from Villa Verde while we were there for a week as guest teachers giving various health presentations to each of the classes, pre-kinder through 6th grade. Villa Verde isn't the typical Honduran school. It's at the base of a famous mountain, instead of 35+ kids per class there are about 15, they cultivate vegetables on campus, the developer of the school is a Dutch lady named Frony, and the students learn english and spanish from national and foreign teachers, which enables them to become accustomed to seeing different faces, skin colors, and learning more about the cultures in the World. My hope is that when these kids see a gringo, or any other foreigner, in the street or on the bus they won't blatantly stare like most Hondurans do. Fortunately for me, due to the genes i received from my latina mama, I don't suffer this habit as do most other Peace Corps volunteers. I've seen people make a 180 degree turn on the bus just to stare at Kate, for the entire trip. She's often asked people "tengo monos en la cara?", which sometimes helps but usually doesn't.

With me Hondurans aren't sure what to think. I love the confused look they give when I speak english. In Corquin I've been called Doctora so often that I've stopped correcting people; they think I'm one of the 200 or so Cuban docotors in Honduras doing their two year social service. Often, just this very weekend by two different taxi drivers in fact, people think I'm Spanish. That always makes me laugh because they confuse me for someone from Spain due to my lifelong speech impediment. What is the spanish translation for lisp, and does it also have an S in it?

During the week we spent at Villa Verde we taught classes about nutrition, hygiene, the importance of exercise and stretching, self esteem, values, STI's and HIV, and drug abuse. The presentations were very interactive and colorful, tailored specifically for a young audience. The students were generally excited to have us there and responsive during the classes. The prekinder and kindergardeners were extremely hyper and the three of us had to be in the room in order to calm them down, which never worked anyway. I really have no patience for young children. I do not find them cute or funny. I find them annoying and repulsive, rolling around on the dirty floors and sticking everything and anything into their mouths with their dirty hands. For those of my readers who are mothers I implore you, how did/do you handle it? Will my perspective change once I have my own gross and crazy offspring? I don't mind them before they can verbalize and after they're seven but what am I to do those 5 and a half years in between? Does anyone remember when I worked at a daycare center in Austin for a summer? Every afternoon I felt that I needed a drink just to unwind. I eventually and inevitably lost my mind and quit that job one sunny afternoon by yelling at all terrible children and my boss and then storming out the front door and slamming it behind me. I'm sure I celebrated that night...

Either way, the weeklong youth health workshop was a success and I had a good time. I even spent a couple of nights with two of the teachers, Marta and Omar, who live right across the street from the school. It was an interesting two nights because as soon as the sun set everything was done by candlelight. We cooked lentil soup, drank Ron Plata, and used the toilet with the romantic glow of fire.

I want to wish everyone a happy Easter and safe travels. I will be making my way down to Panama the next couple of weeks. Wish me luck!

The large and lush property where Kate and I live is supposedly being sold (supposedly because Hondurans are more capricious than I am) to Don Saul, an ex judge of Corquin who will, supposedly, be moving in with his new, pregnant, nineteen year old wife. Before they confiscate our beloved place, he has to rebuild part of a wall in our backyard made out of hefty rocks that collapsed a few months ago so that the bank will approve the loan that he’s asking for. Yesterday that endeavor began and this morning it ensued. My reason for this banal introduction is as a precursor to the following: as Kate, Byron (Kate’s Honduran boyfriend), and I were sitting around the table drinking coffee and eating carrot bread I noticed that Don Saul was standing back, arms crossed, while watching his two workers mix water and dirt to make mud to use as an adhesive for the rocks. I asked Byron “? Por que solo esta parado allí mirando y no ayuda?” (Why is he just standing there, not helping?) To me, it seemed like a waste of time; if he didn’t want to work he could have left, he’s the boss. To which Byron replied, “ Es que si el se va ellos dejaran de trabajar o trabajaran mas despacio”. (If he leaves they’ll work slower or stop working). Lo and behold, a few minutes later Don Saul bid us a farewell and went on his way. Literally one minute later one of the workers came down and told us he’d be right back and hastily left. At that moment Byron made a prediction, “Va ir a comprar guaro”. The trabajador (worker) wasted absolutely no time in taking advantage of the lack of vigilance and came back bearing a bottle of guaro at nine in the morning. Guaro is a form of aguardiente, or moonshine, made from sugar cane, none discriminately enjoyed by alcoholics for its strong alcohol content and comfortable price. It seems that letting one’s guard down when The Man isn’t hovering about is a universal trait, at least a western hemispheric one. Perhaps an innate quality we are born with, thus, should never feel guilty about. Ultimately, and inebriated, the workers labored on and the wall is almost completed. It is now lunch time and they have left to eat and, probably, to drink their wages away at one of the local cantinas. Work hard and play hard…

In more optimistic missive, earlier this week I went to Portrerillos, an “aldea” of Corquin, with the maternal clinic in order to service women and children who often have difficulties coming down the mountain to see a doctor due to house work, picking coffee (‘tis coffee season), or are just too sick and tired to bother. I accompanied Gladys, a nurse born and raised in Portrerillos, and Dr. Jackie, an Iowan that has lived in Honduras for the past 15 years. We set up at the local elementary school and soon realized that none of the villagers were aware of our presence; therefore, Gladys and I took it upon ourselves to walk house to house to inform the community of our medical purpose. Unlike the paranoid U.S, every single house we went to had their doors wide open so all we would do was yell “Buenas!” and walk in. We rarely encountered any men around, as they were probably out in the farms, and the women were always quick to offer us something to eat or drink. It’s a good thing for my figure that I don’t visit Portrerillos with much frequency or I would become a bloated balloon by the end of my service. It’s difficult to tell people that you don’t want anything they’re offering because they’ll feel badly, like you’re “despreciando” their food and hospitality. It is easier for me in my site, Corquin, because I know the community better and they know my habits better and they know that when I refuse to eat or drink something it’s not because I’m ungrateful, rather because I’ve already eaten or will probably eat soon. Needless to say, in Portrerillos that day I overate: a sweet corn tamale, two corn tortillas with red beans, pitos (a long, bright red seed that grows on trees that induces sleep due to its opium effect, although I’ve not once felt anything from eating them; just another of many Honduran “creencias”, myths) a chunk of soft, milky cheese called quajada, a boiled potato, two slices of ham fried in butter, hot chocolate, and a banana flavored soft drink. Eventually, Gladys and I had to refuse the generous nature of the Honduran peasants, which led to us having to take things to eat later. I came down from the mountain that day with a pound of quajada, a pound of requeson (which is similar to ricotta cheese), a pound of freshly ground coffee, and more pitos. I was offered spaghetti but simply had to refuse, pointing to my swollen belly. This action of selflessly giving to others is such a reoccurrence everywhere in this country that it has become a custom. What is it that evokes this giving nature in poor people; karma perhaps?

So there’s this group of about five young children, mostly boys, who always come to sit outside my front door. They’re content to just sit there and watch me as I read, clean, or type away on my computer. Sometimes I invite them in but usually they just hang out on my front stoop. Having studied psychology I realize that I have manipulated a behavioral change in them. Observe: these children used to come by a few times a week usually due to curiosity; “What are the gringas doing right now? Let’s go find out”. Whenever they came by Kate and I were intrigued at how entertained they were simply sitting and observing us. They must be bored, we’d fathom. In reality we are like the exotic polar bears in the zoo, well not quite so dangerous, more like the outgoing dolphins everyone knows and loves but rarely gets to encounter. Hence, we experience what is known as the “fishbowl effect” virtually everywhere we go. People will stop mid-stride, or mid-conversation, and blatantly stare as we pass by. Or, if our front doors are open, and they usually are, people, mostly children, will do the same thing. Here’s where the psychology comes into play. Apparently we have been rewarding this behavior with the children by giving them treats every single time they drop by to stare. At first I didn’t realize this, thinking we were giving them treats because we felt awful about how bored they must be that they have to come sit in front of our doors to overcome the unbearable monotony of being young children. Then it hit me. Since Kate and I also experience a rather large amount of boredom due to the monotony of being PCVs we tend to bake, a lot, and often we receive packages full of goodies that the both of us can’t consume due to health issues (obesity) so we are constantly giving away food, usually sweets. Sweets like brownies, fudge, chocolate covered banana chips, and banana bread that are not common eats around these parts.

Incidentally, the children now come by daily, and it’s very rare the occasion that we don’t have something lying around to reward them with for remembering to come by to stare at the wild gringas. Frankly, at first it was annoying but now we use this to our advantage. Sometimes Kate and I are feeling so lazy (or in the middle of a Grey’s Anatomy marathon) that the idea of stepping outside to walk a block to the nearest pulperia (corner store) to buy eggs, sugar, or a Tigo cell phone card sounds unbearable so we’ll leave the door open and, inevitably, the children will come by. Then, not with the slightest feeling of guilt, we will send them to run errands for us and upon their return we’ve got a handful of chocolate malt balls waiting for them. Life is good!

A month ago I received an email from a youth development volunteer living close by asking if I’d like to help translate for a medical brigade that was coming to her town soon. Seeing as how I’d been so bored lately due to lack of work that I’d actually started cooking, I jumped at the chance. A whole week of work! I found out that there would be several other volunteers translating as well and that we would all gather at Connie’s house the night before the brigade to eat Indian food. Due to anticipation and boredom I made low-fat fudge and sugar cookies (I honestly have been learning to cook, my lasagna rocks!) which never made it to Connie’s because a couple of friends came to visit me the night before I was to leave and ate every last piece.

Ok, brigade time. By the way, the Indian food was great but I wasn’t aware I was going to have to pay for it. I think that if you “invite” people over for dinner then payment should not be rendered. If you surrender over money when you weren’t expecting to you weren’t invited, you were lied to! Cheap PCVs… Granted, there were about 20 people eating dinner, but still, a little warning perhaps! I agreed to wash dishes BEFORE I knew I would be paying for my plate…stupid, stupid…

The medical brigade, or more appropriately, mission, was a Presbyterian team of doctors, nurses, pharmacists, and dentists. Most were from Arkansas but Texas, Louisiana, and North Carolina were also represented. I even met several who’ve heard of the Rio Grande Valley! I’m still shocked whenever I meet someone who knows that the Valley exists. There were about twenty of them and four of us. Two other peace corps volunteers (PCVs) and one bilingual teacher. As soon as we entered the Mennonite church, where we’d all gather for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the entire week, everyone was very excited to have us on board. One of the doctors in charge, Doctor John, immediately let the rest of the group know who we were and that we’d be the most important people there, bridging the communication gap between patient and healer. Great, no pressure! Out of their group, only two were bilingual; both of Mexican ancestry, and both from Texas. Tommy, a dentist, and Gabe, a doctor with some medical specialty I can’t remember.

As luck would have it, I ended up translating for Jeff Marrotte, an urologist, a doctor which specializes in all things urinary. At times I would switch off between him and his brother Justin, a dermatologist, the study of all freakish skin issues. I never imagined that in my life I would have to ask grown men to please pull your pants down, bend over slightly, rest your elbows on the table, and spread your legs so the doctor can stick his finger in your anus in order to feel your prostate. And, don’t worry; I’ll hold this sheet up for privacy so that the ten other people in this classroom can’t see. A couple of times I had to coax them into this procedure by telling them that God sent these foreign doctors here in order to help, therefore having a rectal exam performed was by no means immoral. The majority of Hondurans live in poverty so they’re not accustomed to routine medical check ups. They seek medical attention whenever they’re in grave physical pain, or whenever free foreign medical brigades are in town. Each day the medical team saw about 250 patients and the most common complaints were “gastritis, bone pain, and headaches”. Towards the end of the week, after so many repetitive symptoms, both Dr. Jeff and Dr. Justin felt comfortable with me prognosing the patients. For example, bone pain, dolor en los huesos, is just a simple way to explain arthritis.

Yes, of course you have bone pain in your hands and wrists, Dona Josefina. You’ve been hand washing pounds of clothes every day of your life since you were ten. Not to mention the thousands of tortillas you’ve banged out over time. Oh, you’re back hurts Don Armando… It could be due to the fact that you’ve spent half of your life bent over with a hoe preparing the earth for cultivation. Don’t worry folks; you don’t have a rare disease or fatal illness. What you suffer from is nonstop hard labor with no rest in between. What’s that Dr. Jeff? You want me to tell Dona Josefina to rest her hands for a couple of weeks? But, you see Jeff, if she does that then the clothes doesn’t get washed and the food isn’t prepared and her family suffers. She has no choice. What can we do? Other than start a revolution, let’s just give them something for the pain and move on.

Due to the fact that I was translating for an urologist I was able to see some interesting patients. One mother brought in her eight year old son because she wasn’t sure if he had his right testicle or not. She’d heard conflicting views from a couple of Honduran doctors so she figured that the All Mighty Gringo doctors would have the right answer. Turns out they did! What confused the other doctors is that it appeared her son had a right testicle because instead he had a hernia where the testes should have been. The testes itself was in his body but by his belly button for it hadn’t fully descended. Apparently, when males are in the womb, their testicles start to develop close to the kidneys, prostate, and bladder and eventually they drop down to hang out with the penis. This child’s right one didn’t quite make it. I then had the fun task of explaining all this to his mother as well as giving her the option to have the badass Dr. Jeff perform free testicular surgery on her son or have him grow up without a right testicle, which isn’t totally abnormal, with minimal health risks except that he might develop testicular cancer in the un-ascended testicle and not be able to detect it in time. It was a stressful conversation because, A- I had never spoken these words in Spanish before (although I did an excellent job), B – His mom and never heard this diagnosis before and therefore had many concerns, and, C – Money was an issue and although Dr. Jeff would perform his part of the surgery for free the anesthesiologist would still have to be paid. Ultimately, his mom opted for the surgery but the day that Dr. Jeff and I were to scrub in at the local hospital’s operating room the little boy’s pediatrician called off the surgery saying that he had a cold and could not be operated on at the present moment. I was pissed! I had hyped myself up, studied surgical words in Spanish, and eaten a hearty breakfast in order to not pass out, for nothing! Later we found out that the O.R had run out of anesthesia and had to shut down for the rest of the day, so it turns out that not doing the surgery was a blessing in disguise.

Translating for the brigade put me in situations I’d never fathomed I’d be in before: Explaining to an antiquated campesino lacking lucidity that he has prostate cancer, which didn’t seem to concern him because the illness isn’t something he could grasp; he would simply nod with a blankness in his eyes and then go on explaining about his headaches and bone pain. A woman came in with a rash around her anus and I was given the privilege of asking her permission to take a picture of if, “estas ayudando al futuro de ciencia” and of holding the flashlight up to it so that Dr. Justin, the dermatologist, could get the appropriate lighting. Then there was the mother of nine who complained of a sensation that something inside of her was coming out, especially during urination and sex, and when I asked if she could lie down to have the doctor exam her external reproductive organs became extremely embarrassed because she hadn’t bathed that day and refused to have the exam done. I had to cajole her into returning the next day after bathing. She did and was fine. We had a similar case earlier in the week and the diagnosis was a prolapsed uterus; meaning that after 10 births, almost exclusively at home without anesthesia or a medical team, her uterus had basically stretched out and deflated so many times that it was now hanging out of her vagina. Apparently it’s a common issue, especially in the developing world, and all she needed was a little plastic cube that she can place inside herself to keep the uterus in abeyance. Incidentally, I now want to go through the miracle of birth even less than I did before. Sorry dear parents, but your future grandchild will not have any sanguinary relation to me. In the Nature vs. Nurture fight being played out in the ring that is my mind, nurture is one up on nature.

My one week stint in the medical field really impressed me and I’ve been thinking about getting a graduate degree in public health whenever I make it back to The States. Several of the doctors told me they’d write sparkling references for me if I need them so at least I’ve got that part covered (by “that part” I mean ass kissing); now I just have to think about that bothersome GRE…

Welcome, bienvenidos, to my blog! Usually not one for trends, I’ve decided that keeping a blog is necessary in order to communicate en masse about my adventures in Honduras. I hope you enjoy and are convinced to come visit me!

Today is January 23rd, about 6 in the evening. I was watching “Mean Girls” with Ninfa, a niece of my neighbor’s, earlier today on my laptop and when the movie ended I went to my backyard to use the bathroom. Don’t worry, I don’t poop in a hole in the ground, my toilet is simply separated from my house. Anyhow, as I walked through my porch I heard what I thought was water running from Dona Hilda’s house next door; when I turned to look I discovered, astonishingly, it was a thousand bees swarming through Kate’s backyard. I’m no entomologist so I have no idea what was going on. The bees hung out for about fifteen minutes and then, just as surprisingly, vanished! This may seem boring to all of you except my Dad and Drew but I was flabbergasted. Do plagues of bees just appear out of the blue and buzz about for minutes and disappear for no reason? Or is this a bad omen, like raining toads? I much prefer the bees, by the way, for most of you know that toads scare the crap out of me.

So that was interesting thing number one to happen today. Interesting thing number two to happen today is that I decided to trust someone without a beautician’s license to cut my hair. In all fairness, she’s been going to beauty school every Sunday for the last 5 months and her pedicures have always been fantastic so I thought the awesomeness would reflect in her hair cuts as well. WRONG! I will now be wearing my hair up for the next month or two until it regains its length and I can go to a real salon and get it fixed. I thought I was clever; getting my split ends cut for free, helping a friend practice her cutting techniques, getting lunch out of it as well, but the end result was not the desired one, albeit lunch was great! Coot, we’re lucky we went to Scarlet’s instead of Suyapa’s when you were here or your hair would look like it did when I cut it as a three year old.

The remainder of the day has proven uneventful. In order to pass the boredom that accompanies being a Peace Corps Volunteer I’ve contemplated the behavior of bees, worked on English vocabulary words, read some of Barak Obama’s autobiography “Dreams of My Father”, cooked dinner, and worked out a wee bit. While doing dishes I noticed two repulsive possums frolicking about. I can’t wait for February because I’ll finally have work to do again!

January 25th

Good morning! Soon I’ll be walking to the only internet café in Corquin to post this blog. I’ve already had my requisite two huge cups of coffee, provided by the aforementioned Suyapa from her parent’s coffee farm. It is delicious! My dad claims it’s the best coffee he’s ever tasted, and that praise comes from a well traveled man married to a Colombian woman, where the coffee is famous for its flavor. I’m not implying that all the coffee from Honduras is great (some people even grind it with corn to make it last longer) but Suyapa’s family’s coffee is amazing.

After my rendezvous on the internet I plan to trek over to the Maternal Clinic where I hope to talk to Reina, my counterpart, about starting a support group for people living with HIV/AIDS (PLWHA). There aren’t many known cases of people infected with the virus in Corquin but I think that with the neighboring cities (mancomunidad) there could be a group of at least twenty people. I’m interested in starting a support group because the director for the health project, Dr. Helmuth Castro, has personally asked me to help him start a support group initiative in Honduras. Me and two other health volunteers from my group will be in charge of the project and have to come up with a manual, entirely in Spanish, about support groups for PLWHA. We have to start doing research on the psycho-social aspects of living with HIV, adherence on taking the anti-retro viral medications, and identifying leaders for the support groups.

**I was just interrupted by a woman selling fresh veggies door to door. I wanted to point that out because it’s one of the things that I love about this country, especially my little town. I love that I can leave my front door open, enabling me to feel the cool breeze wafting through the room right now, and that the various women selling the products they have worked hard to produce will come by and ask if I need anything. I didn’t buy anything just now but two days ago I bought tomatoes, red onions (my favorite), and carrots.

Anyhow, I hope you’ve all enjoyed my random rants. When I go home to visit in April I will know who reads this blog and who doesn’t by the questions that I’m asked. Many volunteers who go home to visit often complain about the repetitive question and answering sessions they go through with everyone (HINT HINT) so this way everyone will already know!

Any questions and/or comments about today’s entry are, of course, recommended and .anticipated. Just remember that many people will be reading this, hopefully, including family members who many not enjoy vulgarity as much as I do.

Next Entry: Translating for a gringo urologist, “El doctor va a meter el dedo en tu ano, trata de relajar”.