Honduras.
Where do I begin?
From the minute I set eyes on it (as I stretched
unabashedly over my airplane seatmate and peered openmouthed out the window), I
knew that this was not “just another Ecuador.”
Our flight was landing in the capital, Tegucigalpa, and
so I had been expecting to see the tall buildings and towering mountainsides smeared with houses upon houses reminiscent of Quito.
Instead the two words that struck me when I saw what lay
outside the plane were space and brown.
There were mountains, but they were gentle. Not the
imposing behemoths that flanked Quito. And there were buildings, but far fewer and much
shorter. It reminded me much more of a giant suburbia than the capital of a
country. And while there was plenty greenery to be seen, there were also numerous
flat, brown patches of farmland scattered all around the edges of the city. It
seemed as though the line between country and city was much blurrier here than
in Quito.
In my head I knew that I was headed to Central America.
That Honduras was a smaller, less developed country. That I was not simply
returning to Ibarra for another year. But somehow, in some undetected part of
me, that’s precisely what I expected to greet me when I stepped off the plane.
Of course, my expectations were immediately and swiftly
shattered.
The plane did not taxi into a sparkly new airport like in
Quito. Instead, we were unceremoniously dumped onto the tarmac and then
directed into a small building that more closely resembled the headquarters of
a small business than an airport.
I was not questioned about my business in Honduras, but
simply handed over my customs form, had my picture taken and was sent on my
way.
There were no huge crowds of travelers either coming or
going. In fact the only people in the customs line were the people from my
flight. And from the look of things on the tarmac it seemed that the flow of
planes in and out of the airport was quite leisurely.
It was, in fact, nothing like Ecuador.
I was still mentally processing my new surroundings when I
was cheerily welcomed by the principal, a teacher from the Spanish department,
a fellow Honduran English teacher, and the bus driver. Pulled from my “I-just-landed-in-country-daze,”
I responded in kind with a warm welcome. As the Spanish words of greeting
tumbled out of my mouth, their expressions of joy turned ecstatic.
“Puede hablar
español!”
I didn’t want to set their expectations of my Spanish too
high so I quickly interjected that I was still learning Spanish and far from fluent. However, I’m fairly
certain that all that registered was, “Si,
yo puedo hablar español…” and
nothing else. The teachers from the previous year apparently spoke only very
little Spanish so my knowledge of Spanish came off as quite extensive and I was instantly thrust back into that maddening cycle of second language usage that consists of: listening, comprehending, translating, formulating a response, and translating yet again all at the breakneck speed of a normal conversation. Thankfully, the English teacher must have picked up on my sluggish, jet-lagged brain and stepped in to do most of the hard work for me.
Lunch was had at Pizza Hut (you can never fully escape)
and then I more or less slept in the back of the van while the principal and
teachers used their time in Tegucigalpa to run a few errands.
I slept right up until we were about 40 minutes outside
of El Paraiso (Paradise). It was dark by this time but I did the best I could to observe
my surroundings in the light from oncoming traffic. I just remember thinking, “it’s so dark.” And, “I’m literally in the middle of nowhere.” The darkness was so thick you could almost feel it weighing on you. I did start to get a
little anxious as it became quite clear that we really were traveling into a
world apart.
Just as I was wondering when I would see civilization
again, Elena, the English teacher, pointed towards the windshield where
clusters of orange streetlights gleamed against the blanket of night.
We had arrived.
The street and house lights of El Paraiso told far more
about my surroundings than the flashing lights from cars, and now I could see
dirt roads, people milling about the street, and packs of stray dogs huddled on the street
corners. The buildings shamelessly showed the wear of
their years and weeds and bushes clustered at their edges and in empty lots.
Nothing seemed new or particularly clean.
We slowly bumped our way down several blocks, moving
further away from the lights of “main street,” turned a sharp left, and found
ourselves on the doorstep of what looked like a small, yellow condo. At this point, however, I was completely and
utterly overwhelmed and barely coherent after 20+ hours of travel. All I wanted was a shower and bed and everything else could wait until the light of morning for further analysis.
Thankfully, my house was rather new and quite clean and
within the hour I had passed out on my bed.
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One week later…
Right now, there are two things in El Paraiso that have required me to make the
largest adjustment: the lack of infrastructure and the insects.
Compared to El Paraiso, I was living like a princess in
Ibarra. There were paved roads, and supermarkets, and parks with free WiFi.
Here, none of the streets have names and none of the houses have numbers. The “supermarket”
far more resembles a general store from the Wild West than my beloved
Supermaxi. You will find no linoleum floors or fluorescent lights or shiny
new products in gleaming aisles here. It is a rarity to see a new car and
instead beaten pickups and rusted taxis crawl along the bumpy roads. The
majority of the people walk (as do I) and I watch them as we pass each other on
the road—a boy aimlessly kicking a plastic bottle along the gutter, a woman
gracefully balancing a plastic basin on her head as she pulls along her little
girl, a family going “in to town” to buy an ice cream.
When I was in Ibarra it was easy to forget that I was
living in a third world country. There were enough conveniences and amenities
that I felt there was little lacking to maintain the lifestyle I was accustomed
to. Here, it is not.
Each morning when I step out the door I
am reminded again of the vast discrepancy between life here and life at home. And
it’s the little things, like not being able to find a bath towel to purchase (I
ended up having to get one from a shop that sells second-hand items brought
from America), or waiting on the cement tub behind the house to fill with water
so I can shower and wash the dishes that gives me pause. That makes me wonder
about the seeming excess I’m used to. And it’s the larger things, like hearing
my well-dressed, educated co-worker tell me in near perfect English how he has tried twice to
illegally enter the U.S. because he knows he will never receive a visa, or how
his neighbor lost both of his legs in his own attempt to cross the Mexican
border, that jars me so hard my teeth hurt
and I feel the gap between me and my home country widen ever so slightly.
And then--then there are the insects…
Everyone who knows me knows that my relationship with
insects is a precarious one. I’ll willingly admit that I’m one of those people
who makes decisions about where to travel solely based on what type and how
many insects I may encounter.
I knew heading to the tropical climate of Honduras would
test my courage and resolve, but I was secretly hoping I would somehow find a
way to avoid the unpleasantness.
HA!
Each morning I wake to giant cockroaches lazing about my
kitchen, bathroom and bedroom. My fly swatter rarely leaves my hand and when it
does it’s usually within arm’s reach. (I’m drawing up plans at the moment for a
fly swatter holster.) Nearly every ceiling corner is home to an arachnid and I've
yet to identify the minuscule insects which seem to always be present in my
kitchen cabinets. It seems every time I enter a room there’s already a “somebody”
in there waiting to greet me.
I've been proactive, of course. I spent this first week
cleaning the house from top to bottom (got rid of most of those pesky spiders—take
that!) and Raid-ing nearly every square inch of the house. At night, I ensure
there is not a crumb to be found so I have less overnight guests. And I silently
give myself pep-talks and send up desperate prayers throughout the day for the
strength to fight my enemies.
The hope is that my fear of bugs will lessen as I
gradually adapt to my new surroundings and come to terms with the fact that I’ll never truly be
alone at home.
Before I wrap up this entry though, I thought I’d leave you all with one
funny anecdote from my war on creepy-crawlies this week.
My scariest (and most embarrassing) experience thus far
(not counting the morning I found not one, but TWO giant roaches IN MY ROOM!)
was when I realized my house was also home to a gecko. I had spotted it earlier
in the day when it scurried behind the TV in the sitting room and was aghast
when a pale translucent body about 5 inches long and a pair of beady black eyes
peered back at me. I knew I wouldn’t be able to catch it (and had no desire to
touch it anyway) so I fled the room and hoped that it would find its way out on
its own.
Fast forward several hours. I was braiding my hair before
bed and happened to get some hair oil on my jeans. Since they were new, I immediately
took them off to scrub the spot in the sink and decided since there was no one
else in the house I would just stay in my t-shirt and underwear until I went to
shower.
A little while later, I grabbed my towel and headed to the master bedroom to do just that. As I passed through the doorway and flicked on the light, I noticed a quick movement on the wall to the left of me. There in
plain sight was the gecko!
I stood frozen in the doorway for a moment--locked in its cold, reptilian gaze--and then instinct
kicked in and my first reaction was to run get the can of Raid. I had no
intention of spraying it, but I thought if I made some noise it might
get him to relocate to another room (or better yet, back outside). So there I stood,
in my underwear, tapping frantically on the wall with a can of Raid, with a look of pure
terror on my face when I realized—I had left the curtains open! Thanks to the
narrow streets and the houses built right on top of each other, any neighbor with a good pair of eyes could see right into the bedroom where the crazy, pantless gringa was
mumbling words of courage to herself and beating some strange metal object
against the wall.
Needless to say, I immediately hit the light switch and ducked around the wall into the darkened sitting room. (sigh) Well, at least I’ll be keeping the gossip mill briskly
turning for the next week or so…
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I’ve had quite a few requests for pictures but
unfortunately I don’t have any yet to share with you guys. I’m trying to think
of the least awkward way to go around El Paraiso taking pictures—hopefully I’ll
have some soon. However, I will be posting a video of my newest home away from
home so do keep an eye out for that. And I’ll also be posting more information about
Eagle’s Crib and what myself and the other teachers have been up to this past week.
As always, feel free to leave comments below!
