Welcome to Paradise

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.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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!