Peter in Honduras

One year ago today I was sitting in a conference room at the Double Tree Inn looking for the first time at my fellow Honduras 8 Peace Corps Volunteers. I was nervous the night before about meeting this group of people with whom I would spend the next three months, but upon meeting everyone, I remember a sense of relief, sort of like “Hey, these people are all just like me…”

Well now it’s 2007, and I’m sitting at my “desk” (plastic table with improvised shelf made of old Corn Flakes boxes cover by cloth)

getting ready to go to work, boiling water on the stove because it’s kind of chilly and I don’t feel like a drippy cold shower. There isn’t anyone in San Marcos who’s “just like me,” but that’s okay, it makes me feel special.

In fact, sticking out like this is a very new sensation that I’ve experienced the last year. For the first 23 years of my life, I never stuck out, well, at least not for more than the length of a vacation to China as a little blond boy strutting about the Forbidden City like he owned the place or as an American tourist banging his head on subway doors in Tokyo. In the United States as a 24 year old, blond, blue eyed, six foot something white guy, I settle comfortably into the norm. In Honduras, on the other hand, I’m a spectacle.

I can make a child laugh by taking off my sunglasses to reveal I have blue eyes. And the ladies at the convenience store love me because they don’t have to go get the broom to knock down the boxes of Corn Flakes on the top shelf. Of course, there are the down sides too. I don’t fit in busses, everywhere I walk I get a combination of cat calls, “gringo!”, and stares. I bang my head on everything, and photos usually turn out very asymmetrical.

But 80% of the time, I don’t mind all this. In fact, I think it’s one of the hidden reasons that Peace Corps is such an important experience. Thinking back on my experiences in foreign countries as a tourist, I realize that you don’t get the same class of experience. When foreigners come to San Marcos for brief stays (like the medical brigade), they enjoy the charm of being to outside, but I don’t think they fully understand how ridiculous they look or experience that long term feeling of not belonging, since they are surrounded by their compatriots and cushioned by their tour guide or program director. I also think of immigrants to the United States. Does a Honduran who moves to Los Angeles feel like he sticks out? Well, dining in that Honduran restaurant on the eve of my return to Honduras I felt more like I was in San Pedro Sula than in Honduras.

So, while there is the 20% of the time I just feel like screaming at kids who yell nonsense at me trying to imitate the sounds of English, or I try to tune out the shouts of “gringo” as I pass by, I can’t say that there’s anyplace else I’d rather be right now than Honduras. Well… maybe in the hot tub at Diamond Point.

And now for that bucket shower….

I got back to San Marcos about three days ago, but it already feels like ages ago. It’s strange, being in Honduras feels very normal. However, there was nothing normal about my trip from LA to San Marcos: it was perfect! I got on the plane at the stroke of midnight, and was asleep by 12:05am. Landing at dawn in San Salvador was beautiful, sweeping views of volcanoes backlit by the rising sun. A quick stop through customs where they accepted without argument my Honduran residency credentials (no $10 tourist fee) led to me to be standing on the curb at the airport, looking at my watch, scratching my head, and wondering how I was going to lug 125 pounds of stuff through three busses to San Marcos. I called a taxi.

Worried about returning to the Spanish speaking world, I had to good fortune to dine with Tim Schlosser in LA the night I left, and of all the places in Koreatown, we ended up at a Honduran restaurant. The waitress got a kick out of the fact I was going back to Honduras (she herself being from outside San Pedro, having left 7 years ago) and I got in some good spanish practice, putting me at ease that I had not forgotten the language.

Still not quite confident, I launched into a great conversation with the taxista about his taxi driving cooperative and how cooperatives aren’t necessarily the mortal enemies of capitalism (my viewpoint). We agreed to disagree and he was very friendly, taking me right to the bus I wanted and suggesting alternatives after viewing the giant bag I was carrying. Stepping onto the good old 119 from San Salvador to the Honduran border, I was surprised to be moving as soon as I took my seat. 3 hours later (the normal travel time, despite the fact the route is 95 kilometers long) we arrived at El Poy. Touting my residency card, I stuck up my nose at immigration procedures, and with the tacit approval of the heavily armed border guards and the friendly Salvadorans giving me a grin, I walked back “home.”

Once again, a waiting bus departed at my command, dropping me into the arms of another idling bus that lurched forward as soon as my back foot left the pavement. Reveling in my good fortune, I took my uncomfortable seat and passed out. Awakening, I saw the San Marcos bus waiting for me at the highway junction, another stroke of good luck, which turned out to be a personal bus ride for me, as I was the only passenger. The ten minutes of familiar turns and landscapes brought an odd sense of homecoming, lessened only by the ten minute walk from the bus drop off to my front step under the crushing burden of my backpack. I was home.

Opening my front door at 1:30pm was a bit odd seeing as I had been in the U.S. of A. only a bit more than 12 hours ago, but the place was just like I left it, albeit with a few more spiders. I made it in to the office to say hi and get my computer back (left safely locked away). It was fun seeing all the familiar faces, although a bit trying making “the rounds” of hello’s and getting that same open ended “how was it?” question every time.

I worked Wednesday through Saturday, getting in a good day at the CICAL with Xiomara (who loved (maybe too strong a word) her Christmas present of an optical mouse). Friday I spent fighting with the AESMO webpage (www.aesmo.org) which just doesn’t want to display itself correctly at all.

Finally it’s the weekend after a shortened (but seemingly long) week and I went to the market this morning and got all sorts of vegetables to fill my empty-ish kitchen.

So what’s up next? Well, this week a medical brigade is coming to town. I’ve never been here for one of these, but apparently they set up free clinics and people come from all over to be seen by American docs. However, the doctors don’t speak much Spanish so yours truly is being asked to translate. Should be interesting.

Thanks again to everyone who took some time to see me over break, I had a great time and feel 100% refreshed and ready to get back to work here in Honduras.