Homeward Quest

Uploaded July 2, 11pm
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With all the escalating political tension in Honduras this week, it was hard to know what the best option was for leaving the country. My flight was scheduled for 1am on July 1^st, but after the coup on Sunday, June 28^th, all hell broke loose in the country. With all the rumors flying around, it was hard to know how to react. “Roads are blocked”, “Roads are clear”, “borders are closed”, “Airports are open”… after lots of phone calls and help from my parents and Honduran contacts, pretty much the only thing I knew for sure was that nothing was certain.

After much deliberation, I made my decision. I would attempt the trip east to the city of San Pedro Sula. But with no public transportation running, I was forced to call my favorite driver Antonio to see if he would be willing to take me. Antonio is a good-hearted beer-bellied Latino army veteran who works at the ruins, but he’s fun loving and genuinely considers me a friend. I knew he would stick by me if things went bad, and I also knew he would do whatever it took to get me to the airport.

Tuesday morning we set off. It was sad saying goodbye to everyone, as we left I realized how many people I’ve gotten attached to since I’ve been here. Ellen, Dona Elena, and Merlyn came to see me off, and I climbed into the center of Antonio’s beat up pick up, with his friend (our extra protection) in the passenger’s seat.

Our first hour was uneventful and I began to wonder if I had been worried over nothing. After all, besides the arrest of the president, there had been no political violence in the rest of the country. But just after passing through La Entrada, we encountered a roadblock by the police. Road cones and barricades, combined with police in fatigues, prevented anyone from passing.

As we pulled up, and Antonio pulled out his “archeological ruins” badge from it’s place on the review mirror and flashed it at the police men.“We’re on official business to get this lovely American girl to her flight tonight at 1am. She absolutely must make her flight, so I’m sorry, we must pass.” I was torn between awe and laughter as the confused policeman glanced in the truck, the badge, my blonde hair, and the truck and believed every word. No one seemed to notice that my “official” US escort was a faded old white pick-up. And they moved the cones, allowing us to pass the 10-20 waiting cars and proceed with no problem.

“OK you can pass, but there is going to be a protest here in one hour. And by then, NO one passes. So there is no turning around. Comprende?” Glancing at Antonio, I saw him shrug.

“We’ll make it to the city. And if not, we’ll just sleep by the road and eat bean plants”. He grinned at me. I agreed, but in my head I was thinking, bean plants?! Oh, man. What if we encountered another road block and were left stranded in the middle, forced to spend the night on the side of the road?

I should also mention that I’d been up almost the entire night before with an awful cold virus, and I was a sorry sight, bleary eyed and congested. I did my best to nap as we cruised down the road next stretch of road, thinking I’d need to save what little adrenalin I had for future events. And I was right.

A few minutes later, we came to a “campesino” protest. Truckloads of impoverished villagers blocked the street, and men piled rocks into the middle of the road. We pulled to a stop next to six or seven other cars in the same situation, trying to decide the best option to get past. Antonio went to talk to the leader of the protest, while his friend stuck up a conversation with two other cowboys. The sun beat down and my congested head throbbed as I struggled to concentrate on the Spanish conversations and plans. “I know a way around, through the hills” one old cowboy offered. He agreed to show us if he and his friend could hitch a ride in back. So, after determining that there was no way we could get through this one, my party of me, Antonio, his friend, and our two new passengers retreated for the back hills.

The road got steeper and narrower as we wound through remove villages in the hills. Thank goodness for Antonio’s four-wheel drive! We passed other knowledgeable locals on or way, calling out “is it clear all through?” and hearing “so far” as the reply. It looked like we’d actually make it. We got through just fine until one river that was slightly deeper than anticipated; where the current of the water shorted out the current in the car engine. And stuck, we were.

My heart sank as we came to a lurching stop in the midst of the current, but Antonio and his friend merely laughed good heartedly as they removed their workboots and socks, rolling up their pants and jumped out to pop the hood. “Life is such an adventure today!” Antonio yelled to me enthusiastically over the rippling of the river around us. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were enjoying this adventure with the “Chagas gringa” as a stimulating change of pace from their daily work. At any rate, no one else seemed worried, so I looked on in amusement as the men dried the engine parts with Kleenex from my backpack (having a cold virus did turn out to be beneficial, after all!). And eventually the truck was running again so we climbed barefoot back into our seats, resuming on our quest to the airport.

Within five minutes, we hit our next obstacle. Our road had emerged just beyond another protest, and we were faced by angry glares from campasinos well aware that we had gotten around their roadblock. As Antonio steered the truck onto the main road, the engine stalled. I willed the angry mob to not notice that we were stuck only yards away from them, and was so relieved when, after three tries, we were up and running again. Safe and sound, for now at least!

But as we drove on it was clear that the truck was not running right. We were forced to stay in first and second gear as we clambered up and down the hills, slowing by every house or store in search of a Mechanico sign. After what seemed like eternity, the guys spotted one, and we pulled into someone’s driveway, engine clunking.

I hate to complain, but by this point it was getting seriously hot, and I was getting seriously wiped out. Thanks to my infection, my stamina was next to nothing, and all this “run for your life if I give you the sign” was exhausting every ounce of my feverish body. The mechanic’s family let me use their bathroom as the father and sons fixed Antonio’s engine, and I managed to sneak some water from my water bottle. Twenty minutes and 30 limperas later, we were again on our way.

Our next complication; getting into the city. No one knew exactly what kind of road blocks or violence awaited us, so plans started to form. One of our “guides” riding in back had a friend coming by taxi in the other direction with a sick patient returning to his home in Copan for recovery. Our plan – to spot the taxi, flag them down, and trade passengers. Then each driver could go back the way they’d come, less gas would be used, and any roadblocks at the city’s edge would be no hindrance for either of us.

I listened intently as cell phone calls were made and as Antonio promised to bargain with them, get a good price, and make sure they were trustworthy before dumping me at the side of the road with my suitcases and a random stranger in his car. And miraculously, it all worked. We traded passengers, and I made it to the airport in one piece! Brilliant.

Drenched in sweat, I entered the airport at 3pm, seven hours after leaving Copan, but ten hours before my scheduled flight. With my life’s processions, I waddled over to the Spirit check-in desk.

“Is it too early to check in for my flight at 1am?”

“There are no flights tonight... you are wrong.”

“What to you mean, no flights? I checked this morning; I paid for a ticket. There is a flight #836, I am sure of it!”

“Nope. No flights. You can talk to the office if want”.

The tired looking flight attendant pointed half heartedly and turned his back on me, obviously sick of dealing with unhappy Americans for the past two days of turmoil. I was on my own.

Fuming, I abandoned my suitcases,stepped over the luggage counter, and made my way to the back office. Too tired for Spanish, I demanded to know what was going on to the English-speaking worker. She signed and turned to me. “No flights after 6pm, the country has put in an air-curfew until 6am. Sorry. Everything today is full, and tomorrow too. You could try American Airlines but they may be full by now.”

I walked from counter to counter, trying not to panic. Thursday was the big “d-day” for the two presidents, and after next weekend who knows how things would end up. No way was I waiting around here for 4 days to see if war broke out! After checking three airlines, I ended up getting the last seat on a continental flight the next morning, a first class ticket that cost me more than any plane ticket every should. But by then, I was too beat and dehydrated to care. All I could think about at that moment was closing my eyes in a bed.

That night I slept in the airport hotel, which was actually very nice and luxurious. I slept my dehydration and sinus headache away, and awoke in time to make it to the airport today and fly out with no problems.

I wish I could call Antonio from the US. Our quest is finally complete; I am in the Estados Unidos! (USA) It’s because of him that I made it here, and I still can’t believe we actually drove across the country during one of the most anarchist days of Honduran history. I know he enjoyed the adventure, but his kindness and selflessness was striking and I can only hope he made it back to Copan safely without any further problems.

Meanwhile, I’m flying over Kansas right now! In 90 minutes I will land in Detroit and my adventure will officially be over. And the data analysis and reports that follow will likely be much less interesting. I may post a summary soon, but frankly, I would hate to bore you with too many long-winded details of my report... I'll probably keep it to a minimum.

So I must thank you, faithful blog-readers, for staying interested and keeping up on all my endeavors overseas. Your support has been better than anyone could imagine! And that’s 100% due to my friends and family and their endless care and concern. My parents, professor, and friends have been my “mission control”, using their internet and touch-tone phones to guide me home, and I’m told I’ve been in many thoughts and prayers. Without you all, my trip would have not been possible. And what an experience; I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

More conclusion and wrap-up to come later. Thanks again to everyone for all your prayers, thoughts, and support. I couldn’t have made it home without you!!

COUP!

Until last week, I hadn’t paid much attention to Honduran politics. From what I gathered, the president was kind of ineffective, but not necessarily dangerous. But recently I started noticing more and more people watching the news, and talking worriedly among one another. I started to pay attention, and realized the government was literally falling apart, day by day.

In essence, the Honduras president decided he wanted to have an unofficial “election” on Sunday to decide whether or not a separate ballot box should be allowed in the November election. This separate ballot box would decide whether or not the constitution should be changed to allow him to stay in office beyond his term, which ends in January. Naturally, this raises some red flags. The whole concept of this “informal election” is illegal by the Honduras supreme court, and the idea of changing the constitution to give the leader more power is something that makes everyone wary. Last week, a couple days before the “election”, a plane came in from Venezuela full of ballots that had already been filled out. Basically, Hugo Chavez, Fidel Castro, and the Honduran president are best buddies and they were trying to help him move the country towards communism by providing corrupt ballots for this step in the process. The army and Honduran congress openly objected to this “election”, and tensions rose as the day approached.

Sunday (yesterday) was the big day of the election; everyone was nervous. Buses stopped running, and plane flights were canceled in anticipation of conflict. But as it turned out, that morning at the crack of dawn, the Honduras president was arrested (/kidnapped) by the army, still in his pajamas. A coup! Anarchy ensued in Tegucigalpa, the capital of Honduras.

Here in the small town of Copan Ruinas, no one knew what was going on, but we knew it couldn’t be good. We woke up to no power, and all phone lines were down. With no TV or radio, we were cut off. Neighbors sat on the curbs, talking worriedly and rumors flew. Downtown there was an odd energy. The market was full of vendors, but no one laughed and small groups of men and women clustered, talking quietly in nervous Spanish. I wandered around with my laptop, and finally found one hotel with running internet and a generator. The restaurant staff watched intently over my shoulder as I loaded news articles in Spanish for them, and English for me. I spent the rest of the day making alternative travel plans, and trying to learn as much as I could about the situation. By 6pm, the police ushered everyone off the streets and into their homes for the night.

I looked out into the mountain valley from my balcony as darkness fell. For once, it was nearly silent. No taxis roaring up and down the hills, no church services blasting the hymns through their amps. The power had been restored, and I could see the glow of televisions in every house as the news was broadcasted live from Tegucigalpa. But no one ventured outside, no one played fútbol in the street, no one played their stereo.

I was supposed to travel by bus today across the country to San Pedro Sula, to give a presentation to the national office of Habitat for Humanity. But now, I’m waiting to learn more before I venture on any road trips. The US embassy has warned us Americans to stay inside at all times until further information is known, and other countries like Costa Rica and Cuba have removed their citizens from the country all together. Schools and stores are closed, and everyone is laying low waiting to see what will happen. I’ve even heard that some roads are blocked. Worst of all, public buses aren't running today or tomorrow. If I intend to make my flight, I'll have to hire a private driver and make the 3 1/2 hour drive across the country alone.

This unknown is almost scarier than riots or impending war. What will happen tomorrow? Will the Honduran president return to power? Will the Venezuelan army come? Will there be fighting and war on the same streets where I walked every night? Or will this all just blow over for the time being, until the next potential communism action is made by the government? Will I be able to travel safely to San Pedro Sula without any incidents? And most importantly, will my flight to the US still run as scheduled on Wednesday morning? If worse comes to worse, I can go to Guatemala and fly from there (we’re only a few miles away from the border), but even now that's not an option as the borders are closed.

I’m realizing more than ever how much we take security and government stability for granted in the US. The Hondurans here are good people, and while they disagree on what type of “ism” would serve the country best, everyone wants peace and safety for their family. They deserve a better government than this.

We complain in the US when policies are inefficient or unnecessary, but ultimately our system is pretty great. When you think about it, it’s amazing that our founding fathers could write a constitution that still stands today. Our economy may be “bad” right now, but no one is starving to death. And some cities may be “dangerous” by our standards, but in most places you can still run to the gas station after dark without worrying about being mugged, carjacked, or kidnapped. Police may pull over when it’s unnecessary, but chances are they won’t rob or blackmail you. And the president may make bad decisions, but he’s not manipulating his country for more power, or being arrested by the military. For all its incompetence, the US government exists to genuinely help its people. And for what it’s worth, I’m starting to realize how valuable that is to our country.

Honduras, you have given me a glorious two months of epidemiology, mountains, new friends, and adventure. But now, the time has come to return to the ol’ USA. My country, tis of thee, sweet land of liberty…. here I come. I hope.

Habitat Confusion

It seems ironic that the last two communities where I went were the most expensive, the more difficult to get to, and the most disappointing in terms of my research. I guess it worked out that way because I went to communities as I was able to find transportation, so it makes sense that the most remote villages would be put off until last.

I finally made it to the real “Agua Calliente” (after going to another town in a completely different direction that was conveniently also named “Agua Calliente”) last week. We barely made it with the 4x4 pick-up, fishtailing up and down the narrow mountain trails, sliding as if we were in a Michigan snowstorm. When we finally made it into town, I began the usual practice of asking people in nearby huts and homes if they knew where we could find a Habitat for Humanity house, or a Habitat volunteer. We were directed to a house, but I was surprised to see a slightly dilapidated adobe house, with rusty lamina for a roof. As I began my questionnaire, it became clear that Habitat for Humanity had “renovated” the house by funding a concrete floor, but nothing more. When we finally found the main Habitat contact woman, I learned that in fact Habitat had provided concrete floors to 43 houses in the community. As we walked around the village, I saw that many of the concrete “floors” weren’t even inside the houses, instead they served as a patio or front porch.

The village of Otuta was the same… new floors only. Nearly 100 families with new floors, but still in desperate need of a new home. Now, how am I supposed to measure the effects of these “housing renovations” on Chagas disease? Obviously, new floors make no difference in exposure when the insects live in the walls and roof of adobe and mud homes. When the villagers figured out why I was there, they began telling me about the thousands and thousands of “chinches” they see, but it’s hard to know if they were telling the truth, or if they were just really hoping that I would go back and report to Habitat that the houses need some news walls and roofs in addition to the cement. Not that I can really blame them. Still, it was overwhelming to be pulled in every direction, as villagers demanded I photograph every crack in their house, every falling down roof, and every child who had been treated for Chagas disease.

No one from Habitat for Humanity really understands what happened in these communities, since the coordinator was fired six months ago and left the new guy, Hector, with very little to go on. But it’s frustrating to see. I did my best to collect relevant contact information, demographic information, etc. from Agua Calliente; hopefully Habitat for Humanity can start fresh, and return to these communities where improved housing is much-needed. Meanwhile, I am excluding both of these communities from my study completely. One week, $200 in transportation, and no data. It’s too bad my project ended on such a frustrating note, but at least I have enough information from the other communities and I should be able to make some valuable conclusions for Habitat, I hope.

Field Trip on the Bus

On Friday evening, I got invited to spend the weekend in La Entrada and Santa Rosa, two nearby mountain towns east of here. Kalvin had a meeting with his fellow English teachers, so I took it upon myself to tag along. After all, I've been stuck in this touristy town almost the entire time I've been here, and I really haven't seen much of the "real" Central America, as they say.

Saturday morning, we started off bright and early from the bus station here in Copan Ruinas. We climbed on the charter bus for 90 minutes to La Entrada, and then found outselves a van headed for Santa Rosa.

The bus system is so random here; I still don't have it completely figured out. If you want to go to a nearby town, you just kind of stand around on the street until a van or bus comes by, with a guy hanging out the door shouting "Santa Rosa! Santa Rosa!) Then, you get in. The vehicle stops a few more times and fills up with more people that you ever would have guessed could possibly fit; mostly sweaty farmers in cowboy hats and women with bags of vegetables and tortillas. As the bus leaves town, the guy who was hanging out the door goes seat to seat and collects money. No one ever knows how much will cost, but the fare is usually between 20-60 limperas (US $1-3). In exchange for the payment, you are given a slip of paper, sometimes with a number on it and sometimes just blank. As others are picked up and dropped off in the farms and dirt roads along the way, they pay different amounts. And the driver just drives, blaring the Latin music of his choice and lurching to a stop at the command of his money-taking assistant.

Along the roads there are periodically groups of police men near a speed bump. (Or sometimes, a portable speed bump made of thick rope and tape) The police mostly just stand around as cars fly by, but occasionally will wave a vehicle to stop. I'm not sure what it is they are supposed to be doing, but in all honesty I probably don't want to know! The police are so corrupt here that getting pulled over could be very bad news even if you've done nothing wrong. Luckily, no bus I've been on so far has had any problems at these stops.

After Kalvin's meeting in Santa Rosa, we visited one of his friends, a computer engineering major who amazingly enough was just as "techie" as my little brother. It was so weird to go from stepping around chickens and urine in the crowded streets to watching youtube videos and talking about 32 bit windows in a messy college guys' apartment with calculus equations and dirty t-shirts on the table. But no question about it; techies are in every corner of the world!

The biggest difference I saw between Copan Ruinas and the other "real" towns was the stares I got as a foreiner. I'm finding that in Honduras there are few or no "gringos" who brave the non-touristy towns, and locals are not shy about blatently staring at my blonde-ness and my white-ness. When I walked down the street, people stopped their conversations, dropped their bags, and I felt their eyes on me until I was out of sight. What a spectacle we were! Even Kalvin got a number of stares, as we spoke in casual English among ourselves.

Even so, I didn't catch any vibes of direct dislike... the general reacations were more of wonder and confusion. Sometimes I felt like an alien, or even a movie star. (Which I guess isn't too far off, since the only white people in their lives are on Spanish versions of Hannah Montana and Gray's Anatomy.) Living in the United States we are surrounded by people from different races and different cultural backgrounds, and seeing someone different from you on the street is no big deal at all. But here, when vertually everyone is Mayan or Latino, a foreiner is a mysterious intruder and no one knows quite how to react.

At any rate, I couldn't help feeling a little relieved as we pulled into down and I spied four Americans strolling down the street with their ice cream cones, sunscreen, and columbia sportsware. Cultural experiences are great, but there is something to be said for living in a place where locals are a little more accustomed to ethnic diversity. Ah, home sweet Copan Ruinas.

Hot Springs ...and Gangsters?

Last night, I got to finally see the infamous “hot springs”! These naturally hot sulfer waters are in a small town about 45 minutes north of our town of Copan Ruinas. Kalvin, his friend Antonio, and I began the adventure with a half hour of preparation: air in the tires, water in the radiator, and we even stopped by their friends’ Ford and picked up a spare tire and tarp, “in case of emergencies”. Then, we were off on our road trip, the three of us packed in the cab of Antonio’s pickup.

Most tourists go to the hot springs during the heat of the day, which really makes no sense. When the sun is beating down, who wants to sit outside in a giant hot tub? Since we all work during the day anyway, we set off at 5pm and arrived just after dark, around 6. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the pools were incredible! Nestled way up in the mountains near another colder spring, two giant pools of naturally hot water that constantly circulated through the concrete basins.

We had such a great time, splashing around in the darkness with the rain falling on our faces and hair. Somehow, word got out that I was a health researcher and before I knew it I had an audience of five Honduras tourists, full of questions like “how does cholesterol make my heart bad?” and “Can I catch cancer if I touch the blood of someone with cancer?” I struggled to explain the physiology behind their questions in my broken Spanish. Though Kalvin is bilingual, even he wasn’t much help with words like “arthrosclerosis” or “cell differenciation”. I was pleased though; I managed to explain a lot of things to these highly educated Central Americans about their bodies, and it was fun to be the one who knows things, for a change. Sometimes I get so tired of being the stupid American, struggling to understand what is going on around me!

After three hours of luxurious relaxation, we decided to head back. But by then the rain had caused the roads to become seriously muddy, and Antonio had to fly around the turns in order to avoid getting stuck. The entire journey back was through dark mountains, and even though we were very “prepared” to push out of any mud holes or deal with any car trouble, I was a little nervous for the trip.

About fifteen minutes into our drive, we came around a corner to see a bright red car parked on a small cement bridge, blocking our path. Antonio slammed on the brakes, swearing under his breath and I felt Kalvin stiffen next to me in the cab. As we came to a stop, I heard a gun being cocked to my left. In the next three seconds, a plan was made. Antonio ordered me to STAY in the car, and Kalvin was to get in the driver’s seat if Antonio got out, so that we could get away quickly if necessary, with Antonio grabbing on back. The Spanish was rapid, but I got the picture. Gangsters. I’d heard one horror story after another about people caught in their path in Honduras, and here we were, in the middle of the god-forsaken jungle surrounded by nothing but darkness.

As one of the men approached our truck, Antonio held the gun in front of him so that it was casually visible. When the guy explained that their car had 'died' and they needed a 'jump start', Antonio got out, stuffed the cocked pistol in his pants, and nodded to Kalvin as he removed the jumper cables from the back. Kalvin got in the driver’s seat and pulled the truck around so we were beside the car on the bridge, and I slouched in the center of the cab gripping my pepper spray, terrified. As the men started the car, I heard Antonio saying “todo es tranquilo” over and over to Kalvin, and to our new ‘friends’. They weren’t going to hurt us. Still, I was to stay hidden.

Finally after what seemed like hours, the car was running and the men drove off. Antonio returned to the truck, uncocked his gun, and returned it to its hiding place behind the seat. All three of us were shaking as we followed the red car up and down the rest of the winding muddy roads. I could hardly believe how close we’d come to being robbed, murdered, or who knows what else! During the rest of our treacherous rainy drive, I listened as Antonio and Kalvin traded horror stories about gangsters in Honduras. And I closed my eyes and prayed we would make it out of this jungle in one piece.

I guess there had been a lot of signs I totally missed in the situation, being an American and all. They hadn’t honked their horn (here, a sign of a friendly “hello”) when we had approached. And the car was far too nice to be from around here, and full of young men. (I'm told that most all the rich people here get their money from coffee or drugs.) Who knows what would have happened of Antonio hadn’t pulled out his pistol in those first few seconds. With a corrupt police system and on phone service, we were completely at their mercy. It’s possible that they were truly just in need of a jump start, but we will never know for sure. Living in the safe little town of Copan Ruinas, it's easy to forget we are in a third world country sometimes. But as I was reminded last night, our little haven is an illusion, to some extent.

At any rate, the event shook up all three of us pretty bad, even my Honduran friends! I guess this isn't exactly an every day occurrence, even for the locals. I wasn’t the only one breathing a sigh of relief when we got in sight of the Bienvenidos a Copan Ruinas sign as we returned to civilization.

For as scared as I was in the woods, I had to say that I never for a moment doubted my Honduran friends. I trust both of them completely, and I know that they would have gone to great lengths to protect me. Even as I heard Antonio cock the gun in the darkness, 12 inches from my face, I felt I would be safe as long as I stayed close to these two. I guess all and all, even though there are thugs and corruption throughout Honduras, I’m pretty lucky to have landed some trustworthy friends with street smarts.

Whew! What an adrenalin rush; and not in a good way! It took me over an hour to fall asleep afterward. And then, after getting lost today looking for a rural village and almost falling down the mountain (more on that later), I am thinking I have had more than enough adventure for a while!!

Church in Honduras

Last night my friend Kalvin invited me to go to church with him. I nervously accepted, having no idea what to expect.... but wow, what an experience! I can't even begin to describe it...

As we walked in, we were greeted by a couple younger guys in ties, who shook our hands and only mildly raised their eyebrows at my blonde hair and obvious American-ness. Kalvin guided me through a small covered area (there are no "rooms" in most buildings in Honduras, only roofs and wide cement pillars with some walls) with about 10 rows of white plastic chairs. The pillars were brightly painted in gold and red, and a bright royal purple curtain draped to form the "wall" that we faced. No crucifix anywhere, no papers or bibles anywhere. The colors were more viberant than any church I've ever seen.

We made our way to a couple of chairs in the middle, and I felt every pair of eyes on me... what would they think of a "gringa" coming to their church? I really had no idea. I only hoped I could get away with only commiting minimal cultural errors throughout the evening...

By 7:10pm, the seats were about half full, and the music began. A kid a few years younger than me stood up front in a shirt and tie, shouting out Spanish phrases while music boomed out of the two giant speakers on either side of us. Six young teenage girls came out in black shirts and long, silky red skirts each holding a decorated tambourine. For the next 60 minutes, they did a choreographed dance in the front while we in the audience clapped, sang, and danced to a crazy energetic Spanish beat. The best way I could describe it was like a Ricky Martin concert. I have never been to a Ricky Martin concert, but this was how I imagine them to be. Everyone was jumping up and down, laughing, dancing, and the music was so loud I could hardly hear myself think. The aerobics were making everyone sweat, but we just kept bouncing. The young girls in front brought out brightly colored clothes, flags, and waved their arms in coordinated motions to the music. I have to confess, I loved it! Energy was flowing from the people all around me and it was so different from any church service I've ever been to before. I remember thinking, "now, maybe the Catholic church wouldn't be dying out in the US of people were allowed to watch dancers and bounce like this".

When it finally ended, my ears were ringing and I could barely hear Kalvin's brief translations under his breath of the sermon, which lasted a mere five minutes. (I had trouble understanding with the microphone through such amplified Spanish - people here to love their speakers!) Afterward was more singing and jumping dancing, followed by "worship", a blaring loud piano song with slow Spanish lyrics while everyone swayed and prayed, their hands in the air. Then, came the freaky part. Six "volunteers" stood in the front with their arms out, and different people in the congregation came up and hugged them tightly, shaking with tears. I looked at Kalvin in horror - "Do we have to go up and do that?" Thankfully, he shook his head. It was an optional thing and I didn't have to cry if I didn't want to. What a relief... But more than half the congregation was bawling! Full grown men, clinging to each other with tears rolling down their cheeks. The only person who seemed even remotely self-conscious was me! I watched the happenings in wonder; I have never seen anything like it. And I think I really didn't get the whole story, since the majority of the Spanish being said over the microphone through the loud slow-dance-like music went completely over my head. What in the world was going on?

"They will stop crying soon", Kalvin assured me. And sure enough, five minutes later we were back to the Ricky Martin concert, jumping up and down and skanking like punk kids at a RBF concert. The tears were wiped away, and the laughing and singing returned. Everyone around me knew the words, and belted out the Spanish lyrics like there was no tomorrow. My hands became raw from so much clapping. The kid up front with the microphone had not gone more than 30 seconds without talking, the entire two hours! He just kept shouting Spanish phrases about "God, enter this building" and lots of other ones that I couldn't understand, over the midst of the song lyrics and the jumping.

And just like that, we were done. We filed out of the plastic lawn chairs, and into the humid night air.

These services take place three evenings per week, if you can believe it! And since different churches have different schedules, some people go even more frequently than that.

I couldn't help but laugh to myself this morning as I watched a group of what were obviously US missionairies file into the internet cafe. What are they thinking, spreading the word of God here? Of all the places in the world to evangulize, this seems like the least deprived of religion! Without a doubt, people here are dedicated to their religion and their church. Even my taxi driver, a laid back 26 year old Honduran, has a giant "I love Jesus" sticker on his windshild, and an "I love Jesus" keychain dangling from his pants pocket at all times. No shortage of religion here, no sirree!

At any rate, my evening at the Honduran church was an experience I won't forget for a long time. What an adventure!

3 Pictures, 1000 Words

Three things I desperately wish I could have a photo of to remember today:

1. This morning I went to a village called San Rafael, up in the highest of the surrounding mountains, to collect data on twelve houses that have been recently renovated by Habitat for Humanity. At the sixth house, I was interviewing one woman while three others tended to the dozen or so children hovering around. As I asked my questions to one less-busy woman, I saw, out of the corner of my eyes, pee. Urine flew all over the new cement porch, sprung from a small diaper-less child in another woman's arms not four feet away from me. Her reaction: still holding the child, she grabbed the closest shirt within reach from the clothes line, and immediately swooped down, sopping up the urine, then plucked the shirt into a pile of what I can only hope was dirty laundry. No one else even noticed anything unusual about the situation... it all took place in a matter of about five seconds. And I tactfully continued my interview.

2. Usually I get a local Habitat homeowner or health promotora to go around to each house with me, depending on who is available that day in the village. But today my driver and I were assigned two boys about 8 years old. Dutifully, they took us house to house; I have never had so much help! One of them proudly carried my clipboard, and the other helped me measure the homes with my infrared "magic laser pointer". They loved riding in the taxi and insisted on having my driver Merlyn drive it to each house. Since neither of us knew where the homes were located, we had to go along with it... Unfortunately, some of the trails they took us down were so deeply rutted and steep that there was no way of getting the taxi back UP the roads after we had finished. So afterward, rut by rut, me and the two 8 year old boys lifted and pushed the taxi up the trail that had to be about 45 degrees as Merlyn desperately spun the wheels of the small golf-cart-like vehicle. And of course, we were watched by approximately 1,000 giggling small children...

3. After 2 hours of two-tracking and 3 hours in the middle of data collection, Merlyn and I tiredly returned to town. As we passed the river, I noticed a number of pick-up trucks parked in the middle, were it's about 10 inches deep. Looking closer, I saw little girls dumping buckets of water onto the hoods, and their fathers buffing the car doors with a towel or rag. Apparently, Saturday is family carwash day -- right in the middle of the (incidentally very wide) Copan River! What a sight. Sadly, by that time we had two rather large women squished in the taxi with us, and there was no way I could whip out my camera in time. So there you have it: three pictures I didn't take today. I can only hope that my thousand words have at least given you an idea of some of today's more humorous events!

Change of Plans

I only have three more communities to collect data in before I am completely done! So far I have data on 88 houses, and hopefully by next week I will have over 100. My excel spreadsheet just keeps growing and growing.

Since I ended up changing my study design so drastically after arriving, my data collection has gone much, much faster than I'd planned. Which as it turns out is VERY lucky for me; the rainy season is like Noah's ark around here. The actual "season" just started so things haven't been bad so far, but I am told that during July, the storms start as early as 10am and last into the night. We're talking downpours! Not only is it a drag to do things walk to the store, but it also makes 90% of the roads around here nearly impassable. The steep dirt trails turn to mud and the rivers get so high that not even the highest four-by-fours can cross. It's becoming very clear to me that my data collection days are numbered! I ended up changing my flight to early July. It makes no sense to stay here during the peak of the rainy season, since I'll be done collecting data, and busy with the analysis and write up on my computer. Also, since rainstorm = no power, I can't imagine I would even be able to do much computer work here in July. So it's off to the USA for my remaining two months of summer.

In a way, I am sad to be leaving so soon! I only really have one more weekend here in Copan, and I've really got to get going if I'm going to make a Habitat report for the national affiliate before I leave. I've met so many great people here, and it will be hard to say goodbye. But, ultimately two months may be enough, as I miss my friends, boyfriend, and family like crazy. An early return to turkey sandwiches, hot showers, TV, and people who care about me may not be so bad. And who knows; I may even get in some babysitting during the days of parasite articles and statistical testing! Or perhaps a trip to Isle Royle... or New York? Either way, I am trying to convince myself that the adventures are not coming to an end yet...

Agua Calliente x2

This morning, I set out at 7am with my driver, Luis, for a community called 'Agua Calliente'. We drove for over an hour on on the narrow dirt road, following the hairpin turns through some of the biggest mountains I have seen here. The scenery was incredible, with lush green forests and an occasional adobe house or coffee farm. Finally, we arrived to a dusty village, bigger than most I have been to. The road was lined with wide eyes as we pulled through the main drag, and parked near the main health clinic. Each day when I go to a different community, the hardest part is finding someone who can take us to each of the Habitat for Humanity houses. When I went with Hector on his motorcycle, he easily connected me to one of the contractors (or their wife), or else the health promotora. But now that it's just me and my driver Luis, I'm finding it's much tougher to find someone willing to truck around with us for the day, leading me as I deliver my questions from house to house.

Today was no exception. After vague directions from random locals, we found our way to the health clinic. I felt a couple dozen pairs of eyes on us as we made out way inside. Thankfully, Luis understands my objectives well enough now to take initiative, asking if there was someone there who could drop everything and help us for the day. Half lost, I followed him as we were turned down by clinic employees, and directed to a local sort of party store, selling phone cards, chips, and coca cola. There, Luis and I sat in plastic chairs and chatted with the owner while we waited for someone, who apparently would be arriving to help. After about ten minutes of rapid Spanish, I was so dazed I almost didn't see the woman walk in. I stammered in bad Spanish as I tried to explain what I have explained a thousand times on this trip.

"I am a public health student doing a project for my university. I need to ask questions to people in each Habitat for Humanity house about their new house, and about Chagas disease. Do you know where the Habitat for Humanity houses are here?"
She stared blankly. "World Vision?"
"No". "Habitat..." I showed her the annual report I carry with me, and even found a page where they had mentioned building 60 houses in the village of Agua Calliente.
"No Habitat houses here," she concluded after giving the pamphlet a once over. No one else seemed to have any idea what I was talking about either.

Finally, I decided to call Hector, the local Habitat employee. No service. No surprise, since we were more than an hour away from any civilization. More rapid Spanish was changed, and again I was lost. "Que?" Luis got up and motioned for me to follow him. We walked across the dirt street into a old woman's house, and I was alarmed to see her bathing, topless! Cautiously we entered her main room, and through the conversation I gathered that I was to use her land line to call my Habitat friend Hector. As her husband and bewildered children looked on, I dialed the number, and was relieved to hear him finally answer.

"Hector, it's Robin. I'm at Agua Calliente. There are no Habitat houses here. Yesterday you told me there were 60 houses here built by Habitat. Where are they?"
"Ah, you are in Agua Calliente, in the municipality of Copan Ruinas?"
"Yes, of course."
"No, they are in the other village of called Agua Calliente. Of course. Over in Santa Rita." "But..."
I was cut off by the Central American phone company. Fortunately I had heard all I'd needed to from the conversation. No question about it; we had driven one hour through the mountains to the wrong town.

Although it was only 10am, there was nothing for us to do but turn around. I thanked the lady (now fully clothed), and paid the 3 limperas for the phone call. Then, we headed back on the twisting dirt trails, headed for home.

I have noticed a pattern here of multiple towns within only a few miles of each other that have the same name. Why would anyone do this? I don't care about being 'culturally aware'; this is just ridiculous. Of all the words in the Spanish language, why chose the same ones? All this does is cause confusion! And I mean, really. ....As if I don't have enough problems communicating in a language I haven't studied in 5 years.

As we drove back to town, pushing various cows out of the way with our bumper, I chatted with Luis about this other town of Agua Calliente. "Is it possible to get there in our truck?"
"Claro que no," he told me as if it was obvious. "You need a 4-wheeler or a very tall truck, in order to get through the rivers to that village of Agua Calliente." Which means that once again, I am stuck back at square one trying to find transportation. Do I know anyone in western Honduras with a four-wheeler and lots of free time during the next month? Noooo... I'm sure I'll find someone eventually, but it sure can be frustrating.

So, all of you sitting in your squishy chairs reading this in the good old US of A, take a minute out of your day today to appreciate the fact that 1) your town does not have the same name as another town 10 miles away, and 2) driving to work does not require finding trustworthy Hispanic men with four-wheelers, pushing cows out of the road, or fording deep rivers. I love it in Honduras, but I as this trip progresses, I am also realizing how much I love the United States. With the infrastructure of electricity, phones, good roads, bridges, (and unique town names), work can get done so safely and efficiently; something almost all of us Americans take for granted. We have the resources in the US to get things accomplished, and for as much as we all complain about work, most of what we do is actually done pretty easily and efficiently.

But ultimately, I suppose all that for all the benefits of efficiency and predictability, it does take some of the adventure out of the working experience. I won't lie; I had a lot of fun today, even if I didn't manage to get any data... ah, Central America. Just think; I could be in the US right now sitting in some hospital office on a computer everyday. No cows, no rivers, no topless old ladies. And where would the fun be in that??

A Visit from Dad

After five days of blissful air conditioning and pool-swimming, my dad has officially left Honduras. I admit, it was so wonderful to have him visit! Not only did I receive an excessively large care package from my family (including a real, actual pillow, which I found out is not common down here otherwise), but I also got to finally show someone around the town I have grown to appreciate, and finally have someone to share this unique central American experience with.

When all was said and done, my dad did pretty well with third world country living! He came with me for a day in the "field", collecting data in the small mountain village of Carrizalon. He and I checked out the Mayan Ruins, and yesterday for his last day we even went on the infamous canopy tour with my new friend Kalvin. My dad, on a zip line! Who would have thought. But good times were had by all. And even despite the mild disaster of a Honduran computer virus plaguing both our computers last night, alls well ends well. I'm so lucky to have family that care about me so much!!

Tuk-Tuks on a Saturday

My dad came to visit me in Honduras!! I'm so excited to have someone to show around, and it's been great having someone to finally do some of the tourist-y stuff around here with me. This morning we went up to one of the small rural villages with Ellen, a US woman who lives with me and does school supplies and housing projects. I couldn't believe how high up we drove in that little "tuk-tuk"!

More photos here...

What I Did Today

"OK kids, the machete is a large cleaver-like cutting tool. It is used for such household tasks as cutting large foodstuffs into pieces or to perform crude cutting tasks such as making simple wooden handles for other tools. You also use machetes for their odd jobs such as splitting open coconuts, working the lawns, or other related activities. Additionally, it is the most popular no-fire weapon used by bandits and outlaws. Now, on the count of three...."

In all seriousness, that was not what I was actually saying during this picture. I was actually asking their mom, "Before your new house from Habitat for Humanity, were your walls made of mud, adobe, earth, sticks, or concrete?" Yeah. That's a little closer to the unexciting truth.

My Side of the Mountain

After much deliberation, I packed up and moved across town. About a week ago, I met a local guy named Kalvin who offered to help me find a more long term place. Living in a hostel was great for meeting new people and learning the ins and outs of Central American backpacking, but in reality I was craving friendships that last beyond 24 hours. And I was sick of working all the time while everyone around me was on vacation.

My new place is great! I live with a local family, and there are also a few other gringos here studying Spanish. The entire household is perched on the side of a mountain, so each room is kind of above another, connected by winding paths. It's sunny and huge, and I even have my own bathroom! Best of all, it doesn't flood or rain dirt inside during storms. My room is on the bottom level, but there is still a cliff and an entire neighborhood about 50 ft below.

The only real disadvantage so far is the dogs. Don't get me wrong; the puppies are adorable and the mother is very fun, but unfortunately the small dirt area outside my room seems to have become their regular dumping spot. Tonight the smell was getting to be too much after the rainstorm, so I took it upon myself to venture out and remove the source of the unpleasantness. Armed with a plastic grocery bag, I grabbed the most recent package and flung it over the chain link fence, down the mountain.

CRASH. I winced as I heard the metal roof of our neighbors' garage buckle under the impact. Apparently their house was closer to our cliff than I'd thought! I ducked away quickly, hoping they would just assume it was a mango (it is mango season, after all; I've almost gotten hit twice this week). Returning to the task at hand, I picked up a wetter, hefty handful. Tentatively, I flung this one over the other end of the cliff thinking that surely it would land in the steep dirt below.

SPLAT. How could I possibly have hit their house again?! This time I heard voices, and quickly retreated to my room in horror of what I'd done. In my head, I tried to estimate the odds of two mangos falling within the same minute; pretty slim, even here in mango country. Would they notice? I can only imagine what I would do if I discovered such a gift being repeatedly flung at my tin roof. Of all the disgusting things I have done in my life, I have to think this ranks in the top ten. It has to.

A few hours later, I bravely peaked down at my poor unfortunate neighbors as I was putting up my new hammock. A man about in his fifties looked up at me, tipped his cowboy hat, then pulled down his pants and proceeded to pee in his driveway. I have no idea if this awkward exchange was related to the earlier events or merely another unique Honduras experience. More likely the latter. Either way, I can only hope his entire family shares his Central American indifference toward biohazard waste.

Meanwhile, my room still smells. But I can only imagine what gases the people sleeping below that metal roof are breathing right now. And then I realize that I have no room to complain!

And to think, I am supposed to be here helping people.

Bananas and Crackers

I think I terrified my mom this morning when I called her at 6am to get google information about amoeba and giardia symptoms. I’ve been sick for over 4 days now, and last night it got so bad that I admit I kind of freaked. There are no hospitals here so my tropical disease diagnoses are at the mercy of long distance phone calls and my mom’s dictation of WebMD. (The earthquake messed up the wireless) I will spare you the gross details of my vast array of symptoms, but you can at least know that today I managed to keep down my anti-parasitic drugs today and my antibiotics, so hopefully at least one of those will help me kick this thing. Meanwhile, I haven’t actually eaten a meal in almost five days. I have to force myself to eat bananas and crackers, because I obviously need some nutrients, but I tell you it has been rough. I’m beginning to wonder if research abroad is really all it’s cracked up to be…

EARTHQUAKE

Last night, I woke up at 2:30am only to realize that I was bouncing in my bed. Bouncing! Up and down, back and forth. As my adrenalin washed away the sleepened confusion, I realized that this had to be what an earth quake feels like! I sat up in bed in alarm, a million thoughts running through my head. Do I stay here? Run outside? Could I even make it to the door? Do I shut the windows? Lie under my bed? Unplug my computer? As the seconds went by, I came to the realization that 24 years of Michigan disaster preparedness interventions have only prepared me for fires, snowstorms, lightning, and tornadoes. For earthquakes, I was useless.

Everything just kept shaking. I heard a crash outside, and watched helplessly as my kitchen and research supplies fell off my desk. The roof rattled and farm animals in every direction howled as I sat, bouncing in my bed. Then, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped! There were a couple more small shakes, and then it seemed to be done. After about a minute, I cautiously came out of my room to see what was going on. Other tourists emerged from their rooms wide-eyed (I was not the only one who had just experienced my first quake) and we watched as the entire street filled with locals. They seemed as surprised as the tourists and the farm animals!

When I woke up in the morning, the first thing that popped into my mind was a memory of Jackie, my friend from Los Angeles, telling us a few months ago that when an earthquake happens you are supposed to stand in a doorway. Of course, the doorway! I think she had even demonstrated unnecessarily for us in our Ann Arbor house. But I guess waking from REM with norepinephrine and epinephrine rushing through my circulatory system, I hadn’t managed to pull that one from my brain. Fortunately, it wasn’t bad enough to require any life-saving techniques. Still, what an adventure!

This morning I was chatting with the maid and I mentioned it had been my first earthquake. She was surprised, and I struggled as I tried to explain in Spanish that Michigan isn’t located on a fault line. She didn’t even know how earth quakes work! I stammered something like “There are many lines in the earth, and one here in Honduras. The earth is moving parts, like here in Honduras. We don’t have them in Michigan. Because Michigan is in the north of the United States, far from California or China or Honduras. I only see earthquakes on television and movies.” Needless to say, I left her thoroughly confused. Even I was lost in my bad Spanish rambling. She frowned, saying, “Earthquakes kill people and they are very dangerous.” Yeah. Well. She was right on with that one. I know that my geology knowledge and vocabulary are moderate enough in English, but in Spanish I was officially a disaster at explaining the patterns and science of plate tectonics. Hopefully, for her sake, next time she can get her geology lessons from a more communicable source…

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(1 day later)
Since then, I have learned that it actually was pretty bad in the cities on the coast. Yipes! I guess we were pretty fortunate after all. Still no wireless internet, but we have running water and power so I guess relatively it's good. And the promised aftershocks over the next 24 hours never actually happened, so I guess we should be grateful for that as well. More to come...

H1N1 - Close to Home

"Honduras confirmed its 1st case of Influenza A (H1N1) on [21 May 2009]. The affected was a 9-year old girl who resides in the neighborhood of Cabanas. The case was detected by the Ministry of Health's Sentinel Surveillance." -- ProMed Digest V2009

So, I was supposed to go into a little town called Cabanas tomorrow with the local missionaries, (since my Habitat motorcycle guy only goes on weekdays) but they ended up canceling because of other events going on. Then I came online tonight to see this message in the world H1N1 update. Crazy! It's kind of exciting to have one of my Habitat for Humanity villages is in the international news, but a little disconcerting at the same time. The people in this tiny community don't even have soap or running water, much less a clinic or any sort of public health interventions... something to think about!

I'll save Cabanas for a later time and date, I think. I know most of you think this Swine Flu thing has been grossly over-reacted, but you are not living in small villages in a third world country... after seeing health resources here I'm beginning to appreciate those wretched Rite-Aids and Wallgreens on every US street corner more than ever before.

Home Life in Honduras

For living in a hostel, the rooms couldn’t be cleaner and my living standards are nearly as good as could be expected for budget Central America housing. "Iguana Azul" has been great so far! My bedroom opens up into the common area, where there are 2 other private rooms and two rooms filled with bunk beds. There is a small garden outside, and showers better than I ever would have guess would be in Honduras. Each day, different people come, stopping for a night or two as they “backpack” across Central America. I’ve made friends with four different groups from Britain, an Austrian couple, two French teenagers, a Japanese girl (who consequently hooked up with one of the Brits after 2 days here), and others. It's bee frustrating because no one stays for more than a few days, but I'm trying to look at it as a unique opportunity to meet hundreds of people from all over the world this summer.

My favorite hostel-mate so far was this guy from Connecticut, originally from Togo in Africa. He was beyond huge, standing probably close to 7 feet with arms thicker than my thighs. But as a gentle giant; he was friendly as could be. We ended up getting along really well! His English was nearly perfect, since he’d studied in Ghana after growing up speaking his native African language Last night we went walking around town, and for the first time not a single Honduran made cat calls at me, or even beckoned to me! As we meandered through the streets, I could see the local guys looking at me in a new light, and with my giant bodyguard I was able to check out places like the pool hall that I usually am forced to avoid for the sake of my own personal safety. What fun! I wish he was staying longer. And I hope the local bachelors remember my large friend the next time they see me walking by, though I somehow doubt it.

This weekend, everyone cleared out and there are 13 Danish girls staying here. They are all about 19 or 20 and very cute; I think I am living every guys’ fantasy, sleeping here in a hostel with them all. It reminds me vaguely of 'Newberry dorm' in Alma. Maybe I can go out with them all tonight; I confess I’d really like to see the locals’ reaction to so many skinny blondes in one place at the same time…

Cootie-catchers

Today I got done about 30 minutes before Hector, my transportation, so I hung out with the local 5 year olds and wowed them with my mad cootie-catcher making skills. Amazing how that trick works with the richest of the Harbor Springs trust fund babies, and the poorest of the indigenous tribes in the mountains of Honduras! Totally the highlight of my day, although it had nothing to do with parasites.

Motorcycle Chica

This week, I began my first actual data collection!

Tuesday morning at 8am, I met Hector, the local Habitat employee who works in the indigenous villages surrounding the town of Copan Ruinas. We met in the town plaza, and I could feel about 50 pairs of eyes on me as I bravely strapped on my helmet and climbed on the back of his motorcycle. Hector is a big guy with a leather jacket much too thick for this hot climate, and I’m still not sure exactly how he feels about me tagging along with him each day this summer. But even though we can only communicate in bad Spanish, I trusted him from the start.

I thought I would be terrified riding on the back of a motorbike through twisting mountain roads filled with pot holes, bigger holes, and endless reckless truck drivers but it’s actually pretty incredible. What a rush! As we peel around roads curving along the side of mountains, I look out at the incredible green jungles below us, and almost feel like I’m flying! I love feeling the cool wind on my face; the mountain air has a freshness that I cannot describe.

The scariest part about my motorcycle commutes are the remote dirt trails we use to get from the main roads to the villages. They are steep, sandy, and muddy when it rains. Almost every community has trails with no bridges over the rivers. We cruise right on through, and so far only once did I not lift up my feet high enough to stay try. I’m told that once the rainy season fully arrives, the steep dirt trails become muddy and dangerous, and the rivers can even become too deep to cross safely. Others tell me that it won’t be a problem… so I guess I’ll just have to wait and see for myself. Even now, some of the rivers we go through are 12 inches deep or more; I can’t imagine going through anything deeper! I’ll be sure to keep you posted on how that pans out over the next few weeks.

Since some of these villages are so remote, I am a spectacle for all to see me. My town of Copan Ruinas has quite a few European and American tourists, so I am able to blend in somewhat, for Central America. But in these communities, I get the feeling that for some I am the first white person they have ever seen. Others have been vaccinated by public health workers before me (also white), causing the toddlers to cry in fright when they see me. Sadly, I am associated with their past experiences of white people, involving big needles! I’ve taken to stocking my backpack every morning with a few dozen balloons, which seems to win over the crying 3-year-olds pretty readily, although they still stare at me in part wonder and part horror.

The adults and older kids are equally shocked at my presence, but in contrast they are nothing but welcoming. Even before they have any idea why I'm visiting, I am gladly invited into each house, and offered the nicest seat they have to offer. Sometimes it’s a wooden stump, sometimes it’s a plastic chair, and sometimes it’s a concrete bench; but I'm relieved to find that I am consistently welcomed wholeheartedly. (Can you imagine trying to conduct a door-to-door survey in the US? What a different experience!)

When I arrive at a village with Hector, he connects me with the “promatora”, a woman in the community who is usually the richest, and in charge of all public health, clinical, and medical issues despite the fact that she usually has little or no official training. The promatoras take me to each house that has been renovated by Habitat, and they help explain what I’m doing when my Spanish fails to be close enough to the Maya Spanish spoken in indigenous homes. One promatora even took me to her house for a “break” in between houses and fed me strawberry cake with all her kids and grandkids watching my every move. I obviously couldn’t decline. While the cake tasted amazing, I paid dearly for it later that evening, lying in my bed for 3 hours of bathroom-frequenting stomach-wrenching agony. I am learning that there is much more to international Epidemiology than I had anticipated…

Photos - Week 1

With little internet time tonight, I'm not going to go into details. But I managed to upload some of my favorite photos from the past couple days, so check out those if you want to see some cute kids, adobe walls, or pink chickens. PLEASE look at these photos! After sitting in the street tonight with fireants for over an hour uploading them, the least you can do is humor me!

More Photos Here

Holy Construction Site, Batman

I give you, the importance of all those blinking orange construction barrels we have come to take for granted in the USA...

Food for Thought

This morning I wandered around my small town of Copan Ruinas with the Japanese boys after a frustrating meeting with the Centro de Salud guy and drowned my sorrows in a delicious pineapple smoothie while people watching in the plaza. I bought some carrots from a little girl and her mother who had brought vegetables in giant baskets on their heads from who knows how far. They seems thrilled and amazed that I wanted to buy anything from them, and eagerly sold me a giant bundle of carrots for the equivalent of about $.60 US.

Copan Ruinas seems very different from other Honduras towns from what I’ve seen nearby. It is “touristy”, but not in a way that Charlevoix or Frankenmuth is touristy. The tourist attractions are almost exclusively run by foreigners, from the US or Europe. Even a good chunk of the local souvenirs say “made in Guatemala” or “made in Thailand” on the back. There are some families in homes near the downtown, but overall the town seems fairly superficial, full of Americans desperately trying to seek places far from other Americans, yet also seeking the identical amenities and travel experience of American standards. I’m not blaming the tourists; for Americans, purified water and electricity and secure bedrooms are essential for travel in Central America, and locals don’t have the equity to build those kinds of facilities. Don’t get me wrong; it’s good that Americans are coming here to spend money and experience the culture. It’s just unfortunate that nearly all the places with the necessary amenities are owned and employed by foreigners.

Oddly enough there are times when the tourists I see here in Copan Ruinas remind me of people back in Ann Arbor, where people all strive to be unique in the same way, through bright woven bags and baggy hippy linen pants while maintaining all parts of American culture that are most convenient like quality Columbia backpacks and expensive trendy sunglasses. Most here consider themselves to be “backpacking through Central America”, and I see them coming and going from hotels with their huge backpacks, but I have yet to see any of them actually walking alongside the road. The “backpacking” title is glamorous but misleading, as they use taxis and buses just like everyone else. As in Ann Arbor, the ideal is to be uniquely “rugged”, while in reality few reject the luxury to maintain comfort and security. The contrast is striking to the locals around us, who are wholly “rugged” by economic status and lack of opportunity or resources. Sometimes I wonder how they perceive our vague attempts at ruggedness. Growing up in a small hut in the mountains with so few possessions and luxuries, is it even possible to comprehend why people would want to intentionally sleep outside or bathe infrequently? I’m not sure, but then again I didn’t grow up in a hut in the mountains, so who am I to say? Although I am here with a specific mission, my needs are money spending patterns are not unlike those I just criticized. All and all, I am glad that the tourists are here despite their hypocrisy not unlike mine. But the system stinks. Our money should be spent more in the poor surrounding communities full of people desperate for food and work, and less to the rich American hotel and restaurant owners. If there only was a way…

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Anyhow, the carrots were delicious. And I've made a promise to myself to buy my produce and research supplies from the mountain villagers as much as possible, from here on out. At least that's one small thing, for starters.

Just call me Miss Communication

So many adventures, I’m not even sure where to start. So I guess I’ll begin with yesterday morning…

Since I’m collaborating with the National Program of Chagas Disease and the Japan International Cooperation Agency (JICA), I was invited to a conference with all the big-wigs of Chagas in the town of Santa Rosa. Apparently, anyone who is anyone in Honduran Chagas research was coming. My collaborator, a Japanese researcher, arranged me to travel with a JICA World Vision volunteer who was also coming from my village of Copan Ruinas. Thank goodness! A chaperone!

I met “Yoshi” at the bus stop early in the morning. Turns out, he’s the same age as me! And lots of fun, although the communication was nil since he spoke no English and I no Japanese. We both relied on Spanish, which was rough since neither of us has very similar accents. He’s been here in Honduras 6 months now, but only studied Spanish two months prior to coming here so his language stills aren’t a ton better than mine. Lots of very very small talk, making the bus ride was hilariously awkward for both of us.

We arrived in a town and I followed Yoshi off the bus, thinking we were in Santa Rosa. He got on his phone, and confused I followed him across the street, in and out of a couple buildings, and finally to the supermarcado where a pickup with “Estado de Honduras, Programa Nacional de Chagas” written across the side. We got in, drove a few blocks to someone’s house, then got out. Bewildered, I kept asking “que esta pasando” but didn’t get very good answers. Or at any rate, I wasn’t very good at understanding them. Eventually we met four other official-looking health people, and then they drove off in the truck while Yoshi and I wandered the town. I found a bathroom, and then followed Yoshi to a place where we ate ice cream. Random… and I still had no idea what in the world was going on. We continued our small talk, but stopped after he got embarrassed from trying to tell me my shirt was a nice color. People all around us were staring; I’m pretty sure they could understand both of us, and were highly entertained that we couldn’t understand each other with our different accents. At any rate, we were quite a spectacle. Finally, 20 minutes later the pickup returned, still full of official-looking health people. They squeezed us in (I was up front in a small seat with another small woman, but it was still hopelessly tight. Thank goodness for my tiny rear end!) We then proceeded to drive for about an hour through more winding mountain roads. The view was incredible, but I was glad I hadn’t eaten much for breakfast. Whew.

When we arrived, I piled out of the pickup with 6 others, and emerged in the parking lot outside a five star hotel. The others began checking in, and taking their backpacks to their rooms…. finally it became clear what was going on and my heart jumped. This was an overnight event! I’d suspected it as such, but the night before when I asked Yoshi, I’d thought he answered “one day only”. Whoops. Apparently not. Suddenly became extremely self-conscious. I was surrounded by a bunch of important health professionals from all over the country, and no one seemed to recognize me as a foreigner or the “estudiante de USA” that had been e-mailing them for the past six months. Finally, after standing around awkwardly for a few minutes, Yoshi and the others from my pickup took me upstairs to meet my collaborator, Ken. He was very nice, and explained that yes, it was a two-day conference. I felt so dumb because I’d known that, but I’d just blindly planned on what Yoshi had said not even thinking the situation through completely.

As we began the conference, it became more clear to me what was going on. This wasn’t a whole lot different from US conferences, and really it was just a matter of listening to presentations from representatives of each department (the equivalent of a US county) and the results of different recent education and spraying interventions in western Honduras. After the horrifying “go around and everyone introduces themselves” (horrifying for me because not only did I have to speak in Spanish in front of everyone, but I had to try and remember who all these people were, and what they did, where) I was safe to sit back and actively listen to the rapid Spanish reports with every ounce of concentration I could muster.

Thankfully, they people from the Pan American Health Organization (or maybe it was JICA or the Honduras government, I’m not sure) offered to cover my room, and after the presentations ended, one of the Copan physicians moved her stuff from her single room into a new double for us to share. So I wasn’t homeless. But I was still without any clothes, toothbrush, etc. Luckily I am not girly and this didn’t bother me a ton, but I still wasn’t thrilled about being at an official conference in clothes I’d slept in. But such is the life of the hopefully confused Spanish-learner.

That evening, I hung out with the Japenese boys. It turns out, there are five of them in addition to Yoshi, scattered throughout western Honduras doing various things as volunteers. They were really patient with me, speaking Spanish for my benefit with surprisingly few side comments in Japenese (or “Hap-pon-ESS-ae” as it’s pronounced in Spanish apparently). We had a hilarious conversation that was limited, but entertaining as they were all extremely curious about the United States, and English. At one point, our broken Spanish conversation evolved to this:

“So, Spanish is so different from Japanese. It seems to me that if you can learn Spanish, English will be much easier after to learn.”

“Yes, we would like to learn English, but English is very different also from Spanish”

“No, it’s not so different. Most times, you just add ‘o’ to the English word, and it is like the Spanish word”

“Really? Like which words?”

I drew a blank. I mean it; a complete, 100% blank. Hadn’t we always thought that in Spanish class? Why, oh why, couldn’t I come up with a word that was the same in Spanish, except with an o on the end? I finally muttered something about “well, I can’t think of any now but I will tell you when I do…” feeling dumber by the minute. Needless to say, they were unimpressed.

Of course, later I thought of hundreds. Insect – Insecto. Rapid-Rapido. Comic-comico. But alas, by then they had lost all hope in my witty-Spanish contributions. And the Japanese boys remain confused. And ever-hopeful that I will one day teach them English…

To conclude, we did day two of the conference and then left around 1pm (travel takes a long time around here, and must by done by day which complicates things). The ride home was beautiful and I didn’t even mind being squished in the pickup because I was able to lean out the passenger window and enjoy the beautiful mountain scenes. I’m pretty sure the rides in the mountains are my favorite part of Honduras so far. I love watching the world go by with the warm wind rushing past my face, getting fresher and cooler as we go up, and warmer and sunnier as we come down each time. I’m not great at descriptions, so you’ll have to take my word on it that the views are fantastic.

Tomorrow I am going to try and find a solution to my lack-of-bug problem. First stop is the local Municipalidad, and after the Centro de Salud in town. (Approximately city hall and health department, I think. I’m still not an expert on Hondurean government systems but I’m getting there) Then it’s off to find my friend Hector, the infamous Habitat guy with the motorcycle that I have yet to meet. Hopefully things will work out and I will be able to have an idea for an alternative non-bug-counting project soon!