Bath Time

It's the little things we take for granted.  Like having 24 hour access to clean, running water, that can magically be changed from cold to warm to hot with the flick of a wrist!  The shower situation here is interesting to say the least.  From what I can tell, there are three levels: bucket baths, cold showers, and electroduchas.

Bucket baths are relegated to volunteers living with host families who do not have regular access to running water, and, sometimes, to lazy volunteers.  I fall into the second category.  There have been plenty of long stretches where I've missed our window of running water and, like some folks do with a shirt they wore the previous day, I give myself the sniff test and call it good for another day.  Sorry Mom!  Here's why I try to avoid them like the plague.  So a bucket bath, as you can imagine, involves water and buckets.  You fill a 5 gallon bucket with water from the pila (see earlier post for description), take the big bucket with you to shower, get nekkid, use a smaller bucket as a ladle, pour water on yourself, lather up with soap, pour more water on yourself to wash the suds off, and voila, clean as a washing machine.  Sounds like a little more work than a normal shower or bath, but not too bad, right?  Except that this water is generally very cold to frigid.  It's one thing to have to force yourself to run under a constant stream of cold water for a few seconds, it's a whole other ballgame to actively pour it on yourself...  Luckily, I have only had to endure one so far.

Cold showers seem to be the norm, you just hope that you've got decent pressure.  In 2 of my 3 home stays, I've had cold water; once with good pressure, currently barely a trickle.  The reason that makes such a big deal is because of the 'water pressure/duration of shower' ratio.  The harder the pressure, the less time you need to agonizingly take to get clean.  In both instances, our water was rationed and we tended to get it at the coldest times of the day.  In my last house, we had running water from a spring high in the mountains (read: cold) from 6-7am and 8-9pm pretty much every day.  I currently have running water from 5-9am daily.  The early morning is just about the last time I want to shower with cold water.  At midday when it's 90 degrees?  Ok.  At 5pm after playing soccer for an hour?  Sure. 

If your house has an electroducha, you've hit the jackpot.  Sort of.  An electroducha is a scary contraption that is attached to the shower head and heats the water passing through using electricity.  Sounds semi-dangerous.  In fact, there are some brands that you have to literally jump like a car battery to turn on, while the water is on...  A fellow volunteer had one of these.  I say 'had' because after she worked up the nerve to make sparks fly while in the shower, her electroducha overheated, popped, and smoke bellowed out of it.  Not only had she endured a frightening experience that should have resulted in at least minor electrocution, but now she was relegated to frigid showers too.  Luckily, in my first house in Zarabanda, I not only had an electroducha, but I had one that automatically turned on once you hit a certain level of water pressure.  The good life indeed!

I've spared you any photos of me actually taking showers, but below are a couple from inside my shower because there's something else to look out for that I hadn't previously mentioned.  It's wise to have a peek in your shower before stepping in, I found these two critters in mine...  Remember, it's the little things that we often take for granted!

The size of the palm of my hand

Even bigger and more menacing...

Hippie Days

No Peace Corps blog is complete without at least one reference to the Hippie lifestyle commonly associated with Volunteers.  I've found myself playing a ton of hacky sack during our 10 minute breaks in training and I've got to admit that it's a lot of fun.  Should come in handy with all of the soccer I plan on playing.

I have also broken down and given yoga a go.  I'd always been reticent to try it because I am the least flexible human alive and I disdain having to stretch before playing sports.  But, knowing that a solitary life is looming, I am always looking for ways to keep healthy and busy once in my final site.  The wife of our Assistant Country Director led a couple classes for us and I found it to be physically challenging, but all around enjoyable.  I picked up a yoga mat and a few of her DVDs to add to the P90X that someone let me burn.  Now, if anyone knows where I can find some discipline and dedication to fitness, please leave a comment...

In the center in blue, wondering what I'd gotten myself into...

This body's not made for yoga, even this move hurt!

When the hacky sack starts getting out of control, we'd always
try to pass it to steady Roman (right) to get us back on track.

29 Going On 9...

I'd been warned by a half dozen former Peace Corps Volunteers about training.  About how we'd be herded around like Kindergartners.  About how there'd be more rules than trainees.  About how we'd want to tear our hair out having to live under the roofs of new 'parents' with new rules.  About how all the above would make us feel like we were 9 years old again.  While most of that is true, I feel like the last bit is mostly due however to how we trainees have adapted socially to our new environment.  That said, the 9pm curfew is a bit of a downer...

It all starts with the home stay.  Having used my cellphone back home to wake me up every morning, I mindlessly forgot to pack an alarm clock.  During the first week, before I am able to buy a cellphone, my host Dad has to yell down to me to wake up every morning...  I then get ready in my room and head upstairs for breakfast.  Around 6:55am, I am sent on my way, usually running borderline late (really, nothing changes...), with my backpack around my shoulders and my lunch bag in hand.  I meet the other volunteers and we pile into our old, discarded yellow school bus, formerly used in some random county somewhere in the US.  Now I'm only 5'7" (a tall 5'7" mind you...), but those yellow school buses must have been made for kids under 5' tall.  The ride is only 15-20 minutes, and thank goodness for that.  I don't know how the 6'4" guys manage.

Taking the bus to school
(Photo by Vlad Pascu)

Once at the training center, many of us cram every second of free time with any number of sports like soccer and games we'd invented on the spot, like ultimate frisbee with a rugby ball and our latest favorite, ass-ball (basically, the losers of a soccer juggling circle go up against a wall while the winners get to kick the ball at them as hard as possible).  The first half of recess sees the 53 of us sitting on the ground, nervously opening up our lunch bags to see what Honduran treats our mothers have packed for us.  Then the bartering and sharing begins.  None of us want any of the food to go to waste, but clearly some of us don't want to eat absolutely everything that's packed for us.  Some guys are known as the trash compactors, capable of eating anything and everything placed in front of them, and therefore they are the go-tos when someone gets something fairly unpalatable.  It definitely resembles any cafeteria scene in any middle school in the US, sans delicious Capri-Suns and Ho-Hos.

Let the bartering begin!
(Photo by Ryan Gever)

The second half of recess (well, really the majority of recess after we quickly wolf down our food) is dedicated to the aforementioned sports and games.  No matter how badly I want to stay sweat-free for our classes in tight quarters, the lure of playground sports glory always gets the better of me.  One lesson learned the hard way so far is that once you start sweating in Honduras, it's nearly impossible to stop.  I generally spend the second half of the day in the corner of the classroom, as far from the fairer sex as I can get. 

The soccer isn't the best quality, but certainly competitive!
One of my friends broke 2 ribs when he was slide-tackled into a bench...

Golaso by Jeremy

Tom doles out some punishment
(Photo credit to Jeffrey Wetzel)

Finally, betting pools are back and better than ever.  Apparently there are secret pools about who is going to head home first, who is going to get sent home first, who is going to hook up with whom, on and on.  But my favorite and the best-natured pool is the Dengue Pool.  Thought up by my buddy Rojo, the idea is that anyone who wants to participate needs to put in 10 Lempira (roughly 50c).  The winner (or loser depending on how you look at it) is the first person to come down with Dengue, and the money is seen as a consolation prize to help them endure the days of endless pain and misery.  As of yet, there has been no winner, keeping my fingers crossed on this one...

Life Changes

As you can imagine, all of us will have experiences in our 27 months of service that can be defined as quintessential Peace Corps moments.  I was lucky to have one quite early on.  What follows is an email I sent to some folks after my first week in-country:  "this evening, i was hanging out with my deaf/mute 'tia' maria on the back porch (the adopted 'aunt' of my host family).  she was pressing corn tortillas and frying them on a wood-burning stove.  every now and then she would point out different fruit trees in the yard, making the only noise she's capable of making, sounds kinda like 'peh, pehhhh.'  meanwhile, i was standing at the pila (a concrete structure that includes a basin for water and a washboard) washing my clothes by hand, trying my best not to scrape all the skin off my knuckles.  every now and then, the two of us would chase the two dogs and one cat away from the stove, and die of laughter.  it was right about then that i realized my life's not gonna be the same for quite some time..."

Tia Maria readying the masa for tortillas

The fogon, a wood-burning stove found outside of most houses.
Very useful for when the power goes out, which happens often.

I luckily only had to do battle with that pila a couple of times
before Marcela let me use the washing machine right next to it...

Bienvenidos a la Casa de Munoz!

On February 24th, 53 gringos arrived in Tegucigalpa, very unsure of what lay ahead of them.  We'd just survived a horrific landing, which apparently is the norm at Toncontin International Airport.  For those like me who didn't know, commercial pilots around the world rate the landing in Tegucigalpa as their second least favorite and second most dangerous.  The runway is short and narrow and the airport lies in a valley that is generally shrouded with smog and smoke, and very frequently closed because of this.  The pilot needs to make an intense left bank, dropping his wing what felt like 75 degrees for a good 30 seconds right before he drops the plane on the tarmac and throws the reverse thrust into full effect.  Well, apparently it wasn't quite smoky enough for them to shut the airport down for our arrival but it was smoky enough to force our pilot to circle three times before deciding it was good to go.  We had to have been on the ground no longer than 15 seconds after we emerged from the clouds and smog.  Unbelievable.  Standing ovation for that guy.

We were greeted at baggage claim by the country director and a lot of the staff, which was quite reassuring.  After tracking down the last of our bags (53 people with anywhere from 50-80+ lbs of bags is a lot of stuff...), we were escorted to our buses and our first meal in-country: Dominos pizza.  Then we were shuttled off to the training headquarters outside of Tegucigalpa for a quick brief before meeting members of our host families.  My two biggest worries coming into this whole thing had to do with people more than anything else: how would the other volunteers be and how would the new 'families' be who would be taking me under their wing for weeks on end.  Both turned out to be just fine. 

Marcela Munoz, my new host 'Mom', was there to greet me.  Seemed nice enough but man if that wasn't the longest 20 minute bus ride back to my new house...  I don't know if it was actually hot that day or if I was just that uncomfortable, but I was sure sweating enough for both.  I hadn't taken a Spanish class in 11 years and it was certainly time for survival Spanish to kick in, big time!  We made our way to Las Canadas, my new neighborhood, and the two of us walked up to the house on the hill.  As you can see by the photos below, I lucked out big time.  The house was set back off the main road on a big property with upwards of 10 different types of fruit trees and vegetable plants all over.  My room was in the basement, cut off from the rest of the house with separate access and my own bathroom!

Home sweet home!

Beautiful house with an even more beautiful garden encompassing it

My bedroom: mosquito net flowing over the bed, closet in the middle
of the pic, and the bathroom behind the door with my towel on it.

Once I got settled in to my new digs and it was time for dinner, I popped upstairs to find the rest of the family had just gotten back from work and school.  Jose Luis ('Dad'), the aforementioned Marcela ('Mom'), Nahaman, Danny, and Marcela ('Brothers' and 'Sister'), Tia Maria, two dogs, a cat, and a parrot welcomed me with open arms.  I was the 6th PC trainee they'd hosted, so they were somewhat used to the quirky ways of the gringo, which helped settle my nerves a bit.

My first set of Honduran parents!

Jose Luis and Marcela are both wonderfully hospitable people.  It was clear from the start that my comfort was of their utmost concern.  Jose Luis has worked as a mechanic at the US Embassy for over 25 years.  He's a very creative, outside-the-box type guy who has a refreshingly inquisitive outlook on life, and was very helpful in catching me up to speed on present-day Honduras.  Marcela works as a grade-school teacher.  She couldn't have been nicer, always attending to my every need, particularly on the food side of things.  Both were incredibly patient and helpful with my Spanish and, because of that, we were able to have fairly deep and meaningful conversations about a number of topics, ranging from politics to religion to business to life in the US vs Honduras.

Brett, Marcela, and Danny

Nahaman (no pictures...), the oldest son at 23, is currently in university in Costa Rica.  He was at home for my first week and, being the oldest of the kids, made it a point to help me open up a bit through conversation.  He is an accomplished violist, having received a full ride to attend a month-long camp at Sewanee in Nashville, and is looking to head to Spain after school to continue playing.  He played a bit for me one evening and I was blown away by his talent.  He is clearly passionate about it and I am eager to follow his success.

Danny doing his best Alex Campos impersonation

Danny, 19, is studying Graphic Design and Computer Science in Tegucigalpa.  He couldn't have been nicer, always trying to keep conversation going and including me in anything he did.  Like his brother, he is musically inclined and plays both guitar and drums during Sunday church services.  When he explained how he'd gotten into music, he inspired me to do away with my usual lame excuse of 'I don't have a musical bone in my body' when asked if I play an instrument.  He said that he'd been inspired by Leonardo Da Vinci, a true polymath (thanks Wikipedia): painter, sculptor, architect, musician, on and on.  Danny reasoned that Da Vinci had a brain and two hands, just like he does, so what's keeping him from being a well-rounded person capable of playing multiple instruments, among other things?  Fair play, Danny.  I've always said that the banjo would be the one instrument I'd want to learn how to play, and well I certainly will have free time on my hands over the next 2 years, so the banjo search begins!  If anyone in the US, Honduras, or elsewhere has tips on buying (and of course playing) a banjo, please get in touch.  I'd like to start this new hobby up as soon as possible.

The Catracha serving Catrachas

Finally, I'd always wondered what it'd be like to have a younger sister and Marcela, 13, kind of made me wish I'd had one growing up!  She is a really good girl, a joker at heart.  Always up for a laugh, and playing off the fact that she's the beloved baby of the family, she was always making faces, teaching me Honduranismo's (funny Honduran sayings), and generally playing around.  That said, she's a good student and a good cook!  Whenever the parents were running late, she'd whip up something simple but delicious so that the gringo wouldn't morir de hambre.

So Where Are We?

A very quick snapshot of the country for those of you scratching your head as to where and what Honduras is.  Honduras is smack-dab in the middle of Central America, bordered on the NW by Guatemala, SW by El Salvador, SE by Nicaragua, the Pacific to the south and the Caribbean to the north.  By the way, you can click on any and all photos to enlarge them for a better view.

 

Honduras is divided into 18 departments, or states, that are home to 8 million people.  There are roughly 1 million Hondurans living overseas, primarily in the USA and Spain (20% of the country's economy is made up by remittances sent home by family members living abroad).  The primary business clusters are agri-business (coffee, bananas are the 2 biggest exports), forestry (I've never seen so many pine trees in my life), and tourism (once home to the mighty Mayans).  

The country has seen two recent setbacks, one caused by nature, the other by man.  In 1998, Hurricane Mitch wiped out 50% of the country's infrastructure.  Close to 6,000 people were killed and the country was set back by 30 years, helping make it the 3rd poorest country in the Western Hemisphere.  In 2009, the country had a constitutional crisis, which resulted in a military coup that ousted then President Mel Zelaya, which resulted in an international backlash due to the illegality of the coup.  It seems that the country has pretty much moved on from both instances and is looking forward to a better future.

Above is a map showing the 4 training sites.  The main PC training center is located in Zarabanda, very close to Valle de Angeles.  The other circles indicate the Field Based Training sites for Business (Yuscaran), Water and Sanitation (El Paraiso), and Health (Villa de San Antonio).

The Peace Corps has been in Honduras for 49 years.  Currently, there are roughly 170 PC Volunteers here, placed throughout the country, working in 6 project areas.  Besides the 3 already mentioned, there are also folks working in Youth Development, Municipal Development, and Protected Area Management.  We all go through the same 11 weeks of training (besides the obvious technical stuff) and we all take the same oath to the United States government to work for two years towards a) meeting Honduras' need for trained men and women in our respective fields, b) in promoting a better understanding of Americans on the part of Hondurans, and c) in promoting a better understanding of Hondurans on the part of Americans.

Logistics First

First things first, a quick breakdown of who we are and how training went down, with details to follow in upcoming posts.  53 strangers meet in a hotel (many of us escorted from the airport in a stretch limo supplied by the hotel, quite ironic...) in Atlanta on Wednesday, February 23rd.  Besides Jessica F who is from Atlanta, I probably have the shortest distance to travel, coming in from Columbia, SC after a nice week-long visit with my folks in Aiken.  Yet I am the 2nd to last person to arrive, several hours late due to a number of flight delays.  Quite an ominous start to this new adventure.  But like Peace Corps spouts throughout the entire year-long application process, be prepared to be flexible over the next couple years of your life.  They weren't kidding.

We endure the first of what will be many, many meetings involving ice breakers, skits, PC policy, and general information/thought sharing.  From what I can tell in those couple hours, we have quite an interesting, entertaining group from a variety of different backgrounds.  In total, there are 53 of us, ranging in age from 21 to 71 years old.  There are 4 married couples.  Four rugby players.  Several folks from the DC area, whether there recently for college, work, or born and raised in the area.  29 men, 24 women broken up into 3 projects: Business (12 guys, 6 girls), Water and Sanitation (13 guys, 5 girls), and Health (4 guys, 13 girls).  We will all get to know each other quite well during training.

Training is 11 weeks long.  The first 3.5 weeks are spent in the PC training center in Zarabanda, neighbor to touristy Valle de Angeles and 30 minutes outside of the capital city of Tegucigalpa.  During this time, we attend meetings detailing PC policy, health sessions, security sessions, they figure out what level of Spanish we all come in with, and we get started on our technical program-specific training.  We each live with our own host families in the neighborhoods in and around Zarabanda, as a way to start the full immersion into Honduran culture and the Spanish language.

After general training is complete, the 3 projects get split up for Field Based Training, and are sent to separate towns; Business to Yuscaran, Wat/San to El Paraiso, and Health to Villa de San Antonio.  Clearly by the names of the towns alone, Wat/San wins.  FBT entails 6 weeks of project-specific training.  Four hours a day of Spanish class, four hours a day of business training.  Again, we all live with individual host families.  FBT is more hands-on, we get pushed a lot more to use our Spanish, we go on field trips to experience the Honduran business climate.  Some of us grow wicked facial hair.

Six more weeks are up and we all reunite back in Zarabanda, move back in with our first families.  Another week and a half of general policy as well as classes preparing us for the real world (no more gringos, no more English, life is about to change dramatically).  Then the big day comes, Swearing In, Friday May 13th.  We all officially become Peace Corps Volunteers!  All 53 of us.  It really is quite a feat that we all made it.  There were certainly many plausible reasons for people to head home but I'm proud to say that we all pushed through and achieved our first of many goals.  The next day, our wonderfully safe American bubble bursts and we are on our own, to figure out exactly what it is we are doing here and what it is we want to get out of it.

The next many posts will flesh out the above, put some meat on the skeleton and attempt to give you a real sense of who we are and what we experienced.  The first 3 months were fun.  Here's to the next 24!