Prologue

OUR HERO finds himself surrounded by fried bananas. Armed with naught but a fork, a small vial of Tabasco, and a modest reinforcement of refried beans, he contemplates his impending doom. Sweet, salty doom…

Here begins the second volume of what portends to be a voluminous tome, chronicling global misadventures on a local scale. Together with a patchy prequel in Russia, and the first full account from Korea, this is shaping up to be something not altogether inconsequential… but don’t hold me to that.

Ok, so back to the fried bananas. Well, no, let’s go before them: the trip down. Nothing much of note happened, except that we were delayed twice on runways for a few hours. And the electricity went out in Immigration. And we ended up in a hotel in the middle of San Pedro Sula for the first night, instead of with our boss. And some other things. But, as the haiku travel gods advise:

Fall winds beckon, say

Fly American, Fly Cheap;

Fly Cheap, Can’t Complain.

Six hundred bucks for round trip tickets to Honduras, with an option to completely change the return date and location for fifty bucks – this is worth a little funkiness.

Our first week has been a lot of not much, owing to a national holiday spanning half a week, and the somewhat stormy return of an ousted president. We flew in to Honduras on Tuesday, got to our boss’ house on Wednesday, went to the beach on Thursday, taught class on Friday, went back to the beach on Saturday, played soccer on Sunday, taught class on Monday, nearly got stranded in a nearby city on Tuesday, and celebrated the temporary lifting of curfew on Wednesday at a Pizza Hut with wireless internet. To that same Pizza Hut Our Hero has returned, in order to post this very entry.

Which brings us to the fried banan – what? Curfew? Oh, it’s just this thing that the government decided was a good idea to have around the entire country, keeping everybody off city streets during certain hours. Because ex-president/exiled-president Zelaya has, against all reason, returned to Honduras… kinda. He’s holed up in the Brazilian embassy at the moment, beset on one side by supporters and on the other by police sworn to arrest him once the toe of his cowboy boot crosses the embassy line. So, starting Tuesday at around 4pm, Stuff Stopped. Buses stopped running, stores closed, and internet hiccupped. That last might have been a coincidence, as internet here has been spotty at best. But then airports and schools shut down, and it became completely apparent that Stuff was Up.

So, I sit at home – or the home of my boss – and watch TV reports about how much money Zelaya embezzled, looking for hints about whether tomorrow brings my third day of work, or another government enforced siesta. And I eat what we have here, which is a lot of delicious food – including the aforementioned fried bananas – and watch fuzzy satellite TV reruns of Friends, or surf the internet one kilobyte at a time, or sketch the surrounding scenery, photographic examples of which can be found next time.

And now cometh the Rains. To those of you who’ve never been in a tropical storm, the sheer amount of water currently falling is incomprehensible in words. Yet, I try: not drops nor spouts these, but unheralded streams nigh upon streaking sheets from the sky slamming against the roof tiles nightly, nimbus blitzkriegs whose drizzling shadows linger on to wet whatever withstood the first wave.

 

There are two other teachers who speak good English: Arthur, a younger German equivalent of Teddy KGB (really); and the oft-absent Elka, who has shown up for work only one day (out of four) so far. There may be another teacher coming from the Philippines, but details are sketchy at the moment. Luckily, my boss is from NYC and speaks Spanish, so there’s someone who can tell me the finer points of what the hell is going on.

I’d be remiss if I failed to comment on the food here. It is salty, starchy, fried, and crunchy. It has beans, it has meat, it has rice. It has earth tones. The drinks are made of molten sugar, with various tinctures added for marketing reasons. Water comes in many forms, sometimes in giant jugs, sometimes in palm-sized packets, but not from the tap. The beer has not been sampled, as we live with a pregnant woman, her husband who doesn’t imbibe, and a German who doesn’t like beer.

In short, Honduras is the anti-Korea. In the next edition, we'll see what that implies for Our Hero, who really shouldn’t whine. He chose a country in the middle of a coup, rather than sit around waiting for the job pool to dry up, leaving East Asia (loved it and left it) or McDonald’s.

Until then,

Nos Vemos!