sabo en el campo

los perros en la sombra

ruinas copán

mini super toñitos

pulperia

mr chris

elvin

beer run

Let's begin with a little clarification: This was a vino run.

Amanda and I decided we'd take a day trip to Santa Rosa de Copán today. It's basically the commercial capital of Western Honduras and everything you can't find in San Marcos is in the stores and markets up north.

After sleeping in and lolling about the house we made it out of town around 12.30 or so. As we approached the Dippsa (gas station), surprisingly, there was a bus leaving for Santa Rosa. (Normally you have to hitch out to the desvío for a bus.) It's crammed with market-goers and scorching outside today. Should we get on?

No. Let's jalón. Thumb out.

Ride to San Francisco del Valle. Thumb out. Ride to the desvío along the highway. I flag down a black SUV. It's Dr. Miguel. His daughters go the Green Valley School and they're going to Cucuyauga, half-way to Santa Rosa. Good enough.

Awkward car ride. Dr. Miguel who normally chatters constantly hardly says a word but rather listens to the Bee Gees. The girls stare blankly out the windows and act like they don't even know us nor respond to our questions and banter. Although tomorrow at school they'll be bragging about how they gave Mister Chris and Miss Amanda a ride yesterday.

Have you eaten lunch? No, but we had a late breakfast. Would you like to eat lunch with us? Okay.

Now we naturally assume: It is a Sunday afternoon. They're driving a half hour or so away to eat lunch. Probably have family in Cucuyagua and it'll be a nice meal with some Hondureños.

Right?

Wrong.

We stop at a gas station. But not to get gas. Maybe they own the station and the house is out back.

Wrong again.

It's just the Comedor Internacional where you find fried chicken, fried fish, and something that appears to be barbeque ham under hot lamps. Astonishingly uninternational.

Awkward lunch. No one wants to say anything. Isa, the most hyperactive second grader in the school, is eerily calm poking at her fried fish and ketchup splattered papas fritas. Come here often? Yes. Do you have family here in Cucuyagua? No. We just drove out here for lunch.

Thank you very much, we're on to Santa Rosa. No. I insist that I give you a ride back into the center of Cucuyagua.

Thumb out. It's worse hitching a ride here since lots of people are only going a few more minutes to their homes. Ah, look at the good graces bestowed upon us by the gods of El Salvador.

Where are you from? El Salvador. I know I saw the plates on your car. Bravo. The capital.

It's refreshing to have an educated conversation an always-amiable Salvadoreño. He doesn't normally pick up hitchhikers... well not locals anyways. We looked like Europeans or something. That was his excuse. He works in San Pedro Sula. Educating people. Creating a Central American Union. A business network, trade organizations. Working with the European Union to cultivate this. Talked politics, culture. Interesting guy.

Here we are in Santa Rosa. Cost = 0 Lempiras. Bonus = Free lunch?

Buy some household stuff at the BIG supermarket. Just about the same size and containing much of the same content found in American stores. Cross the street to the real market.

Disappointment. With the extra time we spent at almuerzo the show is pretty much over. Oh well. Walk up into town. Sundays are dead. We lazily walk about, sit in the plaza mayor, wander around the church. Back to the bus depot. Cross the street into the supermarket. Gonna buy some vino and some Argentine beer. We approach the checkout.

Fiasco. And not just the bottle. Two bottles of wine tapped together do not cost the price on the sticker. They cost their own individual prices but you can have this miniature bottle for free.

No thanks. I'll go grab a different bottle of wine.

Next ordeal: These bottles have a sign that says they're en oferta for 138 Limps. [Uncomprehending stare.] There's a sign back there that says this brand of wine is on sale. Can you bring me the sign? Sure. [Less understanding than before.] Another worker: No, a different bottle of wine of this brand is on sale. (This is specified nowhere). Okay, fine.

Make another trip back to the wine aisle to get the correct bottle of wine. Pay. Check receipt. (One of the first times I've ever had one in Honduras.) Put in backpack.

Cross street. Bus is leaving for San Marcos. Cost = 40 Limps. Pass. Thumb out.

Ride to Santa Teresa, the next town over. Thumb out.

Frenzied ride with ballistic driver and his gray mother in the back of his candy blue '87 pickup. Out in Cucuyagua. Bus we passed earlier is just pulling in. Cost = 20 Limps. Okay.

It's packed and I get the last seat in the very back of the bus next to a congenial Hondureño who's heading to Guatemala. Note: All of my friends have been telling me how impressed they are with my español progress, but I think they're just being nice. And Hondureños say the same but they're also being polite or trying to sell me something. But today I could see my progression as we talked continuously for an hour or more, mostly about la naturaleza--beautiful places to visit in Honduras and many of the crops raised (or no longer grown like sugar cane because it's not profitable enough) in Western Honduras as we flew by the fields--till we pulled up to the desvío outside San Marcos.

Adiós.

Yellow school bus arrives for the last leg into town. Cost = 15 Limps. A royal rip off for the transitory ride. I'll jalón next time.

¿Tiene hambre? We got some meat, veggies and tortillas from some girls across from the Dippsa.

I've never put so much effort into buying booze before. Should be delicious.

lavame

diez centavos

la tapia del fango

la montaña

al anochecida

Pablo took us on a trek as dusk approached.

Maggie, Hailey, and I followed Pablo over and under barbed wire fences, through rocky terrain and bushes, up small peaks and down the following valleys. Across Pablo's fields where we picked orange-tinged limes from his trees, past cocoa plants and banana trees, and between bushy stalks where crimson, ripening coffee hulls grew, each containing a slimy, cream-colored bean inside.

Maggie is a Peace Corps volunteer who works with Pablo to protect nature reserves and solve environmental or pollution problems like the dumping of fermented coffee waste into the waterways.

Pablo knows everything along the way, from the biology of all the vegetation to the symbiotic nature of some plants. Even a shrub with a spiky, orange orb covered in a fine hair; it's called huevos de gato or cat balls.

Descending to the waterfall, climbing up on the rocks, and perching atop as small, black specks circle above our heads in the ever-darkening blue gap between the trees.

Las golondrinas, for which the falls are named, start to dive. Time to nest. Sparrow after sparrow shoots through the narrow chasm past our heads to hover just before the crashing chute of water. With skill and agility the sparrows maneuver expertly into the crevices in the porous rock. Burrowing into their dens for the night. Then they momentarily reappear, chattering and darting between houses, floating in front of the cascading falls.

The string of golondrinas going home for the night surges and slows continuously, seemingly endless. It's now getting quite dark and I'm thinking we should begin the hike back. But the ever-accomodating Pablo has brought a can of manzana juice for each of us and a snack of Sour Cream & Onion Pringles.

We make our way over the dark trail avoiding cow piles and uneven ground up towards the road, a simpler route back in the night. Crossing a stream the cacophony of croaking drowns out the gurgling tributary. Maggie's sure they are an endangered species and we spy the pulsating throats bulge and flutter casting bulbous shadows on the rocks behind.

The road back passes cows grazing in slivers of moonlight and the cemetery outside San Marcos. Why not take a stroll through? Colorful tombs, extravagantly decorated in a way unique to Latin American countries, contain multiple corpses. When the plots fill up, the old bodies are moved but by then the bones are so fragile that they disintegrate into dust as soon as they're touched.

Back onto the dirt roads of San Marcos and home we go.

el ladrillo

la pulperia en la casa

la amanecida

vamanos de jalón

After 2 weeks of working 6 days, a FULL 2 day weekend was much anticipated. Let's get out of dusty, drab San Marcos. Finally.

Destination: El Zonte, el sol y la playa en El Salvador. Bueno.

Step One: Teach your kids kickball along with Miss Kari Anna's class. The last 2 periods of the day are fisica and she'll be the umpire so we can get outta town a little earlier.

Step Two: Start walking down the road that leads out of town to the desvío. Post up by one of the massive speedbumps and throw out your thumb. A cherry SUV stops and we cram into the back seat, Amanda and I on the seats with Hailey and our packs on top.

Step Three: Jump out at the highway crossroad as your red ride turns east. Luckily coming west right now is a bus. Ask and it's going to Nueva Ocotepeque. Board the world's slowest bus, which chugs up and over Güisayote and then crawls down the other side into town. Catch a taxi to El Poy, the border.

Step Four: Cross the border, exchange money to dollars. USD. Yes, El Salvador technically uses a bimonetary system of United States Dollars and the Salvadorian Colon. Translation: the Salvadorian Colon no longer exists. It's only $$$.

Step Five: Find next ride. Bus to San Salvador doesn't leave for another 40 minutes, maybe. Put that thumb back out. This time a white pick-up truck. Climb in the bed alongside a wheelchair. The wind blowing through my hair and the sun on my arms and legs feels so much better than a bumpy, stuffy, smoggy bus. Time flies as we pass through San Ignancio and La Palma making a pitstop for fresh fruit. Carlos, Rosa, and their little boy treat us to watermelon, mandarinas, and a massive papaya. Fresh cut and eaten from white plastic bags. Back on the road the orange nectar runs down our faces and hands as we demolish the sweet fruit. As we're getting close to San Salvador, I tell them we need to La Libertad next. Carlos is from there and that's exactly where they're heading too. Another guy joins us in the truck bed. We can't believe our suerte and our amazing jalón from Carlos. He finds out we want to be in El Zonte and insists on taking us the whole way there. The sun sets as we cruise towards the coast.

Step Six: Jump outta the truck, thank Carlos profusely and we get his number. Lago de Coatepeque is in the area and he'd love to show us that next time. Walk towards the sound of crashing waves. Check into our amazing hostel, 12 bucks a night. Hammocks sprout from palm trees that line perfectly manicured grass. Thatched roofs shade outdoor bars and lounging areas where more hammocks are as plentiful as the sand. Up an iron spiral staircase where patches of rust show through the chipped green paint we find our beds that look out onto to el mar. Order some food, mar y tierra, before their kitchens closes and sit on tiled area below our room. Casually sip Pilsners and talk lazily until...

Step Seven: Andrés and Carlos, friends from San Salvador, arrive. Andrés picked me up from the airport when I flew in and drove us all over town so we owe him a few drinks. But they've already brought plenty of their own. Talk life, politics, music. Then begin the drinking games. Culturas chupisticas. Translation: Culture suckers. It's identical to categories. Choose a theme and name everything you can under that topic. Brands of shoes: Nike, Adidas, Puma, on and on. Beer runs out, everyone at the hostel is asleep, everything in El Zonte is closed.

Step Eight: You know you don't need more beer when you have to drive 20 km to get it. But apparently that's never how it seems in the moment. Back to the beach and onto the sand with our 6 packs. Stare at the stars shining in the sky above the dark ocean. Black palms and rocks meet the horizon as the tide ceaselessly pushes and pulls at the beach. Play a bit in the waves and crawl into a hammock around 5 A.M.

Step Nine: Wake up early. I slept in a hammock on the balcony outside our room instead of my bed because I wanted to be up early, thus maximizing my time on the beach. It worked. The hot morning sun on my hungover body gets me right outta bed and walking on the sand eating an orange. The sun is blistering at 9 A.M. and I walk until rocky cliffs impede my path. Read, watch the macaws around the pool (which of course we didn't use), wake the girls, eat breakfast at the hostel, lose your sunglasses in the oceans (oh well, they had a good run), and head over to another beach.

Step Ten: Rent a tabla. Surf lessons begin now. Break for ceviche de camarón. Nap in a hammock. Watch some baby turtles get released into the ocean.

Back on the board. Back into the hamaca. Get some impromptu lessons from Ernesto who happens to be staying in our room. The orange orb hangs for a moment before melting into a creamy pink sky and dissolving into the water as I clumsily ride a few more undulations in the ocean. Surfing is awesome by the end of the day but I'm exhausted and my chest is raw and red from rubbing on the board.

Step Eleven: Back to the hostel, clean up, eat another ceviche at the hostel next door. Go down the road with Ernesto and some other guys from El Zonte to a concert where a cover band is playing Bob Marley, Manu Chau, and Sublime. Pilsners for a $1.50 abound. A makeshift stage is backed by the sand and waves while a cord runs across an empty pool to the sound tech. Chat politics with Caminante who is a guerrillero and passionate about what's happening in El Salvador. Presidential elections are in March and everybody I met is backing FMLN, ala izquierda. When the power goes out, the drums begin. Drums ranging in size from snare to several cylindrical monstrosities bellow thumps into the dark night above the outlines of inky palms and into the sparkling stars as we dance maniacally below.

Step Twelve: Realize that you really don't want to go back to San Marcos. Who would? La playa is majestic, la gente are spectacular, and the surf culture is relaxing. Wake up to see the sunrise from my bed but cannot bring myself any farther. But propped up in bed on one elbow is not a bad way to watch the sun cresting the horizon. After a bit more sleep I put my feet in the water one last time before breakfast. As we're settling the bill (having your entire stay, food, and alcohol on a tab system for 3 days can be dangerous), Teco's friend is preparing to drive back to San Salvador. Wanna hitch a ride? Yes sir.

Step Thirteen: Mario is a lawyer in San Salvador who surfs every morning before heading back into the city for work. We talk more politics. Salvadoreños are exciting about their young democracy and the opportunities for growth amongst their entire population, rich and poor. Many I met have a very optimistic, idealistic view about bettering the world and the people around them. Mario drives us through downtown San Salvador and by the massive, fortified grounds of the U.S. embassy. He goes far out of his way to drop us at Oriente, our bus terminal on the east side of the city.

Step Fourteen: Chicken bus* to El Poy, walk across border, taxi to Neuva Ocotepeque, bus to the desvío outside San Marcos. Jalón again. White pick-up trucks are lucky on this trip. Jump in the bed but the guy insists there's room in the truck. No, we're okay back here. No, he's really not leaving until we get inside. Okay. As we climb in, who do we see in the passenger seat? Padre Jon. An 81-year-old Catholic priest from Neuva York who speaks perfect Spanish minus his horrendous accent. I can't say much about my norteamericano acento but at least I try. We met him a week ago at Donya Olga's weekly Saturday lunch and he was excited to chat with us although based on some of our most recent conversation, we not sure if he really remembered us. It was thoroughly entertaining regardless.

Step Fifteen: Buy some avocados, quesillo, tortillas on the walk home. Try not to think about 6 A.M. and school tomorrow. And tonight you'll go to bed without your Superbowl.

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*Costs $1.80 for the 3 to 4 hour ride to the border in a supped up school bus covered in gaudy paint and Jesus-slogans where vendors of fruit, nuts, candy, enchiladas, vegetables, pupusas, and everything else imaginable jockey for your attention and money while staring at the gringos... especially the 2 blonde girls.

el carro