Clowns on the Chicken Bus + My Honduran Novio

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Riding Through Honduras

Getting around Honduras is no easy task.  It takes a lot of planning, wishing and hoping.  Hoping that the bus shows up on time, wishing that it got you there faster/cleaner/less crowded, and planning all the hours that the busses connect.  You miss one bus, or it leaves late/breaks down, etc and you are stuck in some small rural area until the very next day.  The majority of Hondurans (and Peace Corps Volunteers) find themselves fighting for seats everyday among old American schoolbuses, commonly known as “Chicken Buses” usually paying anywhere from L15 to L80 depending on where and how far you are going.  A usual trip for me from Orocuina to Choluteca cost L15 and takes anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour; the bus has no “bus stops” per say, but just lets people off wherever they want.  This means that it can stop every 15 feet or so whenever people request it.  If there is a bus stop, you better be prepared to fight until you have a spot, for not even old ladies or pregnant women are spared from the elbow pushing and clawing.  I have actually stood for three hours before all the way from Teguz to Choluteca and still paid full price, L82, had two kids throw up on me, and called it a day.  So is the life of public transit in Honduras.  (Note: My odds of being puked on by a child are far better than most people.  It almost always happens, small children despise me and aim to projectile vomit on me as though they win a prize).

This past week I ventured up to the airport, which included one chicken bus, one “direct” bus (an old Greyhound), and two “rapiditos” (minivans full of people), for a total of 9 hours of exciting fun.  For it is no easy task returning to the USA.  It is also not boring; often on the chicken bus, you will be joined by preachers, bakers, but I have yet to see a candlestick maker.  I do often see clowns.  I don’t know why the Latin American culture is so fascinated by clowns, or why they enjoy them on a bus, but they do.  As I ventured up to the airport, I was joined by a clown (not the best one I’ve seen, but he was there anyway) and I was able to video him without getting my camera stolen.  I also got some film of all the vendors who come on the bus selling everything from tacos to Coca-Cola to ice cream during a five minute us stop.  I hope you enjoy, although I don’t think this will be on a Honduras turismo website anytime soon.

p.s. I only filmed two minutes of the clown for fear of the camera being stolen, but if you had kept watching, you would have seen him stick a nail up his nose to prove he could do it.  Everyone on the bus rejoiced in humor!

March 29, 2011

My Honduran Date

After being in Honduras nine months, I was finally persuaded to go on a date with a local by my friend Wilmer.  I have not been too excited to jump into the dating culture here because of the extreme machismo factor, their complete love of the word “Baby” which often doubles for my name, and the fact that most of the men lie about not having another wife/girlfriend on the side.  But, after much persuading, my friend Wilmer (who lived in the States for six years, so he’s always correcting people about the American culture here), set me up with an engineer in town doing some contract work.  I agreed to one date and we met up to “get to know each other.”  A few rules about dating in Honduras:  after you meet up for one date, you are usually girlfriend and boyfriend.  This is very difficult to explain to locals, but I try anyway.  After meeting up with the engineer, I had a good time and the guy was nice, college-educated (a very rare find around Orocuina) and I figured we could go out again.  When I saw him a week later at the municipality he offered me a jalon out to an aldea, where we were both working.  On the way back I thanked him and he said “Of course, anything for my novia.”  Whoa……

Your novia?  I don’t think so; let’s stop for a moment and do some cross cultural interaction.  In America you have to go on A LOT of dates to be my novio.  You have to have some discussions about life/family/the future to be MY novio.  I said “How about we meet up tonight?”  After meeting up again that night I asked him how many other novias he had and he said just me.  Then I asked him how many esposas he had (wives) and he said none.  I asked him how many kids he had and he said one.  It is SUPER, SUPER, SUPER rare in Honduras that you find a guy over the age of 20 that is not married, doesn’t have a girlfriend and no kids.  So, excuse me if I thought he was lying.  I decided that we could be friends on Facebook and see where this goes. 

Fast forward:  ONE DAY LATER  He is now texting and calling me more than 10 times a day.  Slow down.  American women are independent and don’t appreciate being hassled.  He is sending me texts calling me his “Amor.”  I barely know you, homie.  We are not even friends on FB yet.  He’s sending texts saying he loves me.  I don’t think so.  Do you even know what that means?

Fast forward:  ONE MORE DAY LATER  I am now friends on FB with this guy where I discover he has three kids and a wife.  Attention men of Honduras:  You are lyers and cheaters.  You will get caught, no matter what the hell you try to tell American women.  We are very smart and you can not be a “novio” to all of us.  We don’t let you treat us like crap, lie to us, call us “Hey Baby” or anything else.  I know that there are a few good Honduran men out there, but unfortunately your other “amigos” are outweighing your qualities. 

Thanks, anyway, Wilmer, but I’ll continue to be soltera for my remaining Peace Corps service.   I will also be getting a new phone number.

What it's Like to Be a PAM'er

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

What it's Like to Be a PAM'er

Beautiful mountains outside of Choluteca

There are six different sectors of Peace Corps Honduras, including Protected Areas Management.  These are the people who live in the most rural areas of Honduras, often without electricity and water, in communities of less than 1,000 people.  This past weekend I decided to venture off into the land of a PAM’er, as we call them here in Honduras PC land, to visit my friend Kari, high up on a mountain.  I didn’t exactly know how high until the bus picked me up and it was packed front to back and I was left standing for an hour and twenty minutes up a dusty and bumpy road with a small child’s face planted right into my belly button.  The bus was hot, crowded and uncomfortable.  It reminded me of what Honduras is really like as we passed really poor aldeas and I saw more kids running around without shoes on than with.  As a Municipal Developer, I am quite spoiled living in Honduras.  To say this to many people back in the States would make people laugh (since I still have tarantulas, running water one hour a day, and no paved roads in my Casco Urbano), but I do have a large, up-and-coming municipality.  We have a paved road from Choluteca, a large selection of comedors (restaurants), pulperias (7-11’s), and the electricity runs pretty regularly.  So, imagine my shock when we pulled up into Kari’s site and I said “Where’s the park?”  Kari informed me that they didn’t have a park and there was only one pulperia in town, at the bottom of a massive hill which I was about to walk up. 

Heading up the hill to Kari's House, you can't tell, but it's steep!

As we exited the bus and began to walk up there were about 30 people following us.  “Who are all those people” I asked?  Kari told me they were all her host family…as well as everyone in the town.  Once we got to her house I was introduced to everyone in the town and sat my stuff down.  That was it.  A quick walk up the massive hill and I had seen it all.  One church, one schoolhouse, and a bunch of houses.  The life of a PAM’er.  “What do you do here,” I asked her.  She said at night they all sat around and watched TV (since someone had hauled a big satellite up that mountain to their house), and that night I was joined by 20 people in the house and we all watched soccer games and telenovellas together.  So is life up on the mountain.  The next day Kari took me for a beautiful walk through the protected areas in which she works.  The mountains radiated beauty and I was introduced to green hilltops and bright pink and purple flowers spraying over the houses.  The neighbors told me on May 3 they hike all the way to the top of the mountain…the whole town goes up together.  After a quick invite back, I told them I’d think about it as I gathered my strength back to walk back down the mountain.  On the way Kari had to stop every few steps to look for cell service.  It reminded me again how often I take for granted just being able to pick up my phone and call everyone.  Kari has to HIKE UP  a mountain and hang onto a tree to say hi to her dad in the states!

Chilaxin' at the top of the mountain

These guys really wanted their picture taken; they liked posing as they built the new house!

The two buildings in Kari's town, the green one is the church

It's a dog-day

After bidding farewell to Kari’s host family and heading back down the mountain to Orocuina, I looked around and began to appreciate my little pueblo a lot more.  The cows walking down the middle of the street didn’t bother me as much that day…I mean, at least I have cows!  Later that night as I laid in bed I began to feel a horrible pain in my stomach.  After several hours of being sick, I finally gave in and called the PCMO and she sent me to the hospital in Choluteca, where they immediately put me on an IV and antibiotics.  Luckily, I had my friend Amanda to keep me company in the emergency room as I continued to be sick and try to run to the bathroom with a wheeley-IV thing attached to me, with wheels that didn’t work.  Have you ever seen purple Gatorade come flying back up?  It is not a pretty thing and I don’t think the nurses in the ER appreciated it either, so finally, they put me in a real room, to which Amanda proclaimed was “nicer than some hotels we’ve been in.”  After two days I was finally able to try purple Jell-O, which begs me to ask, why is everything in Honduras some random color that would never sell in America.  Does anyone even LIKE purple jell-o?  the jell-o was fine, but after trying some chicken soup I was sick again and the doctor loudly proclaimed I would be staying another night.  Finally, after three days in the hospital, I was allowed to be taken off IV’s, eat mashed potatoes and crackers and return to Orocuina.  My stomach is still a little quesy, but I’m feeling better and ready to take on Honduras again.  The cause of the bacteria infection?  Well, I can’t exactly pinpoint it, but we think it was some bad water that hadn’t been boiled in Kari’s site.  So, it’s tough being a PAM’er, but it’s tougher being the posh Muni D’er who goes to visit your friend.

Chillin' in the ER

1-2-3-4 I Declare an Ant War

1-2-3-4, I Declare an Ant War!

Peace Corps Volunteers are not allowed to carry guns or machetes, hence the word Peace in the sentence; however, we are able to concoct bombs of boiling hot water and bleach.  This is what I found myself doing after returning from a nice, enjoyable weekend in the border town of Alianza, where my friend Rakesh lives, as we put together the latest newletter edition of ¡Que Barbaridad! for the Municipal Development team. 

Livin' it up in Alianza, learning how to cook Honduran style!

Imagine my shock and awe as I walked into my ‘outdoor’ toilet, where I discovered a line of sugar ants crawling up the right side of the wall, from the back of the commode.  (Note: The fact that I even know these are sugar ants and not regular ants prove that I have been inHonduras a little too long and am in fact well-integrated into this land).  Moving on, I proceed to see where these ants are coming from and notice they are located behind my toilet and coming in and out of the lid.  I then see that there are a lot more ants crawling under the lid.  This leads me to the very important thought of 1. How to protect my ass/crotch in a diarrhea like moment, which are likely to hit at any possible time in this country.  Curiously, I lift the lid off and find what has to be a billion ants scrounging for any and all water that is located under the lid.  No sooner have I done this that the little suckers start trying to claw their way onto my skin. 

This we cannot have.

So, I head into my kitchen where I boil up a big pot of water, and after about 20 minutes, add half a bottle of bleach to it.  I’m sure that will do the trick.  Don’t mind me, I remember Googling this attack somewhere; it has been working well for months in places like my shower drain and pila.  After flushing all the water out of my toilet, I toss the water in at a fast and rapid pace, only to see ants flying for their life up into the rafters (literally, I do have rafters), until I fling scalding water that way, too.  I continue flushing hot bleach water down the toilet until I’m pretty sure I’ve killed them all.  I return two hours later to see a tiny stream edging their way back in.  It is late and I have to leave for Teguz tomorrow; I’m too tired to care right now. But, let this be a warning to all the ants of Honduras.  When I was growing up in Texas my dad used to ‘let’me mow the grass (hence, he chored it off to me while he watched football).  There were ample fire ants for me to get stung by and piss off along the way as I drove them over with the lawn mower and watched them scuttle to build a new bed.  I now know this merely dispersed thousands of ants deeper into the tough, Texas grass, but if you come messing with me, I will go after you with a vengeance.  So, you got it ants…I strongly suggest you stay clear of my toilet.  I might not be packing a gun, but there are lots more buckets of pila bleach.

Manejo de Proyecto

Friday, March 11, 2011

Project Management/Manejo de Proyecto

What our awesome compactor will look like

This past week my counterpart from the CEMOA office (Center for Education in the Municipality of Orocuina) joined me in opening up a bank account for our recycling project.  This means that the pressure is now REALLY on for me to find $5,000 for our recycling compactor, instead of just TALKING about how I can find $5,000 for our recycling compactor.  I have three months; no pressure.  Why three months, you ask?  Because after that, we have to make another deposit of the municipalities money into the account, and no one wants to do that.  This is a huge step in our project, but one that must be done, as we can’t ask people to give us money before we are a legit group with a bank account, but we can’t keep up a bank account without having any money.  Have you caught on yet?

We headed into the sprawling municipality of Choluteca to the brand-new Banco Atlantida.  So new, in fact, that we were the only customers that afternoon.  As we sat down, all I could think was how sweaty and disgusting I was in my nasty yoga pants, Chaco sandals, and old blue shirt.  This is a PROFESSIONAL meeting and I look like I just rolled out of yoga class.  Please, people of Honduras, know that I would NEVER go to a meeting like this in the USA….or if I didn’t have to take a bus an hour to get here, or if it was 100 degrees and my deodorants never kicked in anyway.  Vaya pues… The bank lady asks for our identification and I hand her my residency card.  She proceeds to ask for my passport, so I tell her that I am a resident of Honduras (hence the residency card).  She repeats that she needs my passport; therefore, my counterpart breaks in loudly and says “Es Cuerpo de Paz.”  The lady look a little lost and so I ask her if she knows what Cuerpo de Paz is and she says no.  I repeat that my passport is way back in Orocuina and I am a Banco Atlantida customer already, and after a few clicks she finds my current account.  At this point my counterpart is rubbing her temples and looking exasperated and we’ve only been here five minutes.  An hour later we’ve worked out all the details (like how we’re both single, have no telephones in our houses and that yes, I am indeed living here for two years.)  When the bank lady asks me how much money I make a month and I repeat L5,000 she calls me pobrecita (especially since my counterpart just said she makes L8,000).  My counterpart laughs and says I was just joking, I really make L8,000 as well.  This is equivalent to $400/month.

Finally, we leave, with our new bank account number in hand.  I take full advantage of this by immediately sending in a request for a SPA (small project assistance) grant from USAID, and several other private companies with grant programs; Waste Management and Coca-Cola.  (This is therefore a shout-out to anyone who may know someone, or in anyway be affiliated with these two companies.  Please help out a Peace Corps Volunteer in Orocuina, Honduras).  We have a lot of plastic bottles that are begging to be recycled. 

Current stoves, used in most homes

Now, let’s not forget about the 500 stoves we’re trying to build here, either.  In order to complete my proposal, I have been busy compiling the list of names of all the women in all the communities.  This is equivalent to living in the county seat, but having to go to all the outlying towns and doing a census.  By yourself, without a car.  I was very fortunate that International Women’s Day was this week and a lot of women were in Orocuina, so we sat down and I inputted their info into an Excel sheet, including how many boys, girls, men, and women live in their house.  I know many people in the USA who would be surprised to find 11 or 12 people living in a house, where three of them are grown men over 18, three grown women over 18 and the rest children from all arm lengths of the family.  The list is coming together and hopefully the proposal will be in my April. 

New, eco-stoves I'm trying to build with ADHESA and Trees, Water, and People

Since all of this is coming along so well, the municipality has asked me to help them build a library.  This is definitely a resource I feel they need.  They have picked out a building and are excited about putting it together.  Over the next few months, it looks like a library will be my next project.

Me, Katie & Liz doing the Turkey Trot a few years back

That's it from here.  I am looking forward to my parents visiting next month during Semana Santa!  Also, I want to sent a Happy Birthday to my friends Katie and Liz!  I hope that you had great days!  

How to Handle a Cocodrilo, and Other Thoughts From the Rio

March 6, 2011

Sunday

At the beginning of the year I made a goal to get out of the Casco Urbano (main part of town) more.  So, today I took off to La Manzanilla, an aldea about an hour outside of town (walking), or 20 minutes outside of town (biking).  There’s a great little family there that I have become friends with on my runs and bike rides and I haven’t seen them for a while.  I strapped on my safety helmet, which I think is cool, but everyone else in Honduras just makes fun of, and set off for my bike ride through the mountains.  Once I landed in La Manzanilla, lots of little children were soon running up to me shouting “Jenifer, Jenifer!”  As soon as I pulled up, the whole village was rushing out to meet me and the family welcomed me into their casa with hugs and kisses. 

What is a PEZ exactly?

The house is very small; in fact, I’m sure that most people back in the states would be shocked at the size and probably have bathrooms or garages bigger than their house, which is home to five people, a cat and lots of chickens running around.  But, it is such a loving house and I am so happy to spend the day with them.  In the corner is one of the stoves I am working to change, so the smoke billows all around as the mom makes a big batch of tortillas.  The little girl, Mariella, jumps up and down with excitement to see me, but her mom says that she must run the tortilla mix down to another house before visiting.  It will be an hour before she heads there and back (she ends up running all the way there and back with a big pailla of tortilla mix in 30 minutes).  So, I sit down and start visiting with everyone until then.  When Mariella makes it back I share some games with them that Aunt Donna sent me….a puzzle and some Pez candy.  They think it is so cool that the candy shoots out of the snowman’s mouth (yet find my Android not the slightly bit fascinating), then we work on what is the world’s most challenging puzzle for two hours.  There are at least seven kids all with one square trying to mix flying pigs together on a dirt floor, while shouting “No esta correcto!”  As the mom continues to make tortillas she looks pleased that I have kept them occupied and out of her hair for so long.  Then, I pull another card trick (literally) out of my bag as I brought a “matching” game with me; the kind where they have to match apples, boats, butterflies with the other cards, you get the idea.  So, half the kids leave the flying pigs and take over to make apples to apples and ice cream to ice cream.  But, they don’t exactly have the patience for me to flip the cards over and end up tackling each other and chickens fly past me so that they can find the matching card first.  Smart children they are; imagine if I had prizes. 

The world's most difici "Rompecabezas!" (that means puzzle!)

A few hours later I am handed a plate full of tortillas, eggs and tomatoes.  The mom apologizes to me that they have no beans or rice, only eggs.  I tell her that this is bastante.  I feel bad, because I know someone is going without food and they searched for eggs to give me.  It is a welcoming feel to be in their house.  As I eat, Carlito (the brother) continues to work on the puzzle.  He tells me he will find the end to it.  I read the instructions and it actually says “the world’s most challenging puzzle.”  We do have two years to find the solution.

The "waterfalls" in the background and the cocodrilo is to the left of the boys (before we discovered it)

Next, the kids tell me they want to show me the river.  Every time I see them they tell me about “their” river, which is in fact the Choluteca River.  The one that killed 14,000 people during Hurricane Mitch in 1998, and the one that I fear will kill more people during the next big disaster.  My friends live less than 200 feet from the river so any flood will no doubt take out their little house.  The girls lead me down a dirt path, past cows and dogs and to the rocks of the riverbed.  They strip down to their panties, just like my cousins and I did when we were little.  I didn’t bring my bathing suit today, so it’s just my yoga pants and sports bra, then the girls toss me in the river…I have no idea how deep it is, but the current is pretty strong, even for a strong swimmer like myself.  I hurry back to the side and ask “Are there snakes in here?”  I need to know.  The kids tell me no, but I’m not so sure.  The kids beg me to swim to the other side and I’m scared as hell.  I’m still pretty sure there are snakes waiting to get me, plus what is on the other side?  The boys take off and the girls cheer me on.  The gringa can not be scared, so off I go.  I’m pretty sure I am going to die today, but I make it across and then they say “Come back, come back!”  I didn’t know I was in a race today!  I make it back across and they grab my arm to take me down to the “waterfalls.”  The kids run on the rocks like it’s sand on Del Mar Beach and I slip and slide like I might break my ankle.  “Come Jenifer, come” they shout!  Finally, I make it, and it is beautiful and they push me….soon I am flying down the waterfall and the rocks and hitting them here and there and figure out just going down on your butt is the best device before I’m floating along and enjoying the ride. 

When all of the sudden….Mariella yells “Jenifer, Jenifer…es un cocodrilo!”  In case your Spanish sucks, this means “Jen, it’s a crocodile!”  WTF, I asked if there were snakes in here, that means you also tell me if there are crocodiles!  I halt my swimming ASAP, as do the boys and I say “What!!!!”  Then, we swim to the side where my heart attack subsides and I reaffirm what a cocodrilo is; the kids make little hissing noises with their fingers coiled, so I think maybe it’s a large boa and I’ve heard them wrong.  Whatever, I take off walking on the rocks, which are now like hot coals, until we jump in 30 feet down the river because the kids say “It is safe.”  I hate to break their hearts, but I’ve seen Animal Planet and crocs can swim 30 feet and still kill you.  I jump in, swim as fast as I’ve ever done, jump out, put on my Chaco’s and tell them time is up at the river for today.  They want to know when I’m coming back; will I come back next Sunday?  For some reason I say yes.  I just haven’t had enough crazy in my life.

Only in America

March 4, 2011

Only in America-

Eight months to the day I arrived in Honduras, I flew out, headed to the good ol’ USA, land of the free, home of the brave.  And, unlike Christina Aguillera, I did not forget that the rockets had red glare and the bombs bursted in air.  Nor did I forget that the airport had wine and Wifi waiting for me as I hopped and skipped right through customs, where the agent said “What have you been doing in Honduras for eight months?”  “Trying to survive!” I wanted to shout back, but I didn’t…instead I told him “I’m a Peace Corps Volunteer,” to which he took as an open-ended conversation to ask me all about my life in Honduras and invite me to become a member of the US Customs team/Military/CIA when I returned from my “tour of duty.”  I could see the line behind me seething as they wanted to rush the gate, so I politely got the hell out of there before my bags were taken to secondary.

After downing the two biggest glasses of real California wine I could find at the Houston airport, I was pleasantly surprised to find that I had been upgraded to first class, courtesy of all the miles I’ve been hoarding down in Orocuina.  This would have been even nicer if I wasn’t dressed like a homeless person, in my finest PC attire, with all the other first class passengers staring at me.  More wine soon followed and I kicked back, remembering what life used to be like…

After landing in RDU I found that the seasons actually do change in America and I was not at all prepared.  With my tank top and Chaco’s, I prayed that the Budget shuttle would soon show up and after it did, I was granted another upgrade to a convertible Mustang (what am I supposed to do with that in the dead of winter?).  Anyway, I took off riding through highways and byways listening to the “latest” music, according to the radio and enjoying the fact that I wasn’t sharing a bus seat with three people, waiting to be robbed.

Sad, but this is the only pic I took of myself while home!

As the week progressed, I found it very easy to slip back into my old routine of American lifestyle.  I do live near a big city in Honduras and we have things like Wendy’s, Pizza Hut, Espresso Americana, even if I do have to take a 30-min bus to get there.  Besides the fact that I had absolutely no clothes to wear that weren’t ripped or torn from the pila, and that I had absolutely no money to spend since I make $7/day in Honduras, America was exactly where I left it.  Note, that all the phones and computers had gotten smaller since I left.  As I sat in the Houston airport getting smashed on the best wine I’ve had in eight months, I pulled out my laptop, only to see that everyone else’s was two sizes smaller.  Since when did good things start coming in small packages?  I’m just saying…  The other thing I noticed IMMEDIATELY was that everyone in the USA looks different.  I don’t care if they call all American’s gringo down here, we DO NOT all look alike.  The very first thing I noticed after walking off the plane was that NOT EVERYONE IS WHITE.  In fact, most people in the USA are not white!!!  They are all kinds of different colors, with different color hair, tall/short, big/little, different types of clothes, etc.  Where I live in Honduras, everyone looks the same.  Everyone has dark black hair, for men it is usually cut short and for women it is usually long and straight.  The majority of people have dark brown skin and are short (most shorter than me).  A few are overweight, but very few.  I definitely stick out in town, okay?  And there are NO inter-racial couples walking around here, I haven’t even seen them in Tegucigalpa.  So, when I was walking through the Houston airport and saw an inter-racial couple and the guy was white with red hair, I had to do a double take.  Sorry.

My friends are awesome.  I made them eat sushi almost everyday I was home.  After looking through my photos, my mom said it’s no wonder.  Then she sent me home with a suitcase full of food.  Hello!  I subsist on beans, eggs and tortillas here.  So, many thanks to the manager at Sono in Raleigh for comping us all the appetizers and drinks; as Arnold says “I’ll be back.”  And, to the two tables of six who wouldn’t get up, “Thanks to you, too!”  I appreciated the free meal I ended up getting, courtesy of you sitting there for two hours.  Those raspberry martinis were delicious; we don’t even have raspberries in Orocuina.  Trust me, I can never get enough sushi, and the people in Honduras think I’m crazy to eat raw fish.  If it’s not fried, it’s not food. 

It was really, really, really, great to go home.  Even though I didn’t get to see everybody, I really needed a break away.  The last few months have been really stressful, with my shoulder pain and the safety and security at a new all time high here in Honduras.  I know some of you have seen reports about it, and yes, there have been some assaults against PCVs.  Several of my friends were sexually assaulted and it threw me for a loop.  Before going home, I had all kinds of thoughts about what to do with my service, and the truth is everyday is a test.  I am constantly trying to figure out what to do with my life, each day I am here.  One day I’ll know exactly what my plan is, and the next day is cloudier than the one before.  But, I am so fortunate to have an awesome support group and it was great to hug and hangout with everyone (and my parents!).  I also got to present to my mom’s kindergarten class, who I have the World Wise School Program with.  They really liked all the pictures of Honduras I showed them, especially the one of the “store” in my town with the dirtbike in front of it (which I had never even noticed before).  Leave it up to a five-year-old to teach me about my own town!

Until next time….