Tight on me is right on her

May 16, 2010

It’s mid May now here (I say here because Jessie and I had a conversation about how it feels like life stops at home when we aren’t there. It stopped when we were in Europe and if we returned home now we would fully expect there to be knee deep snow) and our parents will be arriving to visit us at the end of the month. Excited for this we are. We are watching all six Star Wars with our boys now; about one a week. We gave new pillows to the boys who didn’t have one 2 weeks ago. That was great. I collected 9 that were left by old volunteers that were in good condition and washed them. We bought 7 new ones with money that was given to us to use for the boys by a visitor who came a while back and loved the boys. I sewed pillow cases out of sheets left by old volunteers at the sewing work shop and got to spend some quality time joking with the older girls with whom I don’t get to interact with a lot. Also, I got to practice my machine sewing skills thus adding to my repertoire of abilities that I’m learning here in pursuit of becoming what Barklie calls “A true Renaissance Man”

One funny thing is that Hondurans never mistake me for being Honduran, but I frequently get complimented on my ENGLISH by visitors. I’m always taken aback a bit and I usually reply “Dude, I’m from Virginia.”
The guy I work with, Lenny if you recall, wants to go to the US to make a lot of money and come back. One problem is that he speaks less English than I speak Japanese… or so he claims. Honduras has their own language to an extent because they use more English words than Mexico or parts of California and Florida and because they have a ton of made up Honduran words. So one day Lenny and I were starving all morning and we gorged ourselves at lunch to compensate. Afterward I said that I was satisfecho “satisfied” which is what they use most often in Spanish. Lenny then informed me that here in Honduras they say lleno “full” which comes from how they speak Spanish more like an English speaker would as if they were translating from English than speaking it like a person from Spain does. Then he said that they have a “Honduran” word for full also which he pronounced “fool”. I smiled and told him that he knows more English than he thinks, but he just doesn’t know that it’s English.

I have done a bunch of work for the woman who runs the internal clinic recently. She likes to use her meager English abilities in conversation with me, which I view as an attempt to condescend me by discounting my Spanish while elevating herself by flaunting her knowledge. I could be wrong though. She could very well be carrying the conversation with her 26 word vocabulary. I have been told by the volunteer nurses that she like to correct other Hondurans on the pronunciation of my name. This all made it funny for me when I arrived at the clinic and she had left a note detailing the problems she wanted fixed and spelled my name Strip. I have to say though that she would be winning if this were a “Hondurans spelling Trip’s name correctly” contest as Strip is far closer to being correct than Shuef.

The other day I heard Procol Harum’s song “Whiter Shade of Pale” (no I did not have to look up who the artist was, but I have a suspicion that I should look up the spelling) and Boys 2 Men’s “I’ll Make Love to You”, but the words were in Spanish. This is not surprising given how Jessie has told me that anytime the kids are asked to do anything that requires creativity such as draw a picture all they do is copy. The teachers complain that trying to get the kids to create something original is like trying to lead a cow down steps. We went to Copan and to Lake Yojoa and one thing we observed in both are that all of the Honduran owned businesses are run by the same model all the way down to having the exact same menu, and the only businesses that are thriving are the foreign owned ones which all bring something fresh to the table. I’m not an anthropologish or anything, but I suspect this might be cultural.

On Friday I went to Tegus to get my drivers license. I had to have a doctor’s note with a vision test and my blood type, a note from work, my passport, my residency card, passport size photos, a copy of my 3rd grade report card and I forget what else. I got there respectably dressed in Polo shirt and shorts and deck shoes like a UVA frat boy and with a tone of offended seriousness Officer Jerkface informed me that I had to be wearing long pants to get my drivers license to which I replied “Pucha, en serio!” (I’m not translating that. It means what it sounds like it means.) So I left feeling pissed off but looking dapper in search of the most offensive looking long clown pants, preferably with built in stilts, which I could find. I soon found a second hand store and asked for long pants. The girls working there told me that they only had girls’ pants and I told them that I was actually looking for girls pants. They liked that, but really I was thinking that Jessie needs new jeans anyway and I know that I can squeeze into hers so the formula is: Tight on me is right on her (if only it were that simple). Yet upon being pushed the girls actually brought a pair “their only pair” of guys’ jeans they had and they fit me pretty well. Not “The Fonz” well, but good enough for corrupt government work. Later the guy who took my photo asked me if I spoke Spanish and when I said yes he asked if I spoke Catracho which is slang for Honduran or a Honduran person. This goes back to what I said earlier about how different Honduran Spanish is from general Spanish.

The ranch is located very close to a military training base and until recently we have seldom heard gunshots come from there. Recently they have been shooting a good deal just after sunset which reminds me of home and our crazy neighbor. Our volunteer house is attached to a building of offices including the office of the 4 guys and 1 woman who makes up the religion department. They organize mass and all special holiday ceremonies. I don’t know if it is the ranch or Catholics in general, but every week is a religious holiday here and making a huge deal of each one is all that these five people do. They go nuts. And someone sells them fireworks. Did I mention that their home base is 30 feet from our window? Several times we have been wrenched from our slumber by deafening fireworks at 4 in the morning. And they call these days “holidays”. These aren’t fun colorful fireworks either. These are loud explosions that are designed for nothing more than solely to make sinners repent with haste. When the powers that were purchased this land for an orphanage they were aware the gunfire from the military training base and well concerned for the effects it may have on the children. Little did they anticipate the effects of the maniacal religion guys and their apocalyptic firework potential. It is sad how often we are awoken and Jessie asks “Is that the military or the religion department?” and I say “If it’s late it’s the military. If it’s early it’s worst.”