Banner Ads

So, in case you're not aware, there is this very old phenomenon on the internet called Banner Ads (note: if you're not aware, you're probably expecting to receive that free iPod in the mail any day now). The people want you to click on the advertisement, so some evil genius along the way realized they could have some kind of fake contest on their banner ad and poor, defenseless people would click on the ad. Here's some examples to remind you:

So why am I talking about this dreadfully boring topic? Glad you asked. Well, upon arriving in Honduras, it was brought to my attention that, depending on where you're using the internet, the banner ads change. So while banner ads in the US seem to have focused on winning free technology with the letter "i" in front of it, or money prizes, or other luxuries, the web ads here in Honduras have been far less diverse, and pretty much only focused on the ultimate luxury: a one-way ticket to live in the USA, where anyone- regardless of race, religion, or creed- can win a free iPod. 

“La Perra Carísima”

In Jicarito, in front of the first pulpería on the left, the multi-colored dog pack barks throughout the night. The mutts don’t have names, although they think that they do.

“Feo”, “Véte” and “Flaco” are their pet names, the words they respond to. They find their breakfasts in garbage piles, their lunches in the ditch next to the road, and their dinners behind Don Dago’s taco comedor. They come in blonde, dusty white, dark brown with black stripes, light brown with black spots, and black with white markings. They’re as massive and vicious as a caged lion; they’re as tiny and timid as a one-winged sparrow. The street is rough and dusty, its gravel crumbling into itself, but they own it. Our aguacatero pack owns this Jicarito calle.

When we took Essa to the dog sitter in Jicarito, she was plump and happy. Since we picked her up at the ESSO gasolinera three months earlier, she had been feasting on deli salami and roasted chicken, chasing guatusas in our lush and green Zamorano neighborhood, and acting like she’d never known the street life. We walked past that pulpería on the left, and she stood extra tall as she sported her spotless red collar. She was a pet dog now.

A leashed dog on a walk with its owners is a sight to be seen. In Jicarito, where you’re lucky to earn enough money to feed your growing hijos, pet dogs are kept tied up outside. They aren’t “part of the family”. They don’t get professional medical attention. They don’t eat deli salami. They don’t wear sweaters.

We were lucky enough to find Carmen, the local veterinarian’s assistant, to watch Essa while we took our fancy tour of Nicaragua and Costa Rica. Carmen assured us that Essa would be in the best care.

“Where does she sleep?” she asked.

“Um… in our room,” we admitted hesitantly, standing in her house made of a dirt floor and tin planks for the walls and roof.

“Then she will sleep in my bed!” It didn’t take her even a second to learn about, process, accept, and embrace our cultural strangeness.

After we’d explained to Carmen all the items in the bag we’d brought- a food bowl, a water bowl, a bag of dog food, flea shampoo, and extra salami slices that we didn’t want to waste- we took off for two weeks.

While we were gone, Essa became somewhat of a legend. The gringa dog with the collar and leash. The perra that gets bathed. The dog that eats from a bowl. The one that sleeps inside.

There were two other dogs in Carmen’s household, both outdoor dwellers, as skinny as can be. As we paid Carmen a previously-agreed-upon fair wage for her dog sitting services, her 8 year-old nephew grabbed Essa’s leash and used it to slap one of the other dogs. Even though Essa lived on the side of a Honduran highway for years, her current status as “gringa” dog had given her superiority.

As we walked away from Carmen down the dusty hill, we passed the pulpería, and a shaggy white dog gave Essa a bark. They could’ve been sisters, Essa and the barking pooch. In fact, they probably are. But Essa didn’t bark back; she didn’t even look up from her incessant ground-sniffing.

Our barking white friend watched closely as Essa led us down the hill, leading the way towards our apartment a mile away. “Véte!” yelled a middle-aged woman, as she smiled at us and used her broom to shoo away Essa’s sister. The rest of the canine pack was just about to head on down to Don Dago’s for some taco leftovers, and our yapping shaggy friend joined them. The adept pack paced up and down the gritty road, picking up a few precious meat scraps. As the sun went down over the tin roofs, they began their howling routine, asserting their territory and keeping the town safe. Those dogs, they own this Jicarito street.