Bachata, Punta, y Todo Lo Demás

On Saturday morning, we were drinking coffee on our porch and then lounging at the swimming pool. By the time evening rolled around, we decided that we were going to partake in a trip to Peña Blanca, our local discoteca/dance club/bar/whatever-ya-wanna-call-it. I should mention that it's very rare that Andrew or I decide to venture out into the Honduran nightlife, mostly due to the fact that our bedtime is around 10 pm (okay, well, maybe it's more like 8:30 or 9:00) and there is really only one option for "going out" in our rural area. But, we decided to take the plunge.

At Peña Blanca, they have a pool. They have a dance floor. They have a balcony. The party doesn't really get going until around 11 pm. But when it does get going, it's going. The music switches between old pop music from the US and various genres of Latin American tunes, which can lead to some pretty entertaining situations when you have a dance floor filled with Hondurans and six gringos. Example: On Saturday, the song YMCA was played. All the gringos danced, you know, the YMCA. The Hondurans were quite confused by the crazy arm movements, which was a bit embarrassing, but apparently not embarrassing enough to make me stop doing them.

The tricky thing about Peña Blanca is that, if you want to avoid looking ridiculous, you have to know a bunch of different genres of dance, AND you have to know how to identify each genre when you hear it (so you can, in turn, start dancing correctly to the genre). And here, my friends, is my opportunity to educate you on some of the genres of dance that you will need to know when you find yourself in a Honduran dance club.

First off, punta (click to see video example!) is by far the most difficult dance. It's also probably the sexiest, as its name may or may not come from the West African rhythm called "bunda" ("buttocks"). The goal of this dance is to look as sexy as possible. To survive as a dancer during a punta song, I usually run far, far away from the dance floor as soon as I hear it, because there is just no way I'm going to look good doing it.

Bachata, Cumbia, and Salsa (click for more video examples!), on the other hand, are much more feasible for a gringa. They all consist of a simple step in which you put one foot away from your center, bring it back to your center, and then do the same with the opposite foot. I like to think that I have enough rhythm and attitude to pull these off in some way, so I always put in a good effort, using my backside more in these dances than I ever do otherwise.

To set yourself up for success at Peña Blanca, watch this instructional video.

Now remember, ladies- you'll not only have to look good doing these dances, but you'll also have to decide which of the swarming men you're willing to dance with. Once you decide, you can make eye contact with the chosen one, and he will mostly likely approach you. BUT, make sure to avoid eye contact with any men you do not wish to dance with, or you'll spend your evening avoiding men instead of doing what you came to do: dancing your heart out.

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.

Tummy Wummy Achey

I've been awoken from my slumber with what appears to be a fire-breathing dragon in my stomach.. To figure out the cause, and because I can't sleep, I made a chart:

Well, now that that's settled, I think I'll go back to bed. Good night.

A Trip to the Vet.

Today, we went to the veterinarian to ask him if he knows anyone who can take care of Essa while we travel for two weeks. We took a moto-taxi there.

Cast of Characters:

-Moto Driver
-Woman riding in the moto with us
-Nigel [white guy who we met at the supermarket last week]
-Veterinarian [old man with a lisp]
-Andrew
-Me

Scene 1: The One In Which Nigel Nearly Crashes Into The Moto
[Moto drives into the veterinarian "parking lot". Giant white van starts backing up, about to crash into the moto. Moto driver honks repeatedly. Giant white van stops. Giant white van starts to back up again, still about to run into the moto. Moto honks repeatedly.]

Nigel: "What are you doing, you asshole?"
Woman riding in the moto with us [chuckling]: "What did he just say?"
Me [smiling]: "Bad words."
Moto driver: "It's his fault."

[Andrew and I exit the moto.]

Nigel [He recognizes Andrew from the supermarket]: "HEY!"
[Nigel talks to Andrew about how you can't get cement anywhere in Honduras. Apparently he's doing a construction project. He also invites Andrew to come over to his house. I go inside to talk to the vet.]


Scene 2: The One In Which The Veterinarian Isn't Offended

[After talking to the vet about our dog-sitting needs, he starts talking about Nigel.]

Veterinarian: "He came in here looking for some cement. Apparently he can't find any."
Me: "Oh, really? He seemed angry."
Veterinarian: "He was rude. He said that Hondurans aren't civilized, and that's why he can't find any cement."
[Pause]
Veterinarian: "But I'm not offended, because I'm Peruvian, not Honduran."

What We Do.

I've had a few requests for "More blog posts! More blog posts!". There's a reason why we haven't written, and this is it...

Every day, when we're not teaching stuff, we do this:



And this:
And this:

And sometimes this:




Okay, well, maybe we do other things, too. Like this:


And occasionally, we watch this:


And finally, we eat this:


Of course, we do other things, too. But I'm saving those for the next blog post.

The Time Difference

If there’s one cultural lesson I’ve learned so far in Honduras, it is this:

“Be there at 9:00 AM”

REALLY means

“Definitely don’t get there BEFORE 9:00 AM. Feel free to show up anytime after 9:00, really. You could even show up at 10:00 AM, and if you do, definitely don’t mention anything about being an hour late- pretend as if the moment you show up is the exact moment you were expected to arrive. In addition, if you choose not to show up at all, don’t feel the need to call beforehand. If anything, you can call at 9:30 or 9:45, just to verify that you won’t, in fact, be showing up at 10:00 or later.”

Although, in theory, I knew about this cultural norm regarding time before we moved here, I still had a bit of difficulty adjusting. The first time I waited for someone for more than a half hour, I figured there must have been some kind of emergency. Ten minutes later, when the student walked into the room as if nothing had happened, I knew I had had my first “time difference” experience. Little did I know, this would be the first of many.

Now, from what I have witnessed, it is still remotely unacceptable to be late for an official job. For example, Andrew would not be able to keep his teaching job if he showed up an hour late every day. (My observations may be skewed here, because he works for a bilingual school with many US staff). In addition, the folks I have met who work for the university are always standing in the coffee shop line at the very punctual time of 7:40 AM (work begins at 8:00 AM). So, from what I’ve gathered, this “time difference” occurs only for events that don’t involve getting paid. Strangely, the “time difference” phenomenon DOES occur with events for which the late person is paying. For example, students who pay me for English classes often show up about 30 minutes late, even though they are paying for two full hours. (On the flip side, the students who receive free English class through a grant definitely show up late more often than those who pay.)

At first, I took offense to the fact that even the paying students were showing up late to my classes. Am I a TERRIBLE teacher? Are they SCARED of me? Am I incredibly BORING? But through all the kind words, homemade baked goods, greeting cards, and fast English language skill development, I’ve come to realize that it really ISN’T me- it’s just how things work.

Although I am still learning the exact cultural rules for this “time difference” (note to self: remember not to arrive on time for a conversation exchange), I have made some changes in my daily habits that allow me to fully take advantage of this phenomenon. I never arrive to teach a class or meet someone without a good hour’s worth of entertainment- papers to correct, books to read, novels to write, etc. In this way, I have actually learned to enjoy this special time given to me by the cultural “time difference”. For the sake of me ever returning to the US, let’s just hope that I don’t take it too far and start arriving an hour late. Or for that matter, not at all.