Don't Believe the TV

Monday night, "the fam" came over to celebrate my and my Grandma's birthdays. Nothing too crazy; just some pizza and chocolate cake. As usual, my Great Aunt Evey dominated the conversation with hilarious stories of trips to the "doggy park" and her "Schatzki ring" induced burps (at least she stopped talking about the colitis). Her husband, Uncle Joe, corrected her every now and then while my Grandma Bev avoided the conversation as she paced the kitchen. Aunt Dawn threw in her jokes and her warm laugh while Uncle Rob was unusually un-cynical. And the matriarch Grams, my great grandmother, sat at the head of the table, stoic as ever.

The conversation turned to a special my Aunt Evey saw on a kidnapping in Mexico. "Are you gonna go back, Tawm (how she pronounces my name)?" she nervously asked. "You won't go to Mexico will you?" I said maybe. "Oh my heart! It's horrible there! Do you know what they did to this poor family? Kidnapped and tortured for seven months! It's too dangerous there." Uncle Joe affirmed her statement and so did Uncle Rob with a nod and a "yup."

Now, I love when my family is around - they crack me up and they are warm, genuinely loving people - but I realized on Monday that I'll always be Little Tommy and me and my low, lost-in-the-background voice will never command much attention with this group. When I tried telling them about the countless people I met who traveled through Mexico and loved it, they didn't listen. When I tried telling them that I heard Mexico is much more developed than the countries I went to, that only made them more anxious about where I had been. There was no winning.

Saying that I shouldn't go to Mexico because it's dangerous is akin to saying I shouldn't go to the Northeast of the United States. It's absurd. For instance, we all know that if you don't have to be in Camden, NJ, you probably should not go there. The same holds true in other countries, at least in the four I went to on this trip. Xela is a relatively quiet city, but you know that you do not set foot in Zona 7 day or night. Simple as that.

It's as if the television holds more weight than do my real life experiences. The incident with my family is only one example. I've had friends and friends of my parents tell me how Guatemala is falling apart according to the papers and that the gangs are taking over. Is the country in bad economic shape? Yes... so are we. Are gangs a problem? Yes, in areas. Are they taking over the country? No. But so far, it seems like what I say, instead of changing people's minds and making them think, "Hm, maybe I've got the wrong idea," has only made them think that I am foolish and crazy. Maybe I am.

Unconscious Consumption

After dinner Saturday night, my little sister Gina was helping out by washing the dishes. The faucet ran full blast as she took her time washing individual forks. She held the rinsed fork in the air, far from the rushing water, as she talked with my mom before putting it in the dishwasher. The sound of the wasted water irritated me and I said, "Gi, turn off the water." "Why?" she shouted back with some Jersey girl attitude. "Because you're wasting water." "WhatdoyoumeanI'mwastingwater. Whydon'tyoudothedishes. We'renotinGuatemalaorwhereeveryouwere. I'mnotgonnaturnoffthewatereverytwoseconds," she spat back. I backed down, realizing I was foolish for picking this little fight and that a talk about overconsumption was probably best saved for another time. What scared me, though, was how unconsciously she did it, how set it was in her modus operandi, and how it points to a larger societal ill.

A common critique of Americans is that we overconsume. We drive cars with poor gas mileage back and forth from homes that are too big where we use more water per day than anyone else in the world.

We've all heard, either from our parents or someone else's, "Finish your food. There are children starving in Africa." If you were a little smartass like me, you would've responded, "Yeah, but they wouldn't eat this food either way." For me, as with all things in life, it's about awareness and gratitude. We have enough food and water that we can literally throw them both away and our lives will go on smoothly. What does that say about us? What does that say that my little sister leaves the water running? That we have so much and do not demonstrate the least bit of awareness nor gratitude for these blessings? It says that we don't give a shit. And why don't we give a shit? Apathy? Insecurity? Are we too lazy to care or too scared? I know, it seems like I'm too hung up on something as trivial as an open faucet, but it's the trivial, little moments all strung together that comprise our lives. They are what matters, and if we treat them like leftovers to be thrown away, well, we'll find our lives in that over-stuffed Glad bag along with them.

Home Sweet Home

So after six months of living and traveling in Central America of walking in the shadows of volcanoes and casting shadows on 90% of the people around me - six months filled with chicken buses, pick-up rides, micro-buses and other forms of public transport that would never set rubber on US asphalt, trying to speak, listen, read and think in a language that was not my own and trying to live and understand a lifestyle that was not my own - I am back home in Suburbia, NJ, far away from Mayan women in colorful dresses handlessly carrying impossible loads on their heads and even further away from the "verga" and "maricon" jokes of the La Prusia guys. I'm back in my basement on my couch hiding from the unrelenting rain clouds, listening to the tireless churning of our sub-pump as my skin wishes it was still being toasted by the brutal Nicaraguan sun. I sit here with my mind not quite sure what to call reality, as if I'm stuck between dreams. Everything seems big - my house, the roads, the cars, the food, the people (height and girth).

It's good to be home, though. My friends greeted me at the airport with my "America Reacclimation Kit," complete with a mini-American flag, King James Bible, and an ESL beginner's book, before taking me out for some chocolate chip pancakes covered in syrup, whipped cream, strawberries and bananas. I surprised Julie (well, kinda) on her birthday and got to spend the night with her and her friends playing ping pong, drinking cheap Pabst cans and Korean vodka, grooving to a soul/gospel band, and even squeezing in some salsa-ing between bands. And I'm already all caught up on the Lost and South Park episodes I missed in my absence.

There are so many things I want to remember - walking through chaotic Guatemalan markets with women and their produce sprawled out on the ground, hearing a tree calling my name and looking up to see a 10 year old boy chilling in its branches twenty feet off the ground and calmly smiling, watching in awe as the Nicaraguan sky metamorphised every night as the sun buried itself. Mostly I want to remember the al suave mindset, the laidback and flexible mindset that I think has evolved Latin America out of necessity. But will I be able to? As time goes on my memories will fade, and all I'll have left will be my photos and words, but hopefully the feelings will survive, somewhere, if only subconsciously.

Now I find myself back in the States, for the first time in my life without a next step. Throughout my trip, I told people that I think my biggest lessons from this trip will become apparent when I'm back at home, when however I've changed in the way I live clashes with the norms and expectations of the place I've called home my entire life. I'm looking forward to this uncertainty, though. It's scary, yet exciting; with no guarantees but so much potential. I'm looking forward to the conflict, the discomfort, and the lessons that will ultimately surface. I can already feel old habits tugging at me - laziness, late-night-rerun-watching marathons - but we'll see if I can bring back the ideals and passion that were so easy to maintain in the warm air of Central America.

Copan Ruinas

After bidding Maron and Tegus farewell, we got an early start to make it all the way to the western border of the country where we would visit the Mayan ruins of Copan. They say that Tikal is impressive because of its towering temples reaching above the jungle tree line. Copan won't wow you with any skyscraping temples, but what it lacks in height it makes up for with its intricate sculptures of kings and gods adorning its temples.

After eight or so hours on buses, we set foot in the town of Copan Ruinas. Before I could even finish pissing on parking lot wall, we were being offered a room for $4 a night. Julio kept chatting with the guy while James and I finished watering the grass. I don't like people being so aggressive and pushy, but we followed him up the cobblestone hill. On the next corner a young guy ran up shouting his offer. The two of them argued while we sat, ignoring them for a couple and enjoying space and the cool mountain air.

The newcomer, Freddy, said he had a triple room with cable TV, hot water, and free internet for $4 for the night. We followed him. He left us for two minutes to go deal some American guy pot. He came running back to us and we followed him. The hotel Marjenny dining room was filled with Hondurans munching down some typical fried chicken plates, but the rest of the hotel was empty. We followed Freddy upstairs, walking past the hanging plants, luxury sized hammocks, and well painted walls. He showed us our room and there were three spacious and comfy beds, air conditioning, TV, and a bathroom with hot water, all as promised. It seemed too good to be true. We were suspicious. We had visions of waking up gagged and bound, kidney-less, and on our way to losing more organs.

After checking out a couple of other not-so-appealing options, we went back to Marjenny. We felt better when we saw the manager's face drop that Freddy told us we could have the room for $4. It seemed like she'd be the one getting screwed and not us. After eating some baleadas(eggs, beans, cheese, and cream stuffed into a giant tortilla and then toasted), we kicked back in the hotel watching Goodfellas (Julio had never seen it in English! The Spanish dub everything.). We slept and woke up the next morning with all our organs intact and where we left them.

We took our time getting to the ruins the next day. We started in the museum and I was already blown away. In the center was a replica of the giant underground tomb that was inaccessable on Friday. Walking around and seeing the sculptures of kings, altars with stories carved into the sides, and random animal faces, I was already blown away. All was made more impressive by knowing that these sculptures were all made using rocks because the Mayans lacked metal tools.

The site itself was much more impressive than I had anticipated. My pictures will do it all much more jutsice than my words, so check them out here.

The rest of the day was pretty uneventful. We treated ourselves to a delicious steak dinner and a few beers, but called it a relatively early night so we'd wake up on time for our 6am bus to Antigua. That didn't stop us from watching another movie and enjoying another hot shower. Old habits die hard.

Tegucigalpa

On Wednesday morning, I found myself seated in a Dunkin' Donuts. I checked my e-mail using their WiFi as I sipped on my coffee and listened to Jason Mraz's I'm Yours over the speakers. I was surrounded by students, nurses, and doctors dressed in sterile white. I could've been anywhere in the States, and for a few minutes I thought I was. Then I saw the armed guard wielding a shotgun at the front door and remembered I was in Tegucigalpa.

After too many hours on the-little-microbus-that-couldn't, we finally made it up the hills surrounding the Honduran capital. The countryside was filled with pine trees and green fields, a big change from Nicaragua. The landscape was sparsely populated until, suddenly, there were houses stacked on top of each other and taking root along the steep walls of the mountains. In the valley below, there was only Central American urbanization.

We stayed with a Couchsurfing host, Marlon, and it turned out to be a great experience. His apartment was small, but had tile flooring, paper lanterns, a well-stocked kitchen, a futon, and bookshelves crowded with political science essays, biology textbooks, and even English novels. He just finished his studies to be a dentist and he spoke English better than I speak it.

Tired and dizzy from the hours of travel, we decided to take a trip downtown with Marlon. He showed us around, pointing out churches, banks, the local burger joint of choice, and then took us to the Honduran People's History Museum. Downtown was nice. People filled the central park and the streets surrounding it, some going to work, some coming from, others going for coffee, some dressed well, some not so much, and some screaming the word of God into a microphone.

We went to Marlon's coffee shop of choice and sat around chatting. We talked about travel, Couchsurfing, politics in Honduras, politics abroad, his family in the States, and he told us how he loves the States but he could never trade the easy-going Latin American lifestyle for the 9-5 hustle.

That was Tuesday. After Dunkin' Donuts, we went to watch Honduras lose to Turkey in a World Cup exhibition match at a bar an earshot from the president's house. Later on, Julio, James, and I went to El Picacho to see the Giant Jesus and an unbeatable view of "Tegus." We got there and the Jesus was closed, but we still had time for a quick stroll through the nice garden and for a photoshoot of dumb poses - including stretch-armstrong Jesus - overlooking the city.

After standing on microbus, heads bowed and necks touching the ceiling, we made our way into the center for a cup of coffee and then caught a colectivo back to Marlon's. For dinner, we went to the mall food court where we ate a bucket of KFC and watched telenovelas on panel TVs. It was nicer than Woodbridge mall. Not Menlo, though. Afterwards, we walked around the block from Marlon's house and shot some pool, learning a new game from the business-casual guys next to us. We called it an early night.

The next morning, we bid farewell to Marlon as we headed west to the Copan Ruins. We had seen the capital through the eyes of a guy who is either middle class or upper-middle class, and life didn't seem any different than the one I've known. As we got to the bus station, we were immediately harassed by guys bumming cigs and booze money and vendors selling stools and newspapers. I liked the Honduras that I saw, but maybe because that Honduras was a lot like home.

Northern Nicaragua: Esteli and Somoto

After Leon, we were northbound toward the mountain city of Esteli in Nicaragua's tobacco region. We waited in the bus station until our microbus was filled to capacity before leaving. The further north we went, the more rural the country became. Cows, horses, and dogs strolled about on the Pan-American highway, taking their time as they made space for our honking van. The flat, yellow landscape of West-Central Nicaragua steady became more jagged and green. The blistering sun of Leon and Granada lost its force to the crisp mountain air.

We got dumped off in a bus station off the Pan-American in Esteli. We chowed down in a little comedor in the parking lot, got some friendly advice from our server, and debated our options for the next couple days. Neither Julio nor I were much in the traveling mood. We both felt ready to go home. We hopped in a taxi and went to the suggested hotelito. It was a tiny, run-down house in the middle of a sketchy looking street. The taxista suggested we go somewhere else. We agreed. He showed us a couple more, but we just told him to drop us off at the central park. He charged us double for his surprise hotel tour.

We wandered the city for a bit, and I got a good vibe. It seemed laid back, friendly, and did not have its Nicaraguan-ness corrupted by tourists yet. We ate some dinner, drank a little coffee, and chilled out reminiscing about La Prusia.

Monday morning we decided to skip the Reserva Miraflores and take a tour of the Segovia cigar factory. We saw how they made the cedar, flavor-preserving boxes, how they dried the leaves and selected the best ones. We watched them get rolled and immediately after we got to try out a couple flavors.


Dizzy from the strong cigars, we hopped back in our cab, got to our hotel, grabbed our bags, and hit the road for Somoto. With our obnoxious backpacks, we squeezed in the bus, James hanging out the door. The ride went smoothly until we were bumrushed by thirty middle-schoolers who filled in whatever spaced remained on our bus.

We pulled into the dirt bus station lot and tried to locate ourselves in our not-so-trusty Lonely Planet guide. Just two blocks away, we spotted a little hotel on the road. The owner showed us his triple - a closet with three rock-hard beds. We took it for $3.50, agreeing that it'd be an experience.

We hurried out of there, shoveling down a quick lunch and running to catch a bus to Somoto Canyon. The bus wasn't leaving for some time, so we got a cab instead. We walked down the rock path in our bathing suits, crossing the river once, walking down more rocky paths, and then hopping stones across the river once again. We met our guides hanging out under a tree. We only had enough money for the shorter tour, but it turned out to be enough. We hopped in a row boat and were paddle upstream as the rock walls leaned closer together and reached higher for the sky. The canyon sides were at places square and cubic, and at others smooth and round. We got out of our rowboat and opted to swim upstream without any tubes. It was gorgeous and empty. We all stared upward in awe as we struggled to doggy-paddle up stream. Our guide took us to a 10m jumping point. We climbed up the rocks and one by one, took the plunge. It was my first time jumping off a cliff of any sort. It was exhilirating, but make sure you keep your hands pinned to your side. Mine were flailed out, and insides of my arms felt the pain.


We got back into town and our spirits were suddenly much higher after a great day. We chilled out on the internet for a bit, called our couchsurfing host to confirm our plans, and marveled at the Nicaraguan sunset.



That night, we went to bed early in anticipation of a long travel morning. My travel high suddenly took a plunge as my stomach twisted and I knew that I was about to shit myself. I ran to the tiny bathroom down the hall and my colon opened like a fire hydrant. I fell back asleep, thinking/hoping the worst was past, but I woke up every hour to a similar episode. It was easily the longest night of my life. But eventually my body got rid of whatever it did not want inside and the sun came up. It was Tuesday and we were Honduras-bound.

Leon, Nicaragua

After a long morning/early afternoon of goodbyes, Julio, James, Christina and I hopped into a taxi outside of our barbed wire gate. I don’t know if I was just grumpy, lonely, homesick, or actually had good reason to feel frustrated, but my last couple weeks in La Prusia were not the best that I’ve had in my trip. Saying goodbye to the project was easier than I thought it’d be, but saying goodbye to the Nicas was tougher. I would miss Andres, our jefe on the worksite, and his constant sexual jokes – me being his mujer, asking me if I liked the sexo rudo, and eye-fucking every single female volunteer that set foot on the site. I would miss Mula, Aleman, and Ale. Through all the verga and maricon jokes I realized that you couldn’t say these guys weren’t genuine and good-natured.

The rest of Friday was pretty laid back. Our microbus rides were typical – dangerously fast and weaving the whole way – and we got a cheap cab ride to our hostel. To me, Granada always seemed desperate. There were the vacationing foreigners living large on the weak Cordoba while beggars lined the street and children tried to trade palm leave grasshoppers for greasy enchiladas. If you were a tourist, you were a dollar sign. Leon seemed more developed. The streets weren’t as dirty. There were banks, Radioshacks, a large, modern grocery store, a university.

After an hour or so of putzing around in the room, we left our backpacker paradise and started weaving our way through the nearby streets. There were a couple women working a charcoal grill stacked with meat, tacos, enchiladas, papa rellenas, and plaintains. We inhaled our plates, washed it down with some delicious Central American Coca-Cola (they use actual sugar here and it makes a HUGE difference). Around the corner, a motionless mariachi band filled the central square as the full moon shined on the cathedral. Aside from that, we called it an early night and slept off the hangovers we all still had from our despedida the night before.

We took our time getting up the next morning. We scrapped the beach plan and opted for a day at the museums. First up, Museo de los Heroes de la Revolucion. Our smiling guide David ushered us in to a tall room sparsely lined with photos of key revolutionary figures – the original revolutionary Sandino, a few others I can’t recall, Che Guevara and Castro, and a “Vote for Daniel Ortega” poster, Nicaragua’s “next president,” according to David. The normal gallery was off-limits today as the group was giving free eye exams in the normal photo gallery. Upstairs, David proudly told us stories of how the revolutionaries took this building, how within these walls and on these surrounding streets they fought thousands of Somoza’s men. On the roof, overlooking the city-turned-battlefield-turned-city-again, David, still wearing his plastic, politician smile, told us that the revolution couldn’t be stopped because the people were fighting for love.

As we left, it was obvious that Julio was enamored by the idea of the revolution. His eyes glimmered as he retold stories he had read of 11 year-old heroes and teenage soldiers taking up arms at their own will to fight the dictatorship. For me, my mind traveled to the years just after the revolution, when the FSLN shot themselves and Nicaragua in the foot time and time again trying to impose their ideals. The Contra War was funded by the US to destabilize the revolutionary government, but the Sandinistas’ abuses of indigenous communities, censoring of the press, control of farm production and bad relations with the Catholic Church drove more and more of their population to the Contra side. From what I read, most people just wanted to go on with their lives. The way David spoke of these things made it all too simple, too one-side and too storybook. They took out the tyrant, but Nicaragua still seems far from a happy ending.

We stopped at Ruben Dario’s house, a museum dedicated to the life of Nicaragua’s most famed poets and one of the most influential men ever on the Spanish language (so they tell me). Afterwards, we wandered away from the colonial structures typical to Leon to the indigenous barrio of the Sutiaba. There, houses were made of brick and Spanish wasn’t the first language spoken. We found the 600 year old tamarind tree and next door we found a sign that said “Sopa de Res.” We were ushered into a dirt backyard where we ordered the soup. Our plastic table and chairs were brought out and we were seated in the shade. Our bowls of soup were more like mixing bowls and we used ladles to scoop out the broth, plantains, potatoes, yucca, and the generous bones of meat. Not a bad deal for $1.25.

Back at our hostel, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade distracted us from our game of pool. It was the first time I had watched TV in two months. Someone flipped the channel to FoxNews where the reporters were waiting in Hawaii for the 8 ft tsunami waves to touch shore. It was a good thing we chose not to head to the beach that day. I heard someone say, “Oh no. They’re going to forget about Haiti now.”

After a nap and some internet, I decided it was time we tried some Nacatamales – super-sized tamales stuffed with meat, rice, cheese, a couple veggies, and God knows what else. As I paid for my internet, I asked the heavyset, glasses wearing worker where I could find a Nacatamal. He told me it was a twelve block walk, but that he could take me on his motorcycle. I said ok.

I didn’t speak on the way there. Leon’s normally hot air felt cool as it rushed by my face. My hands felt like they’d slip off at any moment as Ernesto changed speeds and avoided traffic on all sides. We passed a few signs that said “Nacatamales de venta,” and I wondered why we didn’t stop. We parked in front of a house with a tall iron gate where people were casually entering and leaving. We walked into the backyard and there was a line of people waiting to quickly place their order, get their steaming, stuffed banana leaves, and get the hell out of there. Ernesto told me these were famed to be the best Nacatamales in town.

After ordering, we were back on the bike. The bag was too hot to put on my lap, so I had to dangle it on the side. I asked Ernesto if this was something he did all the time. He said no. He told me he was a lawyer, but in Nicaragua you have to make money any way you can. That includes taking a gringo for a fifteen minute motorbike ride halfway across town to get some indigenous Nicaraguan food.

I made it back safely, stuffed myself with the tamal, we shared a few beers talking about La Prusia and what the hell we were actually going to do in the coming week. We still don’t really know.