CABAÑAS_home to be

09.29.07
Bueno, somehow I ended up here.
I don’t remember exactly what inspired my application, or what I possibly thought I was going to be doing nearly 6 months later; but where I am, what I am living, certainly never crossed my mind. This is for several obvious reasons. I had no clue what life was like here, in Central America, in Honduras, in the departemento de Copan, in the pueblito of Cabañas, in la casa de la familia Alvarado Robles.



The PCV swearing in ceremony at the embassy was as all ceremonies must be: a few inspiring words, a few recognitions, and an oath of allegiance. The pool party as the Ambassador’s house, which followed, was as equally anti-climatic. I wore flower panties and a tee in lieu of a real bathing suit, which I had failed to bring back from the site visit. Perhaps the celebrations would’ve been more inspiring if I wasn’t so anxious and exhausted thinking about the future. The highlight was the grapefruit trees at the ambassador’s house, the first ones I’ve tasted since landing!



Traveling to and fro has taken up my days and energy as of lately. In total I have spent 4.5 days just getting to site and back. Bumping oneself back and forth between old and new, foreign and American—it’s amazing I managed to condense everything back into that same suitcase and backpack, only to explode all that stuff again in another room I will eventually call home. Now that I’m here in my site again, for good, I wonder how long it will take me to want to stay…

I said goodbye to my host family in Sta Lucia early Friday morning and took the bus to Tegucigalpa where I eventually took a Hedman Alas bus again for the most direct route to my site. The trip was terrible. The bus on the way from San Pedro to Copan Ruínes broke down twice, and so I and two other male passengers were stuck in the dark, hoping the driver would come back and the bus would somehow reach our final destination. Eventually we did arrive in Copan Ruínes just past the stroke of midnight and beyond the point of exhaustion. A man with a van was waiting for the three triste passengers to transport us to the hotel san josé, where I paid 200 limperas, my last limps, to sleep in a humid dim room with a sad fan puffing away in the corner. I would’ve cried, but I didn’t have the energy, instead I laid down upon that foreign bed without another thought of where I was, or rather, where I wasn’t. Mayor Napo’s call awoke me at 6am.



Napo sent his driver (who reminds me of a Honduran James Dean, pistol and cig hanging out, one from the mouth, the other from the pant’s back. We rode into town, music blasting, dirt flying and a strong western sun starting to blaze. I thought just how bizarre I looked here, with all my unnecessary stuff, with my pale skin, with my dumb gringa grin.



Cabañas is a sweet little town. Simple and pretty. The typical central parque is built around the oldest ceiba tree in town with a catholic church standing in the far left corner facing that tree. This particular layout is a tradition that apparently comes from the Spanish conquistadors. It is one of the more agreeable repercussions of their stay. The town’s contents are few: a river passing by, a few pulperias, the municipalidad, a handful of comedors, a billar (pool hall), a centro de computacion (internet café) and a new farmacia and clinica next to my family’s house.



The family here is beautiful. The Alvarado Robles have four children, the oldest son is 18, their only daughter is 17 who is my new sister, and the other two boys are twelve and 14. My new room actually has a place to hang up clothes, a table to do my work, and a nice and firm bed!
I felt immediately taken care of, and as independent as I once was, I realized how I had started to accept my dependence on the Honduran people, in particular, the families I have become a part of.
My new sister and brothers showed me around town as I sketched my locator map. We stopped to buy delicious Honduran-style popsicles that I could eat a million of. We sat in the parque, just licking away at our melting ice, milk, and vanilla flavored coldness and I felt pretty lucky.




Last night the family watched as I drew my map on the computer, and then they sat and watched me as I unpacked each article from my enormous suitcase, one piece at a time, I tried to put my life into some order. It feels cozy, this room, this family, and even though I do want my privacy at times, I’d rather they crowd me than ignore me in that awkward way people do. Families here I never hear fighting. I was thinking about that after I got off the phone with my querida family of El Paraiso, never do they even raise their voices. It’s a preciosa thing.



This morning we walked to see the campo and pick up the last of my stuff from Mayor Napo’s house. After lunch we walked to an aldea and ventured along side a brook until we came upon the waterfalls and water pools where people swim. The youngest boys dashed up the rocks as fluidly as the water itself, while I, Carmen and Alicia tried to keep up. The father was busy hacking away at branches with his machete to clear the path up ahead. The water was freezing, but the rush felt amazing on my muddy and roughed-up feet. Once I was in up to my pecho, there was no turning back. We returned home in our mojado (wet) clothes and then Carmen and I went for a run to another Aldea across el puente where they bring the coffee beans to be ground by the one guy who owns the machinery to do it. We ran there and back and then joined the boys in a game of fútbol, which I definitely suck at, but it’s fun trying. They kids are amazing! Born to play, is true in Honduras. We continued to play as the rain started it’s daily routine and eventually me and Carmen excused ourselves and ran into the casa to start preparing the tortillas. She taught me how to grind the corn meal into a finer dough, which we then took globs of, rounded them, and then patted into perfect soft circles, which we threw upon the wood burning stove to cook.