Around lunchtime, Roger and I went to the central park for a once-annual cultural festival with representatives from and representations of all the different regions of Honduras. In something like a Miss Honduras pageant, each girl was selected to represent her region in the festival. Arrayed throughout the park were regional microclimates, complete with the characteristic flora, fauna, music, dance, and foods of each locale. One interesting food I sampled consisted of bread pudding made from bread soaked in honey and juice instead of milk. It was very strong.
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| Roger |
After the festival, Roger and I went to play pool, and I consistently beat him playing Honduran pool, while he beat me in American pool. From the short walk to the park and back, Roger was sunburned, though I was not. This could be a good thing, or maybe I just don’t feel it anymore. During our walk back, however, I learned of an interesting perspective, being told that protestant churches in Honduras, as opposed to the Catholic ones, were just businesses that pastors started to make money.
While some of the women in the house were talking before the late lunch, “Glinda” and I got into an interesting conversation about the state of affairs in Honduras. Though possibly slightly on the edge, our discussion remained within bounds as far as keeping myself entirely distanced from any affinity to one of Honduras’s vying political factions is concerned. Glinda, at any rate, has an interesting ethnic background. Her father is (was?) British, his family having been from India, though he himself is from Kenya.
When San Pedro Sula came up in Glinda’s conversation, I mentioned that I didn’t like the city much, and that comment started us in an interesting conversation.
Glinda: Why not?
Me: It’s so dirty, and too many gangsters.
Glinda: Well that depends on where you are in the city. San Pedro Sula has lots of factories and jobs and is much more developed than Tegucigalpa. Have you been there?
Me: I’ll be going to Tegucigalpa in two weeks to fly out; I heard it’s one of the most dangerous airports in the world as far as crashes are concerned.
Glinda: It is. And it’s a stupid place for a capital. We also have a stupid history for why it’s the capital. The president of Honduras about 100 years ago was married but having an affair with another woman. When he divorced his wife to marry the other woman, he moved the capital.
Me: Washington, D.C. isn’t a great place for a capital, either. It was a swampland in the middle of nowhere when it was constructed. And now, it has one of the highest murder rates in the United States.
Glinda: Interesting. I heard something about a city in the United States that was really concerned because they had 80 murders in two years. In Olanchito, we just had 90 murders in six months.
Me: 90 in six months? Here?! In Olanchito?
Glinda: Yes.
Me: Why?
Glinda: All the corruption. In Honduras, there are 16 rich families that control everything and own all the land in the valleys outside the cities. In this area, there are three families in control, and they kill the poor people. It’s unfair. There was a law years ago to bring about land reform, but the families stalled it by killing people, and then it never happened.
Me: I read about that.
Glinda: We have no choices or opportunities here. That’s why if I quit my job I’m leaving this place. It’s a beautiful country, but I can’t stand all the corruption.
Me: Where would you go?
Glinda: I’d like to go to Africa. I used to live there, in Uganda. It’s less developed, but things are more equal there.
After lunch I went into isolation to write a song, for me always an arduous, trial-and-error process, but usually worthwhile at the end.
When Tom finally returned, alive and tired, he had some interesting stories to tell of his weekend adventures.
“So, on Saturday I went to Utila and rented a Kayak by myself. Pretty soon there was a storm blowing me around, and I travelled all the way to the keys. I was going to go back to Utila anyway, but even though the storm passed, the wind didn’t die down, so I couldn’t really go anywhere that night. I landed on this little deserted island and was thinking about camping out next to a tree for the night or something, when suddenly this guy named Junior in a homemade dugout canoe rigged with a motor sees me. ‘Hey, do you want a ride over to the next key?’ he said. Well, I figured it would be better to go to the next one, since there were actually people there and it would be less paddling the next day anyway.”
“I ended up staying at the guy’s house with his family, and they lived all Robinson Crusoe style. They used the roof to collect rainwater in a giant tank, and then would use pulleys to hoist it up and create water pressure for the sink, shower, and toilet. All the dirty water from the sink went over to fill the toilet, which then went to a low-maintenance septic tank. The electricity was an array of solar panels, and the family talked about their pirate heritage and fed me conch stew. The next day, they fed me breakfast and then I paddled back to the main island, but it still took all day because the wind was against me.”
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