In honor of Gabrielle's birthday, we went to Santa Barbara with some friends from San Pedro for a cake picnic, which is the best kind of picnic. Cecil wanted to show us the Castillo Bogran, which is the ruins of an old president's country home. People in Santa Barbara are either very protective of their local attractions, or no one knows where anything is...we asked several people for directions to the "castle", and also to a lunch place, and only one person knew where anything was. We think he might be the mayor.

Before I head home for a weekend of slow internet, I thought I would take advantage of the faster connection at school to upload some more signs for you guys.



1. Paper or Plastic?

4. Thank goodness for white-out

My students LOVE white-out. To an excessively ridiculous point. Apparently it is a cultural thing, as you can see from this sign. It was cemented in facing the wrong direction. Fortunately, whoever made that mistake was adept at liquid paper usage, and the wrong was quickly whited...I mean righted.

5. Cheapest PADI certification in the world

In keeping with the Latin American tradition of violence, "baleada" means someone who has been shot. Only in Honduras would a delicious food be named after that.

So, as many of you who live in Texas will understand, I am not very well acquainted with seasons outside of "summer" and "March". Honduras has the summer season down, so that was a very comfortable transition for me (comfortable might not be the most accurate word, but you know what I mean). Although they label their seasons as summer and winter, a more accurate description for you non-tropical folk would be rainy and dry season.

The dry season runs from November to April, more or less. December and January can have cold/rainy days if a cold Northern wind blows in. This year was kind of freakish in that it got really cold (for here) for nearly the whole month of January. Normally that doesn't happen. Even with the preparation I had from living in Texas, the dry season down here was the hottest, stickiest several months I have ever experienced. When rainy season hit, it brought sweet sweet freedom from hot weather oppression.

During the rainy season, it is really hot until it starts to rain. Once the drops start to fall, it cools off, and it is really pleasant. Unlike weather in Texas, weather here is fairly predictable. Every day during rainy season, it will start off cloudy. The clouds will dissappear around 8:30 or 9am, and the sun will try to beat you down. The clouds make a comeback around 3:30 or 4pm, when a delicious breeze carries them in. Then it starts raining between 5 and 6 until sometime after I have fallen asleep. This is the weekday schedule. Magically, the rain knows when it is weekend and children do not have recess, and it pours pretty much non-stop Saturday and Sunday.

My feeling towards rainy season are conflicted. I love the refreshing climate the rainy season brings. On the other hand, the hot and sunny days are ideal for washing laundry. Because, in case you do not remember, we wash our laundry by hand in the pila and then hang it out to dry. And leaving laundry out for nasty city rain negates any washing that occurred. Which means that I am running out of clean clothes. And Febreze-ing my dirty clothes isn't an option. (just kidding mom, I never really did that. often) I think I figured out a clever schedule where I wash my clothes when I get home from work, then leave them in a wet pile in a bag in my kitchen overnight. Then I hang them up in the morning when I wake up. I think one more load like that, and then I can hold off until I have access to a real washer and dryer. I never have been so stoked to do laundry.

In one week, I will be walking out of Freedom High School for the last time. Although I am trying to stay grounded in the present and not to dwell too much on the future, I realized that there are people who read my blog who do not read my friend Erica's. So y'all have some catching up to do.

I have made references to job hunting in some previous posts, but have not given the results here. So, in case you have not heard, I will be teaching science in Bratislava, Slovakia next school year. The reason this was announced in my friend Erica's blog is because she will be a mere three hours away in Ostrava, Czech Republic!! If that wasn't awesome enough, the Slovak word for brothers is "brats". I can already tell that I am going to like it over there.

So as I was job hunting, both this year and last year, I noticed that most international or bilingual schools require their employees to be native English speakers, or at least have that level of fluency. At the particular school I am at, this is not the case. It has definitely made for some interesting encounters with coworkers who speak zero English. Even among the ones who do speak English, few speak it well. Unfortunately, the English teachers are among these. So these kids are learning English from someone who speaks really awful English.

This causes problems when a student says something incorrectly and I correct them. Because they have been taught (sometimes for years already) that the way they are saying it is correct. And whenever I correct them, they act like I am trying to trick them...like "hahaha, I taught these kids how to sound stupid!" or something. So it is generally a fight to convince students that I know my language a little better than them, and I really want to help them at least sound intelligent. For example, you don't ask "When we are going to recess?"...you ask "When are we going to recess?" That took a good month before they finally believed me.

This morning, the biology teacher came in to talk to Gabrielle and I. He was talking about lizards with webbed necks, and that kind of transitioned into Turner syndrome (one of the manifestations of this disease is a webbed neck). He kept referring to the webbed neck as an enlarged cervical membrane. And he wouldn't believe Gabrielle or I when we said that the cervical membrane does not refer to extra skin on your neck. It literally took 15 minutes and the help of Google before he believed that the cervical membrane refers to special lady parts.

sucker. I can't believe he fell for that...

Although I have been unable to substantiate this claim, I am willing to bet that the National Anthem of Honduras is the longest national anthem in the world. When all seven verses are sung, along with the chorus, it takes a good 20 minutes to get through...closer to 30 minutes when you sing it at the appropriate tempo. The lyrics are really lovely and poetic, though.

In a conscious effort to curb my natural tendency towards super long posts, I am only going to post the chorus and 7th verse, which is what is sung normally (kind of like how the Aggie War Hymn technically has 2 verses, but people only ever know the 2nd verse). That way you can see how lovely their anthem is.

CORO:
Tu bandera es un lampo de cielo (Your flag is a splendor of sky)
Por un bloque de nieve cruzado (Crossed with a band of snow)
Y se ven en su fondo sagrado (And in its sacred depths there can be seen)
Cinco estrellas de palido azul (Five pale blue stars)
En tu emblema, que un mar rumoroso (In your emblem, which a rough sea)
Con sus ondas bravias escuda (Shields with its wild waves,)
De un volcan tras la cima desnuda (Behind the bare summit of a volcano)
Hay un astro de nitida luz (There is a star of clean light)

ESTROFA 7
Por guarder ese emblema divino (To guard this divine emblem)
Marcharemos, oh Patria, a la muerte. (We will march, Oh fatherland, to the death.)
Generosa sera nuestra suerte (Our luck will be generous)
Si morimos pensando en tu amor. (If we die thinking of your love.)
Defendiendo tu santo bandera (Defending your holy flag)
Y en tus pliegues gloriosos cubiertos (And shrouded in its glorious folds)
Seran muchos, Honduras tus muertos (There will be many, Honduras, your dead)
Pero todo caeran con honor. (But all will fall with honor.)

Isn't that pretty? When this is sung, you begin and end with the chorus, like a really long and patriotic musical sandwich. So even the one verse on its own is probably the longest national anthem. In order to graduate, every senior in Honduras must memorize all seven verses, as well as 100 questions and their answers about various parts of the anthem. They are given a test in which a verse, and a certain number of questions are drawn randomly. The student must then perform their chosen verse and then answer the questions, verbatim, with the answer given in the booklet. If the answer is not verbatim, it is not correct. As one of my coworkers says: "Who says schools in Honduras don't raise independent thinkers? We have been independent since 1838!"

I realized today that I have not shared a lot of general knowledge about Honduras with you fine folks. So, although it has been nearly a year since I got here, I am going to educate you on some general Honduras trivia.

• Honduras is the second poorest country in Central America, behind Nicaragua.
• Honduras is the second most populated country in Central America, behind Guatemala.
• San Pedro Sula is the second most dangerous city in Latin America, behind Caracas, Venezuela.
• Roatan boasts the second largest barrier reef in the world, behind the Great Barrier Reef in Australia.

• Honduras is the most culturally diverse country in Central America, with 10 distinct native ethnic groups.
• Honduras is the only country in Central America whose volcanoes are all dormant.
• While it may rain cats and dogs in some places, in the department of Yoro it rains fish at least once a year. For real. There are different theories as to where the fish come from and how they turn into precipitation. According to local legend, many years ago an old Spanish priest prayed for a miracle to help feed the poor of this country, and God answered by showering the village with fish.

• The national tree of Honduras is the pine tree. Mom thought I was being sarcastic when I told her that, but it is true. Even though it is tropical here, it is also very mountainous.
• The national flower of Honduras is the orchid.
• The national bird of Honduras is the scarlet macaw.
• The flag of Honduras is three horizontal stripes, blue on top and bottom, with white in the middle. There are five blue stars in the middle stripe representing the five countries that used to be part of the Central American Union: Honduras, Guatemala, Nicaragua, El Salvador, and Costa Rica.
• Honduras is Spanish for "depths". Apparently Christopher Columbus sailed into a bay to escape a terrible storm and consequently discovered the country that we now know and love. Supposedly he said something along the lines of "Thank you God for saving us from those depths" which, roughly translated into Spanish, goes "Gracias a Dios somethingsomethingsomething esas honduras." (cut me some slack, I am still learning)

I will be doing a separate post on the national anthem, because it is really interesting. But for now, you at least know some fun facts about the Honduras. And knowing is half the battle.

A couple weeks ago I went down to the Bay Islands of Honduras for an interview on the island of Roatan. The interview took place Friday morning, and so I had pretty much the entire weekend to soak in the beauty of the island.

So Gabrielle and I visited Lago de Yojoa back in October/November. I did not post about it because I didn't want to ruin my dad and brother's Christmas present. That ended up being pointless for two reasons:

Bilingualism is hard. But, fortunately, sometimes it is funny. I recently read an article in the NY Times about how the Chinese government is attempting to correct every mistranslated sign in China. The sadness I felt at the prospect of losing some of those brilliant translations made me ponder the hilarity that mistranslation can provide. For your education and reading enjoyment, here are some mistranslations I have either made or experienced firsthand this past year.

1. I will demand you!
Gabrielle had her students make a cartoon about littering and how it is bad. One group's cartoon began with a man littering. The next frame showed another man walking up to the litterer and saying "I will demand you!" The final frame depicted the litterer behind bars, ruing the man who demanded him. It was really cute, albeit confusing. After reading that comic, I noticed a lot of students threatening to "demand" each other, and sometimes even threatening to "demand" me. "Miss...if you give us homework tonight, I will demand you!" "Miss, if I do not get a good grade on the quiz, I will demand you!" I asked what that meant a couple times, and was given "you know miss...demand!" as a response. Less than adequate. One day I wised up and asked some students who have a more solid grasp on the English language what these kids were trying to say. Apparently the Spanish verb demandar means "to sue". So...there you go. Now I threaten to demand kids, and it is really fun.

2. Lost in Translation
I am intrigued by translated movie titles. More often than not, the translated title bears not even the slightest resemblance to the original title. For example, The Blind Side was released in Spanish under Un Sueño Posible (A Possible Dream). One day Gabrielle and I were perusing the random selection at the video rental store, and came across the Spanish release of Cruel Intentions, translated as Juegos Sexuales (Sexual Games). Gabrielle made a face and said "Gross. That movie probably wasn't very popular down here." When I asked her what she meant, she said "Um...Sexual Juices?! That is just nasty!" (The Spanish word for "juice" is jugo)

3. V = B
For those of you who may not know, in Spanish, oftentimes (maybe every time?...I am not sure) the letter "v" is pronounced /b/. This simple fact has been the source of some really cute happenings. The neighborhood kids love me, although I am not sure if I would be as popular if I did not have light hair and blue eyes. Regardless, I will take what I can get. Although many Hondurans are not bilingual, very basic English is taught in public schools. Most Hondurans know some of their numbers and colors, etc. in English. The little girls on my street offered to exchange English lessons from me for Spanish lessons from them. It was too cute to refuse. So one day I sat outside with my notebook, and Kency wrote down some "A" words for me to copy down. Then she moved on to "B" words. First word: "vaca" (pronounced "baka"...it means cow). "sweetie, that starts with a v." hmm, ok...second word: "viejo" (pronounced "bee-ay-ho"...it means old or old man). "I think that also starts with a v". oh...then we will start with "veinte" (pronoucned "bane-tay"...it means twenty). "I am certain that starts with a v." At this point Kency scratches her head and says "ok. Today we will start with the letter V."

I have amassed quite the collection of Spanish music in my time here. Nearly everyone I talk to likes to recommend their favorite groups to me. My landlord is one such person. He suggested I look into the Amigos Invicibles (which, by the way, I am now a big fan of). I wrote them down, and he immediately began laughing. I had written down "Amigos Imbiciles" (the Idiot Friends) instead of "Amigos Invicibles". It totally sounded the same! He had now heard of the first group, but we both decided their music would not be quite as good.

4. Frere Jacques...dormez vous?
Yeah, you didn't know I could speak French, too, did you? This catchy tune is used in schools down here to teach children how to greet people. The correct version should sound like this:
Good morning teacher! Good morning teacher!
How are you? How are you?
Very fine, thank you. Very fine, thank you.
How are you? How are you?
The most popular rendition of this song, however, goes as follows:
Good morning teacher! Good morning teacher!
How are you? How are you?
Very very thank you. Very very thank you.
How are you? How are you?
When you tell whoever is singing it that they are saying "muy muy gracias" (which makes as much sense in Spanish as it does in English) they shriek with laughter, but they don't really believe you. Or they believe you, but continue to sing it "their" way. I have to admit, it rolls off the tongue much more easily. When I sing it now, I have to really concentrate when it comes to my line. Don't judge me.

5. Nice cans...
Whenever I go to the beach, I love to get pan de coco from the Garifunas. It is regular bread (pan) made with coconut milk (coco) and it is delicious. I usually get a bunch and freeze it. One day Yuri came over, and as she was leaving she asked if she could have some of my "panas de coca". I assumed two things: 1- "panas" is plural for "pan" and 2- she meant "coco" not "coca", so I grabbed her some bread from the freezer. She looked confused, and repeated her request. Then she pointed to the box under the counter where my empty aluminum cans were stored (with the optimistic intention of eventually recycling them). I think that "panas" is a local slang word for cans, because I am pretty sure it is not mainstream Spanish. In any event, I felt incredibly retarded. Yuri nodded like it was a totally understandable mistake, but the look on her face did not match her understanding nod. Then she left with my cans. And my bread. fail.

My mentor teacher at Happy Days quit about two months into the school year and headed out to Santa Rosa de Copan to teach at a school there. A couple weeks ago, Gabrielle and I were able to go out and visit him. It was a really exciting weekend. For one thing, it was his school's science fair, which he had turned into a fair slash expo. It was really fun to check out. There was also a culture festival that weekend, which was really cool. You don't see a lot of culture festivals down here.

Santa Rosa is a really, really, really cute little town. It is near Copan Ruinas on the map, but by road it is a couple hours away. Right now there is apparently a highway under construction that will connect the two towns and shorten the trip to about 30 minutes. One of the things that I loved about it there was that people liked to be outside for more than just walking to or from their car/taxi/bus. The town square was beautifully kept and clean, and had a lot of benches and a big gazebo with benches. lovely.

We spent a large part of the weekend in the gazebo listening to live music (bands and marimbas!) and just hanging out. One of Josè's friends was supposed to do a poetry reading of some poems he has written, but the marimba band was really loud and he did not feel he could compete with their volume. In addition to music, there were small acting troupes, mimes, face painters, canvas painters, and potters all showing off their stuff. It was really fun, and it was exciting to see something like that here in Honduras. Had this been all the weekend entailed, the people watching would have been spectacular. But fortunately, like any arts festival in the States, this one attracted hippies. This made the people watching phenomenal.

Our favorite hippie was a man named Cucaracha. He is from Copan Ruinas, and he is the ultimate, quintessential hippie. He is tall, has dredlocks and wears flowy pants. He makes jewelry. He tried to sell Gabrielle's friend an "adult" brownie when they visited Copan before our trip to Belize. And he has perfected every form of hippie sport available.

So no one has ever really accused me of talking like a man (although I apparently had a husky voice as a little kid). Nor have I really been accused of walking like a woman. But I am a woman who has, on more than one occasion, been accused of man-ish qualities. Normally I wouldn't be claiming this on a public forum like ye olde internet...but I don't truly feel any of them are a threat to my femininity. And the most recent accusation makes me doubt the grasp of masculinity some people have.

Even though I am not abnormally tall, I have been told by several (admittedly short) girls over the years that I am tall like a man. When I visited my friend in Finland last summer, she informed me that I put change in my pockets like a man (so I got a coin purse at MARIMEKKO!!!!!!). And many female acquaintances of mine have commented on my boyish taste in movies and humor. All of these I can understand, even if I don't necessarily agree with them. Recently, many of my students and co-workers have informed me of a certain manish behavior I am exhibiting. This particular accusation I do not understand really at all.

As you may or may not know, the Soccer World Cup is only a month away. As part of the hype, a certain company makes World Cup sticker books. Yes, you heard right. There are stickers of the team's group photo, emblem, and then a head shot of each player on the team. The books are actually kind of cool. And filling them is fun...it is like trading baseball cards, but the cards are stickers! I definitely got a book, and for the past couple of weeks, I have been collecting and trading stickers like a crazed 3rd grade girl. Or, apparently, like a Honduran man.

Yes. Apparently the girls do not like to fill out these books, even though it is a combination of hot, athletic boys and stickers (two things that I personally enjoy very much). Rather, these sticker books are in the Honduran man's domain. You read that right. You have not seen anything until you have seen two grown men haggling over stickers. Or a professional man in a business suit flipping through his sticker book at the bus station.

If owning a sticker book full of pictures of gorgeous futbolistas means I am acting like a man...I am ok with that. Forget you, Shania Twain.

For everyone who has always made fun of me (or been annoyed with me) because I am a loud person, I would like to argue that I am no where near as loud as the Latino culture. At any point in the country, you can hear the bass pumping in the background from someone's blaring radio. Music that would be in the background at a restaurant in the States is blared at club volume from the moment the doors open until well after they close. And because every building down here is built out of concrete, all of this loudness is amplified by about a million percent.

Apart from music and voices, Latinos really like loud noises. Banging pots are a popular and affordable way to show your enthusiasm. But even more popular are the supposedly illegal firecrackers that you can purchase at the grocery store. It kind of defeats the purpose of being illegal if you can purchase them at any store in the country...but no one asked me, so whatever.

My first experience with firecrackers happened during the playoffs for the World Cup. Gabrielle and I went to a local watering hole to enjoy some frosty brew and check out the game. It kind of threw me off that everyone screamed anytime anything happened. Unlike screams at an American football game, where you can tell if something good or bad happened by the way the crowd yells, Hondurans just let out eardrum-shattering, ambiguous shrieks during any intense moment of the game., Good or bad, it all sounds the same...like the frightened scream of the stupid cheerleader/sorority character who is the first to die in a horror film. It's actually a little unnerving.

At one point, our goalie blocked a shot. Everyone in the bar screamed. Then outside, I heard screaming and gunshots. I freaked out, pushed Gabrielle out of her stool, and hit the deck. Everyone in the bar laughed at me. Because they weren't gunshots, it was people screaming and setting off firecrackers on the sidewalk right outside the door. Don't get me wrong, I definitely laughed at myself when I realized what was happening. But I would like to throw out there that it was not entirely far-fetched for me to assume that a fire fight was going on in the streets of downtown San Pedro. This scene repeated itself a couple more times before I became slightly accustomed to the screaming and gunshot-esque sounds blasting away five feet from where I sat. By the end of the night I was only violently flinching and going slightly pale each time the firecrackers were lit. Good for me.

I am a little freaked out right now, because I am fairly certain I heard gunshots next door. I am now pretty familiar with the sounds of firecrackers, and I am pretty sure that is not the origin of the sounds I just heard. It is probably just a neighbor shooting a stray dog or snake, a la Rick Perry, but I've never heard gunshots outside of the hunting or badass movie context. And now I am conflicted. I totally want to stay inside and hide. Right now that is winning. But it is starting to rain, and my laundry is outside. And if it gets rained on, I will have to wash it again tomorrow or else I will smell like acid rain and dirty city. Here's hoping it stops raining until daylight.

I am a HUGE science nerd, but I was never really a big fan of the science fair. Probably I am just a little bitter that I was beat two years in a row by Ricardo Pinella, who made a point of rubbing in my face that he didn't actually do the experiments, he just made up data and took pictures so it looked like he spent 2 months on them. jerk.

A couple days after my most recent excursion to Guatemala, I headed up to Belize with Gabrielle and her friend Bart for Semana Santa. I almost didn't come back, partly because the boat ride over was horrendous, but mostly because I am in love with Belize.

This delicious little bun delights and confuses me. Depending on who is baking it, it is a small roll or a large bun. But no matter who the baker is, it is always fluffy yet kind of crunchy, with a really interesting powdery-sugary glaze. They are pretty much amazing with coffee, although you want to eat something else with them because they do not provide much sustenance because they are so airy. Therein lies the confusion (for me)...

Semita is a Spanish word that is literally translated as Semite, but is used (at least here in Honduras) to refer specifically to people of the Jewish persuasion. There is apparently a fairly large Jewish population in Mexico, where a semita (food, not person) is a roll of unsweetened, unleavened bread. Which makes sense, because unleavened bread is one of the things Jewish people are known for.

The semitas in Honduras are most definitely sweet. And they are most definitely leavened. Yeast is listed as an ingredient on every package I have found with an ingredient list on it (which actually doesn't happen too much here, but they're always yummy. And don't worry, mom, I am sure they are totally legit still). They also have a very different flavor and texture than challah. Now, I love Jewish people, so please do not take this as a slight against them or their culture. I just do not understand why these rolls are named after them, because there really does not seem to be any apparent connection between the two. They could just as easily be called "Little Catholic" rolls, or perhaps even "Little Islam" buns.

I asked some of my students why they were called semitas, and they ALL told me it was because they look like Jewish people. That perplexed me, but I only received exasperated "ay, miss, they just look like them" when I asked for a more detailed explanation. Perhaps they are referring to skin tone? I just know that I have known many Jewish people over the years, and NONE of them bear a resemblence to this tiny pastry.

If any of you know of a doppleganger website that is specifically for Jewish people, let me know. I am curious to see how many look-alikes this roll gets.

For a land filled with people who do not know how to read, Honduras really loves to put signs up. Most of their signs are pictoral. One would assume that they use pictures so that those who do not know how to read can understand the signs. If that was the original intention, all I have to say is: EPIC FAIL. These signs are incredibly cryptic and many people have no idea what they mean. For your viewing pleasure, I am including some of these insane signs, as well as some signs that struck me as downright hilarious. Enjoy.

A while ago, I posted about the highly ineffective fort the Spanish built in Omoa. In case you don't remember, it was so ineffective that the English captured it and promptly abandoned it within two weeks. Right before Semana Santa I ventured to Guatemala (legally this time...be proud of me) and have come to two conclusions:
1. Life in Central America NEVER gives you what you expect.
b. If you are counting effectiveness and not asthetics, the Spanish were the worst fort builders in history.

The following account is how I happened to arrive at these conclusions. Let me know if you think I am off...

Like most of Latin America, Honduras is an incredibly Catholic country, which means that we get a HUGE break for Easter. The entire week before Easter is Holy Week, or Semana Santa. Due to some scheduling conflicts, our school did not have classes the Friday before Semana Santa (w00t!). Gabrielle was going to Copan with a visiting friend for the weekend. In order to give them some quality friend time, I decided to hop up to Guatemala for the day on Friday and then spend the rest of the weekend doing laundry and other grown-up stuff. My goal was to visit the Mayan ruins at Quirigua, which is a mere 3 hours by car from San Pedro Sula. Since I would be relying on the Honduran/Guatemalan public transport, I asked around to see if that was possible to do in one day. I was assured by many that it was. So Friday morning, I hit the bus terminal.

First surprise. The company whose schedule I had looked up the night before no longer existed. A series of smaller buses would get me to the Guatemalan border, and I could figure out a new plan from there. Three and a half hours later, I arrive at the Guatemalan border. After getting ripped off by my first Guatemalan minibus driver, I am on my way to Quirigua. Or am I...?


I see a sign for the city I want and ask to get off. The guy says "You don't want to get off now. We'll be going up there in just a few minutes." I should have argued with him, but foolishly, I believe him and sit back down. An hour later we arrive at the super sketchy town of Morales (where I do NOT want to be). An hour after that, we leave again for Rio Dulce. I ask how long it will take to get there and was told it was less than an hour away. It is only less than an hour away if the bus driver doesn't stop every five feet, and then spend 30 minutes flirting with the lady near the tree he stopped to pee at (gross!!!). If that happens, the trip takes two hours. By the time we finally pull into Rio Dulce, I have missed the last bus to Quirigua AND the last bus to Honduras. Guess I'm staying the night...

I find a pretty sketch hotel near a restuarant where I hunker down for the night. I met some really interesting people there. By interesting I mean super drunk and/or high. One man told me about something horrible that happened to him at the Miami airport in angry, rapid, slurred Spanish. I had no idea what he was saying. When he finished, he asked me if that was legal to do in the United States. I told him I had no idea what he said. So he repeated the story, more angrily and much faster. This cycle repeated itself about two more times (it was kind of fun) before I finally just said "yes. It is totally legal." He shook his head sadly, and then asked me to come home with him. I politely declined. A hooker who had just walked in congratulated me for sticking to my values. She proceeded to get very drunk and tell me crazy stories involving turkeys and I don't know what else. The more she drank, the more she congratulated me for respecting my body. If you have never had your morals appluaded by a drunk hooker, I don't know what to tell you. As she left, a crew of fairly drunk Americans and Swedes walked in. We played darts for a little while, and then I called it a night.

The next morning I discovered that there are no buses to Quirigua on Saturday from Rio Dulce (why would there be? It's just the weekend...) Fortunately there is a fort near the town, so I head out there. This fort was another one that was captured quickly by the British, and then abandoned within two weeks. I don't know if the Spanish built very crappy, non-strategic forts on purpose (Hey...if we make it crappy, they'll give it back to us!) or if they were legitimately just bad at it. But thus far I have not seen the Spanish having a good fort building record. But, as seems to be the Latin American motto: If it don't work good, at least make it look good. It was a really beautiful fort. Fun side note...the original fort was destroyed in a hurricane or earthquake a few decades ago. When the Guatemalan government rebuilt it, they wired it for electricity, but they did not put any lights in. So there are electrical plugs and wires all over the place, but no lights. If you ever visit this fort, bring a flashlight, because there are many dark tunnels and basement rooms that could use the light.

Fortunately at that moment, a bread vendor came by and tried to peddle me his wares. My refusal did not damper his spirits, and he struck a conversation with me. Turns out, he was heading to Puerto Barrios, which is where I needed to go, and he offered me a ride. It took forever, because he stopped and sold bread every five minutes. And he had this huge speaker on top of his car that blared out accordion music and advertised his merchandise at an incredible volume. But it was a free ride, and he was a nice man. Right before he let me off, he asked if I would mind if he got some gas. He pulled into this gas station, where all of his buddies came over to the truck and asked if I was his girlfriend. It was kind of hilarious, but I didn't really laugh about it until we pulled out of the station.

Several hours later, I made it back home. I still have not seen Quirigua, but I did get to see a cool/ineffectual fort. Plus I totally have an in with the Guatemalan bread underground, and at the end of the day, isn't that really what it's all about?

I remember being shocked when my Russian professor told me that people in Russia don't like ketchup. The shock continued when I later discovered that (with some exceptions) ketchup is not a very popular condiment anywhere outside of the USA. It's America's favorite condiment! It is delicious and versatile! How is it possible that so few people outside of the States like ketchup?

This question has been percolating in the back of my mind for several years now. Every now and then it bubbles up and I ponder it for a while. But the question has always been so perplexing that I just stuff it back inside, bottling it up along with my emotions. Finally, after years of searching, I have stumbled upon the answer, and man it feels good. Like the cork shooting out of a bottle of champagne. The reason people outside of the US do not like ketchup is because ketchup outside of the US is straight up nasty.

Hunt's and Heinz 57 make pretty decent ketchup, but Whataburger has, in my opinion, the best ketchup in the world. Some subtle sweetness from the "tomatoes", a little saltiness, slight tang, robust texture and just the right amount of Red #40 to give an appetizing color. In contrast, Honduran ketchup is kind of watery with a grainy texture, exaggerated sweetness, slightly sour (as in rancid, not lemon-y) aftertaste, and is a very unnatural shade of orange-red. The taste is bearable, but it is by no means pleasant, and it certainly does not add to the integrity of whatever food you may be globbing it onto. If this is the norm for ketchup outside of the US, it is no small wonder that many people are repulsed by the mere idea of this condiment.

At this point, I should add that by "many people", I am not including Hondurans. In a bizarre deviation from the normal global anti-ketchup trend, Hondurans love this condiment (particularly local brands) and use it for and on just about everything. EVERY. THING. Take, for example, the spaghetti that is served in our school's cafeteria: noodles stirred in ketchup with quesillo sprinkled on top (the quesillo is added because the noodles-and-ketchup combination is not nasty enough on its own). Or the huevos rancheros I had on my way back from Teguz the other day: fried eggs drowned in ketchup (NOT the delicious salsa I had been anticipating). I recently served as a tasting judge for the 8th graders' activities class (kind of like home ec.) One group made "pizza" (a corn tortilla with ketchup and quesillo). The other group made grilled corn-on-the-cob (quick side note: the grilled corn down here is better than the grilled corn-on-the-cob you get at the state fair, which I didn't think was possible), which they decided was too boring. Not to be out done by the other group's cunning use of ketchup and quesillo, they dunked the cob into a bowl of ketchup and then rolled it in crumbled quesillo. There is not a lot of good things I can say about that dish in particular, but I will grant them that it was by no means "boring".

I do not know if this love of ketchup extends beyond the borders of Honduras. But if you ever travel this way, take caution in ordering anything that may have some form of tomato on it. The cook may very well substitute the tomato with ketchup.

This is Kelley Stephan, your foreign food correspondent, over and out. Next installment will be up soon (I have a decently working computer AND internet simultaneously now. It's pretty exciting.)

Just prior to my return to the States, I went on a horseback ride in Copan. The man who owned the horses accompanied Gabrielle and I on our ride. He was a sweet man, and we conversed as much as my limited Spanish would allow. Inevitably he asked if I was married, and inevitably, he became visibly uncomfortable when I said "no". In order to relieve him of his discomfort, I asked him if he was married. YES. So he began chattering about his family. He mentioned that his wife had already begun the preparations for all the tortillas and tamales for their family's Christmas celebration, even though Christmas was still a few weeks away. "I would love to learn how to make tortillas and tamales," I said.