Honduras

Honduras









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 I have never been one to travel. My friend, Earl, dragged me on his winter vacation because "I was too stressed out". We went sightseeing, and walked through the small town of Juticalpa.

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We sat in the small café and got lunch. The wall had paint chipped off, and you could see the beams inside the walls. Although the restaurant was in slightly poor shape, it seemed to be a very popular destination for the locals. There were large picnic tables laid out everywhere, in rows of five. Each table had many people at them, and they were all enjoying themselves. ======

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This was one of few days I was able to sit and chat with Earl, but with his mouth full of fish and lettuce, having a conversation was not likely. As the questionable meal was placed in front of me, I looked up at Earl, who was digging in. My meal looked like mexican food, just with a few, very noticeable differences. One difference that stood out was that this did not look like the Taco Bell I go to in Folsom, California. It looked as if my perfect crunchy taco with extra cheese was put in a blender. Not being one to travel, I was certainly not one to try new things, or new food. So kept staring at my plate in front of me, trying to see what was actually in this. It looked like chicken, or some kind of fish. There were beans, rice, cheese, lettuce, and more ingredients buried under. It was more or less a burrito or a wrap. On the side of the plate, there was a small banana, or something of that kind. My thoughts were cut off by Earl. "Jordan, it's a plantain. Now stop looking at it and eat!" I sighed and started to speak, but was cut off again by something feathery brushing up against my leg. ======

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I looked under the table, only to see something I least expected: A chicken. I sat up and looked around the restaurant, only to see more animals. Dogs, cats, and more chickens wondered beneath the tables, as people tossed scraps or leftovers onto the floor, which were wolfed down by the animals. I was surprised this didn't break a health code, or a law. I dropped a piece of tortilla from my wrap and the chicken trotted over and ate it. It was right next to me, and not afraid, so it must be used to people. I pet its feathers and it walked away. going after more food. After eating my wrap and plantain, I got up and started walking to the bathroom. When I stood up, Earl stopped me, and handed me some change. "You'll need that" he said, and chuckled. I had no idea what he meant by that, but I didn't bother asking. When I got into the bathroom, there was a line of about 3 people. The bathroom smelled awful, and had graffiti tags on the walls. When it was finally my turn, I stepped into the stall. I did my business, and when I reached for toilet paper, there was none. Only a coin slot, labeled: "Papel Higiénico - 1 peso". Which meant, if my translation is correct, "Toilet Paper - 1 peso". Then I realized what Earl meant by me needing that change. I finished up, and walked out of the restaurant with Earl. ======

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If I hadn't gone to that restaurant, I don't think I would appreciate what I have at home. It also taught me about how much of a community that town was. My community is very big, so I might know a quarter of the people in my community. This restaurant was a great example of how we should be. ====== media type="file" key="Joe Russell.mp3" width="240" height="20" Madison Wells media type="file" key="Honduras MW Audio.m4a" width="300" height="50" Madison Wells 2/17/12

The farmers market Sunscreen slapped on my face, yet not sweating off in this unfamiliar hot, humid weather. Bright colors surround the open dirt street with many crowds surrounding each stand, bargaining in Spanish for goods. Overwhelmed I started feeling woozy and uncomfortable. Uncomfortable by the fact that I was the only one that didn’t know what they were saying, these were the times I wish I had taken Spanish instead of French. Being sixteen, my dad left me at a farmers market down in one of the smaller villages yet one of the richest in foods. Fried tortillas and beans filled my nose and engulfed me in hunger. I stop at a stand where a woman admired my stringy blonde hair while I observed her long,lusiouse,shiney, black hair. It flowed across her beautiful tan olive skin complexion, her eyes seeped of night. Her defined eyebrows portrayed much emotion and comfort. She was struggling to sell me a mineral mask and hand carved crosses that she had carved herself. She lacked the English language. I went on looking at all the ripe, plump, beautiful fruit being sliced and sold. Intrigued by the mangoes, I was swallowed into a crowd of only a few. The man selling the fruit looked solemnly at something on my hand, he kept looking and looking with beady brown eyes. He started speaking to me in English, complementing my thumbs. Random but a kind gesture. I decided to pay for a couple mangoes when he was slicing a mango for me I realized on of his thumbs were missing. I silently gasped to myself, so I wouldn’t disrespect him. He then decided to tell me how he lost his thumb. He introduced himself, his name was Luis. In a heavy, rich accent he told me his story. Luis was a young boy starting work on a fruit farm with his entire family. When he first laid eyes on a mango showered by the suns rays, he was hypnotized to clasp it in his hands for himself so he could be like his older brothers. He went into the kitchen and grabbed the sharpest of the knives. Ran out to the mango trees and as he was in the trees he was trying to detach the veins of the mango separating it. He said it reminded him of an umbilical cord and he was separating the mother from her baby. I laughed a little. He went on and said as proceeded to cut he slipped from the tall tree. He woke up in a hospital in horrific pain coming from his hand. That’s all he remembers he said calmly. I was inspired on how hard working these people were. I said goodbye and it was a pleasure to meet you to Luis. I had a great last day in that small village of Honduras. I could feel I had absorbed some of their culture already, I loved how close everyone was and the bright color that enlightened me.

Kendra Carr Story Recording media type="file" key="Honduras.m4a" width="300" height="50" Gracias Life scattered throughout the street, and people bloomed and rushed around. Shops beamed and energy sprinted throughout the town of Gracias, which is neatly placed in western Honduras. As soon as I entered a tiny shop, the humming sound of customers ceased. The shop owner looked at me; curious eyes traced my face. My every move, watched. Life itself stopped when I came to town. I could feel the flow of energy slightly unbalanced, and it surprised me that just my presence could change the way the whole town felt. Even though tourism should have been recognizing as normal, everyone seemed slightly distracted by my unfitted appearance. A donkey tenderly delivering a package road past me, natives walked around me, some gently brushing my arms, others going out of their way not to engage. It seemed like I was splitting the pathway. My feet carved a whole new road that only I had access to. Wide- eyed children playing in the streets, faces coated in dirt, stopped to watch as I wiped off my black dress shoes and continued treading on. Eventually, the road spilt off and I found myself on a bridge. Small cars and trucks sputtered past me as my feet dragged on. Unaware of where to go, my fingers wrapped around the light paper as it yanked, trying to pull free, biding to join the air in an adventure of epic proportion. The strong abrupt wind ruffled my shirt, dancing along the buttons. A quick check to see if my blazer had caught any white lint and I carried on, more sure than ever. Uneasy feelings dipped in and out of my stomach as I traded the strong breeze for the nice inside space. Nervously, I shuffled two bags to one hand and tipped my hat as I approached the concierge. Humble hands placed my belongings down close to my feet and I leaned on the desk, eyes let loose to wander. Low lights filled the show room as plants sprouted out of the ground, guarding the windows and shielding the outside world from what could be discovered within. A mossy green love seat clashed with the bright yellow walls that lashed out at my face demanding my attention, and a beautiful painting of a classy restaurant was displayed blissfully behind the bar. Four men sat, hunched backs facing, all drinking to relieve the same pain that haunted their live souls. Their ears open, waiting. The bartender, with a scruffy black beard skeptically eyed me, while wiping off visibly clean cup. “Hola señor, esta es la Posada de Don Juan. va a ser pasar la noche? .” Rang the concierge who wasn’t surprised when I trembled at her soft sudden voice. “Si?” I responded, unsure of what I had agreed to. “Muy bien, ¿qué lugar le gustaría.” continued the concierge. Curious green eyes looked upon my face, wondering if I’d answer the next question correctly. I caught her daze and held on for a bit, gripping the connection that may have been there. A raised eyebrow shocked me back to reality. “Uh, si?” confusion choked my neck and filled my lungs, my hands sweaty and at my sides, my jacket pressing my shoulders down. Every aspect of my mind told me to run, but feet planted firmly, I swore under my breath I would get through this minor setback. A flow of emotion rushed through my body, as I felt myself slightly shaking. “Ha,” Black beard chuckled at my obviously ditsy response and stance, and soon his chuckles became laughter. “Hahaha, hahahaha” The men at the bar joined too. Laughter filled the hall consuming so much space it seemed as if the air wouldn’t have enough room. I slowly started to understand the situation, and how I became the laughing stock of the small room, I didn’t belong here and everyone knew it. “Maybe knowing a little Spanish would be helpful, but that’s beside the point, would you like a room?” The Concierge giggled. Her face morphed quickly as if someone had been watching the small misdemeanor. The uproar of laughter changed into a hall of silence. The feeling of death lingered in the room. “Yes, I would like an uh,” the green eyes traced me and I bent to pick up my bags. “Complete sentences please.” She sighed, as she aimlessly tossed her glossy brown hair across her shoulder. “A Suite! Please, miss Uhhhh.” I lead her on hoping to catch a name to remember her by. “Esperanza,” she whispered as she hovered around the desk. Graceful legs complemented the floor she walked on. I found her small steps amusing and cute, and heading for me. “Are you starring at my feet?” she questioned, more hair flying. “Your shoes are nice; we have shoes like that in the states.” “I know, I got them there.” Her hands slowly wrapped around my suitcase handles. She was so close to me, in almost touching reach. I let go of my suitcases and she sauntered away heading to the end of the hall leaving the front desk unguarded. My eyes averted the men at the bar, although went straight to black beard, who tossed his head in the general direction of which Esperanza was heading. With the clear go signal, I jostled down the hall, with only the clicking of Esperanza’s heels to follow. “So, what brings you to Gracias?” Esperanza wondered aloud as the slow risky elevator trembled at the weight. “Is it important?” I snapped hoping, to maybe redeem myself. “Just trying to make small talk, sir, excuse me.” Sadness swallowed her face whole. “Well, in that case. I am visiting an old friend; he should be staying at this hotel. Did you ge-” “What about your writing?” I caught a quick glance from her out of the corner of my eye. “That too?” what sort of mystical creature was this woman, my mind questioned. “How did you know abou-”? “Everyone knows about your writing sir.” “My name isn’t sir its-“ “Were you planning on staying with Mr. Bond during your trip? Assuming he’s the old friend.” “Yes, and I assure you he’s not a spy.” Esperanza tried to mute her giggle. “What are you writing about sir? Is it maybe a mystery story?” she rambled “No, I’m a travel writer, not professional though, but I was hoping this story would catch fire, the one that I’m writing. Another thing please don’t call me sir it’s too flattering.” I grinned. “Than what is it that I am to call you.” Her whole body turned to face me, stone cold eyes, peered at mine. We stood there in silence for a few seconds, the screams of the elevator’s struggle bouncing off the walls. “Benjamin works fine.” “Okay Ben.” “It’s Benjamin.” “Jerry Bond, He checked in early the other day, he said he was meeting a friend of his, you.” “Well, yes he did mean me. Is Jerry here?” “I thought you knew.” Ding, the elevator’s victory sound. The soft colors sprang off the wall, a small bed stood isolated in the middle of the room; its soft comfitures wrapped it warmly. It called for me as I plunged down on its fluffy pillows. “Jerry was a bad man, he didn’t wash.” Esperanza hissed, her cold stare directed at her feet. “When you say was, why does it sound like he’s not here.” I leaned up, full focus on Esperanza. Her brown hair crashing down like a waterfall, the sun weaving in and out. “He was into Hejllo.” The strange word probably brought a puzzling look to my face because she quickly responded, “ Hejillo is when you touch a dead unpurified body, and not purifying yourself.” “Um, okay how does this affect me?” She slid to the edge of the bed “The towns people are concern that you are working with Jerry.” Everything seemed to make sense the odd looks, the awkward feeling. “Wait who killed Jerry.” I asked my face red ears pulsing “It doesn’t matter,” her face left a lingering feel. “What if the mans after me?” “She’s not,” A dark sly grin appeared on her face as she spun to leave the room. “Have a nice stay” she announced her heels clicking away and her hair swished behind her, green eyes smiling.