You say good-bye, I say hello

We are in the height of the dry season here in La Esperanza. Which means the dirt road that takes us to work everyday has turned into a giant dust bowl. The dirt here has a slight orangy tinge which, when mixed with even a small amount of perspiration creates a nice carrot toned film across any exposed skin. I try to console myself that in Canada people pay good money to be made more orange, although most people try to achieve the bronzed look, not the dusty carrot.

I can’t get used to all the dust here no matter what I try. Curtis brought me allergy eye drops from Canada, which was very caring, but still doesn’t stop the constant itchiness.

There are other things here that I’ve had trouble getting used to. For the longest time I would say "Hola" to people as I passed them on the road on my bike going to work. For the first while they would either just look at me a little strangely or laugh and say "Adios". I did not understand why everyone was doing this and actually started to get somewhat offended by it. I am just trying to be friendly. Why won’t they say hello back? Why do they say goodbye? Do they want me to leave, to take my iPod and fancy (for Honduras) bike and ride back to Canada? I just didn’t get it. After thinking about this through several confusing bike rides, I realized that we just have it mixed up in Canada. We say hello when we are passing each other, when it actually makes more sense to say good-bye, since you are leaving.

With this new revelation I set out on my bike today to greet people on the road the Honduran way and try to make up for being such a silly gringa the last few months. There is this one little boy that has always gotten such a huge kick out of my daily screw ups, and for some reason I could never get it right with him. In my defence, he is always the first person I see on the road every morning so he usually catches me off guard. I see him. I forget. I say Hola. He laughs and says Adios. Repeat.

Today I swore to myself that I was going to get it right. I played the scene out in my head. I would see him coming, and wait until just the right moment and then I would wave and say Adios! Like it was nothing, while Shakira provided the background music to this beautiful cross cultural exchange.

I turned around the corner and spotted my little friend. There he was walking up the road towards me, smug as can be. He totally thinks I’m going to screw it up, he’s waiting for it. Well not this time mi pequeno amigo. Not this time. You’re not going to have the stupid gringa story for your friends at school today. Not today. My heart started to beat faster, as I peddled to reach him. Wait for it … wait for it. Act natural.

Just as my mouth opened to speak, a truck carrying 15 Hondurans barrelled around the bend. PHOOF. We were instantly covered in a giant suffocating cloud of Honduran dry season dirt road dust. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I stumbled off my bike and groped for my handle bars to steady myself. I was paralyzed in the ditch. Out of the swirling dust and grit, a small figure approached me.
I sputtered. I coughed. I knew what I had to do. Leaning over my handle bars I gasped and tried.. Ah.. Adhh.. Addd. Achoooo!
Through the blur I could make out his grinning face. " Adios chica en la bici"

In a few moments the dust settled and I was alone on the side of the road. I used the back of my hand to wipe the orange coloured snot and tears off my face. I needed my eye drops.

Nadia and Marion: so alike it's almost weird

This is Nadia Pineda aka. Pinata -- Sara's pig was named after her - this is no small honour

I work with her everyday in the office, she is seen here modeling one of the new tool boxes we purchased together in Tegucigalpa for the workers.
Let me break it all down for you

Nadia: speaks Spanish,English and understands everything in between
Marion:speaks English and a form of Spanish involving a lot of charades and strange sounds

Nadia: supplies the petty cash
Marion: never has any cash

Nadia: classy
Marion: clompy

Nadia: drives like a mad woman through the streets of Tegucigalpa, explaining to me that " Teguc is a crazy city for crazy people"...as I clench the seat and scream.
Marion: rides her new red bike

Nadia: smart enough to stay on the surface, out of scuba equipment
Marion: way too excited to safely scuba

Nadia: has never been carried,crawled, stumbled, or propped up in anyway during our trips to Roatan
Marion: well... she always made it home

Nadia: Can dance the Punta, a very sexy Latin American dance involving a lot of bum shaking
Marion: has decided that Latin America is not yet ready for her version of the Punta

Bonifacio's Hoodie

Bonifacio is the watchman at the dam. He wears a grey Volcom hoodie. The sleeves are a little long, but overall he wears it well.
That hoodie has come a long way.
It came with Sara, stolen from a now ex-boyfriend.
It was left behind one day, went missing for a few weeks, then appeared on Bonafacio. He has now adopted it.
We drive through the gate into the site in silence. I see the hoodie and think of a 9 hour road trip into B.C. sitting in the back of a black Jetta, staring over the grey hooded shoulder of a forgotten boy.
I see amusement in my cousin's face.
Bonafacio smiles back at us and lifts the gate. He thinks we must be extra happy to go to work today.

From Indiana to Intibuca

I live in Honduras. I work for my uncle Ron. A few years back he had a crazy idea, to build a hydro electric dam in the poorest most dangerous country in Central America, bringing electricity to the least developed, poorest region of that country.

Let me tell you a bit about my uncle Ron. I spent part of each summer as a kid in the Okanagan Valley living at my uncle and aunt’s house in Penticton. My uncle was always that uncle that was a little too sarcastic to understand when you were a kid and thought watching us fly off the trampoline and run into the house bawling was a hilarious summer afternoon pastime. He definitely wasn't the first one you ran too when you cut the side of your mouth on the Freezie you were eating.

There was this one summer evening, when Sara and I were around 5, Jodie was 7 and Jason and Heather were too little to be of any significance. My uncle had been left to take care of all of us while my auntie and my mom went out to visit some friends. He positioned all three of us around the kitchen table, feet dangling and bug eyed. Then cracked a Kokanee, poured 3 Kool-aids and explained that we were not going to be watching the movie Willow tonight, instead were all going to learn how to play Monopoly, the right way and the best way. I had no idea what Monopoly was. I was afraid of my uncle. I felt betrayed and abandoned by my mother. And I loved watching Willow.

The monopoly board was unfolded on the table. Pieces were chosen, money doled out. Everything ok so far. Throughout the next 3 and a half hours, my uncle explained the game to three little girls with side pony tails, while Jason slept in his lap. My mom has told me that she will never forget the scene that her and my auntie came home to.

It was nearly midnight when they came in the door, and the end-all Monopoly game of the late eighties was still going strong. My cousin Jodie was leaning across the table haggling over real estate prices. Sara was standing on her chair, arms waving, arguing right back on the potential profits she could receive on Pennsylvania Ave., which she could not be expected to trade. I had forgotten all about not getting to watch Willow save Princess Elora Danan, and was totally caught up in counting my huge wad of cash. My uncle was smiling, leaning back in his chair, and watching the little capitalists he had created in a mere few hours time, entirely satisfied with his work.
So you get the picture. Coming to work for him a decade and a half later was going to be an adventure.
The dam is in full swing and the Rio Intibuca is flowing through the turbines.