The day after I posted the last blog we traveled to Yorito (another rural community in Honduras, though exponentially larger than San Isidro) to visit with our friends while Marvin was out of town. We went by bus—and by bus I mean a converted yellow school bus that was shipped here from the United States. After seeing these buses criss-cross Honduras, blasting reggaeton music and navigating treacherous pot-holes, I had understandably built up a strong desire to ride one. Wish granted. On Saturday we struggled to get up at 4:15 am to drive to Talanga where we boarded at 7:45 am. Five bumpy hours later we arrived safe, but a little dizzy, in Yorito, the adopted home of our compañeras Diana, Rachel, Anna, and Jaki. I entered their apartment triumphant because of my successful journey but somewhat intimidated because I hadn’t used indoor plumbing in over a month.
Your typical Sunday in Honduras is a day of rest—the people try to only do absolutely necessary work. An atypical Sunday sees the President arrested and deported to Costa Rica. The first news reports indicated that the “coup”—as some were calling it—was relatively calm with all demonstrations and potential for violence confined to the metropolitan areas. The situation could become volatile with the impending return of the ousted President this weekend but we aren’t nervous and are keen on any developments.
We came to Yorito primarily to engage with the FIPAH youth because they were hosting a Feria de Semillas (Seed Festival) to show off their hard work to the community. The youth prepared hundreds of varieties of seeds to display in hand-made clay pots but I—for some reason—was interviewed by a man with a microphone pack who projected my voice for the thousands of Hondurans in Yorito for the festival. He asked me what I was studying and I informed him I was an English major. He proclaimed (in English and with a hilarious Spanish accent), “To be, or not to be, that is the qiston!” That night, while the rest of the country (literally every other city, town, or village) was under a curfew—Yorito was allowed to carry on with its party to honor San Pedro (Saint Paul). As I tried to fall asleep around 10:30 pm, my conservative side wished the curfew had been extended to Yorito because fireworks and music vibrated our walls until 3 am. Hondureños might not party often, but they sure don’t call an early night when they do.
On Tuesday we got to see the festival-free Yorito—calm and as sparsely populated as the number of houses would suggest. Luckily, Doña Francisca arrived in the central park to sell baleadas even though all of the visitors who had been in town for the festival were now gone. Though I’ve known Doña Francisca for less than a week, she’s the person I’ll miss most when I leave Honduras. She sells her baleadas 6 days a week for 6 lempiras (32 cents) each. Her typical baleada consists of: a homemade corn tortilla that she cooks on a pile of coals when you order it, refried beans, queso, and chismol (pico de gallo) that she prepares daily. Heaven. The picture at the top of this post is me with my new friend Doña Francisca and with my new love, a baleada.
After my original departure date of Wednesday was moved back to the coming Monday, I have invested fully in the teaching and other work of the 4 Nourish International volunteers in Yorito. They teach English with the Educatodos program that offers alternatives to students who can’t afford to pay for uniforms and books. They also offer computer classes at the FIPAH office. Observing computer classes here has inspired me to start similar classes with the older children in San Isidro.
The remainder of the week has been relatively uneventful compared to the coup-and-fiesta-filled long weekend. I’m looking forward to getting back to San Isidro and to implement new teaching techniques. One simple example: when getting the students to repeat words back to you in English it’s incredibly helpful to ask them what the word means in Spanish and, moments later, asking them what the Spanish word is in English. It helps them recall the word later.
With the precarious political situation and another day of traveling coming up next week, my post next Friday should be as event filled as this one. Until then, shout-outs! Mr. Way, who along with his wife, generously donated to my fundraising efforts in advance of my trip, also called my mother when he learned about the coup to check on my safety. Hearing that people in the States are keeping me in their thoughts motivates me to work harder. I know I can make a positive impact on the communities that I feel blessed to know and live in.
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