Thank You!
Thanks to everyone who sent me Christmas presents! I’m overwhelmed by the amount of packages and drawings and letters and peanut butter that I’ve received. I feel very special to have so many people sending me things, so thanks a lot, and I should add that I’m good on peanut butter for at least the next few months.
Christmas Time Was Here
Let me start by saying Merry Christmas to all! I know it’s come and gone, but I hope it was great. As you can imagine, Christmas here is much different than it is in the US. It kind of snuck up on me in the middle of an abnormally hot December, and passed both quickly and slowly. In the nine afternoons leading up to the 25th, the Catholic church held a series of ceremonies called Posadas, which means “Inns.” Each celebration was held in a different house and began with a few people standing inside and the rest standing outside the closed front door. Someone on the outside would knock, and the inhabitants would answer in a song that went back and forth between the parties and explained the search of Mary and Joseph for a place to stay. The song ends with the couple’s acceptance into the house and was followed each afternoon by a short homily and prayers. Then coffee and bread were handed out and we all returned home. The final Posada was held on December 24th in the church. It began later than the others, at 6:30, and was conducted by candlelight, less for the ambiance and more for the lack of electricity. Another Christmas tradition is setting off fireworks, so the ceremony was punctuated by flashes and cracks and the air smelled of gunpowder. I learned the day before Christmas Eve that the big day for celebrations is the 24th. This proved to be true. Most households celebrate on the 24th by cooking a traditional food called “nacatamales.” These are made from a batter of ground corn, spices, and margarine, which is then spread on a steamed banana leaf, layered with rice, potatoes, chicken, and other variables, folded up into a rough cylinder, and boiled until solid. However, this year, my host family decided to switch it up and cook arroz con pollo, so I wandered over to a neighbor’s house to watch her make the nacatamales and feel more traditional. It was a good choice because, while nacatamale quality can be a bit of a mixed bag, hers were delicious.
On the 25th, I ate a nacatamale for breakfast and then found myself without further plans. I spent most of the day hanging around my house while my host family listened to Christmas carols. The majority of these were American songs translated into Spanish, but with a much higher occurrence of the word “Navidad” and fewer references to snow.
2010
Although my Christmas was rather anticlimactic, I rang in the New Year with a bang by meeting up with a group of other volunteers in the western part of Honduras, where we camped out for two nights and climbed the country’s highest mountain. After a harrowing multi-day journey from my town to Gracias, Lempira, I set out on the morning of the 30th with a group of 11 volunteers. We climbed switchbacks for about 5 hours before arriving at a brand new campsite complete with a shelter and latrine. The group got to work setting up tents and starting cooking fires, and before it was dark, we all had dinner and beds.
The next day, we intended to get up really early and hike to the summit, a trip that was estimated to take about 5 hours and involve some rigorous climbing. However, we didn’t really get on our way until about 10, and the hike took about 8 hours, so...it was a long day. The hike itself was rough but worth it. After practically crawling up a few hours’ worth of switchbacks so steep that hands were required, we reached a relatively flatter but still not very flat section of mountain that after a few more hours led us to the peak. We ate lunch in a cloud which lifted a bit right as we left to reveal mountains below us, and then walked back down the trail through trees covered in years of moss and bromeliads. The hike back was faster, largely because it involved a lot of sliding down the crazy slope we had just climbed. That night after dinner, we made plans to try to stay up until midnight, but then someone looked at their watch in the dark and found that it was 6:45. However, five of us stuck it out and celebrated the change of years by throwing pine needles on the fire and watching it blaze up for a few seconds. Then in the morning, we packed up our camp and flew down the mountain in a couple of hours.
Honduran Things I’ve been Doing
It seems that now is the season to paint/whiten houses in Honduras. For most families, this involves gathering a specific variety of rock, which must invariably be hauled from “way up there,” crushing it to powder with a wooden post, sifting it until it is nothing but dust, adding a little bit of water, and slapping in onto the adobe walls. The day before Christmas Eve, I invited myself over to a friend’s house to try my hand at it. She let me be involved in every part of the process, and I learned surprising things such as the fact that the stones are lavender, the mud is mauve, and the finished walls appear white once they dry. I also found that rubbing mud on walls is a great way to exfoliate your hands, if you’re into that. Just don’t do it for too long.
A couple of days after Christmas, I was invited by a friend to visit her coffee field and help with the harvest. I went to her house in the late morning and then we waited a while for her nephew to pick us up. The nephew arrived in an oversized red pickup truck that was made to seem even larger by the fact that he was 13 years old and could barely reach the pedals. However, he said he’d been driving since he was 11 and knew how to manage the manual transmission, which is more than I can say. Also, the road is so rutted that it’s impossible to go more than like 5 miles per hour, so I got in the truck and we bounced down the hill to the slope where the coffee was. Picking coffee is reminiscent of picking blueberries, except that the plants are taller and branches have to be eased down so that the berries at the top can be harvested. Also, you’re not as tempted to eat everything you’re picking, although coffee berries do have a sweet layer between the skin and the bean which is called the miel or honey which is sort of good eating if you don’t mind sacrificing the harvest. We wandered up the slope picking coffee that had been left behind to mature and then we reached a jungle area where other neighbors were working. By the time we arrived, it was pretty much time for everyone else to leave, so I ended up only picking about an eighth of a dollar’s worth, but it was a good experience.
Brave Dogs and Tremendous Children
First, I would like to explain that there is a word here “bravo” but it does not mean the thing you say after an especially stirring performance of something. My Spanish-English dictionary defines it as “brave or fierce” but in the vernacular, it means “something that will attack you.” It is most frequently used when describing dogs that bite people, in contrast to “no es bravo,” which means they will only bark and charge.
Another false cognate is “tremenda,” which can be translated as either “tremendous” or as “terrible child who cries all the time.” The latter definition makes it a synonym to “necia” (literally “foolish”) and “malcriado” (literally “poorly raised”), and is frequently used by community members to describe the children at my house. In this post, however, I will use the word in the English-sounding sense.
In my quest to survey the majority of the households in my town, I have regularly been accompanied by small children, generally girls between the ages of 5 and 9. They are usually conscripted by their parents in a conversation that goes something like, “There are fierce dogs at the next house. Borrow my young child to keep you safe.” Despite the fact that numerous children have shown me their dog-bite scars, I have yet to cultivate what is probably a healthy fear of local dogs. In my defense, at this point, I’ve visited about 80 houses in my community and have yet to be bitten, although one dog did kind of ram me with its head and then run away. Therefore, what usually happens upon my arriving at a house is that the little girl gets very nervous, and the dogs bark and circle, and then the home owner comes out and calls the dogs off. Then the child gets to sit through my awkward interview and, if they’re really lucky, continue with me to the next house to repeat the process.
The somewhat undefined commitment of this accompanying has led to some confusion on the part of the borrowed children. Once, I went on a hike to visit a string of houses on a road going vaguely in the direction of Nicaragua. On the way, I collected a neighbor boy who has frequently gone on house calls with me and his unfortunate city cousin. We walked down a long hill and I visited 6 houses, but then, right when I was about to go to the last house, my neighbor informed me that his cousin was crying. I looked around a fence and found that this indeed was true, so I asked why, and was told that the cousin had decided that I was kidnapping him and taking him to Nicaragua. Considering that it had been a couple hours and we had been walking in the direction of the border, I suppose that this was a reasonable guess, but, after assuring my neighbor that I wouldn’t get attacked by dogs and I knew my way back, I released them both from my service.
Other packs of tremendous children have led me up and down hillsides, over creeks, through fields brimming with ticks, and into caves. Thankfully, there has been no more crying. I now enjoy the distinction of having my name shouted across valleys and lakes by children whose names I do not know who see me from afar and want to know where I am going and if I want accompaniment because there are brave dogs, you know.
P.S.
I wrote that last section a long time ago. I have since finished my latrine survey and submitted a grant proposal. Now I am in the process of notifying community members about who is and who is not in the project.
A new crisis has arisen because this year was abnormally dry and the water source that feeds the town is not sufficient. This means a lot of dredging cloudy water from stagnant streams and hauling it to houses. There is a large ranch nearby that has a good water source, and now I’m working with the local water board to try to get permission to use it.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
The one where I write about my birthday...
What I’ve been doing
So I’ve been in my site for about two months now, and you’re all probably asking yourselves what I’ve been up to. Peace Corps policy is for volunteers to spend the first three months getting to know people before jumping into major commitments, but my site is unique in that another volunteer had already started a latrine project in the village, so I have something concrete to work on. As a community, we decided that the next step for the project is a needs assessment of the houses involved. This has come as a happy assignment for me because it gives me something to talk about when I visit strangers’ houses and comes as an alternative to just sitting there for several minutes after introducing myself and asking who they are and then wishing I had more to say. After a month, I have completed 71 of the 75 surveys, and I have high hopes of finishing things up this week. The next step will be to present the information to the town council and then try to find funding sources. Other, generally less productive activities include going to many meetings of various groups. On the upside, I attended a vinegar making workshop, so now I can kind of do that.
Happy Birthday to Me. And Dagoberto.
A former volunteer once said that Peace Corps is kind of like your worst day of middle school every day. Generally, I don’t find that to be the case, but on my birthday, I found myself frequently thinking back to that most awkward of rites of passage: the middle school dance, and comparing it to the dance I found myself at. Before you get the wrong idea and think that the town threw me a party, I should explain that my birthday happens to coincide with the birthday of the young son (Dagoberto) of one of the wealthiest landowners in my village. I was invited to celebrate with the rest of the town up at their mountaintop coffee plantation. It was my first Honduran birthday party, and you probably haven’t been to many either, so I’ll try to share the experience as best I can. First, to set the scene, imagine a three year-old’s birthday party. There is a piñata, games are played, party favors are handed out, and cake is distributed while a song is sung. There are various hints that this party is in Honduras. The majority of the guests are wearing cowboy hats and boots, and many men including the guy dangling the piñata are also packing handguns in holsters tucked into their Wranglers. A Mariachi band accompanies the swarming children. Then as night falls, the children suddenly find that the party is no longer theirs, and the band is replaced by speakers blasting Ranchero music and Punta. They go inside to chew on party favor candy and blow party favor whistles, and the driveway becomes a dance floor.
Apparently, my inability to dance had been the talk of the town during the weeks leading up to the big event. Unfortunately for me, it was considered more of a challenge than a deterrent. Many people grinningly told me that I was going to learn to dance, and I was told a few days before my birthday that the host of the party had even called a dance with me in advance. Therefore, I felt a lot of pressure to participate despite my terror of dancing and lack of coordination. As the dance began, I found myself sitting on a bench beside my host sister wondering how long this thing was going to last, and observing that in striking contrast to my fellow middle school students, everyone at this party knew how to move. Men began walking over to my host sister and asking her to dance. She would tactfully turn them down, and then they would ask me. I decided it was better not to dance with the guys that she wouldn’t dance with, so I would mutter that I couldn’t dance, and they would offer to teach me, and then I would say no, and that’s how we spent at least an hour. Some guys grew bolder and started to ask me before asking my host sister, but since they used lines like “Dance with me, Gringita” or blew smoke in my face, I turned them down too. Finally, a female host-distant relative insisted that I let her teach me, and I gave in. To my instant regret, I let her lead me to an open space that happened to be in front of 10 or so staring young men, and there begin her lesson, which consisted of her moving fluidly and looking great and me kind of bending my knees awkwardly a few times and then covering my face with my hands and returning to the bench. She tried a new tactic then, and set me up with a quiet, middle-aged partner who led me toward the middle of the floor and patiently danced with me through three painful songs before admitting defeat and letting me sit down. I danced for about thirty seconds with the man who had claimed a dance in advance, but he too gave up, and then I decided it was time to retreat to the kitchen where I drank some Coke for a while and then guiltily headed back to the dance floor. As I descended the porch stairs, the brother of a friend met me and quickly took my hand and led me into the crowd. It was there that I learned he was somewhat past tipsy and interested in dancing very closely, which I was not interested in. I also learned that as the two of us were probably the tallest couple there, we drew even more attention than I had been drawing on my own, which increased my embarrassment and made my movements even less graceful. We danced to two long songs, and then, for the first time ever, I was relieved to hear the Punta dance beat begin, because it meant I could escape the floor. Unfortunately, when I explained the plan to my dance partner, he decided to accompany me, and so, taking my hand awkwardly, he led me over to the benches, where I was treated to a long monologue about my beauty. Eventually, my host sister-in-law walked over and told me that my host mother needed to see me in the kitchen, so I extricated myself and followed her a short distance before she whispered that it had been a lie, and I thanked her for saving me. She encouraged me to continue dancing, but by this time, between the social mortification and the fact that all I’d had to drink for five hours was Coke, I was feeling rather ill, and thus spent the next two hours sitting in a dark room full of children and wishing I could leave.
Things that Go Bump in the Night
So this evening, I was in my room trying to decide if I should work on my blog or work on crosswords, and then I realized that there was a rather large cockroach on my bedside table. This was the first roach that I’ve seen in my room, and as my sense of security crashed, I was seized by a vengeful feeling and picked up my candle to smash the intruder. Unfortunately, the candle was beside the roach, and I kind of tipped it off as to the fact that it had been noticed, so it ran under the table and now I can’t get it. Then I looked around for other insects and immediately found a 6-inch long centipede-ish killer worm thing trying to hide in the corner between the wooden slats that form my ceiling and the cement that forms the wall. I clearly don’t know much about these creatures, but I do know that they can be poisonous, and I didn’t want to kill it, I just wanted it to not be in my room, so I emptied a plastic bag and tried to flick it in with a pencil. It resisted and stung my pencil several times very menacingly, and then I managed to flick it onto but not into the bag, which I was holding, and then I panicked and dropped the bag and the killer murderer disappeared onto or into or under my bed which I am now sitting on. I shook out all my sheets and pulled the bed away from the wall and shined my flashlight around and kicked my bedside table a few times, but I haven’t found anything. Hopefully my new roommates won’t emerge and crawl all over me/kill me while I’m asleep. Wish me luck.
P.S. I’m pretty sure nothing deadly has been crawling on me, but about a week after writing the above, I entered my room to find a scorpion scuttling across my wall. Various volunteers had been talking about how difficult scorpions are to kill, so I decided to catch it with a handkerchief and release it outside. I was successful in capturing it, but apparently, I was a little bit more forceful than I realized, and somehow managed to smash it as well. I threw it outside for good measure, and now every morning, I knock my shoes on the floor before putting my feet in them, just in case the scorpion had friends who are on the prowl for new hiding places.
The Road (Rated R)
I thought I’d inform those of you who have ever traveled with me or heard stories of me traveling that the wait is over: I have finally soiled the Honduran countryside (and my shoes) with my motion sick vomit. As someone who distinguished herself when she came to Honduras in college by throwing up in every vehicle she rode in (4), the fact that I’ve been in a Central American country for nearly four months without puking out the window of a moving car or at least demanding that the driver pull over to let me barf on the side of the road is something of a record. Here’s hoping I didn’t turn the proverbial corner today, and that I will regain my equilibrium before I go on any more long dusty drives. In the event that this is not the case, thanks again to all who collected barf bags to add to my stash. I carry them with me always.
The Proverbial Corner is Turned
So I wrote that previous bit, and then two days later, developed a stomach virus? that left me vomiting on the countryside and shoes once again. Unfortunate. I was visiting a neighboring village, and after the incident, I trudged the hour-long hike back as the sun set and I thought dark thoughts. When I got home, I went straight to bed where I stayed until the next afternoon. I’m pretty much over it now, which is wonderful, and I’m not sure why I’m sharing the news except that I know it will embarrass my mother. Take that, Mom.
The Day of Action of Thanks
Happy Thanksgiving, Everyone! Sorry I couldn’t be there, Family. I’m happy to say that I had a great time even though I wasn’t camping by a river in the States. One of the volunteers who lives in San Marcos hosted a get together for fifteen volunteers from various parts of Honduras. We had an expansive menu that included baked brie with cranberries, romaine lettuce salad with bleu cheese, candied walnuts, pears, and balsamic vinaigrette, mashed potatoes, “sweet potatoes”, turkey, and pumpkin pie, and I wish I could convey what a miracle the meal was after months of none of those foods.
Another Note About My Address
I’m happy to say that despite the fact that my address consists of a fake name, my “job” title, and a town I don’t live in, I have been receiving mail. THANK YOU! So far I’ve received 7 of the 8 things that I know I’ve been sent. By my reckoning, it takes about three weeks for mail to get to me. However, if it’s been a while and you haven’t received word of my undying gratitude, maybe send me an email and let me know that the package is in the mail so I know to check for it (although the post officers are very on top of things and track down the San Marcos volunteers whenever anything arrives for anyone in the Peace Corps). Also, practice makes perfect, so don’t let that missing 8th package keep you from sending yours. If you’ve got your box all ready and just can’t decide what to put in it, may I suggest dark chocolate, natural peanut butter (just peanuts and salt if possible), dried unsweetened mango slices from Trader Joe’s (I know that’s really specific), Snickers bars, and maybe some basil seeds. If you’re reading this and thinking, “Yeah right, a box? What has Cara ever sent me?,” consider sending me a letter. If you want, you can also stuff the envelope or box with pictures, newspaper clippings, and surprises. Whatever you want. These are just ideas. I know that this list is pretty heavy on food items, and one reason is that I have a small room with no shelves and therefore am a bit tight on space. Perhaps you can save your more substantive items for my return to the US. Finally, please note that I’ve made a minor change to the address I had posted in the sidebar. The old one works, but this one might work even better. Let’s find out.
So I’ve been in my site for about two months now, and you’re all probably asking yourselves what I’ve been up to. Peace Corps policy is for volunteers to spend the first three months getting to know people before jumping into major commitments, but my site is unique in that another volunteer had already started a latrine project in the village, so I have something concrete to work on. As a community, we decided that the next step for the project is a needs assessment of the houses involved. This has come as a happy assignment for me because it gives me something to talk about when I visit strangers’ houses and comes as an alternative to just sitting there for several minutes after introducing myself and asking who they are and then wishing I had more to say. After a month, I have completed 71 of the 75 surveys, and I have high hopes of finishing things up this week. The next step will be to present the information to the town council and then try to find funding sources. Other, generally less productive activities include going to many meetings of various groups. On the upside, I attended a vinegar making workshop, so now I can kind of do that.
Happy Birthday to Me. And Dagoberto.
A former volunteer once said that Peace Corps is kind of like your worst day of middle school every day. Generally, I don’t find that to be the case, but on my birthday, I found myself frequently thinking back to that most awkward of rites of passage: the middle school dance, and comparing it to the dance I found myself at. Before you get the wrong idea and think that the town threw me a party, I should explain that my birthday happens to coincide with the birthday of the young son (Dagoberto) of one of the wealthiest landowners in my village. I was invited to celebrate with the rest of the town up at their mountaintop coffee plantation. It was my first Honduran birthday party, and you probably haven’t been to many either, so I’ll try to share the experience as best I can. First, to set the scene, imagine a three year-old’s birthday party. There is a piñata, games are played, party favors are handed out, and cake is distributed while a song is sung. There are various hints that this party is in Honduras. The majority of the guests are wearing cowboy hats and boots, and many men including the guy dangling the piñata are also packing handguns in holsters tucked into their Wranglers. A Mariachi band accompanies the swarming children. Then as night falls, the children suddenly find that the party is no longer theirs, and the band is replaced by speakers blasting Ranchero music and Punta. They go inside to chew on party favor candy and blow party favor whistles, and the driveway becomes a dance floor.
Apparently, my inability to dance had been the talk of the town during the weeks leading up to the big event. Unfortunately for me, it was considered more of a challenge than a deterrent. Many people grinningly told me that I was going to learn to dance, and I was told a few days before my birthday that the host of the party had even called a dance with me in advance. Therefore, I felt a lot of pressure to participate despite my terror of dancing and lack of coordination. As the dance began, I found myself sitting on a bench beside my host sister wondering how long this thing was going to last, and observing that in striking contrast to my fellow middle school students, everyone at this party knew how to move. Men began walking over to my host sister and asking her to dance. She would tactfully turn them down, and then they would ask me. I decided it was better not to dance with the guys that she wouldn’t dance with, so I would mutter that I couldn’t dance, and they would offer to teach me, and then I would say no, and that’s how we spent at least an hour. Some guys grew bolder and started to ask me before asking my host sister, but since they used lines like “Dance with me, Gringita” or blew smoke in my face, I turned them down too. Finally, a female host-distant relative insisted that I let her teach me, and I gave in. To my instant regret, I let her lead me to an open space that happened to be in front of 10 or so staring young men, and there begin her lesson, which consisted of her moving fluidly and looking great and me kind of bending my knees awkwardly a few times and then covering my face with my hands and returning to the bench. She tried a new tactic then, and set me up with a quiet, middle-aged partner who led me toward the middle of the floor and patiently danced with me through three painful songs before admitting defeat and letting me sit down. I danced for about thirty seconds with the man who had claimed a dance in advance, but he too gave up, and then I decided it was time to retreat to the kitchen where I drank some Coke for a while and then guiltily headed back to the dance floor. As I descended the porch stairs, the brother of a friend met me and quickly took my hand and led me into the crowd. It was there that I learned he was somewhat past tipsy and interested in dancing very closely, which I was not interested in. I also learned that as the two of us were probably the tallest couple there, we drew even more attention than I had been drawing on my own, which increased my embarrassment and made my movements even less graceful. We danced to two long songs, and then, for the first time ever, I was relieved to hear the Punta dance beat begin, because it meant I could escape the floor. Unfortunately, when I explained the plan to my dance partner, he decided to accompany me, and so, taking my hand awkwardly, he led me over to the benches, where I was treated to a long monologue about my beauty. Eventually, my host sister-in-law walked over and told me that my host mother needed to see me in the kitchen, so I extricated myself and followed her a short distance before she whispered that it had been a lie, and I thanked her for saving me. She encouraged me to continue dancing, but by this time, between the social mortification and the fact that all I’d had to drink for five hours was Coke, I was feeling rather ill, and thus spent the next two hours sitting in a dark room full of children and wishing I could leave.
Things that Go Bump in the Night
So this evening, I was in my room trying to decide if I should work on my blog or work on crosswords, and then I realized that there was a rather large cockroach on my bedside table. This was the first roach that I’ve seen in my room, and as my sense of security crashed, I was seized by a vengeful feeling and picked up my candle to smash the intruder. Unfortunately, the candle was beside the roach, and I kind of tipped it off as to the fact that it had been noticed, so it ran under the table and now I can’t get it. Then I looked around for other insects and immediately found a 6-inch long centipede-ish killer worm thing trying to hide in the corner between the wooden slats that form my ceiling and the cement that forms the wall. I clearly don’t know much about these creatures, but I do know that they can be poisonous, and I didn’t want to kill it, I just wanted it to not be in my room, so I emptied a plastic bag and tried to flick it in with a pencil. It resisted and stung my pencil several times very menacingly, and then I managed to flick it onto but not into the bag, which I was holding, and then I panicked and dropped the bag and the killer murderer disappeared onto or into or under my bed which I am now sitting on. I shook out all my sheets and pulled the bed away from the wall and shined my flashlight around and kicked my bedside table a few times, but I haven’t found anything. Hopefully my new roommates won’t emerge and crawl all over me/kill me while I’m asleep. Wish me luck.
P.S. I’m pretty sure nothing deadly has been crawling on me, but about a week after writing the above, I entered my room to find a scorpion scuttling across my wall. Various volunteers had been talking about how difficult scorpions are to kill, so I decided to catch it with a handkerchief and release it outside. I was successful in capturing it, but apparently, I was a little bit more forceful than I realized, and somehow managed to smash it as well. I threw it outside for good measure, and now every morning, I knock my shoes on the floor before putting my feet in them, just in case the scorpion had friends who are on the prowl for new hiding places.
The Road (Rated R)
I thought I’d inform those of you who have ever traveled with me or heard stories of me traveling that the wait is over: I have finally soiled the Honduran countryside (and my shoes) with my motion sick vomit. As someone who distinguished herself when she came to Honduras in college by throwing up in every vehicle she rode in (4), the fact that I’ve been in a Central American country for nearly four months without puking out the window of a moving car or at least demanding that the driver pull over to let me barf on the side of the road is something of a record. Here’s hoping I didn’t turn the proverbial corner today, and that I will regain my equilibrium before I go on any more long dusty drives. In the event that this is not the case, thanks again to all who collected barf bags to add to my stash. I carry them with me always.
The Proverbial Corner is Turned
So I wrote that previous bit, and then two days later, developed a stomach virus? that left me vomiting on the countryside and shoes once again. Unfortunate. I was visiting a neighboring village, and after the incident, I trudged the hour-long hike back as the sun set and I thought dark thoughts. When I got home, I went straight to bed where I stayed until the next afternoon. I’m pretty much over it now, which is wonderful, and I’m not sure why I’m sharing the news except that I know it will embarrass my mother. Take that, Mom.
The Day of Action of Thanks
Happy Thanksgiving, Everyone! Sorry I couldn’t be there, Family. I’m happy to say that I had a great time even though I wasn’t camping by a river in the States. One of the volunteers who lives in San Marcos hosted a get together for fifteen volunteers from various parts of Honduras. We had an expansive menu that included baked brie with cranberries, romaine lettuce salad with bleu cheese, candied walnuts, pears, and balsamic vinaigrette, mashed potatoes, “sweet potatoes”, turkey, and pumpkin pie, and I wish I could convey what a miracle the meal was after months of none of those foods.
Another Note About My Address
I’m happy to say that despite the fact that my address consists of a fake name, my “job” title, and a town I don’t live in, I have been receiving mail. THANK YOU! So far I’ve received 7 of the 8 things that I know I’ve been sent. By my reckoning, it takes about three weeks for mail to get to me. However, if it’s been a while and you haven’t received word of my undying gratitude, maybe send me an email and let me know that the package is in the mail so I know to check for it (although the post officers are very on top of things and track down the San Marcos volunteers whenever anything arrives for anyone in the Peace Corps). Also, practice makes perfect, so don’t let that missing 8th package keep you from sending yours. If you’ve got your box all ready and just can’t decide what to put in it, may I suggest dark chocolate, natural peanut butter (just peanuts and salt if possible), dried unsweetened mango slices from Trader Joe’s (I know that’s really specific), Snickers bars, and maybe some basil seeds. If you’re reading this and thinking, “Yeah right, a box? What has Cara ever sent me?,” consider sending me a letter. If you want, you can also stuff the envelope or box with pictures, newspaper clippings, and surprises. Whatever you want. These are just ideas. I know that this list is pretty heavy on food items, and one reason is that I have a small room with no shelves and therefore am a bit tight on space. Perhaps you can save your more substantive items for my return to the US. Finally, please note that I’ve made a minor change to the address I had posted in the sidebar. The old one works, but this one might work even better. Let’s find out.
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