Tegucigalpa, Honduras: A Land of Extremities

For three days, April and I journeyed to the capital city of Honduras, Tegucigalpa - a place known most for its gang violence, petty theft and poverty (according to what we read prior, at least). And the moment we landed, it was very evident that we were all of the sudden, very far from home. We had arrived in Central America…finally.
Subsequent activities led us to believe that although unique and thrilling, we would never want to reside in this Honduran capital, locally referred to as “Tegus.”

Aside from the surplus of shabby and underfed dogs, you had to watch your step in the streets to avoid monster sized chickens and roosters. And the driving – it’s like nothing I could have even imagined. And I have an active imagination.

“Tegus” is made up of tiny, curvy and mountainous cobblestone and dirt streets – one might even call them alleys. All of which, are filled with thousands of crazed Honduran drivers with places to go, situated in derelict cars with remarkably functional horns. In fact, we learned that the horn (a very popular commodity in Honduras) or, “El Pito,” has a multitude of meanings. One beep can mean anything from “Do you need a taxi?” to “I’m about to cut you off dangerously” to “Hola” to “Go ahead, cross the street you American” to “Thank you.” Two or three brief honks warns intersections or pedestrians that the car is approaching rapidly and will not be slowing for any reasons (despite red lights, stop signs or tight fits). And the long, steady beep signifies that you really fucked up (just as it is anywhere else), and the driver truly, wants you dead.

Single lane, one-way streets remain unmarked. The few that are randomly marked, occupy mad cars driving the opposite direction of the cited regulation. The rule as to which street goes which direction seemed to reside only in the memory of the Hondurans. As if one day, the crazies decided to change the direction of certain streets, and so, they did.

So why not rent a car?

After speeding the wrong way down my third or fourth one-way street while being dodged by oncoming traffic by the hundreds, and failing to hop a curb (which was April’s solution for an exit strategy), one might argue it wasn’t the best of ideas. And while Hondurans used the long, steady beep to let me know they wanted me dead, I calmly reversed off the curb, avoiding pedestrians and autobuses and turning into “safety.” And just as we managed to get in the right direction of traffic, we approached a Honduran road block. The young cop flagged us to the side and spouted off something about the danger of having our hair blow in the wind, and the steering wheel being off center. I didn’t have my passport on me, and that was also, a problem. After some talking to the cop and his Honduran friend who approached us for a second opinion, we were released. Actually, in fewer words, he told us to get the hell out of there.

Maybe the driving wasn’t such a great idea.

Nonetheless, we made it out alive. By the time we returned the white Mitsubishi to the airport, I was fluent in Honduran Driving: honking at just the right time, passing confidently on blind curves, ignoring road signals and managing to drive, for the most part, with the flow of traffic.

And this was only the beginning of our trip. The extremities in “Tegus” – they’re for real. Some worth noting:

- The Most Conservative Man in Honduras. He was a pastor and this man believed movies were evil. He also believed, that when God called him to do things, he could negotiate with him.

- The Creepiest Taxi Driver. An alleged “Douglas” slipped me his number while being uber-creepy and sloth-like. Never in my life had I been more confident that my next stop was a Honduran brothel, than that ride.

- The Craziest Woman After an Accident. This chica ripped a man out of his vehicle, possibly with a gun (it was too tough to tell for sure), and proceeded to go ballistic over an accident in which the damage could not be found.

- The Softest Spoken Waiter. It was just random. Cultures have unspoken disconnects too.

- The Most Prostitutes on One Corner. Actually really concerning and sad, but one of the most public displays of prostitution I’ve ever seen.

- The BEST Hotel for $20. I recommend Hotel Granada 2 as solidly as I recommend anything else. For a poverty-ridden country, our iPods and computers in the room remained untouched.

- The Woman with the Most Obscure Hair Growth. A perfect horizontal line of curly hair was found on the sweet Spanish woman’s neck who served as one of our guides from Compassion International. I’m forever perplexed.

- The Most Cultured Establishment in Tegus. A garden, an art gallery, a restaurant, a hostel. It was all of these and more.

- Most Inventive Law Enforcement Officer. “You can’t drive with your hair in the wind. It’s dangerous and I should give you a ticket.”

- The Whitest Latino. Apparently, albinos exist in every race. Only the look - much more drastic.

- The Lamest Airport Scam. If you want to play off of Latinos’ fear that their bags will get robbed in transit, why not offer plastic bag wrapping for $7.50? Like lemmings, one Latino after the other forked over the Lempira to have their suitcase wrapped in saran wrap. They felt much more safe.

- Widest Discrepancy of Gender Attractiveness. The men – hot. The women – not.


We’re now back in Panama - where the roads are safe and the chickens don’t cross the roads (I couldn’t resist). More soon.

Panama: Los Dias Primeros... Coronado, es vida

It’s so strange for me, personally, to think that lives exist SO different from ours around the world. We get used to the way we live, drive, eat, TALK, smell - and don’t think too much outside of this little comfortable bubble. But obviously, different places do things differently and that doesn’t always mean wrong. In my case, Panama has not proven to be awfully different, and yet, things aren’t at all the same.

As someone who’s lived a life influenced greatly by Spanish culture – my Grandmother on my mother’s side is from Chile and my Grandmother on my father’s side is from Panama, I shouldn’t have the shock factor upon delving deep into Panamanian life these first days. Both of my parents spent a substantial amount of their childhoods in these respective countries. And even with this influence as a child, it’s been startling to see certain disparities. I’m thinking it’s because these types of differences only exist in the way of life lived WITHIN each of these countries.

Central American airlines – onto something. The toilet paper – light tan. Stop signs, crosswalks and center road lines – purely suggestive. The sun – 100 times more scolding than Arizona’s. Air conditioning is not a given nor is hot water. The middle class (in Coronado) – nonexistent. With the risk of sounding showy, let me just say – my family here - upper, upper class Panamanians. I’m beginning to understand that they may be Aristocratic Panamanians. The amount of paid “workers” who support their everyday lives (drivers, maids, gardeners, ironers, cooks, caretakers) is astonishing. And when, say, the driver takes us to lunch at a beachside terrace restaurant overlooking the Pacific, he goes in the other room while we eat. Even though there are open chairs at our table, he doesn’t sit and eat with us. The existence of a class system here is so strikingly evident.

An overview: The Moscoso and Zimmermann families (my families) in Panama are incredibly educated, wealthy, well-known (including the previous president, ahem, Mireya Moscoso), comically energetic, generous and…enormous - no different than any other Spanish family in size, but quite different than my family I’ve known and loved my entire life.

Our first few days were spent outside of Panama City in a town called Coronado, a wealthy beach town filled with beautiful, brightly colored, open-air Spanish Villas surrounded by tall sturdy gates and wholly cared for by the uber-lower class. I’m not being judgmental (I mean, I’m reaping the benefits of being waited on hand and foot), but more objectively observant. It is the way of life here. Y ya esta. (English Speakers: And that’s it).

A good deal of my relatives here are quite elderly (90 and up) and very ill. It’s bittersweet to think this is the first and last time I’ll be meeting them. And yet, this was the principal reason for coming with my grandmother and siblings, and, as I haven’t spoken Spanish for any sizable amount of time in three years, it helps that the elderly talk SLOWLY. Already, I’m thinking in Spanish, speaking freely and comfortably and understanding practically everything I hear – even from the younger family members (who speak English anyway).

We’re now in Panama City, staying with the widow of a cousin of my grandmother. This precious woman, Rosario, is originally from Argentina and speaks only Spanish…and indeed does she like to speak. Being the only one of the three siblings that can speak any functional amount of Spanish, I’ve served as the designated translator of the endless stories, instructions and any general conversation between everyone. To be honest, it’s completely exhausting, and as a side note, I’ve reverted to my “I don’t want kids” mantra.

But that’s beside the point.

In the few days we’ve been here, we’ve watched many family members (not excluding the very distant ones) go out of their way to welcome us into their busy days, evenings and homes as if we were their own kids. In fact, Rosario demanded that Beau (who she continues to call “Bob”) sleep in her bed in her air-conditioned bedroom (the only room with air conditioning). Meanwhile, she happily plopped onto her cot on the floor of the guest bedroom and began to speak to me in Spanish about another memory... which I proceeded to translate to everyone else. And obviously, that’s the way of Spanish culture. Displacing oneself for family is truly, second nature.

This afternoon April and I are off to Tegucigalpa, Honduras and Beau is off to Bocas del Toro, Panama to meet a friend. In Honduras, we will meet a little girl named Daniella that April adopted several years back through Compassion International. I have every inclination that life will be much, much different than it is in Panama – more “Central America” and less – “America,” which is perfect.

Comical Movie Translation of the Moment:

“El Senor de los Anillos” – Lord of the Rings


Panamanian Beers of Interest:

Balboa, Soberano and Atlas

Panama Duration

Monday, March 9 - Wednesday, March 25

Three Days To Go: Discord to my Familiar Framework

In a mere three days, I'll be on a plane headed to Panama - on my way to meet a side of my family I've only heard about growing up, and to a land I've been told stories of and which makes up a good part of my father's childhood. As I become more and more excited as the departure date nears, I've simultaneously become more and more anxious. And the more and more I become a woman on the edge.

It's about a lot of things. For one, taking three weeks off of a job that requires every ounce of my free time makes for a level of preparation that mirrors that of a true workaholic. It doesn't help that most days, I'm a staff of one, running the state tourism association. The limited amount of guidance I receive is from a bedridden board chair recovering from intense back surgery or a scattered woman who would sooner give you love instead of a budget. What further doesn't help, is that our largest industry event falls an abrupt six weeks from today. So speaking from a work standpoint alone, leaving at this particular time seems insane.

And then there's the fact that I'm homeless. Last week, I placed all of my belongings in storage and I've been residing on my coworker's couch. When I get back from Panama, I'll be returning to her couch only to have five days to find a place to live... in the midst of preparing for my crazy tourism dinner.

Excessively occupied has taken on a new dimension. The fact that my life comes with an impulsive and uncontrollable need to keep all of my ducks in a row (get your shit done at work, run, write, maintain perfect organization even while living out of a suitcase, the crossword, etc. etc. etc.), has made this chaotic week seem like paralysis.

Sometimes, this one woman show, can only do so much. So this evening, although I've laid my clothes out for work and written my usual to-do's for the day, I'm taking a deep breath, drinking a large glass of malbec, and (trying to) accept that if not everything gets done, the world will remain unchanged.

the end.