Beanland Diary #8 - Roo and Dad Visit
Dear Beanland Reader,
As a general rule, Peace Corps volunteers love having friends and family visit. Of course! It's a once-in-a-lifetime chance to play tour guide in a foreign country where you're a rockstar (and have them bring you tons of crap from the States). However, when you're a Peace Corps volunteer in Central America, the situation is a little different. Honduras is so close to the U.S. that the trip is not as costly or as time-consuming as, say, a three thousand dollar 28 hour flight to Mongolia.
Where am I going with this? Combine Honduras' proximity with my father, Jess "Mad Dog" Y****, and his penchant for spontaneous world travel and you've got a real problem. This is a man who, for those who don't know, lives in St. Louis and considers flying to Las Vegas for 36 hours a perfectly normal weekend activity. If you happen to be in New York or San Francisco and want to invite him to dinner, you need only warn him by noon that same day. In fact, he will probably beat you to the restaurant, fresh from the airport and carrying only a small briefcase containing a tin of salted almonds and a pair of running shorts that lost their elasticity in the late 1980's.
It takes all the gentle discouragement I can muster to keep him from coming to Honduras every weekend. I have been here for only a year and he has already visited three times, the most recent of these visits occurring only weeks ago. He arrived at Toncontin Airport as usual with his bodyguard, a beefy latino-esque former wrestler who conveniently happens to be my brother, Andrew. They were the first two people to emerge from customs and face the mob of people that swarm outside all third world airports like these, where I was waiting. They were as glad to see me as I was to see them, as I had spent literally my last 40 lempiras on the cab ride to the airport. If they had missed the flight, I would've had to pawn my watch just to get home.
In truth, they were probably more relieved to see me. I imagine them struggling in Spanish to describe their destination and negotiate a price with a Tegus cabbie. They would probably start waving crisp 20 dollar bills and somehow end up in El Salvador. Beyond the standard greetings, my dad's Spanish limits him to ordering beer and asking for the check. My brother, even less. He knows only how to ask for a second or third beer by saying "otra", but is dependent on someone else to order the first round and eventually pay. I guess they make a good team.
My dad, however, is genuinely trying to learn the language. For a man born with two right brains and dyslexia to boot, this is like a normal person learning to fly or breath underwater. But try he does. In each of his three visits he has had three identical conversations with the cab driver. He takes a deep breath and in a tense, deliberate tone says:
Dad: "Buenos Días."
Cabbie: "Buenos Días."
Dad: "¿De dónde es usted?"
Cabbie: "¿Yo? Soy de Tegucigalpa."
Dad: "Ahhh...."
And that's it. Having run out of questions, he signals the end of the conversation by turning to gaze out the window.
Andrew is a different story. He could learn Spanish easily if he wanted to, but he seems to like being in an environment where he understands nothing of what is being said around him. He strolls around Honduras looking pleasantly detached and relaxed. He knows that if anything important comes up I'll let him know, so he's free to just hang loose and watch life go by with minimal participation (much like one imagines George Bush at an international summit, say).
I had planned a fun weekend: take a bus to the nearby town of San Juancito where we would spend the night in a remote mountain cabin. I thought the bus ride would be a fun cultural experience. My guests thought otherwise. Through circular logic and lots of quick conversions from dollars to lempiras, I was convinced it would actually be cheaper to rent a car. This would save on both time and chiropractor fees. OK, whatever.
Our rental car was a Renault Elf. Neither the name "Elf" nor it's French origin suggested much strength or durability. And indeed, our rigorous demands on the poor vehicle would eventually prove overwhelming. The final two miles of ascent to the cabin consisted of a steep rock-ridden dirt road. The Elf put in 110% and met the challenge - we were proud. Its blaze of glory was short-lived, however, and the next day it died. It could simply no longer take the abuse and gave up on life. We ditched it on the side of a mountain and hitchhiked back to Tegus in an empty truckbed, watching the beautiful mountain paisaje roll by with the wind in our hair. The Elf had died but we felt very much alive.
The bellhop at the Intercontinental, the nicest hotel in the country frequented by foreign businessmen and diplomats, was not accustomed to having guests arrive sprawled out in the back of a pickup truck. As we jumped out to the pavement and high-fived Loncho, the driver, he looked unsure whether he should grab our bags or call security. Then he recognized us as the group who'd left in the stylish, but ultimately doomed, French compact car just the day before.
Bellhop: "Bienvenidos Mister Y*****, allow me to please take your bag."
Dad: "Gracias Manuel, and por favor, mande seis Heineken cervezas para room 814."
Atentamente,
Your Correspondent, San Juan de Flores F.M., Honduras
PS. In early September I'm going to be making a visit back to the Motherland. If you're going to be in St. Louis around Labor Day weekend, or NYC the following weekend, let me know so we can hook up. Sorrel?
[Please send comments and criticisms in writing to 5 Ridgewood Rd, St. Louis MO 63124 attn: Jerome]
As a general rule, Peace Corps volunteers love having friends and family visit. Of course! It's a once-in-a-lifetime chance to play tour guide in a foreign country where you're a rockstar (and have them bring you tons of crap from the States). However, when you're a Peace Corps volunteer in Central America, the situation is a little different. Honduras is so close to the U.S. that the trip is not as costly or as time-consuming as, say, a three thousand dollar 28 hour flight to Mongolia.
Where am I going with this? Combine Honduras' proximity with my father, Jess "Mad Dog" Y****, and his penchant for spontaneous world travel and you've got a real problem. This is a man who, for those who don't know, lives in St. Louis and considers flying to Las Vegas for 36 hours a perfectly normal weekend activity. If you happen to be in New York or San Francisco and want to invite him to dinner, you need only warn him by noon that same day. In fact, he will probably beat you to the restaurant, fresh from the airport and carrying only a small briefcase containing a tin of salted almonds and a pair of running shorts that lost their elasticity in the late 1980's.
It takes all the gentle discouragement I can muster to keep him from coming to Honduras every weekend. I have been here for only a year and he has already visited three times, the most recent of these visits occurring only weeks ago. He arrived at Toncontin Airport as usual with his bodyguard, a beefy latino-esque former wrestler who conveniently happens to be my brother, Andrew. They were the first two people to emerge from customs and face the mob of people that swarm outside all third world airports like these, where I was waiting. They were as glad to see me as I was to see them, as I had spent literally my last 40 lempiras on the cab ride to the airport. If they had missed the flight, I would've had to pawn my watch just to get home.
In truth, they were probably more relieved to see me. I imagine them struggling in Spanish to describe their destination and negotiate a price with a Tegus cabbie. They would probably start waving crisp 20 dollar bills and somehow end up in El Salvador. Beyond the standard greetings, my dad's Spanish limits him to ordering beer and asking for the check. My brother, even less. He knows only how to ask for a second or third beer by saying "otra", but is dependent on someone else to order the first round and eventually pay. I guess they make a good team.
My dad, however, is genuinely trying to learn the language. For a man born with two right brains and dyslexia to boot, this is like a normal person learning to fly or breath underwater. But try he does. In each of his three visits he has had three identical conversations with the cab driver. He takes a deep breath and in a tense, deliberate tone says:
Dad: "Buenos Días."
Cabbie: "Buenos Días."
Dad: "¿De dónde es usted?"
Cabbie: "¿Yo? Soy de Tegucigalpa."
Dad: "Ahhh...."
And that's it. Having run out of questions, he signals the end of the conversation by turning to gaze out the window.
Andrew is a different story. He could learn Spanish easily if he wanted to, but he seems to like being in an environment where he understands nothing of what is being said around him. He strolls around Honduras looking pleasantly detached and relaxed. He knows that if anything important comes up I'll let him know, so he's free to just hang loose and watch life go by with minimal participation (much like one imagines George Bush at an international summit, say).
I had planned a fun weekend: take a bus to the nearby town of San Juancito where we would spend the night in a remote mountain cabin. I thought the bus ride would be a fun cultural experience. My guests thought otherwise. Through circular logic and lots of quick conversions from dollars to lempiras, I was convinced it would actually be cheaper to rent a car. This would save on both time and chiropractor fees. OK, whatever.
Our rental car was a Renault Elf. Neither the name "Elf" nor it's French origin suggested much strength or durability. And indeed, our rigorous demands on the poor vehicle would eventually prove overwhelming. The final two miles of ascent to the cabin consisted of a steep rock-ridden dirt road. The Elf put in 110% and met the challenge - we were proud. Its blaze of glory was short-lived, however, and the next day it died. It could simply no longer take the abuse and gave up on life. We ditched it on the side of a mountain and hitchhiked back to Tegus in an empty truckbed, watching the beautiful mountain paisaje roll by with the wind in our hair. The Elf had died but we felt very much alive.
The bellhop at the Intercontinental, the nicest hotel in the country frequented by foreign businessmen and diplomats, was not accustomed to having guests arrive sprawled out in the back of a pickup truck. As we jumped out to the pavement and high-fived Loncho, the driver, he looked unsure whether he should grab our bags or call security. Then he recognized us as the group who'd left in the stylish, but ultimately doomed, French compact car just the day before.
Bellhop: "Bienvenidos Mister Y*****, allow me to please take your bag."
Dad: "Gracias Manuel, and por favor, mande seis Heineken cervezas para room 814."
Atentamente,
Your Correspondent, San Juan de Flores F.M., Honduras
PS. In early September I'm going to be making a visit back to the Motherland. If you're going to be in St. Louis around Labor Day weekend, or NYC the following weekend, let me know so we can hook up. Sorrel?
[Please send comments and criticisms in writing to 5 Ridgewood Rd, St. Louis MO 63124 attn: Jerome]
Labels: beanland
posted by Dan at
4:39 AM
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