It’s better than a mass e-mail

Learning another language, your bound to make mistakes. But the mistakes we are making tend to lean toward the vulgar.

I think the first most egregious mistake was when one of us tried to explain to her family that she just loved peanut butter. See, the previous day, we had learned the words for peanut butter (crema de mani) and penis (pene…. remember, we all have 20-something-year-old teachers who giggle and gossip like they are 13, which means we learn muchas malas palabras).

The next morning, my friend A’s family is serving peanut butter at breakfast. She lives in a highly religious Seventh Day Adventist home with some one dozen kids. She looks square at her padre, and says “Mmmm, mi favorita! Me gusta crema de pene!” Which, I am sure you can understand translates to the fact that her favorite food is penis cream. Nice one. After dying a thousand deaths, her painfully quiet padre just looks at her blankly. It took her a few minutes to realize what she had said, and at that point, she was too mortified to explain her mistakes.

Other incidents have also included our friend L holding up a bottle of an illegal alcoholic beverage called “chi cha.” But rather than calling it by it’s proper name, she holds it up and hollers “Chi Ches!” which is slang for boobs. Similarly, one friend tried to explain that she wanted to do something, but that she was scared (Tengo miedo) and instead replied that she had shit (Tengo mierda.)

And finally, today A was talking with her teacher about the guy who took us horse back riding last week. She said she was looking forward to riding again with Don Pedo, and her teacher erupted in laughter. We’ve been calling him Don Pedo, because, well we thought that was his name. It’s not. It’s Don Beto. Don Pedo translates to Mr. Fart. Ooops again.

More surreal moments here in Central America:

1. We went to San Pedro Sula last night to see one of our friends off at the airport early this morning. The $5 bus ride included two movies: Duece Bigalow European Gigalo, with hysterical Spanish subtitulos, and Snow Dogs, with almost as funny subtitles.

2. Upon arriving, we stop by the hotel for a shower and then head directly to the mall. That’s right. The mall. We travel three hours to S.P.S. to hit the mall, at which point we saddle up for a good old fashioned chicken sandwich from Wendy’s. I guess “developing country” really means “the US making it more like the suburbs.”

3. The mall is followed by TGIFridays. I wish I was lying. Flair and all. Christ.

4. Finally, discoteque time, and the reggeaton we have grown to adore and crave was a welcome break from the American pop songs and nauseating air conditioning of Friday’s. But the strange part came in the middle of the evening, when the dance floor erupted to the classic “Whoop There It Is.” Again, we found ourselves wondering if we were really there.

5. We left S.P.S. this morning on a giant yellow school bus where the seats had been replaced with reclining bus seats. There were a few moments when the bus took the infamous hair-pin turns through the mountains that I was sure we were all going to soon plunge to our deaths (flash back to night train to Budapest). Either that or be car sick all over the place in a school bus sans bathroom.

Somehow we made it back, and although it was a nice break from the tiny town of Copan, I am glad to be back in a place not lit entirely by fast food signs and mall lights.

Well, it was bound to happen. When you’re cursed with a sensitive stomach and you’re living in Honduras, you’re bound to spend a night hugging the toilet.

Last night I split a chicken burrito with my friend. We’ve eaten at this place before, and the flour tortillas and white meat chicken were a welcome change from the corn tortillas, frijoles and huevos. Until about four hours after dinner.

I was violently puking most of the night – ok maybe I am being a little dramatic, but puking is never fun, and last night was especially painful. Between bouts, I would lie down and have these dreams where people were eating really disgusting food. That’s probably why I kept barfing. In one dream my vegetarian friend who is here with us was chowing down on a giant ground beef pie. Gross.

I managed to make it to class today, and am feeling a bit better, but I can guarantee that my love affair with the chicken burrito is over. I just thought I’d share that with everyone.

So I sit down to breakfast this morning – which surprisingly was not Corn Flakes, but not surprisingly involved frijoles and huevos – and had an interesting conversation with mi madre. Again, it was all in Spanish, so there is a small caveat that I misunderstood. But I gotta tell you, no matter how you say it, it wasn´t cool.

She starts by asking if we are staying in a hotel when we travel, and when I tell her yes, she goes on this rant about how expensive everything is and how the food in Copan is so expensive because its all from San Pedro Sula. OK, fine. Then she sits down and proceeds to tell me about how after me, she doesnt want to host any more students because its just too expensive. She said she tells them she doesnt want anymore students, but then they call her and she agrees. I ask her if the money we pay each week is not sufficient, and she said it wasnt and that she doesnt want to do it anymore.

So I asked her if she would like me to find another family to live with. She said no no no, of course not, but I am beginning to think this is not a good match. It was all fine and good at first, but now her son Juancho wont look at me and rarely eats meals with us now – what a baby – and Yolanda has complained ever day how expensive everything is, especially the vegetables I want to eat (even after I assure her I dont need to eat a small mountain of broccoli at every lunch). Ugh, drama.

The good news is I am close to finishing the intermediate book and embarking on advanced. Little by little, friends.

Tonight the small city of Copan is being turned upside down for a giant fiesta in the name of the new mayor. I think he is being inaugurated here this afternoon, and then a big old celebration ensues. The streets are packed already with locals and tourists, and they started setting up for this shin-dig last night. Vamos a ver….

So every once in a while, my friends and I stop and look around at where we are and what we are doing. Every day we seem to have these really surreal moments like we are living someone elses lives. Here are a few:

1. The four of us crammed in the back of a souped up Toyota Carrola – complete with two spinners and two missing hubcaps – riding through the Copan countryside, with American pop songs blaring, on the way to the coffee farm where we will be volunteering.

2. At said coffee farm, measuring and bagging coffee beans, while my friend seals the plastic bags in a machine. Wouldn’t be so strange, except that she does this for a living in the States and today she did it in Central America.

3. Listening to a Honduran cover band play Metallica, among other American rock songs, while the bassist headbangs and the crowd goes nuts for the heavily accented English songs.

4. Realizing at about noon each day after classes, that I have just spent the last four hours speaking completely in Spanish, and for the most part, I knew what was going on.

Also noteworthy is my interactions with my family. See, I haven’t eaten a green vegetable in a week and a half. So I mentioned this fact to the school director, who promtly calls my madre and tells her to please cook more vegetables. She confronts me last night when I got home, and said – Hey, I thought you said you ate everything and now Enrique said you only eat vegetables? After some difficulty, I think I managed to explain I do eat everything, but sometimes I like to eat vegetables. Green ones. So for lunch, they had set out a massive mound of broccoli, green beans and tomatoes for me. They ate a meat and potatoe pie. Strange.

(I have a hunch that he also told Juancho to leave me alone, because be barely looked at me during lunch. A small part of me feels bad, and a larger part feels relieved.)

We’ve started seeing a lot of tourists filter into the city and we feel like they are infringing on our territory. We like to think that since we spend time speaking Spanish and hanging out with locals, that we are regular Copanecas.