Help take a bite out of crime

In the last two weeks I have had two run-ins with the Honduran police, a jumpy bunch, if I do say so myself. First, early last week after dropping off a group from Bluffton, Ohio, at their hotel, I was pulled over less than half a block from our apartment after apparently stopping at an intersection where there was no stop sign. Guilty as charged, I'll admit, if that is a crime. Actually, it was more of a rolling stop in fear that the car speeding towards me on the cross street was not going to observe his stop sign. Anyway, four young motorcycle cops (one of them 20 -- I asked him, much to Amanda's chagrin) with machine guns stopped me and asked me in quiet, quick Spanish for my license, which I handed over. And my passport, which I did not have on me. Apparently this is a worthy crime in Honduras, and, as one of the cops reminded me, if a Honduran in the states was caught without a passport he would be deported immediately. So we waited in silence. And waited. Stared at the sky. Waited. After fifteen minutes, with a few failed attempts at small talk, they said the were going to forgive me this time. They let me drive the half a block to my house, watched as we pulled in to the gate, and sped off to catch other criminals.

Then two nights ago, after a nice dinner with the same group in the swankier part of town, I was caught heading the wrong way down a dark street that suddenly became one-way. A truckload of policemen was right there, as if waiting for a confused gringo. Another young cop took my license and asked me to exit the car to talk with his supervisor, who explained to me that he was going to write me a ticket, like they do in the states. I accepted my fate and asked to clarify exactly the process. According to the Honduran book of traffic laws, if a driver is caught violating a traffic law, the police officer is to withhold the driver's license, and the lawbreaker must go to the bank to pay the fine to reclaim his license. This police officer, however, told me that it would be easier to just pay the fine on the spot so I don't have to stand in line at the bank. I told him that I would prefer to pay at the bank, as that is the proper way. He used a different tack. "Well maybe you'd like to help us pay for the gas for this truck." Again, I told him I'd prefer the bank option. Somehow I maintained my composure, and actually spoke fairly decent Spanish, while the young cop on my right was carelessly swinging his machine gun back and forth. After looking at my license a little longer he told me he would forgive without a ticket. I thanked them, stepped back into the car, took a few deep breaths, and took off towards the hotel.

Obviously, in each situation the police officers were hoping for a bribe, affectionately called a mordida -- literally a bite. People here live in fear of the police. My luck has been due largely to the fact that I'm a gringo, and the police and I both know that this entails certain leverage. An average Honduran does not have the luxury of reporting abuse to the most powerful embassy in the world. What would it do to your psyche to know that reporting a crime is useless, because many of the police have been paid off by the criminals? Corruption at this level contributes to what I would call anarchy -- lawlessness, caused by the fact that there is no one to turn to. In these instances I have merely tasted the fear immigrants in the states feel towards the police, not to mention the anxiety that Hondurans feel on a daily basis.

"Ese no es espaguetis" (This is not spaghetti)

I thought this story would be worth sharing...

The other evening we walked home from the office after a long day of orienting, translating (mostly Andrew), and traveling around the city with a group of folks visiting from a church in Ohio. We were pretty tired, didn't have much food in the fridge and so had decided to just eat out for a change. It wasn't until we'd already reached the large blue wall topped with razor wire surrounding our apartment that we noticed the family sitting inside their truck parked out front, waving and smiling at us. It was our new friends, Román and Delmy and two of their four small kids, Aby and Román (junior - otherwise known as Románcito - possibly the cutest kid ever). They live about 30 minutes away and had been parked out front for over an hour waiting for us to get home. We felt pretty honored - so far friend-making and hanging out with Hondurans has been slow to happen, besides the casual meeting people that happens at church. It's hard to know how to get to know people better when the formal inviting people over for dinner or out to do something doesn't seem to happen as much in this culture. So we'd finally been "dropped-in" on and we were pretty excited.

We rushed to invite them up to our apartment and do all the right things - including running out to the nearest pulperia to buy sodas since all we usually have around is water. I thought it would freak them out if Andrew were to help me cook so I knew it was up to me - what to make? My choices were beans and rice or pasta. I chose pasta, since making beans and rice for Hondurans is just too intimidating - surely they would not be impressed with my gringafying of their native cuisine. So I whipped up the usual veggie marinara sauce that I usually make and some bow-tie pasta, the only kind we had around. In the process I made the dire mistake of telling the kids, who were watching me with great interest, that I was making spaghetti.

Finally I had it all together, served in a bowl, Honduran-style with toast stacked on a little plate. Plastic chairs were pulled in from outside, small children were put on cushions so their chins were at least even with our awkwardly-tall table, when I noticed Románcito was sitting there looking pretty devastated. He whispered to his dad "pero ¿dónde está la comida?" (but where is the food?)

His father kindly tried to explain that the strange looking geometrical blobs covered in red stuff mixed with distateful vegetables was actually made out of the same thing as his beloved noodles. And that the sauce was actually not that different from ketchup. I couldn't help laughing as the poor little guy wrinkled up his face, examined a few bow-ties up close and almost broke out in tears. Actually everyone got a pretty big kick out of it (excluding Románcito - who eventually did eat toast and cheese, but only after his sister assured him that it was, in fact, real cheese), and despite making a small child cry with my cooking I felt really good about the evening. In a small way it felt like we'd finally arrived. And it made a last impression - his parents later told us that the next morning at breakfast little Román said, "Amanda no me dió espaguetis..." (Amanda didn't give me spaghetti)

San Pedro turned cold overnight on Tuesday. I´m sitting here in the MCC office actually wearing a sweater AND socks - it feels a little like Goshen in October.

I´m suffering from some post-friend, post-Christmas, post-beach blues. We had a really great Christmas, made special by an overnight visit from our friends Maria and Josh, and celebrating Christmas eve with Marcos and his family.

The infamous Tasara Redekopp, former roommate and Goshen College amiga, arrived on the 27th for our first official more-than-overnight friend visit. We had a fabulous time giving her a 5-day mini tour of Northern Honduras; spending a little time exploring San Pedro, bussing out to the beautiful beach in Tela for two nights, then heading south near Lago Yojoa to spend New Year´s Eve (and Maria´s birthday) with other MCCers Callie, Caleb, and Josh and Maria at their farm in El Cipres. Click here to see a few more pictures (we hope to add some of Tasara´s soon). We ate a lot of good food, Tasara soaked in some much needed vitamin D and even bought some art.

We decided to take a tour boat out to Punta Sal, a national park outside of Tela. The day-long trip included a big fried fish lunch, complete with tajadas and beans and rice (typical north-coast fare). When Andrew made reservations for us over the phone he thought to mention that Tasara is a vegetarian and wondered if they had vegetarian options. Alex, who we met later and turned out to be our tour-guide, paused over the phone and then said, "what they will do Andres, they will give you the plate, and take off the fish." Another highlight was when Tasara and I were having trouble getting back on to the boat in thigh-high water that was getting choppier by the minute, and Alex tried to heave Tasara log-throwing style onto the boat. Marvin, the boat capitan who was much blessed with impressive muscles, saved the day and literally swept us off our feet, and before we knew it we had both been deposited safely inside. There was much cheering. There was less chearing on the jarring boat ride back when Marvin continued to go top-speed through the choppy waves and I had to hang on for dear life.