"Hey, do you want to go to my friend's house this weekend? He's celebrating his birthday and there will be a pool."
The wind blew fast into our ears like echoes of screams from our elementary students. All 26 windows were down, and with every gust from a passing car I heard, "TEACHER! VENGA!" From every passing bus, "PROFE PROFE!" Most everyone rides on a bus to get out of town and this was our first chance in over three weeks.
"What's the weirdest thing you've bought on a bus?" Aaron asked as the driver tooted his horn at another driver going the opposite direction.
"Meat on a stick," replied Stephanie. We all laughed at her.
"Was it any good?" I asked.
"Everyone said it was dog, like that was the big joke. I don't know, I was really hungry."
Before the bus had left, a boy about 10 years old had been pushing hot fresh tomales, maiz, and green oranges. After an hour of riding, the sun had set, the radio's raggae tone and the rocking of the bus put us into a dazed half-sleep. Aaron pointed to the only visible lights on the horizon.
"I bet that's Catacamus," he said.
Sure enough, in ten minutes we were on the phone with our friend to see about getting a lift from the bus stop.
"Hey!" someone called from across the street, then we heard a whistle.
"Eyal's in the back of that truck." I said, and we all crossed over to join him.
Robert, the driver, is someone you want to know if you're in Olancho. His flat bed trailer is eight feet wide by ten feet long with chest high metal railing. A few times a month he delivers frozen, high grade meat, mostly beef tips, to the coast--a seven to eight hour drive through the mountains. He stays overnight and brings shrimp on the way back home. He's fully Honduran but if you heard him speak English you'd think he's a black man living in L.A. He's a generous man with a hospitable, protective spirit.
"Climb on up," said Eyal. "We're still not sure what's going on exactly. Do you want to get anything before we go to the house?"
We all say we do. Between the four of us we buy a few six packs, purified water bags, and some food for the next morning. On our way to the house we pass a cancha where several men are scrimaging soccer, a park where families are selling $0.50 baleadas from carts, and a cozy home where the mother is making tortillas on her doorstep. The last portion of the ride is up a steep, cobble stone street. At the intersection before the house we wave and say good night to some neighborhood kids hanging out playing soccer.
When we walk inside everyone is out back, so we put our bags down and join the party. Matt had just moved into the house and the only furniture were two mattresses and a bench on the porch. He also owns a small, broken fridge. His house warming/birthday party consisted of some of his friends he had met throughout his first year in the peace corps; most of them had gone through training together, one only had a few months left. Half of them were working in water management or resource protection the other half in education or business consulting.
The best-dressed person at the house approached us and asked, "You're the teachers at CECOM, right?" We nodded our affirmation. "I'm the reason you get paid less than last year's teachers. My name's Joel." We get paid $290 per month plus housing, which is plenty to live well and travel a bit. Joel went on to talk about how close the school was to bankruptcy and how irresponsibile the directors had been to take such large loans.
"I advised them to sell one of their buses," he said, "because that alone is about a half million Lempiras ($25,000)."
"One of the Honduran teachers just left," I told him. "I wonder if it was because she wasn't getting paid enough." My colleagues assured me that wasn't the reason but I wasn't so sure.
One minute we're eating beans and rice and drinking beer, the next minute ten people are climbing back onto the truck and bouncing down the street and out of the city. We're not that far from town, but the houses are far apart and it is a full moon. As we drive up to a one story, elegant and large hacienda, we all have to duck down to clear the entrance sign of the gate. There are at least two huge dogs lurking about, a man peering at us from the inside of another locked gate leading to an obscured courtyard, and six or seven large pickups and SUVs.
"This is what they warned us about," Stephanie whispered to me as our Honduran driver throws the truck into park.
"Are you serious?" I replied. "You mean you're scared about riding in a stranger's truck at night to somewhere you've never been before?"
"I'm just kidding," She answered. "This is the sort of thing you dream about happening."
Like sheep to the slaughter we walk past the second gateman into a private pool and patio that happens to serve drinks at night to friends of the owner.
Leaning forward over one of the tables, Robert says to me, "Yo, you feel me. I just want to make people feel welcome when they visit my country, you know, so after you go home if you come back here you'll have connections. Listen, I'll be straight up, all these guys are pretty wealthy and the first thing they do when they get here is say what's up. I'm not trying to be proud or nothing, but that's how it is."
