T is for Tegucigalpa

It’s a mouthful, I know. If you prefer, you can call it like the locals do, Tegus, I do. It’s just easier. Tegus is the capital of Hondurasand home to world’s 4^th most dangerous airport.  JFK is the 5^th (depending on which list you look at) which means I’ve flown into 2 of the ten most dangerous airports. Toncontin is the airport I had the pleasure of using a few times while living in Hondo, another affectionate nickname. What makes it dangerous is its incredibly short runway which leaves you holding your breath as you descend over the city’s only highway. (I might be more scared to be driving on said highway while a plane is coming in for a landing overhead.) You’re not holding your breath long, though your back is not touching its seat till it comes to a complete stop at the gate.

Tegus is about 1-2 hours away from Comayagua where I lived and taught for a year. That is depending on what form of transportation you use. I usually used the bus which took the better part of two hours depending on how many random shanty towns it stopped at along the way.  My fellow teachers would go to Tegus to go to a ‘big city.’ One which had American food- Fridays, Chili’s, McDonalds, you get the idea. There were also large shopping malls and movie theaters with nearly new movies.  I went to Tegus as a means to an end. From there I went to Valle De Los Angeles and La Tigre national park on random solo weekend trips. It was also the jumping off point for all locales south- Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Panama.  The main bus terminal was there and I used it often while I traveled to all Central American countries but Belize.

Tegus is a big, busy, dirty city, like most capitals are and for this reason I never spent much time there, but I have a special affection for the capital which led me to so many other places during my time in Central America.

T is for Tegucigalpa

It’s a mouthful, I know. If you prefer, you can call it like the locals do, Tegus, I do. It’s just easier. Tegus is the capital of Honduras and home to world’s 4^th most dangerous airport.  JFK is the 5^th (depending on which list you look at) which means I’ve flown into 2 of the ten most dangerous airports. Toncontin is the airport I had the pleasure of using a few times while living in Hondo, another affectionate nickname. What makes it dangerous is its incredibly short runway which leaves you holding your breath as you descend over the city’s only highway. (I might be more scared to be driving on said highway while a plane is coming in for a landing overhead.) You’re not holding your breath long, though your back is not touching its seat till it comes to a complete stop at the gate.

Tegus is about 1-2 hours away from Comayagua where I lived and taught for a year. That is depending on what form of transportation you use. I usually used the bus which took the better part of two hours depending on how many random shanty towns it stopped at along the way.  My fellow teachers would go to Tegus to go to a ‘big city.’ One which had American food- Fridays, Chili’s, McDonalds, you get the idea. There were also large shopping malls and movie theaters with nearly new movies.  I went to Tegus as a means to an end. From there I went to Valle De Los Angeles and La Tigre national park on random solo weekend trips. It was also the jumping off point for all locales south- Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Panama.  The main bus terminal was there and I used it often while I traveled to all Central American countries but Belize.

Tegus is a big, busy, dirty city, like most capitals are and for this reason I never spent much time there, but I have a special affection for the capital which led me to so many other places during my time in Central America.

R is for Roatan

I visited the islands of Hondurasas often as possible while I lived in Comayagua.  I got SCUBA certified in Utila and advanced certified in Roatan. I established my life as a diver on the islands. I feel in love underwater.

My trips to Roatan were lackadaisical and carefree. I loved island life. I loved diving. I made elaborate plans in my head how I could return to either island and teach there, or simply become a dive bum.  Alas, that never did happen, though I still have aspiration of living on an island one day. Instead, I would visit and relish the island life I so longed for the rest of my time in Honduras. I enjoyed a simpler pace of life there, with rolling blackouts and water outs.  The only traffic consisted of golf carts, bikes and the occasional horse. The rum was plentiful and the people friendly and kind. The diving was incredible and cheap.  The nightlife was always alive.

Another thing I enjoyed about the islands was the language. The first language on the islands is English, though not an English I was ever used to hearing. It was more of sing songy, Jamaican-y English that I couldn’t hear enough of.  I’d eavesdrop on little blonde haired blued eyed girls, natives of the islands, while having breakfast in a café and simply be in awe of their language which I could barely make out as my own.  I found it even more fascinating because the rest of the country spoke Spanish, which I struggled to speak daily while living there.

There is little that would bring me back to mainland Honduras, especially now, as the violence and corruption increases.  But the islands will always hold a special spot in my heart, and I would eagerly return and do another dive.

R is for Roatan

I visited the islands of Honduras as often as possible while I lived in Comayagua.  I got SCUBA certified in Utila and advanced certified in Roatan. I established my life as a diver on the islands. I feel in love underwater.

My trips to Roatan were lackadaisical and carefree. I loved island life. I loved diving. I made elaborate plans in my head how I could return to either island and teach there, or simply become a dive bum.  Alas, that never did happen, though I still have aspiration of living on an island one day. Instead, I would visit and relish the island life I so longed for the rest of my time in Honduras. I enjoyed a simpler pace of life there, with rolling blackouts and water outs.  The only traffic consisted of golf carts, bikes and the occasional horse. The rum was plentiful and the people friendly and kind. The diving was incredible and cheap.  The nightlife was always alive.

Another thing I enjoyed about the islands was the language. The first language on the islands is English, though not an English I was ever used to hearing. It was more of sing songy, Jamaican-y English that I couldn’t hear enough of.  I’d eavesdrop on little blonde haired blued eyed girls, natives of the islands, while having breakfast in a café and simply be in awe of their language which I could barely make out as my own.  I found it even more fascinating because the rest of the country spoke Spanish, which I struggled to speak daily while living there.

There is little that would bring me back to mainland Honduras, especially now, as the violence and corruption increases.  But the islands will always hold a special spot in my heart, and I would eagerly return and do another dive.

L is for Lago Yojoa

The first weekend after I moved to Hondurasa few fellow teachers and I took a weekend trip to Lago Yojoa. We were in pursuit of the famous D and D Brewery we had read and heard so much about.  Beer was not exactly heralded as a craft in Hondurasand finding a brewery in the country was a treat. It was apparently owned by a retired deadhead from Oregon and I was eager to meet him.

The trip there involved several bus rides and random stops and switches. I was the only one who spoke any kind of Spanish, and I remember being happy about not having lost the little Spanish I knew in my year back in the states between Chileand Honduras.  It was an interesting feeling having the other teachers depend on me to get us there. I still remember thinking it was a GD miracle we made it. But, we did.

Once there, we met Bob, the owner of the brewery and hotel.  He was everything I’d imagined and set us up with rooms and then beers, all while The Grateful Dead was playing through the speakers in the restaurant.  There are rare treats when you live abroad- finding a micro brew and some Dead were up there with the best of them. I was pretty sure I was in heaven and vowed to come here often in the year I’d be in Honduras. Though, I never did make it back.

Bob showed us the different tours, and hikes and fishing we could do in the area while we started on our second brew.  He told us about the Pulhapanzak Falls that were close to the lake.  And so, as all good travelers do, we changed plans, forgetting about the lake preferring the adventure Bob was selling in his description of the falls, which including a climb behind the waterfall and a cave off of it.

At the falls, we found a young boy, maybe 12 or 13 years old to lead us through the falls.  It was one of the scariest, most thrilling things I’ve ever done.  Walking through the falling water, so thick you are basically swimming, holding your breath, closing your eyes, climbing into the cave for a little refuge from the falls, exiting back out and standing completely under and behind the falls as they tumble into the pool at the bottom. It was a surreal feeling. Rarely do you get the chance to stand behind a fall and look out from that vantage point as the water crashes in the pool and carries on. I’ve never been more happy to veer off course than I was that day at Pulhapanzak Falls.

 

 

 

 

L is for Lago Yojoa

The first weekend after I moved to Honduras a few fellow teachers and I took a weekend trip to Lago Yojoa. We were in pursuit of the famous D and D Brewery we had read and heard so much about.  Beer was not exactly heralded as a craft in Honduras and finding a brewery in the country was a treat. It was apparently owned by a retired deadhead from Oregon and I was eager to meet him.

The trip there involved several bus rides and random stops and switches. I was the only one who spoke any kind of Spanish, and I remember being happy about not having lost the little Spanish I knew in my year back in the states between Chile and Honduras.  It was an interesting feeling having the other teachers depend on me to get us there. I still remember thinking it was a GD miracle we made it. But, we did.

Once there, we met Bob, the owner of the brewery and hotel.  He was everything I’d imagined and set us up with rooms and then beers, all while The Grateful Dead was playing through the speakers in the restaurant.  There are rare treats when you live abroad- finding a micro brew and some Dead were up there with the best of them. I was pretty sure I was in heaven and vowed to come here often in the year I’d be in Honduras. Though, I never did make it back.

Bob showed us the different tours, and hikes and fishing we could do in the area while we started on our second brew.  He told us about the Pulhapanzak Falls that were close to the lake.  And so, as all good travelers do, we changed plans, forgetting about the lake preferring the adventure Bob was selling in his description of the falls, which including a climb behind the waterfall and a cave off of it.

At the falls, we found a young boy, maybe 12 or 13 years old to lead us through the falls.  It was one of the scariest, most thrilling things I’ve ever done.  Walking through the falling water, so thick you are basically swimming, holding your breath, closing your eyes, climbing into the cave for a little refuge from the falls, exiting back out and standing completely under and behind the falls as they tumble into the pool at the bottom. It was a surreal feeling. Rarely do you get the chance to stand behind a fall and look out from that vantage point as the water crashes in the pool and carries on. I’ve never been more happy to veer off course than I was that day at Pulhapanzak Falls.

 

 

 

 

H is for Honduras

The problem with the first place you ever live abroad is the fact that you will forever be comparing everywhere else to it. Now, if your experience wasn’t particularly satisfying, this is not a problem. It’s easy to surpass unsatisfying. But if it happens to be the type of place that you fall madly in love with and which keeps getting bigger and better and more magical in your head as your time away from it grows longer, this is a problem.

That’s what happened to me in Honduras, and I will never know if things had been different if it might have been my Chile. But it was not, it was my second foreign country to live in after Chile. After Chile, enough said, I feel like.

I moved to Comayagua, Hondurasone year after I had moved back to the states from Chile. It was a year of confusion and longing and wondering and I was determined to be abroad again as soon as possible.  I just had to get this pesky master’s degree out of the way. 

The day I was meant to sign my contract renewal at the alternative school I had just completed my first year of teaching at, I received notice that a school in Hondo had invited me to come teach with them.  My decision was hasty, but easy to make.  I wanted back out. I left two months later.

This was not my first rodeo, and I am sure I let all the other teachers for whom it was their first rodeo, know this.  There was simply no way I couldn’t acknowledge their naiveté, or innocence.  One girl, from Canada, had never left her country before. Seriously?

And yet, I think, a bit of the reason I called out their inexperience was because I envied it.  I envied that ability not to compare, the ability to see everything as new and fresh. I would never have that again. And I dearly missed it.

So instead, Honduraslived in constant comparison to Chileand always, always paled in it. The food wasn’t as good, the city was dirtier, my friendships in Chilewere closer.  My time in Hondurasleft me leery of ever living abroad again. Would I ever experience something new without comparing it now to two different experiences? Would any other place I might move live up to the expectations that have been building and building in my head? Could any place ever be better than the ChileI created in my mind?

The truth is, I don’t even think Chilecould live up to the Chilein my head. You can’t go home again, they say. You can simply return and hope that a little bit of what you remember remains, and a lot is even better than you dreamed.

H is for Honduras

The problem with the first place you ever live abroad is the fact that you will forever be comparing everywhere else to it. Now, if your experience wasn’t particularly satisfying, this is not a problem. It’s easy to surpass unsatisfying. But if it happens to be the type of place that you fall madly in love with and which keeps getting bigger and better and more magical in your head as your time away from it grows longer, this is a problem.

That’s what happened to me in Honduras, and I will never know if things had been different if it might have been my Chile. But it was not, it was my second foreign country to live in after Chile. After Chile, enough said, I feel like.

I moved to Comayagua, Honduras one year after I had moved back to the states from Chile. It was a year of confusion and longing and wondering and I was determined to be abroad again as soon as possible.  I just had to get this pesky master’s degree out of the way. 

The day I was meant to sign my contract renewal at the alternative school I had just completed my first year of teaching at, I received notice that a school in Hondo had invited me to come teach with them.  My decision was hasty, but easy to make.  I wanted back out. I left two months later.

This was not my first rodeo, and I am sure I let all the other teachers for whom it was their first rodeo, know this.  There was simply no way I couldn’t acknowledge their naiveté, or innocence.  One girl, from Canada, had never left her country before. Seriously?

And yet, I think, a bit of the reason I called out their inexperience was because I envied it.  I envied that ability not to compare, the ability to see everything as new and fresh. I would never have that again. And I dearly missed it.

So instead, Honduras lived in constant comparison to Chile and always, always paled in it. The food wasn’t as good, the city was dirtier, my friendships in Chile were closer.  My time in Honduras left me leery of ever living abroad again. Would I ever experience something new without comparing it now to two different experiences? Would any other place I might move live up to the expectations that have been building and building in my head? Could any place ever be better than the Chile I created in my mind?

The truth is, I don’t even think Chile could live up to the Chile in my head. You can’t go home again, they say. You can simply return and hope that a little bit of what you remember remains, and a lot is even better than you dreamed.