SHARON BLOYD-PESHKIN writes:
I'm sitting on a bench, breathing the exhaust fumes from an air-conditioned van idling in the parking lot next to me.
Today, several cruise ships docked here at Roatan. All morning, vans full of westerners on all-inclusive tours have been descending on Marble Hill Farm, where we’re staying. They paw through the organic jams, snap photos of the view, deplete the bathrooms of toilet paper, then board their vans and disappear.
It’s pretty easy to see the down sides of their type of travel. These whistle-stop tours leave visitors with cheap souvenirs and the ability to boast that they’ve been to Honduras, but almost no exposure to the country and its culture.
It’s harder to admit how little we can see of another country in our own attempt to strike a balance between comfort and authenticity. Because the land is so beautiful and the rivers are so irresistible, we spend part of a day whitewater rafting, but we choose guides from western nations because we have American notions of safety. We grow weary of rice and beans, and seek out pizza. Even when we ride with Honduran taxi drivers and hike with Honduran guides, our primitive Spanish limits the depth of our conversations. (Even if we were all fluent, we could only go so deep on one afternoon.)
We would have to stay much longer and work much harder to get much deeper. We skim the surface, barely discerning what lies beneath.
KRISTEN PANKOW writes:
I was going to celebrate that I am no longer sick. But then I would have to knock on wood. And I do not see anything made of wood around here.
Let's just say I ate food today. And some yesterday. It was good. And refreshing. And I am writing in really simple, short sentences. I do not know why.
I wrote everyone on this trip a note. Old-school style, folded-up, lined paper with the person's name written on it. I'm pretty high-class when it comes to paper/stationery products, as can be seen.
I am glad to be coming home. Two words: DIET PEPSI! Oh, wow, have I missed Diet Pepsi, and especially my true love, Diet Pepsi from a fountain. Mmm. I am actually salivating, sadly. My mom is also bringing me spring water. Both items will be cold. And I am ecstatic because I've been drinking purified water this whole time and, let's be honest, I am picky in my water consumption on a daily basis.
Also, for some reason the soda here makes me sick. Like, I can't keep down anything if I drink one. Or maybe since it was two. But I had literally two sips today and felt funny for a while. Oh well.
But I loved this trip ... I mean, class. It was completely worth everything and was so much better than I even thought. I have some awesome pictures and memories and such. And I didn't even have my camera attached to me.
I will leave you with some John Mayer: I was "hoping to see the world through both my eyes. Maybe I will tell you all about it when I'm in the mood to lose my way with words."
Good day and good tidings.
Kristen Pankow is an undergraduate journalism student.
KRISTEN PANKOW writes:
Yesterday we took the ferry to Roatan. It was a rocky, unsteady ride. While I have never experienced motion sickness in the past—thus not taking Dramamine in advance—I certainly did yesterday. I vomited two times and then another on the boat, two times at the supermarket after arriving, and then today, after feeling better kayaking, about six or seven consecutive times.
Needless to say, I am wary to eat. I have been sipping on diluted Gatorade I had purchased, in addition to sleeping.
Tomorrow, though, is kayaking (actually going somewhere) and snorkeling (finally!). Since I had not vomited in years (I think I had the flu in eighth grade, I don't think after ninth at all), I had forgotten how not fun it is. In case you, too, forgot, it is highly involuntary.
I think the soda today did me in. This is strange, since at home a Diet Pepsi usually settles my stomach. Then again, this was Fresca. And Fanta. Oh well. As Sharon (my teacher) told me, no soda (pop) until I am in Chicago, at which time I will likely make my parents bring me a cooler with Diet Pepsi, since I have suffered withdrawal from it.
The Packers game is currently on, so I am following it online. I have an extensive amount of writing to complete this evening, so I will need a good start and an awakening of some kind. I can't believe there are only two days left! It has not seemed like 10 days are almost over. At least I have attained a pretty good tan. My face is quite dark.
See you all pretty soon.
Good day and good tidings.
Kristen Pankow is an undergraduate journalism student.
MEGAN FERRINGER writes:
You haven’t truly seen Honduras unless some form of motion sickness has been developed along the way. True enough, only the greatest destinations can be reached by pothole-ridden dirt roads that forever wind and turn, or nauseating ferry rides across the turbulent sea.
Beginning my own six-hour voyage from Copan Ruinas to La Ceiba, I took on such a trek optimistically. Focusing on the pristine scenery of green mountainsides rushing past my window, I’m abruptly forced to the left side of the van as the driver maniacally takes on the curving mountain roads with no fear of the 100-foot drop dangerously awaiting the slightest of errors. Suddenly, the next five hours and 45 minutes to La Ceiba became more of a glass-half-empty sort of deal, as I realized the driver had some sort of inferiority complex that was expressed in miles-per-hour.
About three hundred swerved potholes and two pills of Dramamine later, the green sign welcoming me to La Ceiba shone like a beacon of hope, signaling the end of my excruciating journey. But as the van neared the mountains outlining the city, breathtaking scenery of palm trees and pineapple fields made me realize just why I had taken on this six-hour journey in the first place. Motion sickness is never enjoyable, but in the case of exploring the jungles up the mountainside, the occasional episodes of vomit just may be worth it.
Megan Ferringer is an undergraduate journalism student.
KRISTEN RADTKE writes:
At five a.m. tomorrow we will fold our discoveries and experiences into our packs and pull the straps around our backs as we leave Roatan. For home.
Leaving the island is like waking up from a dream, dense with foliage and lizards scurrying across paths, surrounded by an ocean filled with coral, stingrays, and clown fish. The return home will be long, 18 hours in transit, and I’m leaving with a plethora of nostalgia, a resistance to re-enter the world of sub-zero temperatures, and an excitement to return to the people and places I know so well and love so much.
Due to unfortunate lack of internet access through much of the trip, I have not documented it here as thoroughly as I had hoped, but I'll have much more to say about how Honduras has changed me once I leave the country of friendly slowness, of taking my time to breathe deeply and enter the city of delayed public transportation and frustrated shivering commuters. It’s astounding to me the way I have grown to love such different places and see myself reflected so much in both.
TRINEA CRAFTON writes:
We traveled all day by bus from San Pedro Sula down to Copan, which is on the southwest coast of Honduras. It was so crazy to see firsthand how such a beautiful country could be so poor! It’s so sad!
We drove along the countryside seeing the real Honduras and it was unreal! There were little children walking with piles of sticks on their backs, shacks on the sides of the roads, and people bathing in streams. It was nothing I have ever seen before ever!
The landscape is so green with mountains in the sky, but the people live off nothing. They don’t have doors or beds. They mostly sleep on hammocks, and the shacks are the size of (maybe) one bedroom. They are clumped together, and I’m sure there are several families that stay near each other.
Livestock roam the streets and the roads have no lines, so there are no traffic laws to follow. So basically a few of us got car sick as our driver drove like a madman, racing in between cars, people, and trucks!
It's so sad how much we take for granted, things we would never even imagine. We have wireless internet but only one person can be one at a time so even if all 11 of us have computers, really only one person has access to the Internet at a time. (Not ideal for journalists in Honduras.) We are not able to drink the tap water, which is similar to Mexico. And hot water for showers is not regular, so the shower last night was freezing! It’s almost tempting to not shower after an experience of ice cold water, even on my legs. Burr!
Tomorrow we are going to the Mayan Ruins, and we are so excited to see that!
Trinea Crafton is an undergraduate journalism student.
SHARON BLOYD-PESHKIN writes:
Our red, double-cab pickup bumps down the rutted road along the edge of Pico Bonito National Park. One side is protected land, the other private. We pass a small naval base—little more than a hut guarded by impossibly young soldiers with absurdly large rifles. I ask Alejandro, 62, a small, wiry man with boundless energy but no upper teeth, why the soldiers are here on the edge of the park. “They protect the forest,” he tells me in Spanish. “They keep the people from cutting the trees.”
The trees blanket the slopes on our right. On the left, the land drops steeply to a deep gorge where the Rio Cangrejal courses through boulders, tumbling to the valley below. As we pass tiny villages, Alejandro waves. “My uncle,” he says. “My cousins.” “My friends.” It seems he knows everyone for miles.
At last we stop at the side of the road. We can see a small red-and-white building on the other side—the women’s sewing cooperative we intend to visit—but no obvious way to get there.
Then we notice the cable, a 50-or-so-meter twist of rusty steel suspended about 25 meters above the gorge’s craggy bottom. Alejandro scans the other side. “He forgot,” he says, shaking his head, then bounds into the brush at the end of the precipice.
Moments later we see him on the other side of the river, wet up to his waist, briskly ascending a dirt path.
Soon the cable creaks. At the other end of the cable, a small, dangling cage arcs toward us. It picks up speed as it descends in the middle, then slows as it ascends to where we stand. Alberto, 17, ratchets the cage until it rests on a concrete slab in front of us. He’s tall and thin, with the easy confidence of a trapeze artist.
“Two at a time,” he tells us. We nervously look at one another, at the rusty little cage, at one another again. This is how the single mothers who work at the co-op get to and from their jobs every day. This little cage, piloted by this young man, enables them to earn enough money doing piecework to support their children and even send them to school. But for us, it’s optional. We could sit on this side of the gorge, listening to the grackles in the trees, watching campesinos walking down the dirt road, opting out of the journey. Or we could do what Alberto expected: climb over the broken cage door, sit down on the rickety wooden seat, and let Alberto ferry us across the gorge.
Travel is full of moments like this—times when we must decide whether to do something that makes us uneasy or skip something we’re likely to regret. There is no right or wrong choice; there’s simply a choice and little time in which to make it.
Sharon Bloyd-Peshkin is a professor in Columbia's journalism department.
KRISTEN PANKOW writes:
Today was white-water rafting day. We trekked down to the river, got into our rafts (mine, "Team Nutrio," had three students and our leader), and began paddling after some instruction. here were fantastic rapids; it was a rush.
The scenery, when we were not "holding on" or "over left/right" or "forward paddling" or "back paddling," was beautiful.
Near the trip's completion, we got out, took a hike, and went to a waterfall (I did not swim in it, though). Then we finished the paddling and returned to the "jungle," our accommodations.
I love it here in Honduras.
After a spaghetti lunch, some students went to a women's sewing co-op. I stayed behind with others, laying out/resting in the sun, playing games, and talking with my classmates and the rafting guides (one of whom has "mullet dreads"). Tamarind juice is popular with our group here, something new to me. That is another wonderful thing about this trip: trying new things, and enjoying them as well. I have been surprising myself with my adventurous nature, something I have adopted only in the last few months.
I have been learning much here. For instance, even though everyone says to certainly wear sunscreen, I can fail to wear it at all, including today, and still be simply gaining color (and not getting burned). I learned my strength paddling, my fortitude, and the importance of hydration (a long story).
I am tired lately, since our days are active and our mornings early. Tomorrow we are off to the ferry, which will take us to Roatan, in the Bay Islands. There we will snorkel and kayak, among things. We will eat salad with lettuce from a greenhouse that grows it hydroponic and uses filtered water. I cannot wait.
More to come after needed sleep.
Good day and good tidings.
JONATHAN BINDER writes:
I only brought four shirts with me, including the one I wore to travel. Although I was trying to pack light, I don’t know what I was thinking. Any amount of physical activity causes me to sweat profusely. So far in the Honduras heat we have hiked through rainforests and ruins, whitewater rafted, and traveled many hours in bulky vans that lacked the air conditioning that I consider to be air conditioning.
Yeah, a lot sweating.
I had three options: smell bad, buy new clothes, or do some laundry. Well, I hate to smell (and I am sure others don’t enjoy it much either) and I am cheap. So by process of elimination, it was laundry time. But for many people in Honduras, laundry doesn’t involve any machines. I grabbed the bar of laundry soap and went to work at the stone washer board. It may be a very old practice, but it was certainly a new experience for me.
I must say Honduras is the perfect place to use this method. I clean my clothes in the morning, hang them up on the clothesline and the sun does the rest. Now, I can sweat without sweating it.
So, as all the water we drink turns into a salty, smelly discharge, it will be nice to know I’ll have something fresh to wear.
(I am wearing a hand-washed shirt right now; it smells fantastic!)
Jonathan Binder is an undergraduate journalism student.
MEGAN FERRINGER writes:
The thought of tourists attacking a city with their relentless flashing of cameras brings no room for doubt as to why most cities despise hordes of fanny-pack-wearing people. Strangely enough, however, the attitude Hondurans have toward tourists emerges as being refreshingly the opposite. Not only do they convey a genuine appreciation and respect for those travelers exploring their native soil, but an intense sense of curiosity beams back to us as we travel the cobblestone streets of Copan.
The usual expectations of judgmental sneers and disapproval I’ve developed during previous travels have been defied through the showering of greetings as we make our way through the morning mountain haze covering the narrow roads.
A lesson can certainly be learned from the Hondurans’ welcoming attitude. It seems this general mindset stems from their obviously easy-going lifestyle. Men and women sit along the stone walls in Copan’s center as their children find absolute joy in chasing each other up and down a sidewalk. And on each store corner, older men decked in old cowboy hats gather together to share an afternoon conversation as they seem to have no other obligations in the world. Granted, much of this leisurely lifestyle comes from high unemployment rates, but their simple love for family, their country, and life is obvious.
Copan is a city that seems grounded in simplicity. It appears to newcomers that the town has a certain laid-back vacationer feel, where the bars never close and the festive music continues on through all hours of the night. It’s the perfect getaway from busy Chicago life as the outdoor restaurants encourage you with their scents and open view of the starry sky above.
It’s no wonder I have come across such a diverse group of people, both young and old, in Copan. From an Irish man sitting at the Red Frog bar on a Monday night, to a younger bar owner who moved from the States after buying his Honduran restaurant for $4,000 online, the attraction is obvious. Copan provides simplicity to those desperately needing to slow things down and essentially seeking to return to the basics of living.
Considering our standards for living a successful life, most would consider the Hondurans to be underprivileged. And while the abundance of shanty houses may suggest this to be true, this different lifestyle brings privilege in a way that we outsiders would not be used to. With nothing but green bordering their town, the Hondurans have the beauty of sharing a closer connection to the natural environment around them. From being able to experience a breathtaking sunrise over the mountains to simply having a view of every single star above, Hondurans are extremely privileged, but certainly not in a manner that we are used to.
