Its about that time…time for “colchones de polvo” ….dust mattress in the streets, which eventually leads to dust mattresses in your house. You think your house gets dusty? Below is a picture of Allan’s house’s floor. I hope you can see what I am talking about. I don’t think they make a broom or mop good enough to stop this.
On Saturday, Petro y los Hijos de Tío Sam tried to be Latino Pop Rock stars. Sadly though, they were not very well received.
We played in the colegio viejo, which is where the town high school used to be many years back. While the market was being renovated, the vendors set up shop temporarily in that space, and now that the original market has been completed, this big, open courtyard right off the central park has been used weekly for parties and dance club like events.
This weekend counted down the final days of the Fair, and everyone was out ready to party and celebrate. There was a Ferris wheel and regular fair activities at one side of town, there was a ranchera group playing old classics in the park, and there was a disco/club happening in the viejo colegio. Our gig was to play on the DJ’s “break.” (Do DJ’s need breaks?)
Early Saturday afternoon, we tried to do a sound check in the, but after about an hour of tinkering and discovering that most of the inputs of the “snake” were dead, the not-so-helpful sound guy got angry, sat in the corner, and talked on his cell phone. Thirty minutes later he left. We had still not managed to get our microphones nor instruments to play through the main speakers. It looked like it was going to be a quiet show. (By the way, the choice of main speakers were typical Central American, and I thing they were another contributor to our not sounding very good. There were 8 mammoth subwoofers (each one was probably 4’ by 3’) and only 4 normal size speakers. Needless to say, it was not intended for rock band. Also, I think the sound guy only knew how to set up the gear for someone playing music from a CD player. (see picture of the setup)
Now, for our fatal flaws. First, Michael and I took things in our own hands after realizing the sound guy wasn’t coming back and finally got sound to come out of the mains, but I was controlling the mix from on the stage with little to no constructive feedback—so in a sense I was like a deaf person in charge mixing the sound.
Secondly, basically the day of, Pedro decided that his friend Frijol was to help sing the choruses because Pedro was sick. Pedro is not a great singer. Frijol is not a great singer. (both understatements) Pedro and Frijol singing in unison sounds worse than Macy Gray and Kanye West (sans Autotune). Or maybe Kid Rock and Janis Joplin; I don’t know. You get the idea. Below is a photo of our young group beaming with anticipation right before we took the stage in front of a dispassionate crowd. (The steaming, Honduran man meat on the left is Frijol…..or is he on the right?)
Well, we made it through the first set intact but not without noticing that essentially everyone who had been dancing to the DJ’s grooves (i.e. his pushing play on Windows Media Player) stood rigid still during our songs. But the real troubles began when the lukewarm dancers became increasingly agitated when we intruded on their bump and grind party for the second time. By the tail end of our second set, Abby (bless her heart) heard some people already calling for us to leave. With about 4 more songs to go, Pedro (finally reading the crowd) asked, half rhetorically, if they wanted to hear more music, and they responded with silence. I realized then that we had just been effectively “booed” off stage. I know this for several reasons; one of which is that Hondurans ALWAYS chant “otra! otra! otra!” when show nears the end. Taking the hint, Pedro quickly said thanks and wished everyone a good night, and before we could say anything else, the DJ had began pumping large amounts of air through the obscene subwoofers. As I was setting my bass down, I noticed that the dance floor had already completely filled in, and people were back to “business” as usual.
In short, the third reason we were encouraged to stop playing was that they did not want to hear rock music. We crashed they’re steady, quarter-note beat party, and they wanted us to leave.
A visual comparison: Here’s the crowd when we were playing.
Here’s the same dance floor when the DJ took over 5 seconds after we stopped.
Did I mention that a pair of mime’s stole our spotlight in the middle of a song? People were applauding them more loudly than they did us. :(
Sadly, I think this is when the group cashes in their chips. We’ll split the L. 1000 for the show, and then call it quits for a while.
Abby barely evades the ill tempered cousin of Toucan Sam. :)
Last weekend, Abby and I decided to take a chance on the Good Ol’e Honduran Rodeo (rrrow-DAY-o).
We entered the front gate—I mean chain—and were immediately wrapped in a hug by our 9 year old friend Jimmy who we had met weeks earlier at Urban Promise Honduras camp. We found out that he had snuck into the rodeo (entrance was L. 100) and also learned that roaming the city alone at night was not common for this little guy.
He was really excited to see us and showed us the best seats in the house. (see photo below)
…the best seats in the house being 1.5” thick planks of not inflexible wood laid over a rickety, rusted bleacher frame. Abby and I frequently feared either that if too many portly men sat in our section, the board would snap or that if one too many people sitting on our “board” suddenly stood up, then we’d plummet 15-20 feet to be slowed only by grimy shards of metal. Well, life is too short to worry about rotting to death from an infection in a 3rd world clinic, especially when we’re about to witness a good old show of man versus bull!…well versus the bull for only 7 seconds, and there are rodeo clowns, and they have whips, and the audience looks better fed than any of the bulls, but nevertheless, we were jazzed to see these dauntless lads that were ready to literally grab the proverbial bull by the horns (or harness as it were).
Little is known about exacting technique that these bovine experts employ to maximize flexibility to protect their bodies without sacrificing the length of their ride. However, we chanced upon a glimpse into the riders’ “green room” (see photo below),
and I was also quick enough to even catch one of their disciplined and rigorous warm up routines. Bull riding is seriously dangerous, so a thorough pre-ride run through is of the upmost importance. (Note: the music helps them reach a level of extreme concentration.)
Only then may they demonstrate the results of their extensive preparation and training. The soundtrack of this specific run is the ubiquitous “Te Ves Fatal” by a Mexican pop mariachi group called Trono. You will not be able to visit Copan (maybe all of Central America) without having this song or one very similar stuffed down your ear canal.
Even though I was completely rapt for those 3 seconds of riding, I still felt a little disappointed because of the enormous disparity between riding and non-riding times. So, to curb any incipient frustration, the rodeo provided other quality entertainment while the bulls were being prepared. What kind of rodeo would be complete without some professional ranchera (i.e. Mesoamerican folk/country) karaoke? (cue video)
And for the younger crowd, the rodeo has “planned” some activities to keep them coming back year after year. I say “planned” because after calling all the niños into the ring, the M.C. then asked the audience to donate L. 100 bills for the prize. After begging and goading for a few minutes, they finally rounded up a few cash prizes for the winners. Our friend Jimmy was one of the first boys run out to the ring and was soon joined by several other boys. The last guy to join, however, out was a 25 year old dude that Abby and I had been watching the entire night. He was clearly drunk, and he had been strolling and dancing incessantly (and seemingly uncontrollably) throughout the entire event. It’s almost as if he had some sort of serious music-related problem…just watch and you’ll see.
Well, the premise of the game is that the participants throw their shoes into the middle of the circle, and while they are spinning around 10 times, their shoes are scattered all over the place. The winner is the first person to correctly put both shoes back on. The video starts after they've already began to find their shoes. (The music style is called punto.)
LOOK WHO WON!!!! YAY JIMMY! (I know I was a little more interested in filming the pathological dancer- sorry.) He won 20 USD but didn’t even know how much that was worth. He thought that 2nd place, who won something like L. 250, had received more. When we told him that $20 was about L. 400, he was ecstatic and said that he would give it to his mom. We took him out to dinner after we left and changed the money for him. It was about 10:00PM when we decided it was time to go to sleep. He wouldn’t let us take him home, for his mother would be angry. We were happy for him to have won the money, but we were saddened when we realized that it was 10:00PM, and he was out by himself, and that he had probably never seen that much money in his entire life. He told us that when he did have money, other boys would beat him and take it, yet he was still so cheery and upbeat like a normal child. He said that even at the rodeo after he won, people in the audience were trying cheat him and take the money from him. We realized that Jimmy is not just a regular boy. He’s amazing.
Pray for children like Jimmy that they not be deceived by this world. Pray that they maintain that spirit of joy and hope in the face of evil and misery. For Abby and me, the rodeo was indeed worth the $5.50.
A transient tourist strolling the warmly lighted, cobblestone streets of Copan Ruinas on any given Saturday evening might expect to hear distant mariachi and ranchera tunes amid the conversations between street vendors and other tourists. However, this pleasant dappling of music was not to be found on the last weekend in January, for a burgeoning trio called “Petros y los Hijos de Tío Sam” (Pedro and the Son’s of Uncle Sam) were blasting music so loudly out of the bar on the corner that people moved outside just to listen comfortably. 
(Yeah, I know I’m playing bass with a pick. )
After their debut, the group was invited to play at several other local venues. Throughout the month of February, the three played literally for their dinner. The rich, authentic platos tipícos flowed through their veins as they recreated the not-so-authentic Latino Pop music that has come to define their style. Behind the grungy belting of unrequited or lost love, the steady, high frequency crunch of the electric guitar strains for equal temperament. The capricious bass completes the lower sonic spectrum with ornaments and syncopation to complement the driving yet adventurous and delightful drumming. 
(Pedro plays through his iMac Pro, which also dubs as his lyrics cheat sheet. )
Maybe because of the Pedro's Copan connections or the scarcity of musicians in general (but not because of their originality or arrangements), the band has continually grown in popularity among the businesses and the locals to the point that they have been invited to play on the grand stage in el Parque Central during the Annual Fair (La Feria). The show will start around 8:00 PM HT (Honduran time, which means add 30 minutes to an hour) on March 21.
This performance will not only be a major step forward in the growing history of this nascent group but will also be crucial for its future. One person attending the show will be listening to see if PHTS should be offered a contract to play for parties and events sponsored by the National Beer Company all over the region. The group has also been given the green light to play at a relatively large university bar in Chiquimula, Guatemala, in early April without even having heard the band play!
Not a good way to start a 5 day week of school:
Starting around 1 AM Monday morning, I (Allan) woke up and was unable to fall back asleep because of stomach pain, a headache, and general discomfort. I tossed and turned for hours in my hot, dark room listening to the roosters starting to celebrate Matins, as they do every day. Falling back asleep at this point was a futile endeavor because my skin had become sensitive that even my sheets felt like they were conspiring against me. After a few visits to the bathroom, I knew this wouldn't just blow over. During one of those visits I think the Sumerian god Gozer conjured up exactly what had "popped" in my mind at that very moment because seated upon the toilet, I glanced into my shower, noting that a black spot that I had seen just hours before was no longer there. As soon as that thought had drifted away to make room for more pressing issues, I felt a small cucaracha crawling on my leg. In my 4 AM stupor, I clumsily missed my chance of ending his "short, pointless" life of terrorism, and he scurried under the closed bathroom door into my darkened room to haunt me for the few remaining hours I had.
Poorly rested and somewhat nauseated, at 6:13 AM I climbed onboard the bus headed to Mayatan. Luckily for me, Mondays are my easiest days of the week because my students have several "specials" like an assembly, P.E., and library. At school, I learned that Michael was taking a sick day because he was suffering similar symptoms but to a greater degree. I survived Monday fairly well and napped as soon as I could get to my bed. Well, right before closing my eyes for a wonderful afternoon siesta, I noticed a black spot in one of the far corners of my ceiling. Abby identified the spot as nothing less than the little, spontaneously generated cockroach from the night before. I took a stick and pushed him so hard into that corner hoping he'd never come out. Well, quite literally, he may never come out. I tried to remove his remains with the stick and then a towel, but they had somehow adhered permanently to the wall. I left him there because I didn't have the strength and also because I liked the message he sent about cockroaches in my room.
The next day, I felt a great deal better and decided to go visit the doctor after school. I probably just had some bad food that my body had cleared, but because I like certainty more than probability, I decided to visit the local doctor. Michael had symptoms that made some people suspicious of Giardiasis, and since we had eaten the same meal on Saturday night (free food for the band!), I wanted a some sort of test to rule this out. I went to a local doctor thathad been recommended to me earlir, who seemed to have quite a bit of extra time. I walked in, told the receptionist that I wanted a consult, and waited about 1 minute before the doctor was getting my history in his office. I told him my suspicions, but he didn't seem to pay them much heed. He then gave me a very cursory physical exam in which he checked my pupil reflex rather extensively and swung my legs back and forth for a few minutes.
At the end of the consult, he said very little about what he observed or what he thought might be my ailment, but he did assure me he would give me some pills. He offered no explanation of what the pills were or what they did; he just told me to buy them from his own pharmacy in the front. (Maybe it wasn't until after the physical that he really started "pulling my leg.") This, I've found, is definitely a common trait in the Honduran idea of medicine: if you go to the doctor because you feel ill, you will receive a medication of some sort, and most commonly it will be an injection. I don't know how this requirement came about.
Maybe they haven't been taught about the placebo effect, or maybe the doctors just capitalize on it. Maybe the doctors will be ridiculed if they admit that they can't find a problem, or maybe doctors think that incorrect, unnecessary, or over medication is better than none. Anyways, after perusing the internet to find the actual chemicals in these Honduran-brand pills, I saw that he had given me trimethoprim and ranitidine. The former is an antibiotic, but he gave me a somewhat antiquated form of it called co-trimoxazole in which it is mixed with a sulfonamide antibiotic. First off, this drug has been used mostly for urinary tract infections, but also this mixture of antibiotics was restricted in the U.S. in 1995 because of bad side effects and toxic effects to bone marrow. On top of that, the combination was not proven to have any extra benefit in general clinical use. The other drug he gave was basically Zantac, which helps reduce stomach acid.
I did not use either drug for obvious reasons, and by Wednesday, I was feeling normal. I'm not positive I don't have a parasite (though I doubt it), but I hear the lab in town is even worse than the doctors (I didn't know that the lab was a completely separate entity before I spent 5% of my monthly stipend, i.e. $15, on the drugs and the consult). I think I'll just stay away from the doctor as much as possible until we come home.
