To Live and Die in L.A. - Santa Monica Pier

My current home doesn't offer many options for entertainment; I miss being able to run away somewhere, even if only for a few hours. In Los Angeles, The Santa Monica Pier is a perfect place for a little distraction. You can find anything from fine dining, fast food, shopping, and even an amusement park (ON THE PIER!!!). In the amusement park, you can board a roller coaster, Ferris wheel (the world's only solar powered Ferris wheel), and a sea dragon.

Not your cup of tea you say? If amusement park rides and eating out isn't your thing, go fish... You can also fish off the end of the pier (and it's not $50 an hour). I once caught a small Tiger Shark there (at 3 AM)! People fish from there at ALL hours of the day.

Still not your "thang"? Then just chill out on the beach or go enjoy the waves (we don't even have waves here!).

Still not enough... Well, the 3rd Street Promenade is only blocks away!

A Day in The Life of a Honduran - Herding Cows II

I had to Simpsonize B!

In the first installment of A Day in the Life of a Honduran (click here), I briefly spoke of friend from El Porvenir, Bairon.

Months after the cattle herding experience with him and many conversations about my life in Los Angeles, Bairon decided he would head north himself. No visa, no coyote, no map, no plan, just himself and a backpack. His only compass was a recollection of stories from other people that attempted the trip and failed, or others that made it and were later deported. I was shocked. Maybe I over hyped life in the States...

Bairon left El Porvenir, I didn't hear from him for over two months. Then, I get the call; "Ey compa, que onda?" asked the voice on the phone. I was puzzled as no one called me in Spanish at this time and replied with, "(enter upside down question mark here)quien es?". He calmly stated, "Soy Bairon. Estoy en Houston, Texas". I blew up like the players on the bench during an NBA All Star dunk competition. This call was the equivalent to Nate flying over Dwight. I could not believe it. He proceeded to explain that the trip lasted two months, hitchhiking the whole way through. I was filled with joy and relieve to know that the "Grupo Z" or Minutemen didn't kill him.

Despite having reconnected after he arrived in the US, we once again lost communication when my phone got jacked in La Ceiba. A few days ago I was talking to Rosa about going to El Porvenir in search for his family and a contact, Rosa agreed on the necessity of the trip. Later THAT SAME DAY, I log into MySpace and I have a freakin' message from Bairon. This dude never touched a computer in his life and now he's sending me a MySpace invite. That's wild!

THANK YOU INTERNET!!!!!!

A Day in The Life of a Honduran - Herding Cows

Google maps images

I didn't expect to herd cows for my first job in Honduras. I arrived in May 08 and didn't immediately find work as I expected. Living in a little pueblo didn't help my efforts either. My half orange ("My better half" in Spanish,I don't get it) and I moved from L. A. to El Porvenir.

From a previous blog post:

This little town is in nestled in between hills and sugar cane fields of San Manuel, Cortes. Being the city slicker that I am, I immediately took note of how isolated this town is and said to myself “DAMN!” I knew my family is from a little village, but DAMN!!!

(I said it more like "DAAAAAYYYUMMMM!!!!")
Click here for entire post:

http://returningcatrachoreport.blogspot.com/2009/05/hittin-somersaults-without-nest-this-be_10.html

So you get a better picture of where El Porvenir is, take a look at the images below.
This is a close up of San Pedro Sula and El Porvenir at the same distance from Google maps.

El Porvenir is 35 minutes outside of San Pedro Sula, 45 by rapidito and an hour or more by chicken bus. I had no choice but to travel by bus because taxi drivers know better than to pick up passengers there. They wont even take you there from San Pedro Sula out of fear of being robbed (or worse) while navigating the desolate strech of road embedded by sugar cane fields that splits from the road to El Progreso. The piece of road highlighted in red on the first image is the "hot zone" or zona caliente, as dubbed by local media. This area is used to either murder people or dump limp bodies that were murdered elsewhere.

Finding work became impossible; I didn't want to move to San Pedro Sula without finding a job first and employers in SPS don't hire candidates residing outside of the "casco urbano". By this time, my "media Naranja" was understandably growing frustrated with our surroundings (possibly me too) and home sickness (or being sick of Carlos) made her go back to L.A. three times in the first couple of months. The last time she went away for over three weeks. I feared she wouldn't return. I would have understood too. I decided to move, and arrived in Honduras three months after. I was amazed that she decided to join by extending her fiancee contract agreement instead of opting out of it as a free agent. She had no time to plan for it, I unconsciously planned for decades.

The last time she left I became Atlas, carrying the weight of the heavens on my shoulders, wishing to become Heracles instead. The weight on my shoulders, represented by the tumultuous task that was finding work, became unbearable. I was being overwhelmed by the pressure I put on myself. I worried that I wouldn't find work or improve living conditions by the time Rosa returned. In the case she didn't return, I had to bounce up out of there anyway. During this mental and emotional struggle, I temporarily lost grasp of some of the reasons that drove me to move back to Honduras on impulse. I wasn't getting a taste of "Honduras Living", or getting to know "my people". I was in a place I wished to visit for years, my mother's little village, but I wasn't taking advantage of it.

Then... a revelation descended from the heavens, "WWLD?". What would "Los" do? I wasn't me anymore... I had to get back to ME. I thought about what would have become of me if I had lived there my while life. I came to the conclusion that I could very likely be in the same position; unemployed, alone, and lost. That was me, even though it wasn't. That same room, in that same village, that same day. I realized that it was time slow the wheels from Angeleno speed to Catracho speed.

I decided to join the only person in the village I befriended (not by lack of effort either) in his work. Byron, 20, is the nephew of a cattle farmer. Not like a Wild Wild West tycoon, they only owned 25 cows. Initially I didn't know what he did exactly. When I asked, he responded with "cuido las vacas" or "I take care of the cows". That didn't sound like he slaughtered them, so far so good. I told him I would like to "work" with him, for a day. He immediately responded with a burst of laughter. Our conversations usually consisted of me imposing some curiosity about life in Honduras and him responding with boisterous laughter.

C: Is there malaria and dengue here?

B: JAJAJAJAJAJAJAJA!!!! Of course

C: Do you brush your teeth with tap water?
B:WAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! Obviously

C: Do you know what Dry Cleaning is?
B: JAJAJAJAJAJAJA!!!! You are lost (estas perdido compa)

C: Where can I get some trees?
B: JAJAJAJAJAJA!!! Follow me...

It was set. I was to work with Byron for 50 lps, half of his daily pay, 100 lps. FYI, that's $2.50 for a whole day of work, he earns $5.00 a day. That's tough cookies considering that a can of corn is more expensive here than it is in the states. He instructed me to join him at his uncles farm (more like a field with a fence around it) at 5 A.M. the following morning so we can milk the cows, he also said lunch would be provided. MILK THE COWS!?!?!?!? I don't know about all that! I didn't have a "Four H" club in my high school and I sure as heck never touched a cow. I would arrive fashionably late as to avoid milking cows. The rest of his day was built up by herding the cows while they graze and any other task he needs to take care of on the family properties.

When I arrived Byron had finished filling empty 1 liter soda bottles with fresh milk, tied bottles to rope and hung them over his shoulder and we were off. As we began our journey on foot, he delivered the milk and collected empty bottles delivered days before. There isn't much to do with the cows, they pretty much roamed in any direction they felt like. Byron complained about their eating habits. He asked "Why the hell can't they eat all this grass? Why do they have to go way up the hill to eat? It's the same gras!!!" By the time all the milk was delivered the grass grew to my torso and mosquitoes appeared to be flying spiders. These mosquitoes even big through jeans! After 4 hours of "herding", Byron called for a lunch break. He broke out a liter of Coke and four little bags of chips. That's it. That was our lunch. Needless to say, I was pissed. I didn't express my disappointment because I didn't want to offend him, but I was outraged. I later considered that he had already given me half of his pay, then used his half to buy our "lunch", leaving him with only a quarter of his regular pay.

After this hearty lunch, Byron told me he had to "chapiar" (clear a field with a machete) at his uncles house up on the hill. We arrived at the little house under siege by the grass. He went inside and brought out two machetes and a file, proceeded to sharpen the machetes and handed me one. While he did this I walked around kicking air and swinging my arms to keep the mosquitoes from biting. He gave me a quick training in machete skills. I proceeded to swing the machete like a bat at a t-ball. As expected from a city slicker, I failed miserably at my first experience with clearing a field. Pay attention to machete training to avoid back injuries or loss of digits.

We finally decided to head back to the village before sunset. I was dead tired by this time. We walked the cows back to the "farm" and to my surprise, many of the cows jumped over the fence to get back in. I didn't even know that cows can jump! He invited me into his home for dinner. Before entering he warned me, "I have three sister, if you mess with any of them, I'll kill you". ok... His sisters were nice and they CAN COOK!

After dinner I headed back home and began counting my blessings. I rolled something up, bumped some Talib Kweli and Kanye and began planning my take over on the world. That experience is just what I needed to "get back on the grind". I also decided that I would continue to try and experience a day in the life of a Honduran for research toward my 2039 presidential campaign. Seriously, well... maybe.

Month's later, a lady posted this on Honduras Living. Props to her! By this time I was living in La Ceiba selling coconuts on the beach. I'll write about that in another post.

> I have a challenge to those who think the average Honduran worker is paidenough. Take an average job working in a field or in a maquila, making the same average wage, for one month, all the time living in comparable conditions. Thenreport back to us on the adequacy of the average Honduran paycheck.>>

I love you for putting this out there. I'm actually doing this as research for my 2040 campaign. I'll start a new thread on it.Carlos M - La Ceiba - Not too good with a machete, cows or the hot sun...

So... Why were you deported and what gang were you in?

El Heraldo image

People aren't shy about asking these questions here in Honduras. If you're a returning Catracho you're either a deportee or crazy. After dengue, 2 armed robberies, a brief stay in a cell , and a few near-drowning experiences, I have to agree with my mother and label myself as crazy. I haven't seen any media coverage of "crazy" returning Catrachos so most people assume that everyone coming back has been deported, especially if you're young. In the defense of ignorance; La Prensa recently reported that 27,000 Hondurans have been deported from the U.S. in the first seven months of 2009 and the ICE doesn't try to deport people for "nuthin", unless you're Elian Gonzales. 58,000 Hondurans had their American dreams deflated last year. After seeing the numbers, I can understand why so many people impose these questions. Despite my understanding, it's still offensive.

I've had people ask me, "Why were you deported?" before asking my name, some people try to be smooth about it; they'll ask where I "was" before moving here. I may be exaggerating, but it feels like they're asking what jail I was in before being released for deportation. I was grilled about deportation at a job interview, once hired, I was expected to submit proof of non-deportation. Do you want page 193 from my journal or pictures of me at the airport without handcuffs? How would one go about proving a voluntary return to Honduras? I was thrilled to work there..... A "friend", more like acquaintance, finally asked about deportation after months of knowing me and was relieved to learn I had not been deported. She let out a sigh of relieve and said, "O.K. good, because my friend and I were wondering about that."

The other big question on the tip of everyone's tongue when meeting a returning Catracho is, "What gang were you in?" I met a lady running a dive shop in Roatan, after introducing ourselves and exchanging stories about where we're from, she said in her Texan (more like Tex-Mex) accent "Alright, take off the shirt and show me all them gang tattoos" All I could do is smile in return. She explained how she has met a bunch of deportees and yada, yada, yada, I wasn't listening much after the tattoo comment. I finished my cappuccino and "peaced out." I've since had great conversations with this lady and she even helped me find a house to rent.

My last boss asked me about being in gangs, or my little brother being in gangs or little cousins being in gangs. I thought to myself, "Tony?" When referring to where I come from he always says, "The east side of L.A. somewhere." The actual statement is funny, but the way he says it with his palms facing up, head tucked into his shoulders and a bewildered look on his face is hilarious! I doubt he's been there, I didn't even spend much time there. What movie is he getting that stereotype from? Born in East L.A. or A Million to Juan, both great movies by the way.

Did Dave Chapelle get asked crazy questions like this when he went to Africa? I guess he did, bad comparison, sorry. I'm always tempted to fulfill people's curiosity and answer with , "Yeah I got deported! I killed a man, no, two! [then I would proceed to bark in the person's face a la DMX. Yes, bark.]"

In further defense of people asking these questions, I have sometimes let myself go since my return to the motherland and sometimes look like this now. But still... That look's more like a sick bum than a criminal.El Heraldo image

Returning to Honduras!

"Hittin' somersaults without the net But this'll be the year that we won't forget" - B.O.B. - Outkast

I returned to Honduras May 8th, 2008. I recall the flurry of emotions running through me at that time; I didn’t know what to expect not having visited the motherland in decades. When I boarded the plane in LAX, I saw my life flashing in front of me, Rosa snapped me out of it with a gentle squeeze of my hand and a smile as if she was reassuring me that everything would be fine. I couldn’t believe it was actually happening, nor could I believe that Rosa was coming along for the ride. We flew over Los Angeles and I took a page out of the Governator’s book and said to myself “I’ll be back”. When I exited Ramon Villeda Morales Int’l Airport, I was met by a curtain of humidity so thick it was almost palpable. It felt like a hundred blow dryers blasting heat at me. I immediately fell to my knees and kissed the ground like an immigrant arriving in the United States. I don’t know why, but I wanted to cry.

We were met at the airport by a cousin, I didn’t recognize this guy and for a moment feared we may be kidnapped. He escorted us to El Porvenir, not to be confused with the other thirteen El Porvenir’s in Honduras. This little town is in nestled in between hills and sugar cane fields of San Manuel, Cortes. Being the city slicker that I am, I immediately took note of how isolated this town is and said to myself “DAMN!” I knew my family is from a little village, but DAMN!!!The house I was to occupy was fairly big in comparison to the other houses and shacks in the village. Yes, shacks, as in cardboard and palm trees. I met my family there; some were quick to tell stories about me being curious and creative as a child, some weren’t so welcoming. Even the neighbors came at the sight of a stranger arriving with luggage. A few of them immediately recognized me, calling out “Carlitos! Is that you?” I looked at everyone with confusion, I kept wondering if I should recognize these people. By this time, the heat and jet lag had taken a toll on Rosa and I. We were EXTREMELY happy to find an A/C unit in our bedroom and crashed for the next 12-14 hours.