Loaves of Bread and Loads of Laundry

I reside here in a bread lover's dream. I bought nine little loaf breads for 50 cents. I would like to say that these would last me all week, but that would be lie. Lying back in humid afternoon sun, I am able to smack down five little white rolls. The pages of my book are dusted with their flour, turning each page warns of a possible dust storm. The rolls that I have become addicted to are slightly tinted, kissed, blessed, flavored (what have you) with anise. Super yummy. It gives them the promise of refreshment and digestibility. This makes the consumer dive into the pink plastic bag, until it is overturned in surprise, "Alas, it is empty again". All this joy can happen daily for under a dollar. I did my first laundry duties. Socks stained and shirts tainted, I headed towards the laundry area. In the middle of the house I am staying at is a courtyard, which has the only sink in the house. Here you are to do all dishes, laundry, and hand washing. I dumped my clothes in a blue plastic bucket, which contained a little dry soap and water. Swish swish the dirty clothes around, them slap then one by one on-top the stone washboard side of the sink, for some vigorous scrubbing. My arms ached and my brow sweated as I labored over my dirty laundry. Following scrubbing is an elaborate series of rinsing and wringing. Once this is complete, I put the clothes into another clean bucket and hang them out to dry. This part is almost like my home in San Francisco where I put them on a line that hangs next to a chicken coop. The only differences here are that the chickens are scrawny and are awaiting their imminent consumption, and the clothesline doesn't have any clothes pins. When I want to hang my clothes on the line, I must twist the rope clothesline so that a small hole is made between the strands of twine. In this hole, I must place a corner of the cleaned garment, and let the rope return to tautness. Imagine trying to hold a pair of five pound water drenched overalls over your head with one hand, while the other hand attempts to get the overweighted clothesline to slacken enough so that you can cram a piece of fabric in. All this before your overworked arms give out. It is precise and difficult and I am far from proficient at it. The most popular place here to eat for the locals is McDonalds. There is an armed guard that stands outside with a cocked gun ready for action if anything gets funny. So far I have not had the urge to risk life and limb for a limp tasteless burger and grease slivers with salt. I do however eat at a café whose name literally translates to "The Bloody Heart". They serve a breakfast of papaya, tortillas, beans, eggs, salsa, and tea for $1.50. The same girl, I think she is about 8 years old, always waits on me. She laughs at my ridiculous Spanish as I try to guess what things on the menu I might want to eat. I am contemplating making her some chocolate chip cookies for being so patient. All over the streets, people are selling things. Nothing is too small to sell, "You wanna buy one sheet of paper? No problem". The most popular things to sell are little bags of fruits and veggies that get dowsed in lime, salt, and chili. My favorite is the cucumber/radish combo and the pineapple/papaya medley. When Sabrina and I took a trip up to Antigua, we were lucky enough to find some mangos. We slurped down a few bags of these. The other item that is hot on the street is roasted nuts. Three types are offered: peanuts, cashews, and fava beans. They are all so salty, it is mandatory to immediately guzzle a soda, which, once purchased is poured in a flimsy plastic bag, five steps down from Safeway brand sandwich sacks. To aid in drinking, a pastel colored straw is inserted. The shortcoming of the straw is of course if you suck too hard, the flimsy plastic gives in and both sides get stuck together making it impossible to get even the smallest amount of liquid into your mouth. The sacks the soda comes in aren't much better, but they are the biggest thing here since tortillas. Everything comes in them. At the big grocery store (think Safeway), you can purchase the following in these not so handy carrying cases: mayonnaise, ketchup, milk, yogurt, cheese... essentially anything semi-viscous that would be a disaster to get out of that type of packaging. It makes me laugh to no end. When I try to think of what things capture Xela (the city I am in), I think of the things mentioned so far (food & street selling), but the next thing is cars. If you thought the car situation was out of control in SF, whoa nelly check it out here. There are definitely no pedestrian rights. Cars, being bigger and therefore stronger, have the authority and privilege to run you over. As a walker, you have to squish against the building walls that line the streets. If the sidewalk disappears and you have to walk in the streets, may god be on your side. When needing to cross the street, I have to run for my life, because cars refuse to slow down or acknowledge someone waiting to cross. If all this is not enough, horns are more than a pass-time, they are a hobby. The constant symphony of horns at all hours is deafening. There is humor in the need to honk, no matter what the situation. I promise, it is worse than San Francisco! I was thinking before I came here, that I wanted to make a bumper sticker for SF car drivers that said "HONK IF YOU ARE IMPATIENT", I guess I should make one in Spanish too. The other delight is that all the cars run on diesel, so they emit these amazing black clouds of toxic death while zooming down a skinny cobblestone street at 65 miles an hour. So much for fresh air.

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