Jose y Raquel los peregrinos

In which Raquel makes a chicken run

Joe has been teaching me to drive a stick shift. It all started when I made one too many complaints about his driving speed. I maintain that going over the numberous cavernous potholes they have here at any speed greater than 10 mph jars important screws and bolts out of place, and I have visions of the old truck evntually disentigrating into a trail of unidentifiable parts under the strain of the high speeds. Joe, on the other hand, feels that the faster you drive over large ruts and potholes, the less you can feel them. And a little jarring never hurt anything. So I was clutching the passenger side door and making comments about his driving the other day when he instantly silenced me with, "Okay, you´re driving home. " That was a driving-a-stick lesson ·1. It could have been worse- I only stalled out three times while trying to turn into the driveway. And, I might add, I was very slow and very careful not to jar the screws. :)
Which brings us to a Monday morning not too long ago. I was driving very slowly in second gear through the center of Las Mangas during driving lesson ·2. Joe in his helpful way, pointed out some checkens fifty feet ahead and cautioned that these particular chickens tended to be "suicidal." Under the strain of that news I scooted up even farther in the seat, clutched the wheel more tightly, and slowly eased on the brakes.
Of course I stalled out, rolling to a dramatic stop as the meandering checkens crossed right in front of my tires. And to complete the picture, a group of young Honduran men happened to be shooting the breeze nearby and possibly keeping an eye on the chickens. They seemed to enjoy the show immensely. Joe rolled down his window and yelled "la primer vez!" ("the first time") as a sort of explanation for my dismal driving skills.

Only in Honduras.
Alba and I were wading through our usual pile of flash cards this morning. We were both feeling teh monotony of the addition facts when I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, a scrawny, half-grown chicken greedily gulping down the rubber band that usually bound the cards. I tried to recover the rubber band discreetly, not wanting to distract my student, but she instantly noticed my hopeless "gringa" swipe and roared with laughter.
The situation called for drastic action; we abandoned the flash cards and broke out into a run after our thief with his prize "worm".
We chased the bird through the kitchen, past a surprised grandmother, into the first little bedroom, under and out from under the bed, into the bedroom with the sick grandfather and his visitors, and back into the first bedroom. Once there Alba finally made a successful grab for his wing, yanked the half-eaten rubber band out of his beak and triumphantly placed the slimy thing in my had. "Gracias," I said.
Only in Honduras.