size 32 pants-
ok, so this is a new crusade of mine. it's hard to say when it began, but I had never known the true extent of my situation until i actively began to search for a pair of jeans last month. you see, peace corps teaches you that owning two pairs of pants, both dirty and torn, is ok, because when you live in the campo you don't really need much else. but if you ever want to go out, get a bite to eat in a nice establishment, goo to a meeting with important NGO people, you always feel out of place. and to be honest, at first, i was damn proud of being a gringo from the campo, and showing up dirty to a fancy restaurant was somewhat of an honor. but now, well, now i want a clean pair of jeans to go along with the rest of my wardrobe that frequently doesn't really match with a pair of cow-shit-stained jeans. anyway, so i went jeans shopping in santa rosa, and that is when i first got a taste of the phenomenon that i will now call the "32 dilemma". you see, no matter what brand of pants, what style, what width, all of the jeans that are sold in santa rosa, are 32 length. that's great for anyone of that size, the world becomes your infinite oyster, but for the rest of us, the 31s, 30s, 28s, and well, anyone other than a 32, that's a problem. the funny thing is, i don't really know many hondurans that are taller than me, in fact, i don't know any, which means that not a single pair of jeans that a honduran dons in his existence, fit. at least not at first. what i was told by all the sales people is that everyone gets them tailored to size, to which i raised an eyebrow and all i could ask is...people tailor jeans? well apparently they do. but i wasn't ready to give up just yet. i thought, maybe it's just santa rosa, its a tiny town, and it actually makes sense that the stores wouldn't order anything else. when everyone fits into your one-size-fits-all pants, and they can just be altered, there's no problem right? so i thought, i will go to san pedro sula, the industrial capital of the country, and try my luck at the mall, where therich of honduras go to shop. they still have cheap pepe jeans there, and they should have different sizes because, well the rich would never put up with that kind of shit. and guess what, i was not only mistaken, but to such a degree that i was blown away. i tried 5 stores, 2 of them major international department chains, and only 1, just 1 had pants in different lengths. except that they were levis, and for the low price of 70 dollars a pair. now i earn maybe three times that in a month, so, levis were out of the question. finally i gave up, went home pantsless, or just dirty, and decided that until both my pairs of pants disintegrate i will never buy another pair of jeans. so yeah, thats that.
-jealousy
ok so this is the serious topic, but i will make it short. so for those of you who know me, i am not a jealous person. i could give a shit. i'm sometimes envious of other people, but it's usually brief, and i come to my senses quickly. but there is something in my life here which somehow every time strikes a nerve. and it's totally silly to even think this way, but i can't help it. so basically it's this, many peace corps volunteers are super busy. and it always flips on the envy switch for me to maximum. i want to work. i want to work all the time. and right now, i basically am busy maybe half the time. and to be honest, it's horrible. its suffering for me. im here to work god damn it, and frequently it just doesn't happen. so i feel guilty, which then turns into envy, which makes me feel worse, and finally i snap out of it, but it always leaves this thick residue in my psyche. i guess it's motivational, but regardless, it sucks. that's it, just wanted to share that.
-acid
ok, so this is a story so rediculous and absurd, i thought it worth mentioning. so i'm at a hotel in santa rosa this one time, and i'm sittin around with my friends, gettin ready to go out for some pizza. i open the door to go into the hallway and i am hit with this smell, something heavy and acrid, and i look down to hall and find myself staring at pools of liquid that are, like, steaming, smoking, or evaporating in a visible way. regardless the shit is so toxic, that it fills your mouth, your nose, your lungs, and it feels as though it is burning you from the inside out. you can almost feel your cells screaming. so we all jump out of the room, slam the door, and take another connected hallway to the stairwell. as we arrive we find some cleaning women looking at the hallway as the tiles seem to melt away beneath the pools of noxious liquid. so i figured, i'd ask, maybe they know whats going on.
-so what is that stuff?
-its acid.
-umm...what's it doing on the floor?
-well the floor was dirty, for quite some time, so we figured we'd get it really clean.
by the way this is all said in a very matter of fact way, as if regular cleaning supplies are out of the question, and an old fashioned floor washing just doesnt exist
-what kind of acid?
-just acid, what does it matter.
-what about protective equipment, we almost suffocated when we came out of the room, and you guys are just chillin in it?
-no we dont need that, its fine, no worries, move along.
so yeah, and thats how it ended. we got back that night and the floor had that typical acid slick on it, with our shoe soles slowly melting away with every step.
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