Power Outages

It rains a lot in Honduras. Not cold, harsh, uncomfortable rain, but rain nonetheless. Considering how hot it is, the rain can be a cool refresher after another 90 degree day. Indeed, the best times of the day are those before and after it rains. The calm before the storm is the time to be outside (where I live) in Honduras.

But the rain also brings something very, very unpleasant. This relentless malfeasance is dark, frustrating, boring, and potentially scary. It is, as any reader astute to enough to read the title knows, is the power outage. Let me tell you how much power outages suck: a fucking lot.

In the U.S., power outages are not particularly fun, but they are certainly bearable. Losing internet is rough, but I can watch tv show’s on my computer until its battery is dead. I can play games on my iPhone, and normally I can read. If the power is gone for a significant amount of time, I can drive somewhere to take a shit or recharge my electronics.

 In Honduras, power outages are far less fun and far more common. Watching DVD’s is sometimes an option, but often the rain is pounding so hard on my highly questionable tin roof that I can’t hear a word emerging from the speakers on maximum volume. I don’t have an iPhone in Honduras because of roaming charges, instead I have a cheap piece of shit with one game and no internet on it. Reading is the best option, but if it is after 6pm then you will be using a flashlight and squinting to see the words. People don’t go outside if its raining or if its dark; if its raining because it is uncomfortable, if its dark because its unsafe. Without power, I can’t skype my family or friends, watch television, check my fantasy team, or make copies of important papers for my students.

Still, these outages would be bearable if they were uncommon. But they show up about as much as a football game on television. A near certainty on Saturday and Sunday, and a likelihood at least a couple of days a week. A significant number of the weekend power outages are planned; the Honduran government remains incapable of producing a fully functional power grid.  Small towns and rural areas lose power more often than Tegucigalpa or San Pedro: city dwellers are more politically connected.

The overall point here is that power outages are 1. common, and 2. suck. Hondurans are used to them, but I don't think I ever will be. 

The Mosquito Coast

Upon deciding to spend a year in Honduras, I thought it wise to read up on the place. This has mainly involved reading Honduran related news, but has also included a helpful dose of historical scholarship on my host nation. Most of my reading, from both the journalists and academics, has been highly pessimistic. Honduras, despite its sunny weather, has an unfortunate history that has left a legacy of crime that dominates the headlines today.

Satisfied with my new knowledge of Honduras if unexcited about its bleak content, I turned to reading a novel set in Honduras.  Now I was not sure that this would exist, but one noteworthy piece of fiction stood out from the pack. The Mosquito Coast, by Paul Theroux, fulfilled my minimalist requirements of being an English-language novel set in Honduras, but also stood out for a couple of reasons. First, Theroux is a fairly acclaimed writer who has written a number of best-selling travel memoirs. Second, he comes from a family of writers, and is the uncle to Justin Theroux, who starred in Mulholland Drive and wrote Tropical Thunder and Iron Man 2. The younger Theroux is also dating Jennifer Anniston. I obviously deduced from this that anyone cool enough to have a nephew who picked up Brad Pitt’s sloppy seconds must be a good novelist. But then I, um, read the book.

The Mosquito Coast, to my initial concern, began in Massachusetts, before transitioning to Baltimore, a cargo ship, and finally Honduras. The novel, despite Theroux’s background as a travel writer is not about any one of these places. There are plenty of details about Honduras which immediately stuck out to me though; the terrible condition of the dogs in the country, the ubiquity of bananas and other cheap fruit, and of course the ever-present and always thirsty mosquitos scavenging for their next meal.

The focus of the book is the father-son relationship at its corps. Charlie, our narrator, is a perceptive 13 -year old boy. Like most kids his age, he is embarrassed and proud of his father. In comparison to other American teenagers, Charlie probably has more reason to feel this way. Charlie’s father is a genius inventor who knows everything. He can quickly rebut an agriculturalist on growing crops, or even challenge a preacher on scripture. When it comes to quirky inventions, no one top Charlie’s pa, called by his wife, Ally. But the man is also an eccentric, often rambling about politics or the end of America to innocuous observers.

The book is about Ally’s descent into madness. Or was he always crazy? He moves the family from its home in the United States to Honduras, where he brilliantly begins his own jungle civilization. But things go awry, and it seems that Ally’s mind follows. 

The Mosquito Coast is entertaining, but it falls far short of reaching the great novel plateau. The book’s largest problem stems from its central conflict: Ally’s fall from the reader’s grace. This could have been accomplished tragically (by emphasizing the impact it has on the family), hilariously (what’s funnier than insanity), or been suspenseful (will he get the family killed?). Theroux attempts all of these elements, but ultimately comes up short on all counts. The result is a readable novel, if not a particularly deep or funny one. 

Honduran Beers

I have taken a recent blogging hiatus for two reasons: 1. Teaching in 90 degree weather without air conditioning is tiring, and writing is less relaxing than sleeping, and 2. I have been sick/ having eye problems. Eye problems meaning one day I woke up and could not open my left eye. I still cannot see out of it, but at least it no longer hurts or looks overly red.

But now I return to tell you about Honduran beers. There are to be exact, four major beers. Not one, not two, not three, but count em' up and take it to the bank, four major Honduran beers. Going alphabetically, here is the rundown:

Bahrena: Its reputation is twofold: 1. the beach beer, and 2. the chick beer. But the thing you really need to know 3. is that Bahrena is terrible. Flavorless and tasteless, I really don't understand why Honduran women prefer this beer. OK, that's a lie. I think I know. They prefer it because the beer's silly marketing is effective and they feel like they should like it. But marketing does not a beer make. Nor does the validation of 20 year-old women in an unknown country in Central America actually make a beer good. So yeah, don't drink this.

Imperial: The reputation: a manly beer, for manly men, who do manly things with their strong, manly bodies. It is also bad. Tastes like Natty Light with twice as much as water. That said if you are going to hang out with a few Honduran bros, prepare to knock back a few of these guys.

Port Royal: The classy beer of Honduras. For better people. Might cost you a full two dollars in an upscale nightclub. Gasp! Don't worry its normally its less than $1.25. Other good news: Port Royal is a pretty drinkable beer. Kind of has the sense of a beer that knows its supposed to be finer and tastier than  its counterparts, but doesn't really know how to accomplish this. That said, the initial sweetness is nice and you can taste actual hops. Nice to enjoy on the beach or while watching soccer.

Salva Vida: The staple. The classic. You've just gotta have it. It's Salva Vida: the Honduran beer that's everywhere. Importantly, it also gave rise to the line, and rare Honduran pop culture reference,  "Yo no quiero agua, yo quiero Salva Vida," (it's a twist on a Pitbull line, and its fucking great I tell you). Most importantly, Salva Vida isn't that bad. Not exactly high praise, but the stuff is drinkable. So drink up, young man/woman.

Final, thing to note. Bud Light, Coors Light, and Miller Light are worshipped here. They are not any better, if at all better, than Salva Vida. But they are American, and they are symbolic of high status. So people love them here. Don't rip on them too much, if offered one, you will break a Honduran's heart. Just tell him you will have a Port Royal because you want to try the local stuff.