Central American Mustaches in the News

Two of Central America's most powerful mustaches met in San Pedro Sula, Honduras last weekend for a meeting of the Central American Integration System (SICA). The mustaches pictured below belong to Mel Zelaya of Honduras and Daniel Ortega of Nicaragua. Other mustaches in attendance include those belonging to the presidents of the Dominican Republic, Guatemala, Belize, El Salvador, Costa Rica, and Panama.

Central American countries are in the process of forging a formal regional alliance. I didn't know anything about this until I read about it at The Latin Americanist. The framework they worked out last weekend has provisions for regional security, passports, and a common currency. Daniel Ortega took over from Mel Zelaya as president of the organization.


Of course the whole thing might just have been an excuse for a bunch of corrupt politicians to kick back and talk about their mustaches at an exclusive country club. The conference was held at Central Social Honduraño Arabe. The club is home to the only functional fountain I have ever seen in Honduras.

Copan, Honduras

Photograph by Kenneth Garrett, National Geographic

Holiday Mustache, Communication Problems

I started growing my second annual holiday mustache about two weeks ago. Karine says that she doesn't like it, but I am almost positive that she really finds it wildly attractive. I think it is one of her favorite things about the holidays: scented candles, Celine Dion Christmas songs, and my mustache. I wanted to surprise Karine by having it professionally trimmed while she was at her baby shower last night. This is where I ran into a few problems with communication.

Our Spanish is really getting quite good. I was not worried at all about going to the mall and getting a shave and a haircut at Donald's Barber Shop. Donald's is a great place. All the barbers there have awesome haircuts and mustaches. They are impeccably coiffed. I think maybe the first thing they do every morning is give each other haircuts and mustache trims.

Honduras is a country the takes mustaches very, very seriously. So being a mustache trimmer in Honduras is sort of a high pressure job. The fantastic mustache to the left belongs to current Honduran President Mel Zelaya. Imagine what would happen to the Honduran economy of it were improperly trimmed. Mistakes like that rarely happen. Barbers here handle each mustache with care. I knew I was in good hands, so after my barber finished with my haircut I was ready for the shave and trim. All I had to do was ask.

I remembered that the verb for shave is afeitarse. I knew I had to say something like "¿Le afeitado..." But for some strange reason I blanked on the Spanish word for face. I scrambled as the barber started to clean up and get ready for his next customer. Luckily, I remembered the word for a white faced monkey: mono cara blanca. I had it! All I had to do was plug the word for face into my sentence.

I guess I put the sentence together a little to quickly because what came out of my mouth was this: "¿Le afeitado mi mono?" Mono is not the word for face. It is the word for monkey. I had politely asked my barber to shave my monkey. He didn't miss a beat. He leaned the chair back and we were off.

It was sitting in this position, with a straight razor at my throat, that I realized my mistake. Hey, I think I just asked this guy to shave my monkey... Yup, I did. What do I do now? Obviously, everyone in this barber shop just heard me ask this guy to shave my monkey. Should I say something like, "Hey, I realize that a second ago I asked you to shave my monkey...yeah, I really meant face...yeah, that was pretty funny..." I decided not to dig myself any deeper into the miscommunication hole. I just sat there like a dumb gringo as he meticulously sculpted my mustache. I paid my seven bucks when he was finished and went on my way.

I am very,very happy with what the barber did to my mustache. Karine tells me to "shave that disgusting thing off" every time I mention it. But I am almost positive that that it just her way of showing support for the holiday mustache.

River Guide Cliff Jump

I took these pictures at Jungle River Lodge last weekend. Jungle River is a nice little spot on the Río Cangrejal about 5 miles up the river from La Ceiba. Its my favorite bicycle destination. Here is one of the river guides demonstrating the proper way to enter the river.


Karine and I entered the river the boring way. We walked down a path to this delightful little spot.

The White Wagon, Part Five

The White Wagon

--Part Five--

Where family cars are concerned, no one in our family can claim to have been as thoroughly shafted as my older sister, Anne. I am party to blame. Because my mother drove a station wagon, I ended up playing the most ridiculous instrument in the orchestra, the stand-up bass. I started playing when I was ten. By the time I was twelve I had convinced my parents and myself that I was destined for greatness. The only thing standing between me and the New York Philharmonic was a quality instrument to practice on. My parents sacrificed to indulge even their children’s most wrongheaded desires. I desired a two-thousand dollar double bass. My parents took out a loan.

Unfortunately for Anne this was about the time she turned sixteen years old. Here’s where the shafting takes place. A double bass is an outrageous thing for a middle-class kid to ask for, right up there with a pony or a set of bag pipes. A car, on the other hand, is an absolute necessity for a sixteen year old girl living in the suburbs. Anne’s car money had been spent on the bass I was using nightly to fill our house with music that sounded like cat sex. There was something fundamentally unjust about this. Our dad tried his best to remedy the situation.

Dad’s solution to the problem turned out to be a white 1977 Mercury Grand Marquis with red vinyl interior. That’s what Anne received for her sixteenth birthday. Upon seeing her new car for the first time, she immediately burst into tears and ran into the bathroom. It could have been worse. Maybe a cement mixer or one of those tiny cars that the Shriners drive around at parades would have been more embarrassing. Maybe some type of amphibious assault vehicle from WW II. But the Merc was pretty bad. Anne might have driven it around the block one time.

At this point Anne began borrowing the White Wagon from our mother on a regular basis. It was the wagon that transported her and her friends to the most important social activity for teenagers in Omaha: buying sodas and watching other teenagers buy sodas at the convenience store. The following year, mom bought a new car and the wagon became Anne’s permanently. For the next ten years the White Wagon was what each successive child in our family got for their sixteenth birthday. The ’77 Merc became my dad’s vehicle of choice whenever he needed to comfortably transport more than seventeen people.

The New Dresser

Here is a picture of my husband Tom embracing our new dresser. He sure likes it. He might like it a little too much. Every time he walks by it he touches the wood and says something about what a great piece of furniture it is. He says that he is looking forward to having a long relationship with this dresser.

"I think I might love our new dresser. It is really a quality piece of furniture. I'm happy, but I am also a little scared. Because when you love something you become terrified that you might lose it."

He made me take a picture of him hugging the dresser. And then he posed the dog in front of it and took a picture of that. Is this a common problem? Does it get worse with age?

Sunday on the Cangrejal

We've been enjoying the spledid weather the past couple of days. Its been about as good as it gets here in La Ceiba. We took a Sunday trip up the river yesterday. Here's Karine looking pretty in the sunshine.

It sure is pretty up there.