Chicarrone y Tajadas

It’s common knowledge that I not only love food, but that my sense of adventure doesn’t balk at culinary unknowns. Yes, I’ve had a few bad adventures but on the whole, the risk has always been worth it to me…

I have to admit to a ridiculous passion for foods we just don’t see up North. I remember trying to eat my body weight in ceviche when I first discovered it in Mexico and have taken to making a version of the fairly raw, marinated shrimp dish at home. I’ve made baleadas up in Canada, though they just don’t taste the same as here in Honduras, even though I once packed home the correct flour, soda and refried beans.

Locally, I indulge in the crisp little planteno chips, for 20 Lps a bag, (unsalted) that I buy from the back of a pickup truck near one of the major stores; the garlic flavoured casaba from the Garifuna women on Avenida Julio 14 (same price per bag) and various and sundry other bits like sweet, salted green mangos sliced in a bag to munch while walking down the street. But my absolute favourite has got to be chicarrone.

Chicarrone is basically boiled fatty pig skin and comes out crisp on one side with remnants of juicy fat on the other. When freshly cooked, we just squeeze fresh lime juice overtop and gobble it, while bouncing it hand to hand to avoid burning your fingers and when cold, simply break it up and eat it like potatoe chips with dabs of salsa. Yummy and I don’t have to worry about cholesterol and things like that!

Another favourite of mine is the staple dish of tajadas, just sliced plantenos cooked and served as a dinner staple like Canadians use potatoes. Add a little brown sugar sauce, cook until almost mushy and you have “maduras”, a sinfully sweet and totally satisfying side dish.


While out in El Pino one afternoon, family friends had killed a young pig and were cooking up a batch of chicarrone y tajadas. So there we were, with the communal table in the back yard, bags of salt and limes to the side with the open fire brewing up a vat of first chicarrone and then reused to cook up tajadas.

Health standards, what health standards? I work on the principle that the locals have survived their own cooking for generations, I’ve been here long enough to build up some kind of “Honduran immune system” and I rarely get caught out. That day was no different, with all of us thoroughly enjoying ourselves and myself taking a small measure of pride in not holding myself above them. Honduran families can be overly generous when they have the opportunity, and I would make a poor guest if I refused over squeamishness about a few germs!

Post script: Reputed to be the best place in La Ceiba to purchase chicarrone is Chicarronera QuiQue, located on Calle 19 about 3 blocks east of Avenida Julio 14. Check it out! Yet, again, sorry about the photos - Blogger hates me!

A Stormy Day in Corozal

Corozal, a small Garifuna village just outside of La Ceiba, has always been a favourite runaway place for me when I decide to escape from the city. By chicken bus (retired, dilapidated school buses) it takes about half an hour to wend your way through La Ceiba and east along the highway, stopping constantly to pick up locals and their bundles, for the princely sum of 11 Lp.

It's not your average tourist destination, no fancy restaurants or nightclubs, no mega malls or air conditioned bars, but it is built along the Caribbean Sea and no matter the level of poverty, nothing can deter from the draw of the ocean for me.

I've watched the changes over the years, the influx of Spanish Hondurans and the occasional "gringo"; some signs of larger homes being built, though not always finished. A large hotel and restaurant was developed on the most easterly end of the beach but now appears to be somewhat empty and neglected. Overall, most of the village is still the same, for me and the people who live there.

Generally, I’ve gone out on sunny days just to spend the afternoon walking the beach, collecting seashells or playing in the waves and then finishing the day with a cold beer and a great seafood meal.

This past Sunday I just couldn’t wait out the pounding rain in the city so bundled up, grabbed my “brolley” and took myself out to Corozal in the hopes that there would be less rain. At the beginning it looked like I may have guessed right – slight sprinkles during the drive out, marginal pitter-patter of rain while walking the beach – but then it all went to that proverbial hand basket down under! The wind roared in, the surf got thick, heavy and dirty brown, and the skies smashed rain down upon the whole of creation!



There is a long established restaurant, “Tio Fito’s” at the west end of the beach that is a weekend runaway for folks from La Ceiba, as well as being a hang out for locals folks, and though there is almost no English spoken there, the folks who run it are quite adept at making sure you get what you need.

By the time I made my way through the village, I arrived at Tio Fito’s soaking wet from the waist down, clutching the remains of my umbrella which had been blown inside out for the final time and simply revelling in the energy of a great storm. Tucked myself into the “locals” side, which also happens to be farthest from the screaming jukebox and curled up with my scribble book while waiting for my meal.

I’m not much of a fish eater, but always look forward to their “Camarones y Ajo”, simply the best garlic prawns I have ever feasted upon. In hindsight I should have taken a photo of my dinner plate – tons of fresh prawns, coconut rice & beans and “tajadas” (sliced plateno that is fried to be both crisp and tender, rather like our “french fries”) but couldn’t wait to start feasting!

As is common here, I shared my leftover tajadas with two little boys, who under the pretext of selling “pan de coco” where also hanging about hoping for donations of leftovers. I had watched them finish up other plates, quite hungrily but also very politely stacking the dishes at the wash up area. Over time, the children have learned to beg for money, which I heartily refuse to give but at the same time, I do feel it’s completely sinful to waste food, thus my own little donation to their cause. And was amply rewarded by their saying “Gracias, amiga” before they dove in to the food.

No matter the pounding rain, blowing sea mist and soaking wet blue jeans, yet again Corozal gave me yet another delightful afternoon adventure…

PS Sorry about the lack of finesse with positioning the video and photos - Blogger doesn't always cooperate with me!

Sometimes, Draconian Measures are the only option

I know that I’m going to get some emotional backlash for this piece but at the same time this is just one of my experiences here, and my personal opinion about it.

Sometimes, draconian measures are the only option…

Up until about 2004/2005 there had been a huge problem with street kids. We’re not talking about children who simply didn’t have a home or were beggars or serviced pedophiles, either. I’m talking about feral little kids, addicted to sniffing glue that had never had any level of home, parenting, nutrition or education and then at the ages of 12 to 15 were reproducing themselves. Yes, babies having babies, with all of the deficits caused by the above factors.

I remember one day in 2004, Kenneth and I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk outside of a good hotel in downtown La Ceiba to visit with a friend from Utila. This is a really typical Honduran thing to do and the pedestrians simply flow around the knots of visiting folks. Well, I wasn’t part of the conversation so was standing less than a foot away from Ken’s elbow when these two little boys came up to me – small (maybe waist height on me), dirty faces and hair with tattered, filthy tshirts and shorts and barefoot. I was still a complete novice here and immediately grinned and nodded a greeting to them. Just as I was doing that, both men suddenly surged in front of me, aggressively ordering the boys away, waving their arms and making a fairly noisy scene. For the first split second I was incredibly shocked. These were just little kids, right?

Wrong!!! Both men proceeded to read me the riot act about not letting street kids get physically close to me as they were incredibly dangerous at times, and once I got over the shock, I believed them. You know why? Because when I looked at those kids eyes, there literally wasn’t anyone there – as if they had no souls. That’s the part that shocked me the most – dull, flat brown pupils with no soul there….

The next year when I came back I noticed that there were very few street kids hanging around downtown and when I asked Kenneth about the change, he told me a story that I refer to as “Cornfield Fertilizer”. The story goes that in order to clean the streets of crime for the safety of Hondurans and tourists, armed forces had rounded up street kids into trucks, drove them out of town and deliberately shot and killed them en masse. Thus the phrase, cornfield fertilizer…

Yes, this is a most terrible human tragedy, and still wrenches my gut when I think or write about it but at the same time, you have to stop and think logically. These poor kids could not be “saved”, they truly were far too damaged from even before birth in many cases and simply didn’t have anything within them to be salvaged or redeemed. So logically what could have been done instead?

No, I’m not a proponent of population cleansing; people do not have the right to make decisions like this for any reason but at the same time I can understand why that choice was made. So that’s my dilemma…. What do you do? And, please, I know I’m going to get a lot of emotional backlash for speaking so bluntly but keep in mind that this is a reality, not just in Honduras, not just in third world countries but absolutely everywhere in the world.

I also want to acknowledge the people right here in La Ceiba and throughout the country, that have dedicated and devoted their lives to doing everything they can to rescue children through establishing orphanages, developing rural schools that provide not only education but a daily meal; individuals who sponsor children’s educational costs and many who are medical missionaries or are involved with community works projects.

I do what I call “charitable donations”; a little money to the blind elders led around by family members, a tipico meal in the market for street friends of all ages, small “loans” here and there to folks who are trying to work and deliberate purchases of items like hair clips, hand towels, peanuts and the like from street vendors I recognize from over the years and understand have no income when the weather is bad like it had been. I do try to help in my very small way but it also has to be balanced with taking care of myself. I’m a gringa who lives here regularly, but by no means am a rich woman!

I’m not informed enough about everything that is being done, but I will admit that even the least bit of effort, if done for the right reasons, does have a chance of some small success. There is true worth to the adage “one person, one effort” that can accumulate to make positive change even when it feels like just a single drop of water in the ocean of life.

Safe Arrival in La Ceiba, Dec.28th 2009

La Ceiba, Honduras…. 10:30am and it’s already 28C (82.5F) with high overcast, 1000% humidity and brief moments of blazing sunshine!
Yes, Northern friends, you have permission to call me bad names but I’m barefoot and comfy and as happy as can be what with major construction happening in the hotel courtyard. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it!
After a marathon 31 hour session of roads, airports, buses, security checks, border crossings and a maniacal van ride I arrived safe and sound at the Hotel Paris to find that not only did I HAVE a reservation (a small miracle) but that they had me booked into a ground floor room, just as I had requested (a BIG miracle). I truly didn’t expect it given how Honduras works…
In the past I’ve flown from San Pedro Sula to La Ceiba, on a small “milk run” ancient plane, running the gamut of whether the airport will be open when/if we arrive and paying $109 USF for the joy of doing so. If you’ve followed stories from past years you’ll know about landing in the storm that destroyed the pier (2008), the fact that there wasn’t enough new duct tape on the plane (2005) and other adventures entailed in actually getting to La Ceiba. And upon arrival at the LC airport there is still the additional $10 - $12 USF taxi charge to actually get to a hotel in the city.
Well, I may be somewhat slow in catching on to new tricks but I’m not stupid so I’ve discovered the trick of simply hiring a taxi from wherever I am in La Ceiba direct to the San Pedro Sula airport, complete with the driver dealing with the bags and being receptive to stopping en route. All for the grand sum of $100 USF! That worked so neatly when I returned to Canada last February that I deliberately didn’t book a SPS – LC flight this time, working on the supposition that I could just hire a taxi once I arrived.

Honestly, I think some of the folks from our Houston flight were still going through Immigration when I left the airport. Scooped up my bag, took off my socks and marched right through the airport to the outside patio. Politely declined the services of the money changers and negotiated with the first taxi driver who got to me and within moments was loaded into a van. I still have a problem with some of the money numbers (for the life of me I just can’t catch on to 50’s in Spanish) but when the fellow wanted $150 for one person I definitely understood and immediately refused! We finally settled for $120 and away I went on the next installment of my adventure. Post script: This is the cost for the whole taxi – if you’ve got other passengers, split the fee and save.
Actually, we somewhat flew… Drivers are completely insane in this country and taxi drivers take that to the psychotic edge with an element of carnival thrown in for amusement’s sake. Thankfully, I know this and with the additional caveat that the driver doesn’t really want to die a horrible, fiery death I simply put myself in their hands and try not to make any frightened noises. It’s conceivable that they believe that all gringas are naturally white knuckled, pinch faced and short of breath but I did really well without distracting him.

Speeds posted at 40km for the narrow switch back 2 lane highway meant that Enrique drove 80; highway speeds posted at 80km meant he drove 120km per hour – are you seeing the picture yet? Now, add in passing anything and everything with no regard for solid lines, signs or stray animals and children; then throw in a dozen or so small pueblos (villages) with lots of pedestrians, a few horse carts and finally add in the infamous “speed bumps” that are technically built right into the highway and you’ve got yourself an adventure! I think it’s quite clever that enterprising persons have chiselled out the speed bumps to accommodate drivers that don’t want to slow down, though generally the flat spots are in the opposing lane therefore…. You fill in the rest of the sentence!
In one of the smaller pueblos, in one of the brief moments that he wasn’t doubling the speed limit we had a small incident. As we were passing a knot of folks, adult and children, all clustered intently around something on the ground, I got curious and stuck my head out the window to see what was happening.
I’m not certain of the chain of events after that but some details remain. A loud burst of rapid-fire large popping noises, a good healthy shriek from me, finding myself crouched down into the tire well and Enrique howling with laughter and slapping the steering wheel with absolute glee.

I just wasn’t expecting the fireworks.

Baleadas: The Breakfast of Champions!

I'm "recycling" a couple of scribbles I sent out when I first got back to Honduras last month, enjoy!

Those who know me understand that I literally live on baleadas while in Honduras; I've even gone to the extent of bringing all the makings home in order to do it myself, even though they just don't taste quite as good as the real ones.
By the real thing, I mean the street corner wagons with their burners and metal pans and great messes of "stuff" or else the semi-permanent stalls set up on the old trolley tracks on Avenida La Republica, not a "tourist" type of zone.

Basically a baleada is simply a flour tortilla, hand patted and flipped on a hot sheet of metal. Then you add the refried beans (a rather unattractive sight) using the back of the serving spoon to smear it, and finally add a sprinkling of dried cheese. Fold it in half, slap onto a sheet of tin foil, slip it into a plastic bag and away you go. Many times I've simply opened it up, splashed on the "chili" (hot sauce) and if I can see it, I'll also add a splat of pickled red onions.

If you're fortunate, there will be a short plastic stool to sit on, right there on the sidewalk, and otherwise you simply stand and eat right there with all the pedestrian and vehicular traffic going past you.

Even though I’ve probably broken every rule for tourist travellers – yes, I eat on street corners, chew ice cubes, order salad if I’m eating out, etc.  I’ve also set some marginal rules for myself. Never, ever, ever order a baleada “con carne” tends to be a hard and fast rule for me, because the meat is totally unrecognizable and therefore you have no idea who it used to be.

I also really like the bags of fresh juice that you can buy at street stalls – I have a passion for the orange juice because you can faintly taste that citrus peel tang in it. Besides, I think it’s quite clever how they throw the straw in, do some kind of twist and flip motion and then you’ve got a little “tail” of plastic bag up at the straw that you can hold onto while drinking or carrying it.

Thus, I went out hunting my first morning in La Ceiba, to score my own version of a breakfast of champions and was quite pleased to see that the prices hadn’t risen too much. I paid 10 lempira (60 cents CDN) each for my baleada and my bag of juice and strolled back to the hotel to eat. Tasted great, didn’t hurt when it landed and worked just like rocket fuel for me as I took off to face the day of business transactions.

I have been completely betrayed, after spending last night trotting back and forth to the bathroom. I am going to blame the juice, since I can’t bear the thought of the baleada being at fault! Not too worry – I'm moving home today and a home made grilled cheese sandwich should fix things up proper!

It's Friday!

It’s Friday! Wow, fantastic and throw in a couple of halleluiah’s for the gods! I am thrilled, excited and almost ready to forget the touch of “la grippe” I picked up…

Remember me saying I didn’t know if I could wait for another Friday just to see the sun? Making a comment about the weather gods gifting us a sunny Friday last week and commenting that Friday, Jan. 1st was a bright sunny day?

It’s not the end of the work week for me; it’s no big deal if it’s the beginning of the weekend either. It doesn’t mean my social calendar is going to be busy or even that I’ll let down my hair with friends tonight.

What it means is that the sun has returned! The weather gods have blessed us with full blazing sunrise skies and even now, a couple of hours later the clouds collecting along the Cordillera Nombre de Dios mountain range are the innocuous cumulous ones that look like smeared marshmallows.

It also means I can open all the windows to air out the apartment, do my laundry and keep it dry afterwards and get out and walk, which is my personal passion.

Here are pictures from last Friday’s gift from the gods. I am determined to stay positive, and not to think that the gods are indulging in taunting us with hope for the end of the rainy season. When you receive a gift, all you can do is say “thank you” and I am.

I Brought My Wool Sox

Welcome back to La Ceiba, Honduras folks!

Last year, December of 2008 and January, 2009, I was whining about the cold, rainy weather and stated that next year I would bring back my wool sox.

I did. I also brought along a pair of heavy hemp sweatpants, a favourite warm sweater and extra pairs of blue jeans. People were convinced (yet again!) that I was crazy. I wasn't....

I realized a few years ago that I had acclimatized to Honduran weather and when it is cold, windy and rainy for days on end, I am freezing!

I just shake my head at the fact that back in 2004 and 2005 I didn't bring a single pair of blue jeans or socks with me. I remember walking down the street, in the worst of the weather wearing light cotton trousers, bare foot in my sandals with a bath towel over my head and shoulders against the torrential rain. Oh, how my world has changed!

The cold damp gets into your body and soul; even with the benefits of a non-leaky roof, glass in the windows, extra clothes and bath towels complementing my fleece blanket at night, you just can't shake it. It's dimly dark through most of the day, with nightfall occurring shortly after 5:30pm and the wind whistles and wails through the gaps between the window frame and the walls and in under the doorways.

We had a great weather day on January 1st which I celebrated with beach walks in a skirt and tank top, followed by endless days of rain pounding and smashing on the tin roofs at all hours of the day and night. On January 8th, the weather gods gifted us with a day of sunshine peaking through broken clouds and held off the rains until the following afternoon.

This week has been even worse by local standards with temperatures dropping to the high teens Celsius (equating to mid 60's in Fahrenheit) with very high winds coming straight off of the north Caribbean Sea. I just don't know if I can wait for another Friday to see the sun again!

Paradise isn't all beaches and beers, fellow Canadians - sometimes it entails freezing your butt off! Regardless of my tongue in cheek whining, I am simply horrified for the poorer local population; I'm not joking or exaggerating when I say that people will die of exposure or respiratory diseases due to this lengthy cold spell. So if you pray, please pray for the locals. This transplanted Canadian woman can tough it out!

Diary of a Ducha ("Doo sha" Spanish for shower)

Day One: Moved into the apartment today. Don Stephan has fixed the water so I now have water in the bathroom sink, the toilet, the shower (not much water pressure though) and in one of two faucets in the kitchen sink. Much better than my last morning here when I had two hours to close up the apartment, wash dishes, shower and get to the airport by 7:30 am. After shrieking down the stairs (found out that he does understand some English!) he delivered 4, 5 gallon buckets of water to the apartment and I did everything with buckets and a kettle.

Day Three: I’m just so grateful that the suicide shower is working, now that I thought to flip the breaker for it. Finally have hot water after two days of cold showers during the rainy season.

Day Forty Three: I realize that I’ve gotten used to the lack of water pressure in the shower. I’ve also learned that when I wash my waist length hair, it takes almost half an hour and I’m wondering just how much water the roof top cistern holds. Mind you, I don’t think I’m actually using much, the water just dribbles and spits while I scrub and rinse but it sure takes a fair amount of time!

Day Forty Four: I’ve become somewhat eccentric about living alone. Every time I turn on the shower water, I’m pleasantly surprised and when I reach up to turn it off, I always say “thank you, thank you” in both languages. Hmm, at least it’s some form of practising Spanish….

Day Forty Five: I think the shower is getting tired. There appears to be even less water pressure and therefore less water coming out of the suicide shower head.

Day Forty Six: The shower head is definitely getting somewhat useless. The holes that used to deliver water (only half of them ever delivered !) are now sort of dribbling out across the showerhead and joining together to make a “splatting” kind of trickle. Hmm, I do hope it manages to fix itself.

Day Forty Seven: It got cold again today so I turned on the water and then the suicide shower heater only to wind up scalding myself when I stuck my hand under the dribbling splat. It appears that the heater is working fine but with the lack of water being delivered, the heat is not dispersed. Put ice cubes on my hand and washed at the sink.

Day Forty Eight: The shower is definitely sick. Damn. The dribbling splats have now decreased to mere occasional drops. It took almost 5 minutes to collect a handful of water (I was hoping it would increase if I just left it running!). Washed in the sink again; good news is that the bathroom floor is clean once I mopped up all the water.

Day Forty Nine: I spoke with Dona Lucy this afternoon and told her that I had no water in the shower though the rest of the apartment was still working fine. She’s very sympathetic and said she would tell Don Stephan.

Day Fifty: Filled both my buckets in the kitchen sink, added boiling water from the kettle to make it tepid and “bucket washed” in the shower stall. Worked out okay and didn’t have to clean the bathroom floor again.

Day Fifty One: Finally saw Don Stephan today. I told him I had a problem with the apartment because there was no water in the shower. He responded immediately with enthusiastic sympathy and says he’ll have a look at it tomorrow. Bucket washed in the shower stall.

Day Fifty Two: It’s Sunday. Maybe that’s why Don Stephan didn’t come to look at the shower; but I didn’t think he was a member of Dona Lucy’s church group. Oh well, I suppose it’s still a day of rest for him. Bucket washed. The bedroom floor is now clean since I spilled one bucket en route to shower stall.

Day Fifty Three: (Politely!) accosted Don Stephan when he came upstairs this morning. I repeated the issue with the shower and no water. More sympathetic promises of assistance; he ignored my raised eye brows. Bucket washed.

Day Fifty Four: Bucket washed. Had an early appointment in town but just as I was leaving Don Stephan arrived to look at the shower. Turned on the tap, nothing dribbled or splatted or leaked out of the shower head. Oh, he now understands I have a problem with the water, hooray! I’m losing my sense of humour, was late for my appointment.

Day Fifty Five: Glondy, my Honduran girlfriend came over while I was filling the buckets in the sink. She thought I was going to wash floors. HA! I explained about the shower problem and got more sympathy. I’m starting to dislike sympathy and my sense of humour is sorely lacking. Spoke briefly with Dona Lucy; by my translation it appears to be a problem with the pump. Great, but why is there still water every where else in the house? Don Stephan saw me filling water buckets in the kitchen sink and went back down the stairs muttering “agua, agua” to himself. My morning greetings to him are becoming somewhat surly.

Day Fifty Six: Glondy came over early, at 7am so I asked if I could go to her house to wash my stinking, greasy, filthy hair. No problem, come over whenever you want! Perfect! Rounded up all my shower stuff, got tidied and headed for the door. ENEE had a planned power outage for 8am that morning. Bucket washed. I’m now considering getting a crew cut again; note to self – stay away from the scissors.

Day Fifty Seven: When I came home from town yesterday there was a length of plastic water pipe lying on the patio floor. Ah, progress! Today, the pipe made it up onto the roof by 8am. It’s now 3pm and there has been no further action. Glondy hasn’t been home all day and her house is locked. Bucket washed. French braided the obscenely filthy hair. It now feels like a horse’s tail. I have absolutely no sense of humour.

Day Fifty Eight: Refused to answer Dona Lucy when she saw me leaving for Glondy’s with my towel over my shoulder. I’m no longer a cheerful tenant. I think she is aware of my lack of humour now. Don Stephan no longer comes upstairs to exchange morning greetings. The pipe is still on the roof. Glondy’s shower head does not work so used the faucet and bucket routine. Finally have clean hair.

Day Sixty Two: I haven’t seen Don Stephan in three days. Still no shower water.

Day Sixty Three: Came home with two bags of clean laundry. Don Stephan has forgotten that I hate him and because he is such a gentleman, carried the bags upstairs for me. I promptly informed him that I had no water in the shower, before he escaped. Surprised shock and abject sympathy when I turned on the tap and absolutely nothing came out. Some amusing physical contortions while he made it clear that the pipe appeared to be choked i.e. plugged with sediment. Sincere promises to fix it tomorrow. I’ll believe that when I see it!

Day Sixty Four: Terrible noises from the roof while video conferencing with Hubbie; refused to investigate said noises. Shortly thereafter Don Stephan arrived asking if I had any water at all. Slight moment of complete horror on my part – what did he do up there?! I now have not only water in the shower head but increased water pressure throughout the whole apartment!

Just shy of two full weeks without water in the shower is not really that big a deal; if you’re going to live in Honduras you must, absolutely must, be able to roll with the punches and find ways to compensate. This includes anything to do with household mechanics, shopping for basic supplies, dealing with taxis or transit and those times when you require supposedly “special” services. Remember the time the post office ran out of stamps? A sense of humour is the only appropriate survival technique!