Some say she kills the men; in Honduras, she usually makes them go crazy.
The turn of this year feels too fragile for plans.
Like Agnes, I decided this unicorn would be mine.
Everyone who gets on is headed their own way—school, work, church, shopping, home—but for a brief moment, the barreling bus brings us all together.
A few months ago, I found myself at a weekend-long turtle monitoring session on Honduras’ southern coast.
Another holiday, another rustling through my luggage of words to find poignant answers for the question.
Even when I do speak in accented Spanish, Hondurans often assume I’m from a Honduran afro-indigenous community.
The third time in a short conversation that I heard myself saying, “Well, in Honduras…” I stopped myself. I didn’t mean to be a bore; I simply didn’t have other experiences to draw from.
21. Sometimes my life seems to spark like a live wire, and I feel intoxicated by its opportunity and potential.
This may be the last post I’ll write from Honduras.
