Go Green, Green-go, Gringo

I have a shirt that says Go Green. The Hogar kids immediately decided it said gringo. . . For those of you who are as lost as I was, I have provided the following sequential explanation. . . Go Green, Green-go, Gringo.

I am tired of being a gringa. Let me provide you with a local definition: Someone to be stared, whistled, growled, howled and looked at. . . on the bus, on the street, in a store or restaurant. . . when the sun is shining, when it’s raining. . .

I and two of my enterprising volunteer friends were tired of being attacked from behind on our bus rides into town. When I say attacked, I mean massive invasions of personal space.

Let’s look at a real life example. One day we were riding back from town and I was sitting next to Ingrid, a German volunteer who was visiting the Hogar for a month. I felt something or someone touch my hair. Incredulous, I asked her if the guy behind me was really touching my ponytail. Really? She nodded. I leaned forward immediately, trying to put as much space between me and the dirty sketch ball. On his way out, he even put his hand on my shoulder, and it wasn’t the shoulder closest to him.

On another occasion, Laurel decided to joke with Amanda and play with her hair, reenacting the above scenario. Probably five seconds later, I glanced back to notice a large, dirty, fat, creepy hand moving toward the back of her head. I asked her, “Laurel, has anyone ever done that to you?” “Um, no,” she said. “Well, they’re about to,” I said with a suppressed laugh.

So, back to our ingenious idea. We now sit on the back of the bus, and I mean literally. We sit in the very last seats. One would think this has reduced or even eliminated the unwanted attention, but no. We are still subjected to the glazy, perverted glances.

Well, today I became a creeper.

It has been exactly 96 days since I have seen a cute guy. It has also been 96 days since I left the States and touched down on Honduran soil. We have every other Sunday off. Today we went into town to get our fill of junk food and a few supplies we needed. Our usual favorite restaurant was closed so we headed to the snazzier one down another street. Upon entering, we saw a kid eating a plate of french fries. I’d already eaten an ice cream and a smoothie, but french fries with KETCHUP? It was too much to resist. We sat down in the crowded restaurant and waited to order. There were a lot of buff, fit looking guys inside who all seemed to know each other. I told Laurel and Amanda they looked like a soccer team. The tables near us started to disperse as the guys headed to another part of the restaurant. “I wanna ask if they’re on a team,” I told the girls. “Do it,” Laurel said, as she jabbed her head at each one that passed. No one seemed to be going slow enough or looking in our direction and I was getting worried I wouldn’t have anyone to ask. I’m sure I looked like a Grade A creeper as I stared each one down. Finally the last guy made his way past our table . . . and lo and behold, he looked at us. I took the opportunity and ran with it. “So, are you guys on a soccer team,” I asked in Spanish. “Yeah,” he said, “Soccer,” as if to show off his extensive English vocabulary. It turns out they were from Real Juventud, the team from Santa Barbara.

I would just like to thank Mr. Real Juventud, because I did not have a chance to ask his name, for providing me with my first glimpse of a cute guy in 96 days. It didn’t hurt that he played soccer either.