Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

Jeremy B. Jones
have been learning as much as I have been teaching. Marshall and I
proselytize in subtle ways: I take my class on field trips to the botanical
garden; he chats about religion in internet cafés.
This subtlety isn’t part of Honduran marketing. It’s not so covert
or subversive. The Honduran tactic is invasive only in its racket. In
America, advertising is just as loud, but visually so. Even personally
loud—if you don’t wear this you’re not thin. The ice cream truck
that is on the opposite side of town is audible to me here, beside the
park, blocks and blocks away. It plays childish music at an eardrumbreaking
level. On top of the music the flavors repeat: vainilla, banano,
chocolate, ron con pasas, y arco iris!! A child can be plenty prepared,
as he can hear the truck coming twenty minutes before it arrives.
There are other trucks moving through town. One is selling
cheese. It doesn’t play any music from its speakers, but the driver
repeats the same mantra over and over about fresh, farm cheese. There
is no expiration date on cheese that is cut with a machete out of the
back of a truck. Another truck is selling fish, even shrimp, the speaker
broadcasts. There is so much noise that I can’t think straight.
Everyone around me is immune to all of the noise. No one seems
annoyed. No one seems to notice; though, I know they do. People are
casually making their way toward the stage with the music and the
games and the free posters. A storeowner has come out to buy some
cheese. Kids are lobbying for money for ice cream. These Hondurans
have seemingly developed the ability to hear only what they need.
Or at least it seems that way. No one turns to see what is making the
noise; no ears perk up. If it’s important, they hear it and nonchalantly
act. If not, it floats on in the air—and drives me crazy. I can tune out
commercials in the States. I can drive hours without consciously
noticing a billboard, but this noise rattles my head. Just another
Saturday reminder that I am not Honduran.
The nicer trucks with the political speakers head into the small
aldeas around the town. They drive the rugged roads, cross water,
and take the music of Miguel into the small villages. The aldeas in the
mountains vary in size. La Campa has five hundred people, but others
have only a handful. The lucky ones get electricity for part of the day and
pipes carrying water from the river. The not-so-lucky ones get beans.
The trucks come back with twenty campesinos standing in
the bed. It’s like a parade and the campesinos are in it—they are guests
to the president’s dinner. Miguel’s camp is giving away food, and
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