Hay Luz!

Hi Everyone. Last Wednesday, there was a pretty bad storm here, and the power went out for a day or two. The internet just came back on in our house about 2O minutes ago...

I can assure you that we went to Chiken Drive a lot during this past week, and we have many stories to share. However, we are leaving now to spend a few days in Lago de Yojoa.

Day 3: The Journey

Pan-Americanism in Action

 Before you can be at the Restaurant Formerly Known As Chiken Drive, you have to get to the Restaurant Formerly Known As Chiken Drive. As fate (and literary conventions) would have it, there are two pathways:

A map. You like maps, don't you?

The first way is to get there is to walk alongside the Pan-American Highway. First conceived as a railroad system, the Pan-American Highway stretches from northern Alaska all the way south to the southern tip of Argentina (or south to north, if that's your thing). It's not so much a single highway as it is a general pathway- a suggestion, if you will, of how one might feasibly bring Argentinian steaks up to their Alaskan sled dogs. And while its name suggests otherwise, the highway doesn't necessarily have the aura of a bustling connective artery for all things Pan-american. 

Pan-American cows, probably on their
way home from Chiken Drive.

A Little Reminder To Keep Your Eyes On The
Road And Stop Taking Photos, Andrew!
Seriously, We Are Going To Die. Or Get Mugged.

Heck, what is "Panamericanism" anyway? Is it real? At least in the US, we tend to think of "America" as the fifty states and maybe a few colonies here and there. Latin Americans often have a different take: "America" is the continent- not "continentS" as there isn't the distinction between North and South America. But perhaps a little awkwardly, the word pan-american tends to include everyone BUT the USA. After all, the very idea of "shared goals and interests among the people of the Americas" seems a little laughable when the countries themselves have competing interests. 


But as you walk along the Pan-American highway, you will not be thinking about what it means to be "Pan-American." You will be thinking about the three-deep trucks speeding by, the smell of exhaust, and making sure your dog doesn't dart into the road. You will be thinking about your own mortality. And you will be thinking about the delicious deep-fried rewards that await you at the end of your journey.

The Big Game

However, you might decide to take another route. The second route is far more enjoyable. It involves a walking pathway, invisible from the highway. A series of windy dirt paths spiral out from the surrounding mountain communities, through various farm fields, over a few small bridges and dried-up streams, all eventually congregating at a well-worn soccer field.

La Laguna, One Of The Many Benefits Of Route #2.

Unlike the Pan-American highway, the Pan-Soccer Field Walkway feels far closer to resembling the heartbeat of a larger community. Men with shovels and bags of tortillas, families carrying wood, local kids coming to watch a soccer game- this romantic but (as far as I know) unnamed pathway isn't going to facilitate a Pan-American constitutional convention, it's not going to answer the question about what it means to be "American," but it is going to help some folks get to where they need to go. And you need to get to Chiken Drive.

Day 2: Words

We take the long trek down the Panamerican highway under the spicy Honduran sun to arrive at the Restaurant-Formerly-Known-as-Chiken-Drive just in time for an early dinner, which Andrew would say is really a late lunch, since we ate breakfast at ten. As we enter the premises, I notice the place seems a bit livelier than the day before. Maybe it´s the crowd, or maybe it´s my renewed enthusiasm for this project.

I sit down at a table in the corner, and Andrew walks up to counter to start us off with some beers. As he moves his 6 foot 3 inch body across the patio, he nods his head at a man sitting at another table, who is wearing a green collared work shirt and a wide-rimmed hat.

¨Provecho¨, Andrew says, a typical thing to say to someone feasting on delicious Chiken Drive cuisine.

The man, Imperial in hand, chuckles and quietly whispers to the woman across from him, as she laughs along.

What a crazy looking guy! He must be 8 feet tall! Look at his legs- they go up to the sky! How absurd! And his accent! He said, ¨Provecho¨! How absurd!

(However incorrect, this is what I imagine the man is either thinking or whispering to the lady in his presence.)

I´ve experienced this same phenomenon when I´m out walking by myself. As an obvious gringa, I always have men staring at me, but they generally don´t seem too shocked until a word comes out of my mouth. If I say, ¨Buenas tardes¨, or something like that, they seem taken aback. If I actually blurt out a full sentence, I´d better watch out, because they´ll chat me up all the way down the street with that amused look in their eyes.

Words are powerful, especially across separate languages.

Here at the Restaurant-Formerly-Known-as-Chiken-Drive, although a man in a cowboy hat might be entertained by a giant gringo saying ¨Provecho¨, the reality is that our languages and cultures are so thoroughly infused by forces larger than ourselves. ============>

The woman at the table eats a Snickers. She wears ¨chorts¨ (shorts, if you couldn´t make that connection). Later, she might take a trip to the ¨mol¨ (mall) in a ¨picop¨ (pickup). Here, at the Restaurant-Formerly-Known-as-Chiken-Drive, the woman drinks Coca-Cola while she giggles at the mammoth gringo and his ¨Provecho!¨.

Day 1: Cold Feet, or The Question

Double-Fistin'

The first day of our study began exactly like any other visit to Chiken Drive- Laura and I ordered a couple Imperiales and an Anafre Sin Carne. Anafre is a delicious bean dip, covered in cream and some sort of white cheese, and usually containing meat particles. Served with chips, an anafre is usually devoured pretty quickly (which is probably for the best- once it starts settling, the oil and fat rises to the top and you realize what trials your intestines must be going through at the moment).

As luck would have it, our first day of the Chiken Drive study was conducted with fellow-armchair-anthropologist Jim. He was actually only there to try and pick up some barbeque supplies, and stayed for a beer with us. I got to watch an interesting exchange as he tried to buy some lighter fluid from the woman behind the counter. I'm not sure that these were the exact words used, since the whole conversation was in Spanish, but here's the basic gist:

JIM: Excuse me.

WOMAN BEHIND COUNTER: Talk to me.

JIM: Do you have something for starting a fire?

WOMAN: [gets out matches] Matches?

JIM: No, I mean, something to help start the fire, like lighter fluid.

WOMAN: We use gasoline. There is a gas station across the street.

JIM: You start your grill with gasoline?! [laughs] How barbaric!

WOMAN: [smiles] No, it works fine.

JIM: Well, can you sell me a little bit of gasoline?

WOMAN: No, we don't have any.


Jim soon took off, leaving Laura and I to ponder. In theory, we kind of imagined two weeks at Chiken Drive to be a mystical experience, one in which remarkable, only-in-Honduras moments would happen constantly. But as we sipped in the hot Saturday afternoon, it seemed completely normal. Completely unevenful. Completely un-blogworthy.

"Maybe this is a dumb idea," Laura sighed defeatedly.

I puffed out my chest, "No way- just wait. Something interesting will happen."

Laura and Essa, Whiling Away The Hours

 Five more minutes of silence. Nothing interesting happened.

"Ok, maybe this is a bad idea," I admitted.

Laura got out her notebook. All cultural anthropologists have notebooks. (It should be noted that I was also well-prepared, as I was wearing my cultural anthropoligist hat.)

"Wait- let's just get started. We should describe the place. There are wooden tables and chairs. A tin roof..." She began making a list: Wooden tables and chairs. (cow hide seats). Slanted tin roof.

When the list was complete, we had another 5 minute "silent brainstorming session." I got another round of Imperiales.

"OK, so what are we going for here?" Laura began again, "An ode to Honduras? A cultural analysis? A bunch of funny stories? A series of interviews?"

"I'm thinking more like Moby Dick."

Laura silently waited for me to explain my stroke of pure brilliance, no prodding necessary.

I graciously continued, "Glad you asked. Yeah, Moby Dick. The main guy, Ishmael, spends the whole book basically trying to answer the question: What is a whale? And he looks at whale art, and whale bone structure, and the color of whales, and he combines them all into this long-winded answer to that same question: What is a whale?" In reality, I probably spent about 15 minutes on a much more long-winded explanation, but this is a blog and I can bend reality all I want. I should mention that I was also looking incredibly handsome at the time.

Laura took a sip of beer, "...and so our question is...What is Chiken Drive?"

I leaned back Socratically, "Exactly."

After tugging with that thought for a moment, we teased out some general ideas, paid our bill and walked home, knowing we'd be making that same journey over and over again for the next couple weeks.

 What Is Chiken Drive? 

A Brief History of The Restaurant Formerly Known As Chiken Drive.

Let me just start off by saying that I know nothing about the history of The Restaurant Formerly Known as Chiken Drive. Unless you count the last year and a half, in which case I know plenty.

This is what I know:

• The Restaurant Formerly Known as Chiken Drive is located at kilometer 29 on the highway towards Danli, across the highway from the ESSO gas station and the Peruvian veterinarian. Its clientele generally consists of local working men (and a few bold women), street dogs, Alison Bixby Stone School teachers, and one Zamorano University professor (the number one should be stressed here, because this is not the kind of classy place that the majority of professors want to be seen at). 

• The Restaurant Formerly Known as Chiken Drive was, once upon a time, simply called Chiken Drive (according to some of its signs, it even ventured to call itself "Chiken Driven"). It thrived with this unique name until, one day in early March 2012, the main restaurant sign was replaced with a new one. Chiken Drive had now become... El Campo. When asked about the name change, waitresses shrugged as if nothing had happened. It's unclear if any employees or even the owner noticed the switch. Things went on as normal- chicken was served, Imperial beer was the same "not quite cold enough" temperature, and the cuajada (a salty Honduran cheese) tasted slightly different every week. 

This blog is an attempt to pay respects to the original Chiken Drive, while making a special effort to find out who the restaurant truly is at its core. This begins our two-week break for Semana Santa, and we plan on visiting the restaurant once every day for at least a week (hopefully more!). The quest to find the true Restaurant Formerly Known as Chiken Drive started off as a joke, but soon turned into a true desire to get to the essence of this special MSG-filled place. Please feel free to comment with ideas on research methods, etc. We hope you join us on this life-changing journey from near or afar.