Monday, December 6, 2010

Futbol Star


Futbol

So as part of my adapting to life here in Honduras I have joined the local futbol team. For those of you in the states this is soccer, you know that game that Europeans and small children play with their feet. (As a side note it is kind of funny that the Spanish name is literally just a more Spanish way of pronouncing “football”, in fact neither “fut” not “bol” is a Spanish word, if it was a translation it would be “pie-balon”, they also do this for the term “offsides”). This is a pretty new sport for me, in that I did play all through childhood, but have not touched a soccer ball more than a handful of times since I was in middle school. Apparently in the interceding ten years I have lost much of my past skill (what little there was of it initially), most likely to all of my time spent playing hand-sports (for those of you unfamiliar with the sport (aka. Americans) there are no hands allowed in soccer. The lack of hand-sports here means that people generally can’t catch or throw things instinctually in the way that Americans can, thus it’s pretty funny to toss any kind of object with my Honduran friends (though one has to be careful because tossing food is like kind of offensive here even if it is wrapped). Thus it has been a tough three months of acclimating myself to the sport, it was especially hard initially not to tackle opponents as I have been doing in rugby or American football since high school (this has been especially tempting since all of the guys I play futbol with are like 5’ tall Honduran guys who would be really easy to crush).

Despite my early failings I have finally started to get the hang of things after three months of practice. I am part of the official town team and play in the daily scrimmages we have between the two teams in town and the third team made up of high school kids. I have figured out that the best position for me is midfield as it lets me use my size best (note how much bigger I am than everyone else in the picture, and the two guys to my right are like the two biggest guys in town). I have also found that the futbol they play here is pretty rough and a certain amount of jostling and pushing is encouraged, which makes me like the game so much more. I have even begun to get play time in the tournament which we are currently hosting in town, and was able to play 30 mins at the end of the last game when our captain went out with what I’m pretty sure is a scratched cornea (though this happened a few days ago and he has decided to self medicate by wearing an eye patch, we’ll see how that turns out.) Also as a last thought, a number of my team mates have taken to calling Gerard Pique (a Spanish futbol player with a decent beard) for obvious reasons not involving my playing abilities.

Saturday, October 9, 2010

In the Fraternity


So now’s the time when you all get to hear about my new site (those of you who are still following along after my 2 month hiatus that is). For starters it is a small pueblo of about 1,400 people surrounded by a municipality that encompasses about 4,000 total people, though they are quite spread out in a series of aldeas that are only connected by a series of worn out dirt roads. The municipality, and the casco urbano in which I live, is known as La Fraternidad (or in English, “The Fraternity”). It is one of the smaller municipalities in the department of Ocotepeque (the smallest department in the country), which is located in the westernmost corner of Honduras and is sandwiched in between Guatemala and El Salvador. It is actually far closer from my site to San Salvador than to Tegucigalpa (like 7hrs by bus closer), and I live within 50 kilometers of both boarders.

The pueblo its self is located on a dirt road off of Central America rout 4, nestled in between majestic mountains alongside a verdant cloud forest, situated at about 1,300 kilometers above sea level. So yeah, it’s pretty beautiful and idyllic. It is a coffee growing region, so this accounts for about 80% of our agriculture (the rest being taken up by bananas, plantains, cabbage, carrots, and a few other miscellaneous vegetables). Thus most of the people here are simple farmers and the most important time of year is the coffee harvest. This period for us, is between late November and February, because we are situated at relatively high altitudes and thus it is relatively cold and the harvest comes later than in more low lying regions. The best coffee comes from at or above 1,400 meters, the majority of the farms in our region being at between 1,300 and 1,600 meters (oh yes, I have been learning about coffee, it is kinda the biggest topic of conversation here, besides soccer, and of course religion).

Weather wise, as I mentioned it is a very cold region by Honduran standards, in the winter (which here is around November to February) it is actually light jacket weather during the day, to legitimate jacket weather at night. It is also quite rainy here for much of the year, and this contributes to the chill feeling in the air. At times looking out across mountain pastures here, with a fine mist in the air and a grey over cast sky, I am a few sheep and a Guinness away from feeling like I am back in Ireland. Needless to say this is not what most of us think of when we think of Honduras, and to be fair it is not a good representation of the climate of most of the country, but I could not be happier at being stationed here. Those of you who know me, know I hate the heat and die every year in DC summers. Thus this is the perfect environ for me to comfortably wear jeans, and laugh at my companions who were stationed in Choluteca (or Cholutexas as it is known by volunteers, or the mouth of the dragon), sweating their asses off in a country in which wearing shorts is basically never ok.

Basically it is a really beautiful place with beautiful vistas in all directions, and they are in the process of beautifying the town by putting in a really nice little park and amplifying the Catholic Church in the center of town. The people are also very friendly, and I am rapidly making friends now that people are starting to understand that I am here for the long haul and not just a gringo stopping though. On this note, I am the very first PCV stationed here in Fraternidad (which is actually quite impressive in a country in which the Peace Corps has been operating since 1962), and I am pretty certain the first gringo to take up residence here. Though before me there were a series of Cuban doctors who lived in the house I live in now, which is the town’s only comedor (a small eating establishment) and basically the only house that rents out rooms. Thus when I got here a fair number of people asked me if I was Cuban (which I will either take as a compliment to my Spanish or an affront to Cuban peoples Spanish).

I have overall felt nothing but welcome here, which was probably helped by the welcome party the municipality threw me my first week in site. This basically consisted of shutting down the municipality for the day and decorating the whole upstairs with pine needles, balloons, streamers, and giant posters saying things along the lines of “welcome to Fraternidad, Stephen Demarais” (a name by the way none of them can pronounce, but which interreges many of my coworkers to the point of often just saying their versions of my last name many times in the course of a day around me to practice). Also the mispronouncing of the first name has led to some people just calling me Esteve, which basically is their version of Steve. This led me to realize the other day that it took me coming to rural Honduras to start going by Steve, and living in a fraternity (also for profesionality I have taken to wearing mostly polo shirts here, to complete the whole frat image), who’d of thought.

And away we go


So I am finally a real volunteer! That’s right this guy made it through the three month training period and is now a real volunteer (incidentally those three months do now count towards my 2 years here, so as I write this 2 weeks into my service I still have 23.5 months left to go). As I mentioned in an earlier post, the training period in the Peace Corps really does feel like your back in middle school, so I’m super happy to have graduated and made it to out into the grown up world again. Though these elated feeling at graduating are also tempered with sadness at missing my fellow H17 (Honduras PC group # 17) volunteers, who are now spread out all across the country. It is actually remarkably similar to the feelings I experienced five months ago upon graduating college (except it is accompanied with far less partying). Seeing as a lot has happened in the months since I last put up a blog entry (my bad) I figure I should fill those of you who are still interested in my life (mom) in on what has been going on.

The graduation its self was really nice. It was held in the US embassy and we all got dressed up in our nicest cloths and there was a reception on the lawn, attended by us new volunteers, our trainers, and our host country counterparts who had come in to bring us to our site, and who we had met that morning for the first time. We got to hear inspirational speeches from all of the PC brass and head trainers, as well as two of our own new volunteers, and US ambassador to Honduras Hugo LLorens. Overall I was most impressed with the speeches by our volunteers, one of whom came into the program with no Spanish what so ever but was able to pass his language exam and give a very understandable speech in his new language, the other of whom is a native speaker and gave a beautiful speech including a moving poem. The other highlight of the afternoon was hearing 57 American PCVs trying to sing the Honduran national anthem (which is actually really hard to sing as it changes rhythm and tempo like 5 times, so not just those of us who are brutally musically challenged had problems).

After the ceremony I got a picture with Hugo LLorens, which as an international relations major I thought was pretty cool (and I am saying here so that you will all know who that guy with me in the picture is, since ambassadors don’t really have much celebrity recognition status). Once we had all taken pictures and said goodbye to our awesome training staff we all climbed back on the school bus that had taken us there and went to a restaurant in Valle de Angeles (the big town closest to our host family homes). There we partied the night away, as much as people with a 9 pm curfew can, then went home to try and get some sleep in before we met up with our respective counterparts to be taken to our new sites in the morning. For me, this meant waking up at 4 am to be ready for my 4:30 pick up since I was headed out to Ocotepeque, the smallest department (the Honduran equivalent of a state) about ten hours away from Tegucigalpa. Though I had found out the day before that I was actually quite lucky since my counterpart and the others from my department had rented a mini-bus to take me and my fellow volunteers back. This was huge, because most of us had a lot of luggage because we had to pack stuff for two years of service, and the thought of having to lug it all around between the multiple busses we would have had to take otherwise was not a happy one.

After some confusion on the part of my counterpart in finding the tiny dirt road (off the bigger dirt road) on which I lived, we were finally able to reunite. I then realized that the “mini-bus” we were taking, with 14 people and all of the volunteers’ baggage, was actually a normal sized van. This meant that by the time we went to pick up the last three volunteers it was quite clear that there was no way we were going to be able to all fit with the luggage (despite this we tried to tetris things for a while including strapping things to the roof Beverly Hillbillies style before we finally accepted this fact.) In the end we decided that some of us would go in the van with the luggage and drop it off at the other’s sites, while the rest would take a bus. I was originally in the group to take the bus, but as the van was going to pull away my counterpart (who is the vice mayor of my town, and an exceedingly quite and shy man) made an awesome power move and hopped into one of the remaining two seats and motioned for me to follow. We then drove off before there could be any further discussion of who should actually get these seats (this is what we at 4 Farrington would call straight kinging it), and thus I avoided taking a series of public transport busses to my site. Though some of the elation at this fact wore off as a realized that the seat I was in was a fold down jump seat which mostly consisted in two hard metal bars jabbing me in the back for ten hours. This fact aside it was super excited to be headed to my new site.

Visit to La Tigra

So this last Saturday (July 31st), a group of fellow PC trainees and I went to a local national park, La Tigra, which is about half an hour from our site. We were able to catch a ride there on a bus with a group of students and teachers from the local colegio (high school). While this was convenient and cheep in terms of transportation, it came with a catch; namely that we had to travel with a group of like 80 high schoolers. In case you are not familiar with high school students in large packs, it involves a lot of raging hormones and a driving desire to be cool. Thus the bus ride was full of loud yelling, giggling and screeching. Also as in any situation involving colegio girls and male PC volunteers, there was a fair amount of being awkwardly hit on my 15 year olds. Couple this atmosphere with a six am wake up, a migraine, and having to stand up in a crowded school bus driving up a winding road, and you have my morning. Needless to say, the breakfast of hot milk and refried beans on tortillas was doing its part to contribute to my feelings of discomfort; though at least I was able to avoid losing this savory breakfast upon exiting the bus, as one unfortunate volunteer did.

Luckily for me and my fellow volunteers however, the days hike more than made up for the bus ride. As a background on the park, it is a cloud forest at the top of a mountain, with some spectacular vistas and hidden waterfalls. Also unlike American national parks, where fat Midwestern tourists can drive their SUVs and campers right up to the entrance (or in some cases can now drive ATVs and snow mobiles throughout and never have to subject themselves to actual walking), at La Tigre you have to walk about two hours up from the nearest little town up to the park entrance. As a side historical note, the park used to be the sight of a major gold mine from the late 1800s through the 1930s. Thus the town was at one point a major commerce hub and still shows the vestiges of its past grandeur, in the form of beautiful classic architecture poking up from a skyline of concrete and mud brick houses and corrugated tin roofs. The result of this is that the town has a very cool, ghost-town vibe tucked away in the folds of the mountain.
From the town, it is a steep uphill trek on a semi-paved side road up to the park entrance. This was definitely the hardest part of the climb, as for the most part you are left in direct sunlight and are still below the cloud line and cool temperatures that accompany it. Thus when we finally reached the visitor center, we were drenched in sweat and full of a sense of accomplishment. From there the next step was getting into the park. This was actually a bit of a tricky situation and involved some finesse, because the entrance fee can vary heavily and is fully dependent on the mood of the park director. This is because there are different prices for Honduran residents (20 Lempiras, or 1 dollar) and foreigners (ten US dollars). Though as PC volunteers we are considered residents and entitled the lower price, as well as a ten Lempira (50 cent) discount. Unfortunately as trainees, we do not yet have our residence card, and thus had to rely on our abilities to talk the director into the lower price. After some haggling we got in for 20 Lemps, and the experience was well worth it, also one of my friends somehow ended up trading boots with the 70 year old park director. It was pretty comical, she was complaining about how her’s hurt her feet and he just took off his boots which were a little bigger, and they traded.
We got to hike through a beautiful jungle and eat lunch next to an amazing waterfall. We also managed for the most part to steer clear of the largest groups of colegio kids and enjoy some of the beauty of nature and its tranquility. We then hiked back down the mountain in enough time to have an ice cold beer at the only restaurant in town and hop the bus back to Cantarranas. I also got to have an intersting conversation with two colegio girls next to me on the bus ride home. One of the girls asked if I was married, to which I jokingly responded that at 22 I was too young to be married, to my surprise the other one who was 18 turned out to be married and already have a 3 year old child. This was pretty telling of the state of things in the country, and it struck me how someone much younger than me could be in a much more mature period of her life.

The Point System

After spending two months here in Peace Corps in Honduras, I have begun to develop new ways of entertaining myself. While in the states, I was constantly bombarded with cable tv shows, sporting events, video games, and if all else failed endless hours of youtube videos (so at the very least I could spend an afternoon watching people making asses of themselves). Here pretty much all of these options are limited or non-existent. For example, television no longer offers me a lineup of new sitcoms and foul mouthed cartoon shows. These have been replaced by badly dubbed American action movies (don’t know why but they like love “Fast and the Furious 4” here) and spectacularly ridiculous Mexican telenovelas. The latter of which are actually good for some solid minutes of laughs the first few times you watch them, because they are super over the top in their plot lines and about as subtly acted as professional wrestling bouts (with interestingly enough are quite popular here, and I had to explain to one of my host brothers that they are in fact staged). Though when this novelty wears off you are left searching the five channels you have for some semblance of a futbol match (oh how I miss the world cup. When that ended I lost like 2/3rds of my cross cultural conversation starters). On the whole however, I don’t really mind this fact, seeing as I did not come here to watch tv (though it is actually hard to avoid watching some, in a country where almost everyone , regardless of socio-economic status, has a tv on and running in their house pretty much 24/7). But without internet access or American tv, you are forced to send a lot more time out and after living between Boston and DC, there is limited entertainment to fill your day with in rural Honduras. You can only play futbol so much in one day, and the other local entertainment of staring at the gringo is far less entertaining when you are in fact that gringo.
This is where the point system comes into play. One of my fellow aspirantes (aspiring PCVs) and I have developed a game, in which we assign random point values to things that we witness in our daily routines here, that would seem strange or outlandish were we to witness them in the states. The number of points for an occurrence is loosely based on how wild the occurrence would seem in the US, how common it actually is here in Honduras, and how much we laugh upon witnessing it. Thus for example seeing a woman standing on her patio in a downpour feverishly sweeping water off of cement (despite the fact that it is falling far faster than she can move it) gets you one point, because while it is pretty outlandish and silly to American sensibilities, it is super common here. I’m pretty sure that nationally, it is like the second most popular sport after futbol.
To give you a better sense of the game here are a list of some of the events that stuck in my mind, with their corresponding point scores. A child throwing dove babies out of the eves of his parents house into a trash can his mother is holding open below, as she cheerily invites us to come take a look at them (she also mentioned something to the extent of “don’t worry we are taking care of them” as if we would see these baby chicks as a menace) : 15 points. A guy taking a poop in the local stream while reading the paper and smoking a cigarette (behind little to no cover): 30 points. A woman breastfeeding her, what looked to be, 5 year old kid in the middle of a town hall meeting: 30 points. Walking out of your room to find a burlap sack full of live chickens: 10 points. Trying to take a shower and realizing there is a huge tarantula in there with you, then having your host mom throw it on your bare leg with a broom: 35 points. Ect…

Sunday, August 8, 2010

Tortillas, and other musings

Food:
I feel that food is a pretty important part of my daily routine and thus I figured that I should explain the typical diet here in Honduras. While many people in America might assume, using understandable deductive reasoning that, based on the proximity to Mexico, people in Honduras eat what we think of as Mexican food. This assumption is however quite incorrect. The food here in fact only vaguely resembles Mexican food, and even in comparison with American food is not spicy like you might expect.
I’ll start by giving you a basic run down of the staples here. The first of which is most definitely tortillas. These are made of corn meal and while they resemble their flower based, highly processed cousins we buy in the US, taste almost nothing like them. They instead are much heavier and starchier, thus even at my hungriest of times I can only manage about 3 without feeling like I’m going to explode. Shockingly however, the average Honduran (who is about ½ my body mass) will polish off a half dozen with ease. This still baffles me after a month here; because to me consuming that many tortillas is like the Central American equivalent of the saltine challenge. Though, from my conversations with host families and PC staff, I have come to realize that this penchant for demolishing stacks of tortillas makes logical sense. This is because tortillas are made from just corn flour and water, thus making them the cheapest thing around. For this reason, in a country where food and money have traditionally been scarce, people tended to eat a lot of the cheapest/ most filling thing available. Unfortunately for this over fed pampered PC volunteer the insistence on serving guests a mountain of heavy, carbohydrate filled tortillas with every meal has continued in families where food is plentiful. Thus my college beer gut will soon be replaced with a tortilla panza.
Some other basic staples here are beans (a great source of inopportune flatulence to be sure), plantains, rice, queso, and mantequilla. I feel that I should explain the last two, as they can easily be misinterpreted by people who understand Spanish but have not been to Honduras. Queso here is not anything like the nacho cheese often referred to by the same name in popular Mexican themed restaurants in the US. Instead here it refers to a hard crumbly white cheese, which is loaded with salt, and can taste like anything from salty cheese to a salty foot (depending on quality of course). Mantequilla can also be confusing, because in Spain it refers to butter, but here it refers to a substance much like sour cream, but inexplicably slightly different. I would say that across the board these are the two foods (or condiments depending on your definition) that new PC volunteers have the most trouble adjusting to. Though I will acknowledge that both can be very good if used in moderation, especially in Baleadas. These delicious cousins of the quesadilla are a flour tortilla folded over a warm melty layer of queso, refried beans, and mantequilla. In their most basic from they are quite good, but there are oh so many variations. Some of my favorites include carne asada and for breakfast, a combo of scrambled eggs and fresh avocado slices.
I also feel that I should make mention of the spices of choice here in Honduras. For the most part these spices fall under the twin headings of sugar, and salt. They fricken love both of these down here, I mean they cannot get enough. I have personally watched people eat both of these by the finger-full on their own. Salt finds its home in or on almost all foods you can think of here, from basically all cooked dishes to salads (which mostly just consist of cucumbers and iceberg lettuce, and are pretty scarce). Despite this I would venture to assert that sugar is even more prevalent, especially with the popularity of coffee down here. People will sugar any drink that is not soda, as it is conveniently laden with its own cane sugar(that’s right no corn syrup at least, thank god!). But the sugaring of juice and milk (yes milk!) is kids play compared to what they do to their coffee. While I personally don’t drink coffee, or any caffeinated beverages for the matter, this is a major point of conversation among PC volunteers. Apparently the common practice is to add sugar to the coffee grinds or instant crystals while making the coffee, to pre-sweeten it, then sugar is added to the completed coffee, and finally the sugar bowl is always presented with the coffee cup in case the recipient desires a touch less coffee with their sugar.
The other sad irony of this equation is that the coffee its self is generally bad, and invariably comes from the US (my current host parents use Folgier’s grounds from a big plastic container). This is troubling in a country that is one of the largest coffee producers in the Hemisphere. This sad fact is result of the fact that Honduras, as the result of chronic government mismanagement and corruption, coupled with abuse by predatory US companies, has never developed the mechanisms for sorting and processing coffee. Thus they ship the beans to the US, where this value adding is done, and afterwards the lowest quality, and cheapest beans are turned around and sold back to Honduras at marked up prices. Thus as you sit here not an hours drive from coffee plantations, you are more than likely drinking the same cheap coffee being served in office lobbies in the US.
I would like to conclude this installment on a high note however. Thus I will briefly mention mangos and avocados. Both of these fruits are super abundant and super delicious here. The avocados are always the highlight of any meal here, often served as an accompaniment to many typical plates here. And the mangos are just awesome: ripe, juicy, and easy to be had off of trees in my parts. So ill leave you with the mental image of me polishing off a tree’s worth of mangos.

Saturday, July 10, 2010

Training:

I don’t want to bore everyone with a day by day account of my training experience, so I will try to generally explain my average day using a metaphor that I have come to see as more and more accurate each day. Peace Corps training is much like middle school. The similarities begin with the early morning wake up. As I recall I had to get up at 6:30 am every morning to go to middle school, which is comparable to the 5:30 am routine here. Though here my pre-dawn rising is accompanied by a ice cold bucket bath, which each time leaves me envious of my middle school self who had access to piping hot showers every morning (though on the plus side,I dont have to deal with being a fat middle school kid with braces now, so things could be worse). The comparison continues as i run to catch the bus to school with my friends. In fact, the bus here may very well be the same bus from my childhood, as all of the public transit busses here are derelict American schoolbusses that were deamed unfit for future use in the US. Though now they sport cool decals from brands like ¨No Fear¨ and ¨Orange County Choppers¨, and have bootlegged sterio systems.
Once I get to school... (crap i actually typed this when i meant to say training), I have Spanish classes in the morning until lunch at 11. Then at lunch we all check out the food our host moms packed us and trade for amongst ourselves to try to get the best lunches. Currently the highest value items are meat or fruits, with the lowest value items being tortillas (which are a constant part of the diet here, i would guess i average like 10 a day). We then have lectures on everthing from the dangers of assault, robbery and rape, to disentary and how hondurans do not understand or enjoy american sarcasm or sense of humor. Then we all pile on the bus for rides home.
Much like middleschool, the best part of the day is when i get home and play football with my friends, though here it is futbol rather than american football. Hillariously though my friends are still 12 year olds, because i seem to be a major hit with the adolecent boy demografic. We play futbol and they laugh at farts and burps so i feel like i can relate. Then when it gets dark our moms call us in and we all scamper home to be chided for getting muddy and eat dinner. I then hang out with the family and watch some tv (if my hw is done of course). My day ends at about 9 when i got to bed in order to get up for the next day of exciting traning.
The entire middle school experience is only hightened by the fact that we all live at home with parents once again and are not aloud to be out after 9, drink in the house, or have visitors of the oposite sex in our rooms. This last caviate, combined with the fact that we are a young PC class (average age about 24) has led to a high level of sexual tension/frustration... much like middle school.

ps. I appologize for the mirriade of spelling and grammer errors, but this computer does not have english spell check and i am in a hurry since the internet cafe is crowded.

Travel

So I began my journey to Honduras (my new home for the next 27 months) on June 22, 2010. I set forth on my new adventure with a solid 3 hrs of sleep under my belt and a hearty breakfast of cereal in my stomach. After arriving at National Airport at 4:30 am for my 6 am flight and going through all the necessary baggage checking measures, I bid farewell to my parents and passed through security (which was shockingly busy for 5 am on a Tuesday. I got to my gate with plenty of time and settled in to wait for the flight to begin boarding. Unfortunately right as they began the boarding process my name was said over the intercom, followed by a garbled message telling me to go somewhere and do something unintelligible. When I asked the agent at the gate he helpfully told me that he was not the one who had made the announcement, and thus it must have been one of three other places none of which he had a means of contacting… oh and that I had like ten minutes to figure out what it was a about and get on the plane. Luckily I then realized that my drivers licence was no longer in my pocket with my boarding pass and began running back to security. There I was informed that they had not been the ones who had made the announcement either but through persistently bothering them I was able to be directed to a cop who had a little stand near by preventing people from coming in the exit door, who they apparently have no coordination with. Thankfully he was in fact the person who had made the announcement and I was able to get my id and run to the plane right before they shut the gate. From there on out it was smooth sailing to Houston, and I even met some other PC volunteers in my layover in Chicago so was able to chat with them and share a cab from the airport to the hotel in Houston, where the PC was holding its staging event.

After an afternoon of protocol explanations and ice breakers I was treated to another 3 am wake up and a bus ride to the Houston airport. As a side note, if you have not been to Houston it is a city with no zoning laws, and thus a hot and humid expanse of urban sprawl (with an airport named after George Bush to boot). At 9 am Houston time we took off, leaving American soil behind for over 2 years. After a smooth flight, we got to experience a landing experience unique to Tegucigalpa airport. For those of you unfamiliar with this airport, it has one runway, which is just long enough to accommodate a modern jet, and is located in a city surrounded by mountains. Thus the landing involves an interesting decent pattern followed by a very abrupt landing. Luckily we had a very good pilot and we didn’t end up hitting any of the houses that line either side of the run way (like 20 feet off each wing). After landing we went through customs and were met at the gate by the PC Honduras staff and taken to our training facility in Zarabanda, in the mountains outside the capital.