Honduras: A tale of bruised knees, dead dogs and injuries not sustained

Somewhere under the roadside litter and lime-covered carrion, through the toxic clouds of burning plastic, somewhere away from the mangy dogs, and beyond the sexual advances of teenage boys, there is a gem of a country that I have yet to discover. But, please, be tolerant of my rant---being shot at was really the last straw.

I wasn't there for long, so perhaps I am not at all qualified to make any judgments about it. I'll just recount events that occurred this year, during Semana Santa.

Parts of the country are beautiful, indeed. For example, this is a photo of the sunset from Roatan, one of the famous Bay Islands.

In this photo, there is no evidence of events preceding it, and no hint of what was to come. This scene, alone, is beautiful. The context could have been better.

The beach from which it was taken was so infested with sand fleas that sitting on it was not an option. Perhaps the reason for this is that, unlike many other resort beaches, the coast here is not sprayed with poisons to keep the pests at bay. I can support that.

Nevertheless, I alternated with applications of sunscreen and insect repellent and escaped without a sunburn. The extremely itchy red patches were merely an allergic reaction to the fleabites. They would disappear within 72 hours, a few hours short of clinical insanity. And, considering the severity of my other experiences in Honduras, it seems petty to complain about the bugs.

My itinerary was more-or-less planned as follows:

Days 1 & 2: Visit Copan Ruins
Days 3 & 4: Travel to Roatan by bus and boat, enjoy beach
Days 5 & 6: Visit Comayagua and enjoy Semana Santa celebrations
Day 7: Depart for Nicaragua

I know, from experience, that nothing ever goes quite as planned, and I like that. But, I wasn't totally prepared for this:

Day 1:

Witness vultures devouring a dead dog on the way to the Copan ruins.

Listen to 90 minutes of culturally and sexually offensive jokes about Mayan women from hired local guide while visiting ruins.

Upon returning to hostel, observe that it took under 90 minutes for the vultures to completely devour the dog, save for its skeleton with which they were attempting to take flight.

Comfort less experienced traveller concerning dead, devoured dog.

Day 2:

Enjoy local beer and practice Spanish with locals in town square.

Resist advances from young men.

Refuse to buy cocaine.

Refuse to buy cocaine again.

Absolutely refuse to buy cocaine from the Honduran police station.

Return to hostel and realize the main gate is locked for the night.

Day 3:

Travel by hot, cramped bus to port.

Check baggage on boat, decide a cold beer would be dreamy, ask all dock workers, taxi drivers, restaurant staff and passengers, find none.

Board boat, notice local bar adjacent to dock house.

Steam across bay until dark. Attempt to collect baggage amid mosh pit of passengers, and realize dock workers gave me the wrong baggage tag.

Arrive at resort. Receive keys for the only room that is not beach front.

Accidentally knock anomalously large cockroach, while attempting to kill it, into travel partner's luggage while said partner is in the shower.

Break the news to her.

Day 4:

Wake up and go to beach, succumb to sand fleas.

Watch sunset. That part you know.

Go dancing and begin earning the year's worst hangover. (I blame this only on myself.) Stumble home with Australian and Irish travel friends.

Days 5 & 6:

Fall asleep on boat ride back to mainland, and reluctantly head to Comayagua for Semana Santa religious celebrations.

The processions really were beautiful, and the artistry of the colourful carpets of sawdust for "Christ" to parade over was spectacular.

We, a group of fellow travellers, were captivated until nearly 9 p.m. That is when we decided to stroll back to the hotel we all shared. By this time, I had grown accustomed to the ever-present pop of firecrackers in Central America. I am told this is a long-standing tradition, and a symbolic attempt to cheer up Catholicism's pouting saints.

Pop-pop-pop. Pop-pop-pop. With little puffs of smoke.


As we rounded the corner of the walled street in front of our hotel, I heard that familiar pop. But, just one. Pop. It was its singularity that was shocking. And I thought, as I turned my head in the direction of the sound: That's strange.

And I saw: A man on a bicycle coming toward us with his arm outstretched behind him, gun in hand, and people at the next intersection running.

And I thought: I didn't know guns actually smoked.

And I saw: The man's arm moving to our direction, pointing the weapon at us. The light from the street lamp transformed him into a beautiful silhouette.

And I heard: Pop.

And I thought, as I threw myself face-down in the street: This will probably hurt, but I probably won't die.

And I heard: Pop. And a whistle. Pop. And a whistle. Pop. And a whistle. And silence.

I lifted my head. There were six of us, and none of us had been hit. We had bloody knees and scratches, but that's it. No one had seen where the gunman went, so we walked the final half-block back to the hotel. The night manager was unaffected.

One of our group chose to watch TV, the newlyweds locked themselves in their hotel room, and I chatted with two other women until the adrenaline subsided and a headache replaced the void.

In the morning, others at the hotel asked us if we'd heard gunshots. I'd already been outside searching for casings. We heard gunshots. We saw the gun. That is all that really happened. Bad things happen, or they don't. Is there really any such thing as a close call?

Nevertheless, we opted to stay in and throw a hotel party the next night. A toast was in order like never before:

Cheers to all the bad things that don't happen. May more bad things fall into this category.

Knee deep...

I looked down at my arms. Still attached. Excellent. Blood? None. Car still running? Hmm. Maybe I can just drive out of the ditch. Nope. Smell of gas? Check.

I asked myself this: Do cars really explode after accidents? No answer.

I turned off the ignition and opened the door - motivated by the B-movie feeling that I might blow up in an entirely anticlimactic fashion. I crawled out of the car, and stood for a moment, knee deep in itchy brown grass. How unpleasant, I thought.

I had quite a trek back to the edge of the highway, through a swamp and up a hill, but people met me halfway. Since they were so excited about running into the swamp to rescue me, I thought I'd just take my time and assess the damage.

The car was nestled in the forest, about 12 inches from the nearest large tree and suspended comfortably on top of a smaller one which had been unfortunate enough to get in my way. You know, I really felt bad for that little tree. A transport truck, a family van and a sedan pulled over, its passengers all asking me the same questions. Everyone else just gawked as they drove past.

The truck driver offered me a bottle of water and everyone called 911. I insisted that all I needed was a tow truck, but passers-by who had witnessed the three 360s and backward plunge into the boreal forest at 100+ km/hour were unconvinced.The 401 highway is, after all, one of the most dangerous stretches of road in Canada.

It took about 30 minutes for the local emergency respondents to arrive - an all-volunteer gaggle. I apologized for ruining their Saturday afternoon, but one local woman assured me that I was just lucky I caught them before they started drinking beer. This was the same woman who hugged me while still in the swamp and wailed: "OH MY GOD!!!! IF YOU WERE MY DAUGHTER...!!! IF YOU WERE MY DAUGHTER...!!!"

Apparently I wasn't the only woman in shock. We hugged for so long that I realized I was doing it to make *her* feel better.

The volunteer firemen and ambulance attendants totaled about 10 men. They stared at me for a while and then trudged down to the ditch to check out the car. One-by-one they noted the proximity of the car to the large trees and told me I'd obviously used up all my 'lottery luck'. Another fireman referred to the accident as a "3-coupon fair ride."

They then planted themselves on top of the car and chatted. With several large men sitting on the hood, I was worried they might dent it. Then I took a good look at the situation and realized it was better to simply seize the photo opportunity. I posed, in front of the firemen, trying to look as indifferent as possible. I'll post the picture as soon as it's developed.

Then the police arrived - two handsome young bucks in aviators. I was never so glad I'd worn a skirt. The entire process was made very easy for me. A little flirting, a little signing of the accident report, a little flirting. He later insisted that I drive with him back to the nearest town where my car would be towed, because it would be more comfortable than the truck. He even put in a good word for me with the mechanic.

You see, I was only 2 hours into an 8 hour drive, on my way to a family reunion in the suburbs of Toronto. I had to get there that same afternoon, and the mechanics were all backed up. With a little pleading - and with the law on my side - my car was given top priority and put on the lift immediately. About an hour later I was told that my brake line had completely rusted out - contributing to my loss of control. I had no brakes. Apparently this is a common glitch for Hondas - and I mention that as a warning to those of you who have one.

I endured 3 hours of heckling by the mechanics and a discussion about God's Grand Plan. The work manager at the garage told me that God didn't intend to kill me, he was just trying to put things in perspective. I felt like Joan of Arcadia.

I drove the remaining 6 hours listening to old, mellow Bob Marley, desperately trying to stay calm and focussed as I navigated the Machine of Potential Death over the Ontario highways. I was in awe. It had taken approximately 20 people to come together to help me in order for me to be back on the road that day. Each of them mentioned both God and Luck. I couldn't help but notice that the section of highway where I'd spun off the road was the only stretch that wasn't bordered by a cement wall median or rock cliffs. It was either God - or the gap in the Canadian Shield that saved me.

I was emotionally vulnerable, a religious mush. Had a Pentecostal Minister been present, I probably would have sold him my soul. Fortunately, God had mercy and let me off at sending Thank You cards.

The day left me physically unmarked - merely a mosquito bite - and emotionally gooey.

How strange then, that a simple after-wedding party last weekend left me with massive bruising on my legs and scratches on my belly as a result of a sinking paddle boat incident. Sinking a paddle boat is supposed to be impossible.

God works in mysterious ways, indeed.

It proves that we have a responsibility as creatures of the Earth to learn from situations like these. And, that is why I am accepting it as my mission in life to spread The Word: God hates paddle boats.