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.

Mexico: Free rides and rides of all kinds

After more than a month in this land of lime and chillies, Mexico can still surprise me. And, a few days ago I was taken for a ride I will not forget.

We started in Palenque, a jungle community in the middle of nothing but green and wilderness, spiced with ruins and the occasional poisonous creature. My friend and travelling companion, Christina, slept with a cobra in her room the night before, and the Howler monkeys roared continuously, nearly as loudly as the bullfrogs. Beautiful indeed, but the area was riddled with rich-hippies and pseudo-Hare Krishnas, so we opted to flee to the beach - partly so another friend could enjoy her last few days here under the sun before returning to the land of snowstorms and salted streets, and partly so our new friends, travelling Mexican artisans, could sell their wares. They make beautiful jewellery, and I'll be wearing some home.

We opted to hitchhike because collectively the 500 km trip would cost $500 USD, and catching "un ride" here is safe and certain, especially with two Mexican guys and five of us together at all times. We expected to spend the day on the backs of pick-up trucks, but ended up stranded at gas station about 80 km from our starting point.

No worries, though. Gas stations sell beer. Or, as our friends say: Very problem? Beer more. The longer we waited the drunker and more silly we became - harassing all those refusing to drive us. Then, with our minds properly lubricated, a transport truck pulled in to fill up and our fate changed.

During the next 5 hours, we rode backwards, drunk, for hundreds of kilometers. We really did. The transport truck drivers, you see, were delivering brand new cars to Mérida, for sale at legitimate dealerships.

And, I can now answer the age-old question: What happens to new cars before you buy them? Well, in Mexico anyway, some of those cars see plenty of rides before they ever reach the buyer. Rides of all kinds.

It began when one of our Mexican friends convinced the drivers to let us travel the entire way in a shiny new Camry, secured backwards on the bottom level of the enormous truck. We stashed our bags and climbed in. Bouncing down highway, my friends with the strongest imaginations pretended to drive, while the rest of us dozed in the back. Soon though, it became hot and stuffy in the Camry. As if they knew, the truckdrivers pulled over and came back to offer us a jug of water and the keys to the car. There was no reason, they said, that we shouldn't turn it on and use the air conditioning. I could think a few, but kept my mouth shut. There we sat in a running car on the back of a transport truck with a nice cool breeze, no longer sweating away that new car smell. We waited while the drivers siphoned gas from all the bottom level cars to sell at the corner store for a "cheap price". This side profit, we later learned, was slated for entertainment. One sin feeds another.

Off we drove, stopping only once more at a truckstop after dark, with the driver kicking us out of the Camry telling us he'd be done in 15 minutes, and disappearing into the vehicle with a plump truckstop prostitute. True to his word, we were ready to go in no time. God bless Mexico.

Hitchhiking with Zapatistas

Before I came to Mexico, I spoke with my father about how much my mother worries unnecessarily, and we agreed that I am to email her about my adventures only after they are done and I am once again safe in an Internet cafe. Then, he mentioned the unrest in the southernmost state of Mexico, foggily recalling the Zapatista movement, and I decided to say nothing about Chiapas for the time being. Of course, the exact place my parents didn't want me to go is my favourite area in Mexico. And, I am once again safe in an Internet cafe.

True, Chiapas is dangerous. In San Cristobal, an old colonial city high in the mountains, the sidewalks are worn slick, and in the drizzle they take on properties reminiscent of a Slip and Slide. The count: I fell twice, and so did my travelling companion. Locals seem a little surer on their feet. The sidewalks are also only wide enough for single-file walking. Maintaining conversational flow requires that one of the chatters walk in the narrow street. Walking in a narrow street in a country that affords all vehicles the right of way over pedestrians is perhaps the most dangerous thing one can do in Chiapas. Watch out for killer bicycles.

The incredible and accessible culture in and around San Cristobal provided a good reason not to wake up with a hangover or stay out all night listening to live reggae. Instead, my travelling friend and I stayed in at night to debate international politics with amateur ambassadors from many countries of the Western slant. And, to plan the next day's excursion.

After visiting the Museum of Mayan Medicine and climbing hundreds of stairs to view the city from its highest point, haggling at the market for already underpriced textiles, and being awestruck in a Mayan church (which deserves its own entry), we decided it was time to venture to the Zapatista village that was rumoured among the more lefty travellers to accept visits from foreigners - a sort of model village designed to educate outsiders about the new approach of the Zapatistas.

We hailed a public truck in a busy market, on the periphery of the city, to take us there in the early afternoon, and rode more than an hour into the country side down terrifying winding and plunging roads. The roadside vistas punctuated by signs reading: You are now entering Zapatista territory.

Having met a Spanish national on the way, we three approached the farm-style gate and were immediately greeted by a guard in black balaclava, only his eyes exposed. He asked us what we wanted and we told him we were there to learn about their community and the movement. He nodded, asked for our passports and told us to wait. Several other covered men looked on and he disappeared into a small wooden building where, we later learned, he was asking permission for our entry. Upon his return we were escorted into another building for questioning. Several men entered the room, surrounded us and blocked the doorway. As much as I wanted to be comfortable and confident, being surround by black masks on the faces of warriors in a community established on reclaimed land, well, it's a little intimidating. Betraying me, my hands quivered. I reminded myself that the unknown is always the most frightening. And, that I was there in the community to make it known to me, to understand more. Besides, you don't have to see someone's mouth to know they are smiling. I relaxed. Then it was time. Time to be presented to the community government, or junta, for our education.

A guard led us to the small wooden house, knocked, and motioned for us to enter. Here we were interviewed a final time, and approved. During the hour to follow, we listening attentively to the manifesto, delivered by a female and male representative of the junta. Well, really he did all the talking, and she napped throughout a portion. Who can blame her, though? How many times can one hear a manifesto?

Satisfied with our behaviour and interest, the junta rose to shake our hands and we thanked them with the only Mayan words we knew. They set us loose in the community, encouraging us to take pictures and return to our countries to spread the word that they are a non-violent, peace-loving people. I thought about how worried my parents would be if they knew I was there.

The farming community was quiet and colourful. Most of the buildings were painted with images of people, representing all races and two sexes, happily together in territorio libre. But, unfortunately, I was preoccupied.

The entire ordeal had taken long enough that I could now think only of finding a bathroom. There was none to be found. We were going to have to ask the guards. Still in balaclava, several were napping on sheets of cardboard next to the road entering the village. Understanding the urgency of our plight, one guard took it upon himself to search the village with us to find one that was functioning. As we searched, we came upon two more touristas with the same problem. Soon, he had a trail of women chasing him through the farm village, trying to convince him that we were not adverse to peeing in bushes. Just in time, however, he located one and returned to his napping post. It had been a close call for some of us.

Later on, as we browsed the souvenir shop, we wondered how much of the day had been pageantry, and how much was inspired by the fact that they are still considered an illegal entity. We bought a coffee from the general store/cafe and asked when the last collectivo, or public bus, would be passing through. Per usual, no one really knew, and, as the sun was beginning to set we thought it best to head out.

We waited. And, we waited more. And, longer.

Eventually, we began flagging down pick-up trucks of workers and melons, asking them if they were returning to San Cristobal. None were.

We waited. We began wondering what it might be like to sleep in the woods in the southernmost mountainous region of Mexico. Too cold, we concluded.

Soon, a local man came to the roadside, smiled at us, flagged down a speeding Volkswagen Beetle and said, "San Cristobal?" Recognizing his clothes and eyes, we nodded and hopped in. The driver appreciated the company, and described to us his coffee exportation business, encouraged me to marry a Mexican, and debated politics with this Zapatista guard new friend of ours as we zipped over the same winding road that brought us there, usually on the wrong side.

Arriving safely in the city, we rushed to the bus station and caught the next ride to the jungle. We were set to arrive in the middle of the night, with no place to stay. If the trip continued like this, I thought, I won't be able to tell my poor parents any of it.

The Central Issue

I'm preparing to embark on what I hope will be a real adventure.

Following one month in Mexico, getting my tongue around the language and no doubt learning to curse like a streetkid, I'll be heading to Guatemala. There, I'll extradite my potty mouth, and make my way through Central America with a small group, hiking volcanoes as often as possible to justify bringing my boots at all. I will mistake Howler monkeys for Jaguars, as I hear most tourists do. Most significantly, I will overcome my semi-paralyzing fear of heights in the cloud forest canopy---on suspension bridges. I am hoping the view will pacify me. I might cry. That's OK.

I suspect the real challenge might begin when I find myself in Cost Rica. Alone. I will look back at the highways, the mountains, broken down buses, boats and cold-water-no-water guest houses that I just came from, and do it all over again. Me. Alone this time. I will already know the sound of the Howlers. I will know where the bus stations are in Nicaragua.

Or, maybe the hardest part of the trip will be boarding the plane to return to Canada. I guess we'll see.

Even though my looming birthday serves as a reminder that my "Twenties" are coming to a close, I have one favour to ask of you: Please. Please don't tell my mom.

Mo(u)rning coffee

I would sit here at my wooden desk with papers strewn as I am right now, sipping coffee from my grandmother's cup, the hand-potted one with the purple thistle painted on the side. The lamp in the corner glows yellowish, creating a little warmth in my chilly apartment. Outside there is freezing rain, and the light from the window is blue. It arrives as foggy clusters rather than rays. I've finished my toast and am beginning to come to terms with leaving my home this morning, as I do every morning I don't sleep through.

I would write a more complete and insightful entry in my journal. Probably one of the story lines I've mentally drafted while walking to and from the metro station each morning (meeting all the same faces in either direction). Maybe the one that moved me to tears, causing passers-by to think I'd had a really rough day at the office.

It's cloudy at 9:15 a.m. and I am already supposed to be at work, were it a regular day. Having given my notice of resignation weeks ago, I'm anxious for my last day to arrive. I remember praying for a nine-to-five job, and now, I don't want it anymore. No wonder the powers that be ignore my requests sometimes. I imagine them rolling their gargantuan eyes.

In a few moments, I'll publish this post and fix my hair. I'll brush my teeth, and make my way to the doctor's office and then the bank. Then, I'll go to work, thankful for the respite from routine.

And, thank you for the coffee date.