Now I'm scared of being stabbed in my sleep at my new place and people t-boning me at intersections. My beanie is missing its top, and I have no idea how it happened.
This morning, as I ran in the cold, I thought about Honduras again. I tried to remember the way their sun felt on my skin, the way the people looked at me and smiled. All the green hills, and the clouds in the sky. The way their bumpy, cobblestone streets felt under my feet.
I have not forgotten. I've been putting it off because there is such a wonderful story to be told. But maybe I'll just have to tell it in bits and pieces.
When we arrived in San Pedro Sula airport after two full days of travel (we stopped off in Houston, Texas), we immediately felt the warmth of their changing season. As a matter of fact, it was hot- the kind of hot with a thick, humid blanket of air that instantly gives you a film of sweat that sits on your forehead and upper lip and doesn't dissipate, no matter how much you fan yourself.
Here's our first glimpse of Honduras as our plane was getting ready to land:
We tightened our grip around our hiker's packs, stuffed full of clothing, hiking food, and other travelers' needs, and rapidly tried to think of Spanish words to strike a deal for a cab ride to the next bus station across town. We've been ripped off by cab drivers before. We wanted a fair price.
We had no idea what a fair price would be, but according to our guidebooks, it shouldn't cost more than a couple of bucks.
"Cuanto cuesta? " we asked. "Tres cien limperas para una persona" they all replied, one after another. "Too much!" we exclaimed. And then we quickly tried to translate, but couldn't remember how to say it. They looked back at us with curious eyes. But their prices did not change. I felt the sudden urge to reach for my iPhone and google what a fair price for a cab ride would be. And then it hit me that my phone was dead, and I had promised myself not to buy a charger or use my phone on this trip at all. I realized I was on my own. No google to help me.
After asking about four cab drivers, we stood there under the beating sun, holding on to our backpacks. We had half a day to get to a bus station and take the long ride to our destination village. Time was ticking.
Finally, we decided we had no choice. Really, it was only $15 and by our standards, that's nothing. We had to get going. So we picked out an elderly looking man who looked kind, and climbed into his Corolla sedan.
As we began driving, Paul asked, "Como estas? Te gusta el Presidente? Es corropto o bueno?" He likes to ask the natives, every country we go, whether they like their president. We get different answers. This guy was honest. "Asi asi. No es bueno, pero no es mal." We laughed quietly and continued our gaze out the window, as our brains racked through more of our broken Spanish words.
Paul continued to think of questions in half-English and messed up Spanish and tried to continue the conversation in scattered efforts, getting really animated as he often does. I kept looking out the window and tried to take it all in. Before us were fields of dead grass, but the hills were lush and green. People were on the streets, and I saw a few policemen standing around with rifles smoking cigarettes. There weren't many buildings, a lot of open land dotted with small shacks. I read "Digicel" and "Coca Cola" on store walls and on doors. We passed by a few buildings that looked like small factories. I thought about Mexico and Peru, and couldn't help comparing Honduras to the previous Spanish-speaking countries I've visited. So far from what little I could see on that drive, I thought to myself it is a lot more "country" here than Mexico and Peru. Far less developed.
The drive was not long, and soon enough we arrived at the Gran Terminal Del Autobuses. It was a big bus station with a lot of commotion. There were at least a hundred buses parked outside and people were getting on and off. Bus attendants- young boys in street clothing- would stand near the buses and shout out the destination city loudly and usher people to their buses quickly and briskly. They would stand by the entrances of the bus station and literally grab people and their bags and rush you on a bus, acting as if the bus was departing in mere seconds. Then once the buses are full, they sit there until departure time. Sometimes a loaded bus would stay parked for an hour before the driver suddenly shows up and starts the engine.
We went into the station to purchase our tickets and found out our departure time. We still had an hour before our bus headed for Copan. We took a look around the waiting area. They all sure were looking at us. There were a few food stands, and we were good and hungry. We picked up a few food items- what looked like a bean burrito, a couple of taquitos, and a piece of fried chicken, and some Tampico-like juices. The food tasted a little stale. I read in the guidebook that Hondurans mainly ate a lot of beans, rice, tortillas, and fried chicken. American influence.
A thin, young girl with dark eyes came up to us with a baby in her arms and began speaking rapidly. We didn't have a clue what she was saying. Paul handed her a bill. She muttered "Gracias" and began to walk away. I asked Paul, what did she say? He answered, I don't know but it was clear what she wanted. I nodded. Paul caught the young girl's eye and motioned for her to come back. She paused and looked back at him. He reached into his bag and took out a few pencils. "Lapiz? Te gusta lapizes?" He held out the pencils to the baby clutched tightly in her arms. The baby began to smile and reach out to grab the pencils. The girl seemed confused and reluctant, but she allowed her baby to take the pencils from Paul's hand. Then she hurriedly walked off.
I decided to venture into the mall that was built inside the bus station, and went on a search to buy a headband to keep my hair from falling on my sweaty face. I couldn't remember how to say headband. As I tried to find the words, I browsed through each store, looking for a decent headband to buy. I found some, but they were either sparkly or too girly. Some of the girls came up to me and asked me questions in Spanish. I couldn't catch all of it, but I imagined they were asking if I needed help finding something. I said, "Tiene bando para mi pello?" I pointed to my hair, and demonstrated with my hands what a headband would do. They cocked their head to the side, thought for a second, and then motioned for me to follow them. They pointed to a few headbands that were bright pink and orange. I asked, "Otra colores?" They paused and then shook their heads no. I said, "No problemo. Gracias!" and kept walking.
I finally found a brown one, with black spots and asked the girl how much it was. "Treinta limperas" she replied. I said, "Ok." and paid her the money. I glanced at my watch. Fifteen minutes left.
I headed back to my bus stop with Paul, and immediately a crowd of boys grabbed my backpack off my back and shouted, Copan? Copan! and hurried me on the bus. We quickly found seats in the back and sat down. It was hot and cramped. I still had winter clothes on from our stop in Houston. I wanted a shower and a clean bed to sleep in but we had a while to go before I'd see a bed.
Peddlers began storming us on the bus. They'd shout prices and the names of their goods. Agua! Agua! Helados! Mangos! They tried to sell all kinds of stuff. One guy came to us and tried his hardest to sell us chiclets. We ended up buying a box. Paul handed him a boligrafo. The peddler smiled and nodded "Gracias!" with a good-natured look in his eyes. Paul and I smiled at each other. Paul had a lot of those to give out.
Slowly the bus filled up and it became packed and crowded. Bus attendants began pulling out stools stacked in the back of the bus and began placing them as seats in the middle aisle. People sat on each others' laps. It was so crowded I was shoulder to shoulder, completely surrounded by human bodies without a single inch of personal bubble space to spare. More than half an hour later, we were on our way. It was 3:15 pm their time. The guidebook told us it will be a four-to-five hour bus ride. We closed our eyes and allowed our tired bodies to nap.
Throughout the ride, we weaved in and out of sleep. I saw a lot of people continuing to get packed on our bus. A little girl was sitting near me with a bright pink princess dress on. She had beautiful brown skin and shiny brown hair. Her eyes were black and sparkly. I looked at her mother. She was thin, with a few wrinkles around her eyes, and her hands were chafed from doing some kind of labor. They both looked at me curiously for a few seconds and quickly diverted their gaze to a different direction. I imagined what that little girl's life was like. I wondered whether she knew about America and whether she compared her life to Americans. I wondered what she would daydream about, what she wanted to be when she grew up. I drifted off to sleep again.
I blinked and looked out the window. We were passing through some cities. The buildings were falling apart, dingy, dirty, in need of a paint job. Rubbles of concrete were piled here and there. Roads were not paved- they were either dirt or half-built with cobblestones or random slabs of cement. All the women wore really skin-tight clothing, no matter their figure. Most of them were curvy, with bellies sticking out but they had thin limbs. All the men were thin and short. I don't think I saw a single overweight man on my entire trip, as I later saw. A lot of peddlers were selling pre-cut fruit, sheets of coconut, bottles of Fanta and Coca Cola. A boy not more than eight or nine years old was standing outside the bus when we stopped to let off a few passengers. Paul asked through his window "Cuanto cuesta?" and pointed to the boy's peeled oranges he was holding in a basket. He eagerly replied, "Cinco limperas!" Paul then took out a pencil and handed it to him along with a bill. The boy had a blank look on his face, but handed Paul the orange and took the bill and the pencil and nodded. I think he didn't really know what to say or do. The bus pulled away and I looked to see where the boy would go. He began walking back to a fruit stand on the side of the road, where I imagined his family worked or lived or both. I felt my eyes getting heavy again.
When I opened my eyes, it was dark. The bus was climbing up a steep hill with dirt roads. I looked at my watch again. We had to be pretty close. Sure enough, a few minutes later we pulled into a small village. A sign read "Copan Ruinas" and the bus stopped about a mile after that sign. We finally arrived in Copan.
It was a small village but we were instantly wide awake, and hungry. But we needed to find lodging first, I couldn't get excited yet. We had no reservations, just a few names of hostels that we read in the guidebook.
**** to be continued.
AHHH! You can't leave me hanging like that!!
ReplyDeletei made a few edits so be sure to read this entry again :)
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