On Friday, I woke up unexpectedly at the dark and chilly
hour of three-thirty. I couldn’t sleep from the excitement of a visitor and the
anticipation of a long journey: five hours alone to the airport in San Pedro
Sula to retrieve Dante, my handsome guest. There was no returning to sleep so I
reread Lonely Planet articles about how much I should anticipate paying for
taxis in the big city.
The first ride was by motorcycle, a rush down the mountain
that left my feet a little wet and frozen from river crossings. My driver,
fellow volunteer Alan, and I had set out to hitchhike to Comayagua, where I
would continue the journey on my own, but were almost immediately separated
when the first vehicle that pulled over, a slightly suspect looking van with a
small chemical gasmask symbol painted on the back, turned out to be going all
the way to San Pedro.
The driver and his son were unbelievably sweet newspaper
deliverymen, weary, quiet and delighted to have a change of companion. I sat
between them for nearly four hours, the landscape changing from foggy mountains
to dry-grass valley, to more tropical mountain roads lined with tire shops and
roadside “stuff” vendors, past the vast Lago
de Yajoa, and the dozens of fish restaurants all in a row, across farmland
and finally into the chaos of civilization. San Pedro Sula is famous as the “Murder
Capital of the World,” though far as I could observe, the real danger is the
road-rage from the traffic that doesn’t move and the lanes that don’t exist.
My driver, Eduardo, was no exception. Boy, did he have a
special relationship with his horn, accompanied by a sigh and a headshake
whenever any car stepped out of line. There were probably more honks than words
in the four hours we spent together, but in the end, he helped me cold-shoulder
haggle for a very cheap taxi ride out to the obscure airport, and I couldn’t
have been more grateful. Eduardo, who works incredibly hard distributing
newspapers in the graveyard shift, driving five hours daily between the two
biggest cities in Honduras, and his kind teenaged son in the purple Crocs, they
saved my hiney, reminded me of humanity, and saved me a buck. Sometimes it pays
off to take a chance on strangers.
Without a hitch (well, with a hitchhike, but no systematic issues), Dante and I reunited at the miniscule major airport of this country
(I was stunned by the insect-sized proportions of this place. The parking lot
was the size of one at a Target.) We bargained our way to the bus station and
caught an un-express schoolbus to Tela, our beach town destination two hours
away.* More honking and ample stopping filled our ride (as did ice cream!) and
I was impressed by Dante’s quick adaptation to the slow pace of travel and
life.
 |
| Well hello there, sea! Hello there, afternoon breeze! |
Our walk into steamy Tela reminded me immediately of Havana.
Charming and sea-worn, wrinkled and tanned men sit in chairs on the sidewalk
observing the passing foot traffic. Bachata music streams out of unbarred
windows and stray dogs roam, food vendors sell Honduran specialties our of
large plastic tubs in front of clothing stores and the pst pst catcall of strolling young gawkers fills the air. Tela is
wonderful.
ACCOMMODATION RECOMMENDATION! Before this trip I had tried to research
Tela, which is only breaking the surface of tourism, and had no success in
finding a place to stay. While we were strolling into downtown, six blocks from
the beach, we were beckoned “Pase
adelante!” by a sweet woman inside Hotel Bertha, an unsuspecting, clean,
inviting, barebones hotel. We passed inside and were given a room with a
fantastic rotating fan, towels and even a tiny bar of soap for 280 Lempiras –
less than $15 a night. For travelers like us who want to spend time at the
beach and don’t need much but a comfortable mattress, a cold shower and
friendly service, people have to stay here.
And so we passed the weekend mostly not in our cheap and
lovely room but in the streets of Tela, walking around town, eating everything,
swimming in the warm and beautiful Caribbean, chatting under palm trees,
shooing away the women who want to braid my hair (oh come on, it will look
terrible), buying ice cream cones, meeting curious strangers, and happening on
the most peculiar things, like a truck transporting a pair of fully-grown
lions.
Each hour seemed to change the city so much – first there
are fruit vendors, then no fruit vendors, then there are crowds of shoppers,
then there is no one, then there are buses, then no buses. Where did everyone
go? Maybe they were ebbing and flowing like us, in and out of nap time in the
heat of the day. We kept finding ourselves on the same streets, completely
impressed by their novelty until we figured out we had already been there,
twice.
The best of coastal life passed between us for two days and
we walked out at sunrise on Sunday, satisfied, rested and well-fed. We arrived
back at school via hitch, hitch, bus, hitch and hike, just in time to make
tortillas.
Thanks to Eduardo, every baleada maker in Tela, Hotel Bertha
and the superior Caribbean for a well-spent rest.
*I left home at 6AM. We arrived in Tela at 4PM.
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