Carlos graciously woke me up at 2:30 a.m. to catch my boat to Batalla. The water taxi, however, took its precious time in arriving, so I nearly hyperventilated with stress while waiting on the riverbank in the pitch black. Eventually, the owner of the ecolodge emerged from her room to wake up a young man (perhaps her cousin?) to run to the property next door and tell the captain (also a cousin?) to get a move on. Grumpily he rolled up on the shore at 3:30 and hurried me onto the boat, in what I'm guessing was his sassy response for my previously sassy response to getting stood up. Stupid men.
We shuttled around the lagoon for about 2 hours with only the moon and powerful flashlights to guide us as we picked up nearly a dozen passengers on the way to Batalla. Macjeck (a genuine Polish name, and sadly, not spelled "Magic" like it sounds) came to greet me at the truck depot. They had already negotiated with a driver - 250 lempiras for the 3 to ride in the back, and L350 for me to ride up front (this time not on the lap of a creepy Honduran molester). The driver had discovered the annoyingly repetitious sounds of Mexican "banda" music , and proceeded to play two CDs over and over again at an ear splitting volume the entire 5-hour ride back.
The heavy rains meant that our maniac beach driving was interrupted by a newly formed lagoon, so all the trucks had to wait in line as we boarded a raft one at a time and made it to the other side. I spotted the driver L100 to pay for the raft, expecting to recuperate my donation later.
When we finally reached Tocoa, however, confusion ensued. I asked the truck driver to drop me off at the Cotuc bus station - yes, I knew that this bus takes longer than other lines, but I also knew that it cost a lot less. As we whizzed past the indicated bus stop, he ignored my complaints and proceeded to drop me off at the more expensive line with everyone else. He was in a mad dash to get to the central market, so he all but chucked me and my pack out of the truck cab. In this crazy exchange for my change, in which I should have received L350 back (as I'd already paid L100), I got L250 back, as I would have if I'd never paid the raft fee. I yelled at him a lot in Spanish - "Pero ya te di 100 lempiras!!" ("But I already gave you 100!!") - but since I'm basically a 7-year-old when it comes to math, I couldn't quite figure out what amount I should be getting back.They sped away and I defiantly walked 15 minutes down the dusty highway to reach the one-room "station" for the cheaper bus line. As I peeled back the lid on my last can of tuna, I realized that I wound up paying L450 instead of L350. This means I lost $5, which isn't very much, but I was so furious that I was too stupid to figure this out on my own, that I hyperventilated once more as I shoved flaky bits of mush into my mouth. I decided that in the way that some travelers carry a pocket Spanish dictionary with them to foreign countries, I should carry a pocket calculator. I left my bag in the bus station and paced alongside the highway trying to talk myself down from the proverbial ledge.
The bus came 1.5 hours later and dropped me off almost directly in front of the La Moskitia Ecoaventuras office in La Ceiba. I hung my smelly, moldy clothes up to dry on the line in the back and showered off the stench of swampy rainforest. Then I walked a ways to an expat restaurant for a celebratory, end-of-the-road dinner (which involved a large piece of carrot cake and beer). Customers can make free calls to the U.S., so I let my loved ones know I was still alive before attempting a superficial amount of work on my first guidebook chapter. I stared warily at a group of 30-something American expats who either brought their newborns to dinner or talked incessantly about them. I thought, "Please, God! Not me! Not yet!"
I leave you kind folks with a video clip I took during the truck ride on the beach. I hope it makes you nauseous just looking at it.
No comments:
Post a Comment