I think this is a great way to describe my relationship with sand flies: When I look down and see that I've been bitten, and I realize that it's a mosquito bite, I'm happy, because a mosquito bite will go away in a day or a two. A sand fly bite will stay on me for four (and counting) days, slowly spreading across my body like a colony of itchy warts that refuse to cease in their mission to make me miserable. While I'm normally allergic to spider bites, those haven't even registered on my itchy scale. They just sit placidly on my kneecaps like giant red lumps passively observing the raging fire on my hands and feet. If my stomach and upper thighs weren't totally spared (and unevenly pale), I might otherwise assume I'd gotten chicken pox again.
Where was I? On the 4th of July, I woke up early with the caretaker family, dined on warm oatmeal with fresh fruit and granola (delicious curveball, Hondurans) and headed up into town in the family truck. They dropped me off in the central park while they went off to attend the sermon, and I marveled at how quiet a pious town is early on Sunday morning. I zigzagged across the town under a blazing hot sun, with little order as to what places I visited. I had a quiet giggle to myself at the crumbling grave of William Walker, the American so-called pirate who in the 1800s made himself president of Nicaragua for a couple years. When he tried in Honduras, they shot him at the Fortress of Santa Barbara. They even marked off the exact spot for tourists! His headstone also clarifies that he was ¨fusilado,¨or executed. Way to go, Bill. I was hungry, but put off my feeding until I swung by Cafe Vino Tinto, which sounds utterly charming by name alone. Cute hand-painted placards point visitors off the park and down a neatly maintained gravel road to the garden-patio restaurant. Apparently everyone else in the state had the same idea, because it was so crowded I couldn't even figure out what was going on. My delicious meal of tapas and pasta ended up being another plate of...yes, fried fish. Granted this fried fish was the best I've had in the country, prepared with gourmet saucs and nicely garnished. But fish? Again? Por favoooor.
The family had offered to give me a ride home from town to the resort, but since I didn't have a phone and was already on the edge of the city, which I considered to be close to the resort, I figured I'd just walk home. That way they wouldn't have to swing all the way back into town. Turns out it was about an hour-long walk along a very dusty, swervy and apparently not-so-safe road for lone pedestrians (in terms of mugging). I of course only got whistled at, so I wasn't aware of this danger until I got home. It also turns out the family was waiting in town for my phone call, and didn't realize this until they called another relative who was there to see if I'd come back. My bad. Around the dinner table that night, I asked mama caretaker for another delicious boal of oatmeal for dinner. The family and I sat around for hours talking about her Catholic faith, the men's belief in local witchcraft practices, and my uncomfortable "yes, I agree with that" and "no, I don't think the world will end in 2012."
In the late morning, I backtracked across the coast, grabbing a bus to La Ceiba and a taxi to the ferry for Utila. This westernmost Bay Island is mostly known as a backpacker's paradise, as it has some of the cheapest diving courses in the world and an overall young, scrappy vibe. So I wasn't too shocked to see that almost all of the other passengers looked like me. On the fancy ferry to Roatan, many of the travelers were spiffed up Hondurans and foreign families, kids and all. In the wood dock, no credit card-taking ferry to Utila, most of us donned some form of shorts, be it athletic shorts, board shorts or nasty-smelling cargo shorts. Most of us had teched out backpacks with an excessive number of zippers, straps and ropes that never seem to find a function. Many of us probably needed a shower.
Once I got off the boat, I was greeted by the French bartender at an exclusive dive resort out of town and further south on the island. From their dock, we took a truck down a coral-lined road that was covered in scuttling blue and yellow crabs. They live underground, so when it rains, they come out of their holes and make constant mad dashes across the land. So, it goes without saying...crunch. After a shower, I grabbed a delicious glass of wine with some of the owners and other guests, and then we had a very gourmet filet of breaded chicken. Just kidding, of course it was fish. Still more delicious, however, was the homemade vanilla ice cream topped with cinnamon-covered roasted bananas. I might have cried at a second serving. Once the guests went to bed, the bartender, his Italian girlfriend and the resident dive instructor, a sassy Honduran, and I stayed up for a while enjoying the fruits of the bar. I thought it was midnight when I went to bed. Turns out it was 10.30. Aside from the raving backpackers, that's mostly what I observed island time to be. Wake up around 6, go to bed around 9. Matt would love this place.
On Tuesday morning, I made the very stupid decision to not take the instructor up on a discovery dive session for beginners. I was worried that if I went out with the group, I wouldn't have had enough time for my mad dash routine. However, everyone was so incredibly accommodating I'm sure I could've made it work. Instead I (finally) snorkeled and marveled at the brilliant colors and textures of the fish and coral, all while brushing back bits of log and trash. After a heavy rain, all the trash that mainland Hondurans dump into rivers or into the ocean floats in a giant mass toward the Bay Islands, arriving a day or so later and washing up on the beach. Most resorts and beaches have people clean up the debris, but inevitably it will come back. Almost all of Honduras' tourism is based on its natural offerings, so it's really a shame to see that the government isn't helping to protect one of the most important economic sectors. Then again, it sounds about fitting for one of the poorest countries in the hemisphere.
Anyway, pretty stuff. After the snorkel, I had lunch on the Upper and Lower Keys, just off the main island. They have a similar feel to Guanaja's Bonnaca - a community that was once built on stilts and waterways is now a crazy urban playground in the middle of the ocean. People from the keys consider themselves (and are considered to be) different from Utila residents, and the crazy cluster of more than 300 people mostly stays where it's at. Like the main island, people there principally speak Creole English and have suntanned English features. From the keys, I headed into Utilatown, the central hub of activity around which almost every dive center, bar and restaurant operates. A local real estate agent graciously offered to drive me around the island on his golf cart. We stopped at hotels and restaurants, vacation rentals and beaches, and as a 6-year resident on the island, he gave me great local insight and anecdotes for each place. Then I realized, just as in Guanaja, that is absolutely the best way to do ambush travel writing - have someone who knows the place well drive you around.
After our tour we met up with his wife and group of friends for an informal Utila bar hop. Utila being about 8 miles long, of course they knew almost everyone at every place we went. At a small martini bar, we devoured delicious bleu-cheese stuffed olives and cream cheese-stuffed jalapenos. I was disappointed in myself when the jalapeno was too much spice for me to handle. I've been out of Mexico too long. For dinner a had a - what? a fish burger? really? - and then we went to a treehouse bar at the hotel where I was staying. The hotel-bar can only be described as magical. The owner is an artist who specializes (quite obviously) in blown glass. Throughout the botanical garden he has built sculptures from shattered bits of glass plates, glass bottles, shimmering glass beads, tile mosaics, etc. He's built tunnels, steep staircases, oval-shaped pagados, sculptures. It is truly impressive. Personally, blown glass is my favorite artisan treat. I one day hope to own a lot of it. It will probably break, so maybe I can take a cue from this gue and glue-gun it back together into some kind of Yellow Submarine-like madness.
As with most places that I've stayed at, from luxurious jungle lodges to Bali-inspired cottages, I only had about six hours to really soak in the hotel's beauty, and I spent it fitfully sleeping. At the ripe hour of 5 a.m. I awoke to wash up and purchase a ticket back to La Ceiba on the 6.20 ferry. On the way I grabbed possibly the best biscuit ever (sorry, Mom and Pillsbury), so hot and fresh out of the oven that I had to hold it in a bag before I could devour its buttery goodness. Back on the mainland, I headed straight to a tour guide office to settle the craziness surrounding my trip to the Moskito Coast that has been plaguing me ever since I got here. I took a nap in a big dorm room with 8 single beds that the operater offers to clients for the night before a trip. When I arose a couple hours later, we had everything settled, including the part about the Honduran Institute of Tourism absorbing some of my trip costs.
So what's next? A five day adventure into the Moskito Coast, where I will purify my water with a little eyedrop bottle full of chemicals, pee in buckets, and probably offend the indigenous peoples. And then...MEXICO! And one day later...OHIO!
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Honduras: Gone to Guanaja
(<-- View from my cabin porch)Guanaja was a welcome surprise along my trail of travels. The island is the lesser known and least-celebrated stop in the Bay Islands. I arrived on Thursday with my standard itinerary and gut-clenching nervousness that something would go wrong and foil my calculated plans. In the end, however, I left wishing that I had accidentally allotted 5 nights here instead of two. Not that I could stand another second of the sand flies, but let me wax romantic for a second.
After I’d successfully crossed off my list for La Ceiba, I woke up early to pack and grab a “busito” to the airport. Walking up to the airline counter and purchasing my ticket on the spot was slightly horrifying, as I’ve become accustomed to buying plane tickets two months in advance and considering that last minute. I grabbed one of the remaining spots on a 15-passenger propeller plane to Guanaja, and as I waited in the lobby, I eyed the strange man in the neatly pressed khakis, cowboy belt buckle, Panama hat, slick leather shoes and a button-up black linen shirt that looked like it was worn for the purpose of unbuttoning to the navel. In Mexico, I automatically judge anyone dressed like this to be some kind of drug runner, and I didn’t make an exception for him. Naturally I glowered at him when he came near as I waited in the Guanaja terminal after a 30-minute flight. Finally he approached me and, as it turned out, explained that he was my ride. He’s the close friend of the hotel owner whose place I stayed at, and he’d come from La Ceiba to fish for three weeks. His strong English and tycoon-esque outfit I assume are the results of 30 years spent working in the Louisiana oil business. His crazy Caribbean English-Creole whatever-it-is, however, I give to Guanaja.
When our boat docked at the hotel, which is actually a private cay off the mainland, I approached the owner with a hurried hello and explained that I’d like to put my stuff down, see the place and leave immediately for the island to explore its accommodations. He didn’t understand a word of what I said, and when I spoke again slowly, he laughed at me and explained that I could see New York City in that amount of time. He said I didn’t need to hire a water taxi, that my new friend would whisk me around tomorrow at my whim. Finally, nothing to do!
I walked to my 3-bed cottage facing the calmer side of the cay and starting cheering to myself with excitement - turquoise, deep blue, seaweed green waters all outside my bedroom window. After a monstrous plate of breaded wahoo and french fries, I went for an awkward breaststroke just five steps outside my room…the water was only a foot deep in some places, but spiky bits of shell were too much for my princess feet to handle, so I just kind of bobbed until the wind picked up and I was too lazy to put up a fight. I walked to the other side of the cay along a path of dried black coral bits, then turned down a two-plank dock that lead to a thatched roof shelter with two fishnet hammocks facing more turbulent waters. I took a nap, and once the sand flies got a little too friendly, I headed back to my cottage to take a nap on the porch swing. When that fetal position got a little too cramped, I went inside and sprawled out onto one of three beds, taking another nap and retreating from those damn bugs.
Dinner was again a monstrous plate of seafood and pasta, and I polished off two Salva Vida-brand beers while the bartender and I watched Mexican telenovelas together. When he told me he was 20 the next day, it all made sense.
In the morning, my tycoon friend and I set off around the island. First we stopped in Bonacca, a city that is as densely populated as Hong Kong. What tour guides once deemed “Little Venice” for the charming canals that cut through the island city has now become a series of narrow concrete alleyways that zigzag like a labyrinth with little rhyme or reason. Far less quaint than little gondolas traversing through waterways, but I’m sure the city residents were like ‘Man, do I really have to get in this stupid boat again?’ and decided to pave them over. Like every place I’ve been here, there are no street addresses or numbers anywhere, just the main street, which is really a glorified alleyway.
Next we zipped by several shuttered dive resorts. When Hurricane Mitch ripped through the Caribbean a few years ago, it destroyed millions of dollars of tourism infrastructure in its path. With the financial crash and coup in Tegucigalpa essentially erasing all tourism to the area last year, many people couldn’t or decided not to rebuild.
We had a Port Royal-brand beer at a beach resort on the other side of the island at 11 a.m. It made me pretty sleepy, but hey, I wasn’t driving the boat. We stopped by a couple of places that turned out to be closed, then we headed to a bar-restaurant run by a German couple. And there we stayed for 5 hours, while I sampled tasty Franziskaner beer and wine fermented from a local fruit whose name I didn’t write down, plus homemade split pea soup. I chatted about Utila with a young fellow who I convinced myself to be a heroin fiend – mysterious black stuff under his finger nails, a nervous, shifty way of speaking and that one time he told me how he smuggles California weed into Honduras by way of peanut butter jars.
The German man who provided the local wine also brought along dried mangoes that he’d made at his nearby organic, self-sustaining farm. And my escort, predictably, unbuttoned his shirt one button at a time with every glass of that special wine he had. He made me play him in pool and, after cleaning the table before I took a turn, confessed that he used to do this for a living. Of course. Me and heroin fiend played darts for a while until it was evident that I would never come close to the bullseye.
By the time 5 p.m. rolled around, it appeared that for the second time I would miss out on some of Honduras’ best snorkeling. We had brought a mask and tube along in the boat, but something told me I might drown at that point. Back at the private cay, I had another hearty plate of pan-fried grouper and baked potato. A millionaire couple that owns a nearby cay, helicopter and charter plane had stopped by for a drink with the owner, and we looked at proud pictures of when Jimmy Carter and his wife had swung by Guanaja last April for a fishing trip. The woman explained that he had brought a 23-man Secret Service detail along with him. Before I could give a generic, “Wow, that many?” response, she threw up her hands in exasperation and cried, “And that’s with our money!” And then I immediately became very bored at the prospect of talking taxes and scratched my bubbling sand fly bites instead.
A 10-hour night’s sleep helped wear off that devilish Guanaja wine, and I got up early to watch Germany play Argentina in the quarterfinals with a bunch of enthusiastic Germans who stared at the TV like boys playing a video game. I was sad to go when it came time to leave, but didn’t have much time to dwell. After my 3-person flight touched down in La Ceiba, I took a collective cab to the bus “station,” a single concrete room with a man behind a computer and watching reggaeton music videos. From there, it was a 3-hour ride to Trujillo, and a very expensive cab ride out to my resort painfully outside of town.
The Canadian owners at the place I’m staying only come down a few times a year, so I’m mostly in the hands of the Honduran family who looks after the place. Tonight at dinner, while my new 6-year-old friend showed me pictures of the pet monkey on her mom’s cell phone, the mother explained that she had bought tickets to see famed Catholic missionary Salvador Gómez speak on Sunday, but that she couldn’t go since she had to look after me. It wasn’t as passive aggressive as it sounds, and it took a little while to convince her that I wouldn’t even be here during the day. Tomorrow is my day to run around like a crazed gringo scribbling in my soggy notebook with a dried up pen. So they’re dropping me off in town on their way to the community center, and then we’re all going to have a big 4th of July barbeque and set off sparklers. Not.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Honduras: Cayos Cochinos
Known in English as the Hog Islands, the Cayos Cochinos form an archipelago just off the northern coast of Honduras. I had scheduled a trip weeks ago with a tour agency, and up until a few days ago was set to go by myself. Be that as it may, me and 70 Honduran Adventists taking a church trip to the Palmas Real Resort in Sambo Creek all went together on around 6 motorized "lanchas" (also known as launches, whatever those are). It took around 45 minutes of zipping across the choppy waters to arrive at Cayo Menor, where all guests are required to watch an educational video about protecting the islands. Our head guide made a lot of sex-related jokes, but the Adventists seemed to giggle just the same. For example, "What fish do men most prefer?" In Spanish, "pez" is fish. So when he said "pezones," at first I thought he said big fish. Then I remembered that "pezones" means nipples. Jajaja.
After the talk, I got a very VIP private ride on a motorized canoe around the Cayo Mayor to visit two places to stay. The first is a community project built in the middle of a 50-person Garifuna village. Five percent of earnings from the two-cabin setup go toward supporting the local school. My guide was both the "hotel" manager and the schoolteacher, so he took me around both facilities as little kids popped their heads out from palm-thatched houses to see who the weirdo with giant sunglasses was. After touring the second, I spotted the mass of Adventists boarding the boats from around the cove. My canoe had already taken off, so I raced through some jungle paths to meet them on the beach. I hopped in the last departing boat just in time. Then I saw the boat I first took pull up to the short at the second hotel to pick me up. Oops.
The following stop was at the Chachahuate Island...which sounds remarkably like "cacahuate" (peanut). Rather than buy bottled water, many Honduras (and presumably Central Americans) drink purified water from plastic baggies, exactly the same kind as those gross milk pouches we got in elementary school that often tasted like rubber. For the life of me I couldn't figure out how to drink from the hole I'd chewed without splashing water all over myself. Eventually an elderly woman with ginormous breasts and an exposed bra that was shredded and sans elastic sat down close to me and starting drinking from a pouch. I studied her intently, then tried out her trick of grabbing the bag in a fistful and squeezing it upward. Genius. I also purchased a piece of "pan de coco" (coconut bread), a ubiquitous Caribbean favorite that I had yet to try. It was good, it was warm and freshly baked, but it mostly just tasted like...bread.
I should note that the reef encircling Honduras' coast is part of the 2nd biggest reef in the world, next to Australia's Great Barrier Reef. Cayos Cochinos is said to have such great snorkeling and diving that the dive instructors who work on Roatan and Utila (two of three Bay Islands) come to Cayos Cochinos for fun. That said, I was too busy running around to get more than ankle deep in the turquoise waters. I didn't really want to see some of the world's best snorkeling anyway.
After we came back to the boat drop off in Sambo Creek, I fell asleep at a plastic table in the adjoining seafood restaurant. Today made me incredibly sea sick, and even right now various hours later I still feel like I'm swaying. Cool vertigo gene, thanks Galluccis!! Then I had fried fish with slices of fried plantain and the famous dish "rice and beans" (oh wait...that's what it's called in Spanish, too). After the tour guide dropped me off at my hostel, I hopped in the shower, repositioned my drying undies and took back off into La Ceiba. And I just polished off a personal pizza while watching Latino music videos.
Tomorrow, it's off to Guanaja! Let's hope my plane ride tomorrow doesn't give me too many funny things to write about!
After the talk, I got a very VIP private ride on a motorized canoe around the Cayo Mayor to visit two places to stay. The first is a community project built in the middle of a 50-person Garifuna village. Five percent of earnings from the two-cabin setup go toward supporting the local school. My guide was both the "hotel" manager and the schoolteacher, so he took me around both facilities as little kids popped their heads out from palm-thatched houses to see who the weirdo with giant sunglasses was. After touring the second, I spotted the mass of Adventists boarding the boats from around the cove. My canoe had already taken off, so I raced through some jungle paths to meet them on the beach. I hopped in the last departing boat just in time. Then I saw the boat I first took pull up to the short at the second hotel to pick me up. Oops.
The following stop was at the Chachahuate Island...which sounds remarkably like "cacahuate" (peanut). Rather than buy bottled water, many Honduras (and presumably Central Americans) drink purified water from plastic baggies, exactly the same kind as those gross milk pouches we got in elementary school that often tasted like rubber. For the life of me I couldn't figure out how to drink from the hole I'd chewed without splashing water all over myself. Eventually an elderly woman with ginormous breasts and an exposed bra that was shredded and sans elastic sat down close to me and starting drinking from a pouch. I studied her intently, then tried out her trick of grabbing the bag in a fistful and squeezing it upward. Genius. I also purchased a piece of "pan de coco" (coconut bread), a ubiquitous Caribbean favorite that I had yet to try. It was good, it was warm and freshly baked, but it mostly just tasted like...bread.
I should note that the reef encircling Honduras' coast is part of the 2nd biggest reef in the world, next to Australia's Great Barrier Reef. Cayos Cochinos is said to have such great snorkeling and diving that the dive instructors who work on Roatan and Utila (two of three Bay Islands) come to Cayos Cochinos for fun. That said, I was too busy running around to get more than ankle deep in the turquoise waters. I didn't really want to see some of the world's best snorkeling anyway.
After we came back to the boat drop off in Sambo Creek, I fell asleep at a plastic table in the adjoining seafood restaurant. Today made me incredibly sea sick, and even right now various hours later I still feel like I'm swaying. Cool vertigo gene, thanks Galluccis!! Then I had fried fish with slices of fried plantain and the famous dish "rice and beans" (oh wait...that's what it's called in Spanish, too). After the tour guide dropped me off at my hostel, I hopped in the shower, repositioned my drying undies and took back off into La Ceiba. And I just polished off a personal pizza while watching Latino music videos.
Tomorrow, it's off to Guanaja! Let's hope my plane ride tomorrow doesn't give me too many funny things to write about!
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Honduras: Back on the mainland
Suicide watch following the failed catamaran has since been lifted. My extended stay in Roatan ended up being fine. After spending four hours sulking in the resort lobby, I arranged a stay at a cottage-resort in Sandy Bay. The manager of the first place I stayed at in La Ceiba (the fancy one) had previously worked at this place and earlier had given me the contact information. He happened to be staying there the same night with his girlfriend.
Aside: My first night in La Ceiba, the 3 of us went out to La Casona, a giant discotheque in the Zona Viva where I danced with a Honduran manchild who said he was 25 but looked 19. Just how I like 'em.
Anyway, the 3 of us went out again with the second resort manager and her fiancee, who also works there. The manager is an Argentine lady who was born on Oct. 29, 1985 - wow!!! We had Thai food and wine at a place I'd previously visited, which is set on a dock along the strip of bars and restaurants in West End, the biggest place for going out in Roatan. I'm so trendy.
After a night of listening to weird bug sounds and a scratching gecko thing crawl around in the lampshade, I woke up early to catch the 7 a.m. ferry back to La Ceiba. Manager #2 had arranged for her go-to cab driver to pick me up last night. He was supposed to show at 6, so by the time 6:15 rolled around, I almost started crying. I just wanted to get off that damn island! By 6:20, I stepped out onto the highway and grabbed one off the street, and he zipped me to Coxen Hole right in time. The boat ride was far smoother than the first (the first involved a tropical storm, though). I still wore my sunglasses, but this time I was put upstairs in first class, where there's less movement and U.S. sitcoms in English! Naturally the ferry pulled into the dock before I got to see if the boy who had been kidnapped by his father after his father stabbed his mother managed to escape. Good family stuff.
I'm back to my roots now and staying at a backpacker hostel. This afternoon I took a colectivo cab out to Sambo Creek, where a few bed & breakfasts and restaurants have popped up. I also took a 25-minute walk to a big resort down the beach. On the walk back I was fairly convinced I would die in the beachfront cow pasture. However, I managed to get glasses of ice water from every subsequent place I visited. Technically these places popped up east of Sambo Creek, because I later went into the real Sambo Creek and it's pretty "blah." That's how we describe things in the business. I took a school bus back into La Ceiba and got off at a private hospital, as I had earlier been instructed to find the hole-in-the-wall sushi place across the street. It was tasty, but I think everything in Honduras just melts by virtue of it being so unfathomably hot here. I have a soggy dinner napkin in my pocket that I've been using all day to wipe the dripping sweat off my face. I feel like a 300-pound creepy gringo man who wears unbuttoned Hawaiian print shirts by the pool as he sips scotch and follows local girls with his eyes. Post-sushi I walked home, got lost, it turned dark, I got scared, and then I found the place. It took a few screams of "Bueno!!!" to finally to get someone to open the gate. Now I'm going to wash my underwear in the sink. Hopefully they'll dry by the time I get back from my snorkeling trip to Cayos Cochinos tomorrow, but probably not, since everything here stays damp and humid foreeeeever.
Aside: My first night in La Ceiba, the 3 of us went out to La Casona, a giant discotheque in the Zona Viva where I danced with a Honduran manchild who said he was 25 but looked 19. Just how I like 'em.
Anyway, the 3 of us went out again with the second resort manager and her fiancee, who also works there. The manager is an Argentine lady who was born on Oct. 29, 1985 - wow!!! We had Thai food and wine at a place I'd previously visited, which is set on a dock along the strip of bars and restaurants in West End, the biggest place for going out in Roatan. I'm so trendy.
After a night of listening to weird bug sounds and a scratching gecko thing crawl around in the lampshade, I woke up early to catch the 7 a.m. ferry back to La Ceiba. Manager #2 had arranged for her go-to cab driver to pick me up last night. He was supposed to show at 6, so by the time 6:15 rolled around, I almost started crying. I just wanted to get off that damn island! By 6:20, I stepped out onto the highway and grabbed one off the street, and he zipped me to Coxen Hole right in time. The boat ride was far smoother than the first (the first involved a tropical storm, though). I still wore my sunglasses, but this time I was put upstairs in first class, where there's less movement and U.S. sitcoms in English! Naturally the ferry pulled into the dock before I got to see if the boy who had been kidnapped by his father after his father stabbed his mother managed to escape. Good family stuff.
I'm back to my roots now and staying at a backpacker hostel. This afternoon I took a colectivo cab out to Sambo Creek, where a few bed & breakfasts and restaurants have popped up. I also took a 25-minute walk to a big resort down the beach. On the walk back I was fairly convinced I would die in the beachfront cow pasture. However, I managed to get glasses of ice water from every subsequent place I visited. Technically these places popped up east of Sambo Creek, because I later went into the real Sambo Creek and it's pretty "blah." That's how we describe things in the business. I took a school bus back into La Ceiba and got off at a private hospital, as I had earlier been instructed to find the hole-in-the-wall sushi place across the street. It was tasty, but I think everything in Honduras just melts by virtue of it being so unfathomably hot here. I have a soggy dinner napkin in my pocket that I've been using all day to wipe the dripping sweat off my face. I feel like a 300-pound creepy gringo man who wears unbuttoned Hawaiian print shirts by the pool as he sips scotch and follows local girls with his eyes. Post-sushi I walked home, got lost, it turned dark, I got scared, and then I found the place. It took a few screams of "Bueno!!!" to finally to get someone to open the gate. Now I'm going to wash my underwear in the sink. Hopefully they'll dry by the time I get back from my snorkeling trip to Cayos Cochinos tomorrow, but probably not, since everything here stays damp and humid foreeeeever.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Honduras: No Manches
So that 4-6 hour catamaran I was complaining about doesn't exist. I checked my e-mails with the middlewoman, and they all confirm the trip for Monday the 28th at 1:30 (be there early!) Except when I arrived and no boat was at the dock, the hotel driver who took me called the captain and he said he usually leaves Thursday or Friday, and never once in his life at 1:30. After screaming "Que mierda!!!" at the driver, who then laughed at me, I decided against racing to take a ferry to La Ceiba and a second ferry from La Ceiba to Utila, which would wind up costing me $70. So here I am, another night in Roatán. I'm hoping to get some last-minute lodging at another resort, and also take the ferry company up on their initial offer to give me a round-trip ticket from La Ceiba to Roatán. And I'll just have to figure out when I can get back to Utila. In the end, I hope it turns out to be a blessing. When I do reschedule the Utila trip, I'll make it for 2 nights instead of one frantic hellish morning of racing to get everything done before the afternoon ferry. The only problem is figuring out when I'll get to do this, since my adventure to La Moskitia has yet to be confirmed.
I just rode 45 minutes to the dock, spent 5 minutes whining and took 45 more minutes to get back. And here I am at the resort from this morning, trying to figure out what to do. Of course this would be a great opportunity to get done all I didn't before, if I weren't in some peaceful, tranquil place (read: middle of nowhere).
Que mierda.
I just rode 45 minutes to the dock, spent 5 minutes whining and took 45 more minutes to get back. And here I am at the resort from this morning, trying to figure out what to do. Of course this would be a great opportunity to get done all I didn't before, if I weren't in some peaceful, tranquil place (read: middle of nowhere).
Que mierda.
Honduras: Tela, La Ceiba, Roatán
Just visited the place, but it sure is pretty.That said, I told myself I shouldn't complain. I could be in Afghanistan with Marie working dawn-to-dusk shifts as mean scary men increasingly attack my base. So yeah, I'll shut up.
Where did we leave off? My second night in Tela was also spent at an all-inclusive resort, where I lamented having unlimited cocktails and no one to drink with. I did have a caipirinha by myself at noon, but it just made me a little loopy for the bus ride to La Ceiba. I mostly just covered the neighborhood of El Naranjo in La Ceiba, which is tucked away from downtown in the jungle and facing the Pico Bonito National Park. It is absolutely beautiful out there. The first luxury lodge I stayed in was incredible...you'll have to read my later description about it, but my room faced a gentle waterfall, and a private trail on the grounds led to a bigger fall with a swimming hole. I was a little disconcerted when the manager told me to watch out for poisonous snakes. My only encounters have been with wimpy garter snakes, and even those made me feel like Indiana Jones (in the crippling way).
The next morning, I woke up early and moved down the road to an adventure lodge. I joined in on a rafting trip down the Río Cangrejal with two girls from California, and despite my concerns that I would die, it was a lot of fun. Exceptionally better than my first and only other rafting trip, which was down a lake-like, chocolatey brown river in Mexico. One of the girls and I then rented bikes and rode up and down the dirt path visiting lodges and sweating profusely. My jeans and tank top were completely soaked from all the beads of sweat dripping down my...everything. In the evening, the owner of a yoga retreat lodge invited us to dinner for some raw food sushi, which was amazingly delicious. The meat/seafood/cream cheese replacement was a nut paté made from blended almonds, onions and other stuff. Dessert was some kind of vegany raw food pudding, that was also delicious. I have to say, I felt great afterward. Stuffed, but not painful. But I practically drink olive oil for lunch and dinner, so maybe it's only a short-lived love affair.
On Saturday, I took a ferry from La Ceiba to Roatán. It had been pouring down rain since the time I'd gone to bed (courtesy of Tropical Storm Alex, that jerk), and so the ride was pretty rocky...although one of the rafting guides who happened to be going at the same time said that he had seen it far worse. I put on my sunglasses, closed my eyes and inhaled/exhaled deeply for an hour. I didn't puke, but I did have a raging headache for the entire day. Can't wait to ride again for 4-6 hours! My first day on the island was kind of a waste. It took me two hours to rent a car, and when I did, it was a giant red 4x4 Nissan pickup truck that was $30 more than a sedan (since they were out). I did a little driving at night to the West End, but since there are no streetlights and the hills are super curvy with steep grades, I counted my blessings that I didn't die on my first go and retired for the evening.
Yesterday, I spent about 9 hours driving all the way around the island, and I still didn't finish my work. But I had to turn in the car (I may/may not have damaged the bumper, but the inspector didn't see it. Fine, I backed up into a barbed wire fence...twice...I admit it), and the next resort had sent someone to pick me up at the same time. So here I am, sweating inside my air conditioned room and looking out at the pristine waters I have yet to touch. In an hour, I'm being shuttled back to the West End where I'll await that damn catamaran ride. I can't believe I have 2 more weeks left. Dios mio.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Honduras: Tales from Tela
What’s the best way to start the day in Honduras? With a baleada. Take a tortilla or slices of toasted white bread, smother with refried beans and top with cheese with chile and one egg dripping with oil, and breakfast is served. At least that was the case at my hostel in San Pedro this morning, where I sat gleefully at the kitchen table alternating sips of coffee, guanabana juice (I think the fruit is sour sop in English, ever heard of it?) with bites of baleada.
Hedman Alas is the first-class, top-of-the-line bus company for many routes cutting across Honduras. Knowing that, I figured it would be expensive for my trip to Tela, so my cab driver recommended a cheaper line that was still allegedly nice. My first warning should have been the $3.50 fare to travel 2.5 hours…a bit too much of a bargain. Alas, no a/c and trash shoved between the seat cushions. We also stopped every 10 minutes to pick up various peddlers pushing cellophane-wrapped hamburgers, holistic creams and candies.
I walked around a lot today in Tela's old town, leaping over the giant concrete gutters separating the sidewalk and street and making my dutiful rounds. In the last three days, I’ve had a bit of an issue with my perspective. I think I’m a little tired of seeing all the grit and urban planning nightmares as I’m fresh out of Mexico City, and it’s made me utterly unimpressed with what I’ve seen so far. But today I managed to coach myself out of that funk and remind myself that I’m not in Mexico, but rather I’m in a brand new country with lots left to see. It also helped that the beach is really pretty here. And the culture is very different, despite my natural tendency to brush it all of as "Mexicany."
Tonight I dined at a small beachfront eatery run by an Italian couple, savoring my vegetarian pizza with each bite, and drinking my lemoncillo in a glass of ice to make it last longer. The lady owner and I talked for nearly an hour about her move to Honduras, me looking like I'm 20, my washed out Italian descent, food, etc. She has the same close-cropped curly coif as my Grandma Gallucci, except this lady's was sandy blonde. She also sported the same Harry Potter-esque glasses that I did as a hermaphrodite 10-year-old. And then, if all of that didn't make her sound cool enough already, she didn't charge me for the food. I'm sure it had something to do with my mission here, but it was nice to not have to ask for once. My new best friend said that when she's bored or stressed, she experiments and creates thing. Today she happened to experiment with frozen flan, and she gave me a cup for dessert. Muitto delicious.
If it sounds like I'm rambling on my blog, you should hear what it's like in my head after I go long hours without talking to anyone.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
