Base Camp

It was nice to get out of the steamy mess of the city. We met up at the comparatively fancy Gran Hotel Sula, had our little intro to the program, then boarded a converted school bus reminiscent of my Guatemala visit, and headed out of town.

The initial bus ride was relatively short and ended at the small village of Cofradia. Still uncomfortably hot, the little community was a typical one with unpaved streets and various animals running around. In a short, chaotic span of fifteen minutes, we helped load our bags into the bed of a pickup truck and hopped into the other empty ones.

To say the least, the road heading to Base Camp was a bumpy one. Wide enough for barely more than a car in spots, with no guardrails between us and the numerous steep hillsides, the “road” wound up and up through the jungle and increasingly further from civilization. We crossed small streams that trickled over the road, and did our best to get comfortable, a task that proved difficult with the many large bumps and a steep upgrade that made all bodies gradually slide to the back of the truck bed, readjust, and repeat for the duration of the two-hour climb.

I try not to have expectations about these sorts of things, so my first glimpse of Base Camp was a relatively neutral one. The camp was laid out neatly with dozens of tents protected by tarps, a main office, and a building containing the computer and genetics labs. We were given a brief tour, which included directions to the urinal, a.k.a. a PVC tube sticking into the ground; the showers, whose water temperature is identical to that of the groundwater; and two types of toilets. One of these was a set of regular toilets that, although not connected to actual plumbing, still “flush” the water that you bring in from a bucket, but I have yet to figure out the process. That said, when it comes time to drop the Cosby kids off at the pool, I opt for the simpler “Long Drop”, which is essentially a standard outhouse containing a PVC vent pipe.

As spartan as my summer existence may sound, I am living in a veritable palace compared to the other camps scattered throughout Cusuco National Park. Here we have internet (weather permitting), showers, and entertainment such as movies at night. The other camps have none of these things, nor tents for that matter, just hammocks enveloped by mosquito nets. So, it is difficult to complain about conditions here and, overall, I am content with the level of luxury we have at Base Camp.

The little discomforts associated with this place, such as cold showers and often monotonous food, are the easiest to deal with. It is the more persistent annoyances that pose greater challenges. One of the main examples of these, to me, is the humidity. It is not hot here, in fact often somewhat chilly, but the dampness is penetrating and constant. Being over a thousand meters above sea level, we are literally in the clouds at times, so the moisture gets everywhere- on computer screens and benches, tent floors, towels, and, of course, clothes. We may not be hot or cold but, to be sure, we are damp.

In addition to the humidity, boredom is a nagging concern. The camp operators do their best to keep us entertained but, this being a dry camp (technically a dry park), the lack of alcohol makes for some dull evenings. Initially we found little things to keep us occupied, such as gathering around the blueness of the bug light, as drawn to the glow as the insects themselves, watching the huge variety of strange creatures fluttering about. The light, which was our equivalent of a fire to stand around, hasn’t been on in awhile, so we end up just listening to music and occasionally playing cards to pass the time.

Our little routines make the evenings go by decently enough, but since the majority of camp tenants are young people, we would jump at any opportunity to go out and party once in awhile. We have already examined, albeit somewhat jokingly, the possibility of drinking some of the ethanol used to preserve specimens, but concluded that, since the additional additives of the liquid were designed to prevent bored individuals such as ourselves from reaching our goals, we should probably hold out for some less toxic beverages.

I have considered smuggling in some beer from the nearby village of Buenos Aires, but since I am part of the staff here, and since it is still early in the season, I am reluctant to pursue such a risky endeavor at this point. Another week of lackluster evenings, however, and we’ll see what sort of chances I’ll be willing to take.

In the meantime, enjoy your warm, dry houses, your freedom to drink and eat whatever you want, whenever you want, and keep on reading!

Getting Here

The flight itinerary to Honduras was not a good one. Anything involving a 14-hour overnight layover in Houston cannot be good. I was as prepared as possible, of course, with my sleeping pad, travel pillow, earplugs, and travel sheet. Unfortunately I couldn't prepare for the security announcements, which run all night despite the fact that there's about four people in the airport. I think our nation is much safer from terrorism because the unoccupied D Terminal of George Bush International gets instructed not to leave its baggage unattended at 3:30 in the morning. Oh, and leaving every light on in the airport definitely keeps the bad guys (and sleep) away.

In my search for a good spot I consulted a large, black cleaning lady in D Terminal about a potential spot.

"What you need, baby?" she said.

"Will anybody bother me if I sleep here?"

"Somebody always comin' around. If they wake you up, they wake you up, but you best get to some kind of sleepin'."

I felt the need to point out the woman's skin color and size not because of the burning racism I harbor within myself, but because the phrase "What you need, baby?" cannot be uttered so eloquently by any other combination of race and girth.

Despite the unpleasant brightness and loudness, it was a more successful airport sleeping experience than my other two this year. In the first situation, in the unsecure area of Los Angeles International (they don't let you check your bag until morning for some reason), I had a great spot picked out. It was behind the farthest row of seats, safe from excessive light, but not from the good old security annoucements, which, after about 47 repetitions, led me to think "You know, lady, I don't have a bomb in my bag, but I'm starting to think about getting one if it will shut your ass up.”

I did the best I could to appreciate my dark little corner, until some time in the middle of the night when I was awakened by some flashlights and talking. Turns out, the voices and lights belonged to about five armed LAX cops. I figured that they were there to kick me out of my home, so I got my passport and boarding pass ready, but when I showed it to one of the officers, he just responded with an indifferent wave. I soon learned they weren't concerned with my sleeping arrangements as much as those of a woman nearby, who evidently had a flight, but not for another five days. What she didn't have, however, was much coherence, or an ID for that matter. She was promptly escorted, as I imagine were some of the other nearby "passengers".

My stay at Chateau de Tucson Baggage Claim was not so smooth either. I had a ridiculously early flight the next morning, 5:00, but the airline still wouldn't allow me to check my bag until 3:30a.m. So, the usual airport sleeping materials laid out, I gave sleep a shot. Not much success, however, after being briefly questioned by an airport cop, who evidently was not satisfied with the legible note I left for him, which contained my name, itinerary, and flight number. Oh well, at least I had my security announcements to keep me comfortable and safe. Also comforting was the wake-up call (and curious stares) that I received from passengers who arrived on a late flight and soon afterward congregated at the baggage carousel about twenty feet from my head.

So, you could say my Houston sleepover was a relative success compared to the other adventures, and the rest of the trip went smoothly as well. The flight from Houston to San Pedro Sula was a mere two hours and fifteen minutes, which was actually shorter than the jaunt from Detroit to Houston. On the plane I sat next to a guy from Arkansas who would soon be visiting a coffee farm in the northwest part of the country. I got the scoop on Honduras from him, as well as some answered questions I'd had about quality coffee.

I was worried at first about not having a work visa, but I decided that, since I am not being paid, that's technically not working, right? Well, I never found out, because the customs official simply glanced at the 'Tourist' box I had checked on my immigration form, asked "San Pedro Sula?" to make sure I was in the right place, then returned me my documents. I'm in!

I found my mochila immediately, then headed out to the main part of the aiport, which sadly contained a Wendy's immediately outside the doors of customs. I traveled over 24 hours to Honduras to see another shitty fast food restaurant? Things better get a little less familiar real soon...

They did. I found the driver of my hostel's shuttle immediately (yes, I wimped out and didn't take a cab because the shuttle was only a bit pricier, but actually turned out to be cheaper in the end), thanks to the sign he was holding with my name on it. If there's anything that promotes a feeling of self-importance more than someone waiting with your name on a sign at the airport, I have yet to find it. If you haven’t had this experience yet, you should arrange it some time.

I got some cash out of the ATM quickly and painlessly. Well, almost painlessly: the 18-to-1 exchange rate on the lempira made withdrawing 1,900 seem like a lot). The driver and I then went to meet our other passengers, a couple arriving from Texas. We headed toward the airport exit, which contained a little breezeway in which the air was a bit warmer than the moderately air-conditioned airport, prompting me to think, "Hey, this isn't so bad", a mentality that lasted the full three seconds of the walk through the breezeway, then BAM we were outside. It was kind of like opening a door to an oven. It was just after noon so the sun was completely out, there was no shade and, like most of Central America, it was humid. It was like being under a big sweaty blanket, becoming even more pronounced once we got into the old van, which had to be over 100 degrees inside, with no A/C, and I was sweating immediately.

Fortunately once we got going the open window provided a nice relief, at least in terms of temperature, but no so much for scenery. Wendy's was just the beginning- I saw Pizza Huts, Church's Chicken, McDonald's (of course), and a bunch of other crap-ass establishments that I would have loved to leave home.

San Pedro Sula is Honduras' second largest city after the capital, Tegucigalpa, but it kind of runs the show in terms of the country's business affairs from what I've read. Its appearance was not unlike that of cities I saw in Mexico and Guatemala, but the country's Top-5 spot in the "Poorest Nations in the Western Hemisphere" contest quickly became evident (I think only Haiti and another country are poorer than Honduras).

Littering is a massive problem in most or all Third World countries, and San Pedro is no exception. I have certainly seen garbage floating in rivers in Guatemala, Romania, and Bosnia, but the trash I saw in just a single stream in SP looked like a miniature landfill. Other than that, it was just a typical Central American city- crazy driving, unchecked diesel fumes, and the general calculated chaos I'd come to expect.

My hostel was decent, nothing special, but the cold shower provided another brief relief from the heat. I had plenty of time and little difficulty finding a pharmacy where I could obtain more Chloroquine for malaria prevention. Some broken Spanish, no prescription, and a few dollars was all it took.

I met up with the Texas couple and we walked downtown to look for a good place to eat. The city center, considering its being surrounded by half a million residents, wsa quite small with just a small main square with decent landscaping as well as a large, dirtyish church nearby. Other than that it was just a boring, scattered pile of chain restaurants and commercialism. Oh, except for the protest, or something that looked like a protest anyway- a large group of people marching down the street holding signs. Everything I've read about travel safety indicates that protests should be avoided, so our little group took the long way around the block.

We settled on a recommendation from Lonely Planet's "Central America on a Shoestring" guidebook, which miraculously manages to precisely direct the lives of thousands of travelers every year. The menu was nothing special, and the restaurant was out of both things we tried to order, but they had cold beer, which is important.

We finished off the hot, uneventful evening at the hostel, where I met a few of the people who I would be working with for the summer. After getting a pretty good intro on the project and what to expect, I decided to call it a night, and headed off to bed for a night of humid, choppy rest before my jungle introduction the next day.

Welcome to the Jungle

Once again, it's been a really long time since I've updated this, but I'm going to try and keep up with it now, for real this time. And, someday, I'd like to get all my stories, travel and otherwise, on here, so keep yourselves posted, even if there's months in between. The internet is such a perfect medium for publishing shameless narcissism, it's hard to turn down the opportunity.

So, a quick re-cap of my last 9 months: Europe >> home for holidays >> volunteered on farm in Mexico >> traveled around Mexico, Guatemala, Belize >> (screeching sound of brakes) went home to live with my mom and her husband in the cold, stale fog of conservative monotony that is my hometown, Alpena.

Why the return to the nest? Like all good things, the travel had to come to an end. I get burned out on traveling, believe it or not, and so does my bank account. But why go home for three long months? That brings us to my current location and how I got here.

Some time during my travels in Mexico, I came across a posting online for a Database Manager/GPS Course Leader wanted in Honduras for the summer. And, if you know anything about me, you know that this is right up my alley, so I applied immediately.

A short time went by before I got my first response and, after a few e-mails back and forth, I was offered the position! Psyched, I of course accepted, despite the fact that the job was unpaid, and that I would be required to live in a frigid wasteland, jobless, for three months.

Aside from a few bumps along the way (which can be expected when you're 27, unemployed, and living with your mother), the three months turned out well enough and I'm thankful for the experience. I learned some good lessons, both in life and on the computer, and was able to make my first website, this one being for my parents' moving company. Despite the fact that I had to learn nearly everything from the ground up, I think it turned out all right, so check 'er out HERE.

So, why take an unpaid position in the jungle for two months when I could probably find a decently paying job in the States? Well, for one, it's good professional experience. Up to this point, I haven't had this much responsibility in any job, and it will look great on a resume. Secondly, the cause is a good one. I'm not working for a timber company down here, this place is straight-up conservation. You know the cliche "save the rainforest"? The people I work for are the ones who carry out that task. Lastly, and this should be the most obvious reason for coming down here- more traveling!

Well, hopefully that will be enough to keep you reading, but you'll have to wait until the next post to hear about my jungle experience so far...