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.