We left beautiful Utila, Honduras early Sunday morning, after missing the afternoon ferry out Saturday while discussing whether or not we should actually pack up and get on it. I, of course, was happy to stay in Utila an extra night. We hopped on the morning ferry at 6:20, which was to start what would be a very long day of traveling.
Angela, who had been having trouble popping her ears while we were diving, did not feel too hot on the ferry. She is never one to complain, but just as we were about to buy our bus tickets from the coastal city of Ceiba to the capital city of Tegucigalpa, she suggested that she might need to go to the hospital instead of board the bus. Travis stayed back with her, while we forged on with our four months of luggage plus some of theirs, and without any guidebook (Angela had the only Central America-specific book). We agreed that one party would e-mail the other party as soon as possible, but Internet availability being what it is here, we had no idea when that would actually be possible.
So we made the 7-hour journey to the capital, took a taxi to a hotel, and were basically on lockdown until the morning. One guidebook (borrowed from some other gringos in the bus) said that certain areas of Tegucigalpa (such as the one we ended up staying in) are “dodgy during the day and downright dangerous at night.” Great. At least we managed to sweet talk the hotel workers into letting the five of us stay in one room with two double beds to save money. Although the beds were at least made, there were piles of freshly chewed sawdust atop them--evidence of termites in the ceiling. There were also pubic hairs beneath the sheets. The TV was locked in a cage.
While looking for Internet, a bank (aforementioned banking crisis was still not figured out at this point) and food, a nice man standing outside the hotel told us that one way was dangerous, and so was the other. He recommended the three chicken restaurants that surrounded the hotel and saving the other two errands for the morning. We ended up cooping ourselves up in the hotel eating beans and eggs inside the hotel cafeteria.
On the way to the bus station, I stopped at a bank and it was closed. It was pretty important that I get to a bank before the bus as my parents had wired me money to a bank that was only on the mainland and I was heading to Managua, Nicaragua as soon as I was in that bus. So I went back a second time and by then it had a huge line. After waiting in that line, I was told that they didn’t do money wires. At least I had Mike, who is the only remaining person who hasn't had any banking problems since our journey. All of my friends were very kind and generous in my times of need.
We rode seven hours in the bus, then were met by a taxista who assured us he could get all five of us plus our 20 or so pieces of luggage into one taxi for ride to Granada. Sensing our doubt, he pointed to Mike and me and said, “two skinny ones in front,” as if that would convince us that this would be possible. The trunk was open with our luggage tied in and down with a rope and we all had our smaller bags on our laps.
It wasn’t too bad, but I did have to shift my weight every time the driver shifted into fourth gear, which was under my left buttocks. While we were stopped at a light, police officers came up to the car and mentioned the possibility of our luggage getting robbed. Our taxista, Edy, said that he would avoid dangerous areas. Then the police officer pointed out that it was totally not legit to have so many people in the car. He justified it by saying we were tourists, and that we was just driving us a few minutes away (it’s an hour ride) and that he would drive “muy suave.” He gave us the latter line again when he insisted that Mike and I did not need to buckle up. No one uses safety belts here, so I think it is somewhat offensive to the driver if a passenger does so, but we did anyway, saying we trusted him but it was just for safety. His response was that we should trust in God. This was a battle he would not win either way.
We took advantage of the second part of the ride by using Edy as our guidebook, asking him about Granada (oldest colonial city in Central America, according to him) and the surrounding area. While pulling in, he thought it was necessary to point out the “turistas,” who he previously characterized as people wearing shorts, t-shirts, and flip-flops, as if that was something only tourists wore in 90-degree weather. He pointed to two gringos, and identified them as tourists, and then pointed to a bum and identified him as not a tourist. Thank you, Edy.
Without a proper guidebook, we were left to ask Edy for suggestions on where to stay. He suggested one that was popular for “people with backpacks,” which ended up being full, but the one next to it had many vacancies. The beds were mere thin foam pads set upon metal and wood frames, and there wasn’t a sink. They did offer 10 free minutes of Internet at the Internet café across the street, which I needed since I didn’t even have money to pay for that. When we finally got connected, we found out that Angela and Travis had already managed to beat us here. We took a later bus and blew a tire along the way. They managed to get to the hospital, hop on a bus to Tegucigalpa right after ours left, and get on an earlier bus to Managua and Grenada.
Angela has a very nasty ear infection. She has to walk around with cotton in her ears for the next few days until all of the yellowness drains out.
Wednesday morning, we met up with the other two, ate waffles, switched over to their superior hostel, which has unlimited free Internet (although I couldn't connect to it most of the time), a free daily 10-minute phone call to anywhere in the world but Denmark, and much comfier beds, in addition to being set in a really charming colonial building with sweet murals. I used a computer to contact my mom, by which I found out that she was able to change my 10,000 Lempiras into 10,400 Cordobas. This is $500—money that I had asked for the week before when I needed half of that amount to pay the scuba classes and dives. I am trying to survive on $25/day for the rest of the trip, so needless to say, it is more than enough money.
Grenada was a really charming city, not unlike the two other colonial cities I have been to in the past four months: San Cristobal, Chiapas, Mexico and Antigua, Guatemala. But here, poetry is king. It is the birthplace of poet Ernesto Cardenal, some of whose works we read for my Liberation Theology class last semester.
On a primary school: "Poetry is the conscience of the earth."
Between two residences: "Poetry lives."
So now I am on the island of Ometepe--and island formed by two volcanos in the middle of Lake Nicaragua--reunited with the whole group and with my own money (albeit too much money) to spend. We leave for the beach of San Juan del Sur tomorrow morning, maybe to learn how to surf.
On a different and previous note… we rented an underwater camera our last day of diving, and took a lot of really crappy pictures. They are seriously awful. We couldn’t concentrate on both the photo-snapping and maintaining our buoyancy, but to prove to you all that I did it, that I have breathed 60 feet under water...
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