Although we were on a first class bus the journey from La Cieba to the capital of Honduras, Tegucigalpa (Tee-goose-ee-galpa, Tee-goose for short) wasn't exactly a barrel of laughs. To be honest we're both getting a little jaded with the physical act of travelling, a problem exacerbated by the apparent damage chicken buses have wreaked on our weary bodies. Though we had to change buses at the halfway point of San Pedro Sula I was already feeling discomfort seeping into me via my glutei maximi. By Tee-goose it felt as though someone had inserted a telegraph pole up my jacksy.
The journey took us down the main artery of Honduras, the equivalent of the M1 I suppose as we travelled between the country's first and second cities, though I don't suppose many of our motorways would ever be single track and unpaved for mile long stretches at a time. We climbed some massive hills which the bus laboured to reach the top of and the dramatic scenery meant that there was plenty of buttock-clenching cornering to contend with too.
As we passed through the outskirts of numerous towns we saw a large amount of political graffiti and there were several roadside shrines which presumably afford the uber-religious driver the opportunity to praise the almighty for the opportunity to live in near 100% humidity in a mosquito infested thatched shack, should the fancy take him.
Religion is so important here and throughout Central America. There's no "Pedro y Maria" sun strips in the windscreens of their clapped out cars, it's all "Jesus Christ is love" and "Jehovah is my salvation". Religious services are heavily subscribed and people often cross themselves when simply walking past a church. Catholicism is, as you would expect, the major player but we saw a graphic on tv the other day stating that evangelism now counts 44% of the Honduran population among its followers. I don't want to court any controversy on here so I'll just leave it by saying 'each to his own'.
With the regulation 1 hour delay in departure from San Pedro Sula and further delay en route due to our driving through a storm of biblical proportions we pitched up in Tee-goose just after 1900 on Saturday, 90 minutes later than scheduled and apparently not in the Hedman Alas bus station but in a car park in an unidentified area of the city.
Before we could attempt to purloin a taxi to take us to our hotel we needed to retrieve our baggage from the hold of the bus. A simple task you would think but one, due to breathtakingly inept bureaucratic tosh, was anything but.
Picture the scene: a packed bus arrives 90 minutes late and all passengers disembark and crowd round the hold to retrieve their baggage and get on with what little remains of their day. A representative of Hedman Alas stands in front of the baying mob, refusing to sift through the baggage or to pull it all out and place it on the ground, waiting instead for the holder of the corresponding ticket to the case which sits nearest him to stake their claim. It's a sensible policy in some respects but because it wasn't explained clearly and therefore not everyone is aware that this is the drill it is doomed to failure. People began to get agitated and the prospect of fisticuffs hung in the air until, at last, ticket holder number 1 was identified. Ok, we're off and running. Now, ticket holder number 2, number 2................number 2................
And repeat approximately 50 times, the number of cases in the hold.
It probably took 20 minutes for us to get our cases by which time it was all I could do to stop Kerry clambering into the hold to get ours herself.
This is one of those situations where you have to chant the travellers mantra: retain your sense of humour.
We do try, but sometimes we get overwhelmed and laughing it off is not an option. High decibel swearing or strangulation of officialdom are the only actions that will quell our ire.
Our taxi drove us the couple of miles or so through the mean streets of Tee-goose; narrow, bumpy and littered. It was reminiscent of Guatemala City and the trepidation we felt was just as palpable as it was then.
The hotel was a haven from the unnerving squalor outside and though we hadn't eaten we were in no mood to wander about out there looking for somewhere to dine so went to bed after eating a slice of cake each, left over from lunch.
As ever, daylight changed the complexion of the place and though it's not likely to be described as a great or fair city any time soon it did have a certain grimy allure. Anyway, how can you not be enthused by being somewhere new?
We ate breakfast and then set out on a walk about, taking in the main square, the cathedral and, er, well, that was about it really. There isn't a great deal else of note.
We walked in an easterly direction, one eye on our surroundings in the vain hope of seeing something of interest and the other on the floor to ensure we didn't fall into one of the many uncovered drains. Some of these were absolute death traps. If you didn't break your neck falling down the hole in the first place then the foul effluent within would surely do for you.
We tried to think why there would be so many missing drain covers, eventually surmising that they're probably a valuable commodity for those with nowt, and there's plenty of them in the city!
Seeing a large and impressive monument atop a hill we began walking in that general direction but no matter how hard we tried we couldn't seem to reach it. It was seemingly a case of no roads lead to Rome. We found ourselves on a remote side road at one point with nothing and noone around except for a young couple of about 18 years of age at the side of the road. As we neared we saw that she was not only wearing only a bra but was fishing water out of a drain and drinking it while her chap looked on. The look in her eyes was one of pure madness and we considered briefly if we could help them before Kerry convinced me that if I got my wallet out they would probably kill me for its contents. In an ideal world I would love to have taken them to get cleaned up, bought them some clothes and a meal but would it have worked out like that? I'm part sorry and part glad we never found out.
The next part of our walk took us past the national football stadium, a crumbling concrete edifice surrounded by lanes of speeding traffic. As we circled it looking to see if there was a way in to have a look at the pitch we saw a chap setting up a stall selling football shirts. Why would he be doing this unless there was a game on we wondered and sure enough, after a quick chat with him, we learned that the Honduran Classico, Motagua v Olimpia, was being played that very day at 1600. Tickets were available all over town, just look for people selling them.
With not an awful lot else on we thought we'd have a bash at this so found a guy selling tickets and asked him how much. 300 Lempiras, £10.
Hmmmmm, "got any cheaper ones?"
"Si, 150 Lempiras"
"Ummm, ok, we'll think about it".
An hour later, sitting in the main square watching people come and go and after brushing all the mysterious powder out of our hair and off our clothes which the hordes of football fans had covered everybody with via a fire extinguisher, we saw a lady selling tickets.
At 65 Lempiras it was not only a bargain but a fifth of the initial price quoted by the first bloke. I don't mind paying a bit more than the locals but that's just taking the Miguel.
With a couple of hours to kill before the match we went to a local market, ate a slap up lunch and then made our way to the Estadio Nacional.
On the way we saw the police chase down a couple of lads, slamming one of their heads down into the road as a consequence of two burly chaps leaping on him and outside the ground found ourself amidst a jostling and chanting maelstrom of humanity, bedecked in the white of Olimpico or dark blue of Motagua.
It felt quite intimidating and I internally questioned if we should go through with this but then we found ourselves in the ground and sat at the halfway line surrounded by a slightly more genteel lot and it was fine.
The journey took us down the main artery of Honduras, the equivalent of the M1 I suppose as we travelled between the country's first and second cities, though I don't suppose many of our motorways would ever be single track and unpaved for mile long stretches at a time. We climbed some massive hills which the bus laboured to reach the top of and the dramatic scenery meant that there was plenty of buttock-clenching cornering to contend with too.
As we passed through the outskirts of numerous towns we saw a large amount of political graffiti and there were several roadside shrines which presumably afford the uber-religious driver the opportunity to praise the almighty for the opportunity to live in near 100% humidity in a mosquito infested thatched shack, should the fancy take him.
Religion is so important here and throughout Central America. There's no "Pedro y Maria" sun strips in the windscreens of their clapped out cars, it's all "Jesus Christ is love" and "Jehovah is my salvation". Religious services are heavily subscribed and people often cross themselves when simply walking past a church. Catholicism is, as you would expect, the major player but we saw a graphic on tv the other day stating that evangelism now counts 44% of the Honduran population among its followers. I don't want to court any controversy on here so I'll just leave it by saying 'each to his own'.
With the regulation 1 hour delay in departure from San Pedro Sula and further delay en route due to our driving through a storm of biblical proportions we pitched up in Tee-goose just after 1900 on Saturday, 90 minutes later than scheduled and apparently not in the Hedman Alas bus station but in a car park in an unidentified area of the city.
Before we could attempt to purloin a taxi to take us to our hotel we needed to retrieve our baggage from the hold of the bus. A simple task you would think but one, due to breathtakingly inept bureaucratic tosh, was anything but.
Picture the scene: a packed bus arrives 90 minutes late and all passengers disembark and crowd round the hold to retrieve their baggage and get on with what little remains of their day. A representative of Hedman Alas stands in front of the baying mob, refusing to sift through the baggage or to pull it all out and place it on the ground, waiting instead for the holder of the corresponding ticket to the case which sits nearest him to stake their claim. It's a sensible policy in some respects but because it wasn't explained clearly and therefore not everyone is aware that this is the drill it is doomed to failure. People began to get agitated and the prospect of fisticuffs hung in the air until, at last, ticket holder number 1 was identified. Ok, we're off and running. Now, ticket holder number 2, number 2................number 2................
And repeat approximately 50 times, the number of cases in the hold.
It probably took 20 minutes for us to get our cases by which time it was all I could do to stop Kerry clambering into the hold to get ours herself.
This is one of those situations where you have to chant the travellers mantra: retain your sense of humour.
We do try, but sometimes we get overwhelmed and laughing it off is not an option. High decibel swearing or strangulation of officialdom are the only actions that will quell our ire.
Our taxi drove us the couple of miles or so through the mean streets of Tee-goose; narrow, bumpy and littered. It was reminiscent of Guatemala City and the trepidation we felt was just as palpable as it was then.
The hotel was a haven from the unnerving squalor outside and though we hadn't eaten we were in no mood to wander about out there looking for somewhere to dine so went to bed after eating a slice of cake each, left over from lunch.
As ever, daylight changed the complexion of the place and though it's not likely to be described as a great or fair city any time soon it did have a certain grimy allure. Anyway, how can you not be enthused by being somewhere new?
We ate breakfast and then set out on a walk about, taking in the main square, the cathedral and, er, well, that was about it really. There isn't a great deal else of note.
We walked in an easterly direction, one eye on our surroundings in the vain hope of seeing something of interest and the other on the floor to ensure we didn't fall into one of the many uncovered drains. Some of these were absolute death traps. If you didn't break your neck falling down the hole in the first place then the foul effluent within would surely do for you.
We tried to think why there would be so many missing drain covers, eventually surmising that they're probably a valuable commodity for those with nowt, and there's plenty of them in the city!
Seeing a large and impressive monument atop a hill we began walking in that general direction but no matter how hard we tried we couldn't seem to reach it. It was seemingly a case of no roads lead to Rome. We found ourselves on a remote side road at one point with nothing and noone around except for a young couple of about 18 years of age at the side of the road. As we neared we saw that she was not only wearing only a bra but was fishing water out of a drain and drinking it while her chap looked on. The look in her eyes was one of pure madness and we considered briefly if we could help them before Kerry convinced me that if I got my wallet out they would probably kill me for its contents. In an ideal world I would love to have taken them to get cleaned up, bought them some clothes and a meal but would it have worked out like that? I'm part sorry and part glad we never found out.
The next part of our walk took us past the national football stadium, a crumbling concrete edifice surrounded by lanes of speeding traffic. As we circled it looking to see if there was a way in to have a look at the pitch we saw a chap setting up a stall selling football shirts. Why would he be doing this unless there was a game on we wondered and sure enough, after a quick chat with him, we learned that the Honduran Classico, Motagua v Olimpia, was being played that very day at 1600. Tickets were available all over town, just look for people selling them.
With not an awful lot else on we thought we'd have a bash at this so found a guy selling tickets and asked him how much. 300 Lempiras, £10.
Hmmmmm, "got any cheaper ones?"
"Si, 150 Lempiras"
"Ummm, ok, we'll think about it".
An hour later, sitting in the main square watching people come and go and after brushing all the mysterious powder out of our hair and off our clothes which the hordes of football fans had covered everybody with via a fire extinguisher, we saw a lady selling tickets.
At 65 Lempiras it was not only a bargain but a fifth of the initial price quoted by the first bloke. I don't mind paying a bit more than the locals but that's just taking the Miguel.
With a couple of hours to kill before the match we went to a local market, ate a slap up lunch and then made our way to the Estadio Nacional.
On the way we saw the police chase down a couple of lads, slamming one of their heads down into the road as a consequence of two burly chaps leaping on him and outside the ground found ourself amidst a jostling and chanting maelstrom of humanity, bedecked in the white of Olimpico or dark blue of Motagua.
It felt quite intimidating and I internally questioned if we should go through with this but then we found ourselves in the ground and sat at the halfway line surrounded by a slightly more genteel lot and it was fine.
Behind each goal were the Ultras of each team, the drum beating, bouncing and perennially singing section of fans. As is often the case with football, the crowd was more interesting than the match and though the game ended 2-2 and there was a mass brawl on the pitch I think I enjoyed the drumming and the 90 minute singing to the tune of 'Karma Chameleon' more.
There was a constant stream of hawkers selling drinks, beers, crisps, flags and shirts, some of them only young boys of 6 or 7. As the game neared its conclusion even younger boys of about 4 were picking up the empty cans.
On one hand you feel sorry for them but on the other it gives them an early sense of purpose and responsibility and you have to question whether our mollycoddling policy is any better.
On Monday we visited a quaint little town about 15 miles away in the pine forests to the east of the city but before doing so we went to buy our tickets for the following day's escape to Nicaragua.
Checking the map we reckoned the Tica Bus office was about a mile and a half away, a nice pleasant morning stroll and a chance to see a bit more of the city.
It turned out to be a bit further and it was a hot day with no shade on offer so we were glad to get there and get out of the sun.
"2 tickets to Managua for tomorrow please"
"your passport please"
When we will learn to consider everything that we need before setting out on such missions is unknown but we must if we are to minimise our frustrations.
This little episode followed 2 hours over breakfast trying to deal with the quite ridiculous Australian authorities (how DO you complete a form which you cannot gain access to, with information that you do not have to hand?) so my mood was not as buoyant as it might have been when we pitched up at Valle de Angeles, a sleepy little town unchanged since the 18th century.
It didn't take us long to appreciate all Valle had to offer (not a lot) and the only thing Kerry wanted to do, visit the art gallery, wasn't possible with it being closed on a Monday.
We had lunch in a restaurant overlooking the main square, a nice meal only tarnished by the number of flies buzzing around us as we ate and that it gave us both diarrhoea later in the day. The sign outside said "American's welcome" and though it didn't specify which American, they were friendly enough to us even though we were British and there were quite plainly two of us.
Back in Tee-goose we needed to go back to Tica Bus with our passports and buy those tickets. We could leave it until the morning but with only one bus per day to Managua we didn't fancy the prospect of not getting on it and having to stay here another day.
We took a taxi this time and negotiated a deal for it to take us there, wait and bring us back for about £4, money well spent in light of this morning's hike.
It was a tortuous journey there through throngs of traffic and a street market. The city streets are woefully inadequate for the amount of traffic on the roads. As recently as 1980 there were only 200,000 inhabitants in Tee-goose and now there's 1.2 million. On top of that the city was originally laid out without the car in mind at all.
Drivers get round this inconvenience by jamming their horns on as if this will somehow clear a passage for them through the chaos.
Well, we had our first piece of luck of the day on arrival back at Tica Bus. The clerk was just locking the door as we got there and had we been perhaps just 1 minute later we would have had another wasted trip. I don't think my fragile state would have coped very well with that so its a very good thing we made it in time.
Aside from settling our hotel bill where the slimy little scrote on reception tried to diddle us out of a tenner that pretty much wrapped things up in Honduras. It's a country that we feel we've done justice to by seeing 3 or 4 different towns, been out to an island, an ancient ruin, a national park for river rafting and also travelled the length and breadth of its main populated areas.
It's an incredibly beautiful place with friendly people and though it feels more 'on the up' than El Salvador and slightly more so than Guatemala it still has a long way to go before it's as developed as Mexico.
Next stop Nicaragua then and, according to a few people we've met, the best country to visit in Central America. I guess we'll soon find out if we agree.
No comments:
Post a Comment