Homesickness

 February 21, 2009

• 5:00 am Leave Managua
• 8:30 am Honduras border
• 12:00 pm Tegucigalpa
• 5:45 pm San Pedro Sula
• Hotel
• Dinner

 

Homesickness

Yesterday on the bus ride from Nicaragua to Honduras was the first time I felt homesick. I am midway through my trip to Mexico and Central America and have another 3 week trip to Argentina/Brazil soon after. And I began questioning whether I have the desire or energy to do one more to the Andean countries. I am not sure if the feeling was homesickness or wistfulness or some stability. Perhaps it was brought on by the motion sickness of being on a mountain road, of running of the movie Babylon A for the third time, or the air-conditioning in the bus which had me in a fetal position, or the regret of leaving my mouth guard in the hostel in Granada, or having to resolve a past due credit card payment from overseas when they will not accept putting it on another card. It could be that I am getting tired of picking up and moving every couple days: the stress of finding a place and orienting myself to it. Getting cash (right now none of the Copan atms are working), finding internet cafes, using transportation, negotiating with vendors, finding good food (thought this has not been too difficult), and making sure I don't leave anything behind (like my journal, my soap dish, or my mouth guard). Today in Copan, I feel refreshed but I will have to see what my wanderlust level looks like in another month.

The frustrating part of being in Honduras is that the ATMs. They go out of service. When I arrived, I went to three before I found one that worked, (the taxi driver was kind enough to locate one for me). In Copan Ruinas, two available ATMs are not working and the third is not in my system.

 

I have to learn how not to lose things. I lost my journal on the train from NYC to DC (which I was grateful to get back at some expense). I left my soap dish at Tia Carmen’s—no big loss but I did have to purchase another one in Mexico. And now I left my mouth guard in Don Alfredo’s Posada in Granada—a big deal as it cost $600 and $700 to replace it. I must have a system to putting out my stuff and collecting it so I don’t lose stuff.

 

Tegucigalpa is nestled in a valley. The city spreads up the hillsides. It is pretty but in many places it is ringed by shanty towns along the periphery indicating the poverty of its citizens.

 

Honduras is a beautiful mountainous country. At certain points there are coniferous trees, something I have not seen in other Central American countries. The climate has been temperate—not hot—and perhaps a little cool. The weather has been cloudy and it has rained in the afternoon for short spurts.

 

Downtown San Pedro Sula after dark is not a pleasant place to be in. I have never seen so many men find corners in which to relieve themselves. Watch where you step. Many places are shut down after dark and so it becomes a rather intimidating place to be in.

 

But I did have a memorable night there. After checking out where the cathedral was, I had dinner at a street vendor. All she sold was carne asada and chorizo. It was served with cabbage and pickled onions and corn tortillas. It could have been that I hadn't eaten any thing all day except for the terrible premade sandwich at the bus stop, but it was too good. Street food can be so delicious and cheap.

 

On the way back to the hotel, a woman was making baleadas (flour tortillas filled with black beans and other stuff) but I didn't know what they were. A older gentleman who had too much to drink said hello to me but I ignored him trying to find out what the baleadas were. He spoke to me again in English and I spoke to him in Spanish. He took me by the arm and had me sit down in his chair, saying I was his friend. I am learning to take the offensive but taking charge of these encounters by asking questions. His name was Antonio. He had worked in Kansas City. He kept putting his fist to his heart saying I was his friend. I got up to leave and he hugged me heartily. He offered me some drink but I declined. I realized I had to leave and pulled my arm from his grip saying, "goodbye". He blew me a kiss, saying I was his friend, I was his friend. Who would have known Hondurans would be so friendly.

 

February 22, 2009

• Mass
• Bus terminal
• 11:00 am leave San Pedro Sula
• 2:15 pm arrive Copan Ruinas
• Explore Copan Ruinas
• Telephone
• Museum
• Dinner
• Internet

 

February 23, 2009

• Café Welchez
• Hotel
• Copan Ruinas arqueologicas with Eduardo, guide
• Lunch

 

Copan Ruinas is a nice, quiet little town. There are not the armed guards present as in San Pedro or Teguichgalpa. And people hang out in the central plaza. The men here wear cowboy hats. I could live here.

 

Copan Ruinas Archeological Site is known for its Mayan fine sculpture and hieroglyphics. The stelle are impressive sculptures. The fine stone work reminds me of the work in Angkor Wat.

 

I belong or do not belong

I don’t gravitate to the fellow travelers and sometimes I connect with locals, Luis the construction worker from LA and Florida who I met on the bus and gave me the name of a friend who is a tour guide. And then there is the woman with whom I spoke while waiting for the bus in the bus station. But where do I belong. I notice that when I am traveling, I look to the backpacker crowd to know that I am not alone. Not that I refer to them, it is just that they offer me a level of comfort that being with the locals does not. And although I am Latino and blend in despite my backpack, I am still an outsider—evident in my speech and questions.