Jeff Adams

The lady who lives inside my cell phone woke me up right on time Friday morning.

“The time is now … six … fif … ty … A … M.”

I really don’t care for her voice although I’m sure she must be a nice person. I used to have a wonderful New Age type tune (like door chimes gently singing outside a beach bungalow) that would slowly crescendo until I woke up, but lost it when I upgraded to a new operating system. That’s when I found this lady inside my Android. My subconscious mind is now adjusted to wait for her voice each morning. This causes me to wake up immediately to shut off the alarm before the annoying Austin Powers theme begins to blast in my ear.

Packing up from 48 hours in Honduras sure didn’t take much time or effort and I was soon joining my affable host for breakfast. We were accompanied by Mario and Maria Teresa, other houseguests from Guatemala.

“Tell me again why you are flying out of Tegucigalpa.” the good doctor asked me. “I always prefer to fly out of San Pedro Sula.”

“Yes, I agree,” was my immediate reply, “but the flights were all full today and I actually got the last seat out of Tegucigalpa. It’s the season, you know,” referring to the many travelers during Christmas and the New Year that stretch out a bit more on either side of the holidays than they do in the United States.

“Yes, of course, it’s the season,” all agreed.

Mario gave me a little smile as he searched for just the right word. “The airport in Tegucigalpa, es … es … es  … algo.” (It’s uh, … it’s … it’s … something.)

I had not been through that airport in years but knew that he was correct and trying to be diplomatic as a guest in a Honduran home. I can remember years ago flying in and out of Tegucigalpa on those old noisy turbo props. Since the city is elevated, the planes thread the needle of the nearby peaks, twisting and turning from one side to the other as though looking for the light at the end of a tunnel. The uninitiated grip their seats in silent panic certain that a horrific crash is about to happen. Suddenly, the runway appears and at times you appear to be landing uphill.

Siguatepeque rests in the mountains almost exactly halfway between the progressive coastal city of San Pedro Sula and the mountainous capital of Tegucigalpa.

Looking out the window of the doctor’s magnificent home overlooking the Evangelical Hospital complex, I could see that my ride had arrived. Danilo (call me Dennis) is a twenty-something who works for the Biblical Union bookstores and is constantly traveling around the country. He’s the same guy who had picked me up in San Pedro Sula almost 48 hours earlier, waiting for me with one of those little signs with my name on it.

Those little signs don’t usually work for me for some reason. I can’t figure it out. Whoever is supposed to hold them up is usually held up themselves and don’t make it to the airport – or something. On our recent trip to India last month I think we batted two out of three. Oh well, getting a taxi is about the same deal wherever – except watch out for Kolkata!

I was glad to see Dennis again. After fueling up he gave me his version of the little spiel that the pilot gives you just before you pull out of the gate. You know – the weather in the destination city, flying time today, and any expected turbulence along the route. “And thank you for choosing to ride in Dennis’ van this morning. Now please sit back and enjoy the trip.”

“It will take us about two-and-a-half hours to get to Tegucigalpa. They are working to improve the road and certain portions are open, other parts are finished but have no markings and then there are lots of places where it is still torn up.”

The mountains of Honduras are huge, rugged and gorgeous. The roads that traverse them are not measured in kilometers but rather in the number of curves. I think that our English term “switch-backs” can be traced back to ancient Mayan language from this very region.

Sometimes four and sometimes three lanes, the new road is very nice indeed. Right out of Siguatepeue we were making great time. Then reality set in with constant swapping out one side of the road for the other as work progressed. It wasn’t really that bad and it will be a tremendous improvement when finished.

Dennis had asked me earlier on the ride from San Pedro Sula if I had been to Siguatepeque before. I told him that I had only passed through.

“I was born in Siguatepeque”, Dennis offered. “Tegucigalpa depresses me. I don’t like it at all. I will die in Siguatepeque.”

“Well, Dennis, you and I will have crossed the country from one side to the other by the time we are done.”

It was then I realized that I was not only on a journey through Honduras, but also through time. I had been this way before.

“Dennis, this is not the first time I’ve been this route. I’ve actually made this same trip a number of times – many years before you were born.” He appeared to be a bit intrigued.

“So, this road was just a simple two lanes and very different then?”

“Yes, it was a little different.” I proceeded with caution, not wanting to be the old Dude grousing about how it used to be in the good old days.

Some things never change, though – the raw beauty of the mountains, the fresh smell of the pines, the kaleidoscope of shades and colors chasing through crooks and crannies of peaks near and far, the clouds battling the summits for domination of the skies. The poor and simple folks, whose dwellings line the roadside, are always somewhere around the next curve. Some abodes are small yet proudly maintained in their simplicity, a life that often seems very appealing when overcome with the demands of modern life. Others are mere shacks thrown together of whatever is available.

Just as the road is a thread of life and commerce, so is the civilization that cradles its side. Here, drivers of huge semi-trailer trucks pull over to grab a meal at non-descript comedor (eating place) where the menu is whatever those in the place happened to cook that day. Sometimes there are more formal restaurants with colorful signs shouting words like tamales, pupusas, frutas, platos típicos and more. Most “shops” are no more than a rustic stand offering chilled coconuts or other such delicacies. There are little outposts where one can purchase a perfectly good bald tire from a pile if yours can’t be fixed immediately. If you ever wondered where the phrase “shade tree mechanic” originated, this is the place where the term is dressed out in all its literal glory. Farmers from higher up come to this lifeline snaking through the mountains. Here, they will purchase a plate of rice and tortillas as they wait for the bus that will take them on their infrequent trip to town to sell and/or stock up.

The road is a thoroughfare for non-humans, too. From time to time one shares the road with cows, horses, wandering pigs, scruffy dogs and the like.  Or, as I saw yesterday, dozens of buzzards fight fiercely with each other for a piece of road kill, ignoring the vehicular traffic at the peril of becoming the next victim.

Oh, and then there are the emergency triangles. You can’t leave home without them. Mario and Teresa commented on them this very morning. As they were preparing for the nine-hour trek from their home outside of Guatemala City to Siguatepeque, they remembered that in Honduras you must have one of those little bright red and yellowish triangle thingys to put on the road in case of a breakdown or other mishap. They actually got a ticket last time because they didn’t have one.

Supposedly the government decrees such things as red and yellow triangles to keep from having their highways littered with broken tree branches. Yes, tree branches. In Central America broken tree branches placed in the road are the universal sign of vehicle trouble. I think it probably goes back to the days of the Conquistadores when they put down a broken tree branch in the path to mark where a horse had lost a horseshoe or something. How can you tell if the broken tree branch in the road is actually warning of a disabled vehicle or if it just broke and fell from the tree? You’d just have to be there. You wouldn’t ask if you understood the system. Once you see it you never forget. It’s a pretty good system.

The score on the way to the airport today: broken tree branches – 3; red and yellow triangles: 0. Why waste a perfectly good triangle thingy as long as good tree branches are abundantly available? Just make sure you have one somewhere in your vehicle.

Every so often Dennis felt obligated to point out things that must have changed since my trips years ago, or things that must be the same. He was processing how it could be that this blue-eyed foreigner could have been familiar with his beloved mountains before he was ever an embryo.

“Dennis, you know the first time I came this route I was on the back of a motorcycle.”

The subject of motorcycles had come up as we discussed how nice the day was and how it would be fantastic to slip through the mountains aboard a motorcycle. Dennis bought a nice one a couple of years ago, but it was stolen. Then, he bought an ugly one, plain Jane, held together with duct tape and wire. Since then he’s had no problems

I think my motorcycle riding comment was as distracting to him as sending about five text messages while updating his FaceBook account. His look was a combination of incredulity, fascination and admiration.

“Yes, I was on the back of a friend’s motorcycle as we went from Managua, Nicaragua to Puerto Cabezas, Honduras to pick up a bus that had been shipped from the US filled with supplies. When we got there, we discovered we had received a false report that the bus had arrived. We had to go all the way back to Nicaragua the next day and wait another few weeks for confirmation that the bus had indeed arrived.”

“So, the next time it was up to me to drive the bus over this route to Managua.”

“You drove a bus through this road? You alone?”

“Yes. Even the government-assigned military guard refused to ride in the bus with me as he is required to do by law because it had so many problems. he feared for his life. My friend followed behind in his pickup that we brought this time instead of the motorcycle. I drove with the door open so I could jump out if necessary.”

Now, I had his full attention. Should I tell him the bus story? I haven’t told that story in years.

Next – the bus story.