VOMITAR: verbo intransitivo. To vomit, be sick.

The success of our ambitious exit plan from Honduras to Flores, in Northern Guatemala depended on us making an unlikely series of closely-timed bus connections. In a land where set timetables don’t exist (except for long distance affairs) and busses only leave ‘when full’, only a miracle of punctuality and demand was going to have us in Flores come nightfall.

In what appeared to be a wonderful omen, we filled the last two seats of our first minibus, meaning we would leave straight away on the 12-kilometre ride to the border. However, ‘when-full’ was being taken to literal extremes, and only when the standing room (this is in a Tarago-style van) was taken up did we leave. On-route to the border, we stopped a couple of times so that the van could be filled to bursting point. There were so many passengers that the door couldn’t be closed and people had to ride hanging onto the roofracks.

At the border, the Honduran official checked our documents and demanded a 20 Lempira (AU$1.15) fee. We watched the notes go straight into a straight into a stationery drawer, making it rather obvious that this was a fee headed straight for the official’s pocket. We demanded a receipt, and after a short disagreement, he huffily returned our money, then shooed us away muttering unintelligible insults.

The Guatemalan official was armed with the same story of an unexpected, unreported fee, but when asked about a receipt, assured us that of course, one would be forthcoming. Our tight schedule didn’t allow for much more argument time, so we paid and ran off to catch the bus. Later, under closer inspection, the receipt turned out to be a deposit slip from the local bank. It was such a cute effort (he even stamped the date on it) that I couldn’t go back for retribution, and besides, antagonising two border guards in one morning is never a good idea for the hurried traveler.

A rather unofficial-looking entry document

Now safely in Guatemala, we had more busses to catch. The van we caught was filled to extremes that made the morning’s earlier effort seem like a hedonistic cruise in a private limousine. Even as passengers were loaded onto each other’s laps forming three high human stacks, the bus stopped for more.

The unforeseen third connection was a welcome relief from the intimate overcrowding, and we were hopeful that the mid-size people mover awaiting us would provide a less distressing journey. Not so. The attendant told Angie to get in, even though all the seats and standing room were taken. ‘Where?’ she asked. The attendant motioned towards the empty space above the seated passengers, implying that she should somehow float in the vast free space below the ceiling. She crawled in, and stood in front of one row of seated passengers, holding onto the bench seat in front of her to prevent landing in their laps. I was shown to a spot behind the rear row of seats where I could stand, the rear door holding me firmly in place.

Slowly, the tinned mass of humanity moved away. Soon after, a child was sick. Unfortunately, the child was seated directly behind Angie, and Angie’s leg was covered in what appeared to be the morning’s intake of breakfast Coca-Cola. While I guiltily battled to suppress laughter at the extreme absurdity of the whole situation, Angie, already on edge thanks to the stresses of such close-quarters travel, went spiraling over the edge of tolerance. Instead of holding back laughter, she battled tears and filled the little remaining space in the cabin with a vicious string of brutal expletives.

The rest of the horrendous journey was filled with the miserable wails of a carsick child, and punctuated by a couple more fabric-staining projectile vomits. Thankfully by then, Angie had found a spot away from the impact zone. When finally, mercifully, the journey ended, we were dropped off in the most disgusting alleyway I’ve ever had the displeasure of smelling. With watering eyes, amid the stench of urine, we unloaded the bags from the roofrack, being careful to dodge the numerous piles of faeces on the ground, most of which were definitely too large to be of canine origin. Breathing through my mouth and running down the alley to fresher air, I couldn’t wait to leave this place. At the bus station, we were abused with heartbreaking news that we had missed the last bus to Flores. Never has the urge to catch a taxi to the airport been so strong.

It took Angie a few days to recover from the ordeal, but I forgot all about it when I saw the hotel pool in Chiquamula, where we were stranded.

Copan Ruins

Macaw Mountain Bird Sanctuary

Scarlet Macaws

Toucan eating

This is some sort of toucan type bird native to Honduras

There were lots of birds in large avaries, but there was also a free range section where the birds could hang out with the tourists outside the cages. Life must be pretty good for them there, because they don't fly away, even though there's nothing stopping them from doing so.

Three macaws and a girl

This was a really affectionate 8 month old macaw that just wanted cuddles

Toucan making fruit loops (I assume)

Buhos (owls)

La Entrada

Hotel Pool

Piñata

Copan Ruinas

Hotel La Posada

Tegucigalpa- Welcome to Honduras

I get off the bus and am immediately overcome by the suspicion that we should just get back on and continue the journey on up to San Pedro Sula. I pick up my bag and see a girl examining her pack. A large wet patch is developing on the lower section of her backpack, and there’s a puddle running it’s way down the pavement. She unzips the bag and pulls out a pink sarong wrapped around a smashed bottle of Flor de Caña (Nicaragua’s favourite rum). Its hard to feel too sorry for her; anyone silly enough to store a bottle of liquor in the very bottom of their 15 kg pack should expect problems in transit.

Meanwhile, Angie is arguing with a shady looking taxi driver of the pedigree that seem to be constantly hanging around bus stations preying on exhausted tourists. I’m so sick of these guys. He seems shocked that we don’t want to pay over double the going rate, and a couple of his brethren are equally surprised when we brush them off after similar offers. Ten dollars for a 16-block ride is excessive, regardless of the traffico. It’s nice to see him drive away from the depot without passengers.

We eventually find a driver closer to honest, and he takes to our hotel, which of course, is full. No problem though, the owner has another hotel around the corner, which turns out to be a caged-in concrete patch surrounded by three depressing dorm rooms. The myriad of empty pot plant holders and broken cement slabs gives it a warzone-like flair. As tempting as the prospect of a stay in a dilapidated prison-pen is, we move on and with the help of a wonderfully friendly local, find a room I would go as far to say is passable.

Our bags dismount in the room and we are left free to explore. Explore for food. Cuisine in Tegucigalpa consists solely of American fast-food. The centre of the city is clogged with chain burger and chicken chapels, and a hearty portion of Dunkin’ Donuts fills in the gaps between value meal vendors. There are even mini-Dunkin’ Donuts outlets, called DK’D, that fill in the gaps between the gaps, just in case you’re too tired to walk around the corner to an ordinary outlet. With a large serving of Burger King onion rings in my belly we set off for a wander, but quickly lose interest and instead opt to deal with the internet-based administrative details that hound us even on the other side of the world; email, bills, money management and future hotel reservations.

We retire to the room, where Angie sleeps and I work on an itinerary for the next few weeks. Travel around here isn’t based on a straight line like it is further south, where there is fairly obvious direction to head and a single road to move along. To get us around this upcoming tangle of Guatemalan roads, planning, my most loathed of tasks, needs to be done.

Later, we ‘dine’. An entrée of hope (searching for an independent restaurant) is followed by a main of grim surrender (more fast food). This is followed by desert- the inevitable shades of depression that hit when your two meals for the day have both been designed in shiny aluminium American R&D kitchens and marketed using a strident palette of primary colours. Not only marketed, but also created and designed using a shocking array of primary (and bold secondary) colours. I reflect on this as I stare down at my baked potato with unnaturally green broccoli drowning in a sea of cheese flavoured Tonka truck paint.

And so now I am here, typing away after a blisteringly cold shower in our aromatically challenged bathroom. Big Fast Food, taxi scam drivers and soulless hotels. This has been the Tegucigalpa Experience (however, as unpleasant as it sounds, the people were lovely).