My last week in Central America was flying solo in Honduras. Unfortunately, I don’t have many pictures to share since the bulk of the trip was devoted to scuba diving, and I don’t have an underwater camera. Also, simply put, the times I weren’t underwater, I was too busy enjoying being on an island. I spent a good part of the week in a bathing suit and flip flops, so the camera would have been more of a liability than anything else. For this reason, I’m just going to give highlights from that week:
- La Ceiba: Watching the second half of one of the greatest Super Bowls in recent memory at an ex-pat bar and hearing local Hondurans screaming “Who Dat”
- Utila: Befriending a CSer who also happened to be a great cook. Although I ended up staying at the dorm, I spent much of my free time (and there was a lot) visiting him for free food and illegally downloaded movies which are apparently the norm anywhere south of Brownsville.
- Utila: Diving at some of the best reefs in the world. The water was so warm that the last day, I was able to ditch the wetsuit altogether.
- Utila: Staying at the Underwater Vision dorms. After a full-day of diving, I pissed away several hours drinking beer, playing Uno, swapping jokes, and sharing stories with fellow travelers.
- San Pedro de Sula: Attending what essentially amounted to a Honduran nerd party which was comprised of several people sitting in a circle, eating papusas, and watching people play Guitar Hero and Samba Amigo (the Latin version which uses the Wii remote like maracas)
Unfortunately, in my naïve optimism, the thought never crossed my mind. I bought a ticket with a “domestic airline” called Maya Island Air. My host in Utila seemed wary of the airline, but it was considered one of the more reliable Belizean airlines. I found out exactly what that caliber standard actually meant on the morning of my flight. Being a good American traveler, I arrived at the airport an hour and half prior to the flight. To my chagrin, as of 9:30 AM, the ticket counter was not even open. I had to resist the urge to panic, since I knew from earlier correspondence with the airline that there was some confusion about whether they actually had flights on Sundays. I thought the issue was resolved (yes, there was indeed a flight), but the completely empty counter was a bit disheartening. This general feeling of failure was only exacerbated by the fact that the American Airlines counter right next door was bustling with smiling customer service agents and a long line of gringos with lots of checked baggage. Behind the desk, employees had even seen fit to decorate for Valentine’s Day with a bunch of heart-shaped balloons and pink shit. Show-offs.
I went to get some breakfast in the hope that somehow my acting normal and nonchalant would somehow will somebody to come. Sure enough, about half an hour later the Mayan Air had officially “opened.” I went and checked-in, and to my immense relief, the flight records and everything was in order. The woman kindly issued me a handwritten boarding pass, approximately the size of a business card, in which she filled in the blanks with pertinent information such as name, passport number, and flight information. Her handwriting was nice. This was looking to be an interesting flight.
With my “boarding pass” in hand, I was able to pass through “security,” and head to my gate to wait or the flight. My “official” gate was cordoned off and completely vacant. Not wanting to arouse suspicion by sitting alone in a blocked-off airport gate, I headed down one gate to the American Airlines area, which of course was packed to the brim and bustling with travel activity. I busied myself with reading and jotting notes in my journal, ignoring the ambient noise around me. At some point they must have announced boarding, since there was that universal swell of people clustering around the entrance to get a “good spot” in line, even knowing full well that they always board by group number. I must have been immersed in my book (aptly, The Odyssey), because I didn’t notice the lady from the ticket counter had come to tell me they were ready. At first, I was quite surprised that she was able to pick me out. She escorted me towards the gate where two other gentlemen in plainclothes and a security officer were waiting. It took me a moment to realize that this group was our flight, and her ability to remember me became immediately less impressive. Bypassing the mass of humanity that was trying vainly to shove their way onto the AA plane, we quietly headed down a hidden escalator to the side of the gate. As we neared the bottom, I realized that we were walking straight onto to the runway. Talk about curbside service. It was then that I saw the plane:
An air traffic controller informed us that to balance out the weight, we would need two in the back and one in the front. He looked at me and asked if I wanted the front in which I responded, “Chyeah!” Entering the “passenger side” door and sliding into my seat was one of the most bizarre and surreal moments of my life. The plane had less seating than our tour vans in Guatemala. The distance separating me and the cockpit was equivalent to the front and backseat of a car. There was a window separating me from the pilot, not unlike the ones in some taxis or limos. I had a complete view of the throttle and all the meters on the plane’s dashboard. Awesome. Obviously, it would have been superfluous for the pilot to use a mic for his announcement. He just yelled over his shoulder to let us know that we’d be there in an hour. He then shook hands with the air traffic control before turning on the ignition. Like… with a key. As we were cruising down the runway, he slid the window closed. Like… with his hand. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I always idealized the inner working of a plane as something akin to a spaceship: vacuum-sealed doors, state-of-the-art technology in the consoles, but at the very least, power windows. In a way, the whole flight felt a bit mundane. My two fellow passengers busied themselves with paperwork, while I amused myself by watching the various dials and needles moving around and attempting to decipher what they meant. Obviously, I had no idea what anything stood for, and I’m hoping none of you readers get the hair-brained idea that flying is easy, but it was still a lot of fun to pretend. It was a fitting end to a trip that was riddled with bizarre and hilarious experiences that would be my primer to Latin America.
Baby, you know I'll be back again.
**P.S. This entry completes the chapter of my Central American adventure. From now on, the entries will focus on my experiences in Argentina as a Fulbright English Teaching Assistantship. Thanks to all of you that have tagged along this far, and hope you'll join me on this next ride.
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