Still thinking...

I was sitting after having eaten a large breakfast, people watching, when I noticed the ferry disgorge the latest bunch of yahoos on to the island. It was 11am.

As I watched them meander down the street, I spotted one guy bouncing a basket ball much like Bing had done. He also had a blue t-shirt emblazoned with the words ‘Las Vegas’ as he had. It was then that I spotted Sal and Carmen just behind him and realised it was indeed the Americans I had been travelling with a week or so before.

‘Awlright, you yanks?’ I called out in a terrible Cockny accent. That was for Sal.

‘No. Way,’ said Sal as he sidled up and gave me a high five and a hug.

After they had found a hotel and a room to drop their stuff in, we went to a place a bit further down the road and gave each other the lowdown on what had happened since we had last seen each other.

The East coasters went back to their hotel to sleep; they had had two days of hard travel from Belize to get here. I stayed in the in the restaurant, which had wifi, as I needed to try and call in a few favours on the other side of the Atlantic. It was going to take a lot of emailing and cajoling.

The reason I had split from Cody and Justin, and headed north as they went south, was that I had to do some serious bean counting and decide whether to begin heading back to Mexico, which would mean I would fail my mission of getting from the World’s biggest city to the World’s biggest canal, or to head down to Panama, which would mean changing my flights at quite a cost.

The Bay Islands were a convenient halfway point, roughly equidistant from either of my two points of departure.

My dilemma hinged chiefly on the two things which affect everybody on the planet; time and money. I had the time to get to Panama, but not back to Mexico. I had the money to go one direction or other, but not the money to change the flights.

I had arranged to meet the Americans at their hotel in the evening, about seven, I spent the hours up to that point emailing parents, flat mates and my University, chasing up money owed to me and trying to find out when the next instalment of my loan was due in my account.

After I had exhausted all possibilities, and all I could do was wait for responses, I went back to my room, showered, and walked to meet my friends down by the water front.

They certainly knew how to travel. My room was little more than a wooden box with a bed and full of mosquitoes. Their room had a fan, AC, a balcony, microwave, fridge, and a coffee machine. The hotel even had its own jetty.

We managed to pull ourselves away from the climate controlled confines of the room, and back into the balmy night.

We ate at a busy restaurant by the side of the road, and got speaking to a group of Americans who were working for the Peace Corps. I had always thought it was some kind of military unit, using the same kind of doublespeak as UN Peace Keepers, but was surprised to learn it was a means of volunteering over seas, for years on end, and the US government footing the bill. I wish the UK had something similar.

We made our way to a bar we had heard a lot about called Treetanic which was meant to be like taking a hit of acid.

The bar did not disappoint. It was a mind bending assortment of tunnels, bridges, secret cubby holes, and every wall was covered in glass beads, bottle tops, plates with Chinese lettering and dragons, and Mayan masks stared out from behind corners and through windows.

We sat by the bar, which was like the tree house from the film Hook, and drank rum and ginger ale, whilst talking and laughing.

The drinks were knocked back quite quickly and they began to catch up on me. We made our way down to a different bar which was out on the water; a long jetty which extended perhaps 50 or 60 metres out into the sea.

Now quite recklessly drunk, I announced my decision to swim. How I have not drowned thus far I have no idea.

The temperature of the water was beautiful, and I spent the majority of the time at that bar in the wet. Getting back on to the jetty proved difficult, the wooden planks being nearly two feet out of the water, and my upper body strength leaving a little to be desired. To solve this problem, I swam to the next jetty across, which was lower in the water, and climbed on.

It turned out to belong to another bar which was now closed. In my drunken state I had to climb over a locked gate topped with spikes to stop just such activity, well, they were to stop people getting in, I was trying to get out.

The rest of the night was a bit of a blur. I know I carried on swimming well into the early morning, and I remember Bing and me covering a ridiculous distance to reach a yacht moored out at sea which we clambered on to and dived off of.

As to the rest, such as returning to my roo m, I have no idea.

By nine o’clock I was standing on the jetty for the Utila Princess , a small blue and white catamaran bound for the island her namesake shared. Choppy waves slapped her side and she tugged on her moorings.

I had not seen a single gringo in La Ceiba during my brief stay, but now here, they came out of the woodwork like so many insects. This reminded me that I was heading towards yahoo central, but I reminded myself that sometimes yahoos flock to certain places with good reason; Utila was supposed to be very beautiful. Anyway, I had just spent the last four or five days in the ghetto of Tegucigalpa, I needed a change of scenery.

As we all found a place on the ferry, I felt my sea legs coming back. Every time I set foot on a boat I feel as though it has been too long since the last time, even if it is something as innocuous as a two hour ferry ride.

I stood and looked out at the water a while, trying to look like an old seadog, as though I knew the ways of the sea, pretending to gauge the wind and the list of the vessel, then went below and lay on a bench, my bag for a pillow, and let the motion of the waves put me to sleep.

The pontoon at the other side was swamped with people forcing there brochures for hotels, diving courses, restaurants and multitudinous other services on anyone with a backpack. I grabbed one advertising a waterside bar, ignoring the guy's sales pitch, wanting it only because it had a map of the town on it.

I zigzagged my way through the melee, adept at getting want I want and ignoring all else, found the place I had chosen the night before, and got a room.

I payed the women for one night and signed my name as Dr Harold Shipman. I wonder how many other serial killers are travelling around the World as I write. I know Justin always signed in as Charles Manson. In Thailand I was Daffy Duck, inspired by the book which made me choose that country as my first port of call outside of Europe.

I took a walk to get an initial feel for the island along the main drag of Eastern Harbour, the only real town on Utila, which runs parallel to the water’s edge.

I had travelled less than 20 miles across open water, but I may as well have crossed another border. There were still Hispanic looking peoples on the island, but in equal numbers now were the Garifuna, people descended from slaves from the time that Britain used to rule these islands.

The Garifuna’s ancestors had sparked a rebellion on Port Royal nearly 200 years ago, and were forcibly resettled on the bay islands of Honduras by the British. They had mixed with the indigenous of Honduras and Guatemala and spread across the Caribbean coast of these two countries, and a new culture was born.

So as I walked down the street, I was just as likely to see black skin and hear English spoken with a broad Caribbean accent as I was to hear Spanish. After what I had had recanted to me about the racial tension, and violence always imminent, in Jamaica, I could not say it felt like Kingston, but it certainly felt more like the Caribbean than Central America.

One could not even be sure of the Caucasian population here either. At first glance you might think a person is a backpacker, but when you hear their accent it becomes obvious that their ancestors have lived on these islands just as long as everybody else, even if they look as though they have stepped off the plane from Scotland, Ireland, Wales, or England.

Wooden villas on squat stilts with pastel shades lined the roads, and the traffic was mostly people on motorbikes, with a few gringos on quadbikes and more elderly travellers on what looked like golfcarts.

The familiar smell of life by the sea is a narcotic for me, and will always bring memories; petrol fumes from lanchas , ozone commonly mistaken for sea salt, rotting fish, and cheap tobacco. None particularly pleasant separately, but which combine to make my olfactory tingle.

I took it easy today, not doing too much, catching up on some writing and drinking a few beers.

When I walked back to the hotel I was lost in thought, and I nearly trod on what I thought was a large stone. It scarped rather quickly for an inanimate object, so my first guess at its identity was obviously incorrect.

I heard an angered, dry ‘clacking’ sound from the gutter where the shadow had scuttled. I bent down and saw the biggest crab I had ever seen squaring up to me, snapping its claws and shifting its weight from side to side.

I laughed, and stood back up. At this the crustacean sprinted full pelt sideways along the gutter, and disappeared in shadow.

As I walked on, a couple of youths were just ahead of me, looking a little shifty I thought.

I might not have noticed it but I was already paying them close attention; one of them, without missing a step, bent down real quick a deposited a knife by a fence post, then carried on walking. I drew my own knife for the first time; I had felt it somewhat pointless in Tegucigalpa when the guy pulled the gun on us.

I kept my pace slow, not wanting to catch up to these two, and they peeled off in another direction whilst I ducked into my hotel. I had no idea what any of that had been about and planned to keep it that way.

I was reading in my room when I noticed how full it was of mosquitoes. Normally they give me very little trouble. I never use repellent, which I am certain is a scam, and I have never taken anti-malaria tablets. These bastards though were intent on eating me alive.

I turned on my fan thinking this would make it harder for them to fly and therefore make it harder for them to bite me. It worked somewhat, but it also made them harder to hit.

I had read somewhere that mosquitoes are the biggest single killer of human beings ever.

Over the whole course of human history, mosquitoes have killed more of us than; war, disease, or hunger. Literally billions of humans have died because of them, more than the current population of the entire planet. Quite how someone reached this conclusion scientifically I do not know, but I am certain I helped tip the balance back in our favour.

The blurb on the back of my book became illegible due to crushed mozzie carcass, and I became a dab hand at using my Honduran football strip as a whip. Soon, the walls, and my football shirt, were streaked with minute amounts of blood, mine or other people's I had no idea. I was glad for my Hepatitis jabs.

It may seem strange that someone who abstains from eating meat or dairy would instigate such a holocaust, but if there is a chance that something can kill me, animal or human, I am going to kill it first.

Satisfied I had reset the balance between mosquito and man, I went to sleep.

Was up and out of the hotel by 6.20am, and sat bored and restless in the dull waiting room of the bus company I had chosen by half past.

I had lugged my backpack the three blocks from my hotel, ignoring Emilio’s assertion that I should get a taxi or a bus.

Past the scrap-yard with the cannibalised skeletons of cars I walked, past the bored looking youths sat on street corners, and past the crackheads leafing through the detritus at the side of the road.

This last group of people all perked up when they saw me, the garbage forgotten, and began to make advances whilst muttering; ‘My frien’, my frien’, una lempira. ’ ‘Hola, ’ I replied cheerily with feigned ignorance to their true desire, and carried on walking.

As usual I had been explicitly told ‘do not be late’ and arrived early , as usual, to find, as usual, that the bus was delayed. I sat there listening to the young kids walking the street hawking their hot meals and breakfasts;

‘ComiderComiderComider! CalienteCalienteCaliente! DesayunoDesayunoDesayuno!’

Eventually the bus, which was sat there the whole time, decided it would be delayed no longer, and we all got on and the machine trudged its way through the city, and out on to the highway.

I slept for the majority of the ride, but when I awoke, it was to scenery which reminded me of Southern India, possibly Goa. Palm trees, cows, dirt tracks and wide rivers.

We pulled into a bus station at three, and I got off the bus straight into a cab which took me to La Ceiba’s parque central . From there I walked through the town in search of the hostel I had chosen for myself.

The town seemed to have faded from its heyday, whenever that was. Pale pastels clung to the walls weakly like chalk dust, and market stalls hugged the sides of the roads. The beach was a little sad and strewn with rubbish. The pier looked like what I imagine Brighton would after the bomb. It was hard to believe I was looking at the Caribbean.

I threw my bags down in my room, and hastily departed to find a place to change some money.

As usual, the Book had told me a certain bank would change traveller checks but didn’t. This same scenario has played out all over Central America, and now it played out all over La Ceiba as I visited five separate banks before the world’s local sorted me out.

The only positive side to this was that I got to speak to a lot of very good looking women. It seems to be a truism, that in Honduras the most attractive girls work in banks. Don’t ask me why, perhaps all the modelling agencies fill up quickly here, but every bank I have visited thus far in this country has been staffed by beautiful women.

I went back to the hotel to plan how I would get to the islands tomorrow morning.

By early evening I began to get hungry, so I picked my way across town, avoiding similar dangers and annoyances as Tegucigalpa but with less severity, and ducked into a bar-restaurant just as the sky opened and let loose a torrent of water.

I sat under the thatched roof with a bottle of Corona and wondered, not for the first time, how all that rain could be kept out by layers of palm fronds.

I sat and ate whilst watching Fox News sports highlights and was surprised to see a lot of English football interspersed amid the usual baseball, basketball, and American football

A Honduran guy who looked as though he was auditioning for the role of ‘Stereotypical Latino Essay #2’ in a bad Hollywood gang movie was playing darts with his girlfriend by the bar. His two favourite words were; yo, and nigga, and I wondered; if a wigga was a white person wanting to be black, what was a Honduran wanting the same?

I was showing his girlfriend how to throw the dart as though you were clicking your fingers at the same time, therefore producing spin and making your dart more accurate, when Streptypical Essay #2 spotted one of my tattoos and asked what it meant.

I have the number 108 on my right wrist, and I never tell anybody what it means the first time they ask me. I decided to test his ghetto credentials.

‘It’s the number of men I killed last year,’ I said, taking a sip of beer and letting that hang in the air a few seconds. Eyes looked at me unsure what to make, then I let the smile spread across my face and slapped him on the shoulder.

‘I’m only fucking with you, it’s a lucky number.’ I said for the sake of simplicity.

His friends slapped their legs and shouted; ‘Ey homes, he could kill you and put a 109 underneath!’

Everybody laughed and I think this gringo gained a bit of respect.

I walked back to the hotel amidst the cloying darkness and stubborn rain. It was late and quite a long walk; halfway across the town. A prostitute called to me from the opposite side of the road; ‘Hey, yo puedo ser tus novia .’ I can be your girlfriend.

‘Si ,’ I replied. ‘pero no por gratis, eh? ’ But not for free.

I pushed the gate open and climbed the stairs to my room. I looked at the tired old bed, threadbare curtains, and the thin towels with holes in them and felt a little alone. I would have preffered to return to the room with someone, but I was not about to start paying for company.

I hadn’t slept passed nine for a long time, so rolling out of bed at 11.30am felt grand. I stretched like a cat lying in the Sun and yawned until I was sure I would dislocate my jaw.

Cody banged on my door; ‘Hey man, I’m getting breakfast. You down?’ ‘Sure thing,’ I replied. I jumped in and out of the shower, and we headed to a little comedor at the end of the road.

Justin and Cody were talking about getting the tickets to Managua, Nicaragua’s capital, today. I had decided, partially in my sleep, that I was not going with them. I had enjoyed my time travelling with them, but as Cody had visited these countries before he was a lot happier to skip through large chunks at a time.

I would not be happy with only seeing the two roughest cities in Honduras and nothing else. I had decided I would head to La Ceiba, then on to one of the Bay Islands, probably Utila.

I told them this and said I might try to catch up with them if I could change my flight back to the UK to leave from Panama City instead of DF. It looked as though I would not be able to complete the ‘and back’ part of my mission with the time left, but I sure as hell still wanted to get down to the Panama Canal.

After eating, I walked the few blocks between me and the bus departure points, different for each destination, and bought a ticket for La Ceiba for seven the next morning.

I met the Americans and Emilio near our hotel and was told they were going to meet some of his friends and family if I felt like coming along. ‘Sure, why not?’

Today was to be a day of contrasts. The first group of people we met were Carolina, an old friend of Emilio’s, and her husband and sister in their plush suburban home. We had to pass through two sets of barriers to get to the house, and once we were inside I could see that it was nicer than my parent’s place in England.

It was still early, but we were plied with rum and cokes, whilst Carolina brought out cashews, Bombay mix and homemade anti-pasta. I felt very strange in this middles class stronghold, less than 15 minutes away from our hotel, but a world removed.

Frances’ house, which was also big and well furnished, was still in the heart of the ghetto and seemed somehow to fit.

We sat and joked for a few hours, talking with Carolina’s sister who had just finished an English course, but was to shy to practice, before leaving the beige paradise with its doilies, nick-nacks, parquet flooring and women sat atop the toilet paper.

We waved goodbye and they forced gifts on us of glasses with Honduran rum logos on them, guidebooks to the country, and any of the snacks we had failed to consume. We gracias ’ed profusely and retreated to Emilio’s car and returned to the downtown area to visit his mother.

This was when the contrast was sharpest.

Emilio’s mother lived on a street where half the houses were boarded up and there was no surface on the road, the potholes feet deep. Kids played with plastic bottles on the street and stray dogs sniffed around the piles of smouldering garbage at the side of the road.

All this barely 15 minutes from the clipped green grass, smooth tarmac, and pillared doorways of the gated community we had just been in, which was only missing white picket fences which would otherwise have made it a little slice of American suburbia in the heart of Honduras.

We walked through the open front door to find the front room empty. We carried on through and found Emilio’s grandmother propped up in bed, 91 years old and attached to a machine by the side table. I nearly screamed at the inequality, but somehow repressed it. She managed a weak smile and lifted her arm at the elbow to wave.

We went back outside the house and Emilio saw his mother approaching. He gave her a huge hug and introduced us all.

We all sat outside by the street on wooden chairs and chatted inconsequentially for a while.

Emilio’s mother was a proud and dignified woman. Not a sign of the hardships she must deal with daily on her face. Her children were all now grown, but no chance to rest, her mother now needing the attention. Her Green Card to the US and $3,400 dollars stolen from her house only a few days ago, and no idea how to replace either.

$3,400 would be a huge sum of money for me back home, so I could not fathom how much that must have meant to this woman. But she just laughed and offered us coffee.

We left after short while to eat. We said our goodbyes and good lucks, meaning them, but feeling their hollowness. We got into Emilio’s car and drove downtown to the eateries.

After we had our fill, we drove to Frances’ to say one last goodbye.

We rang the buzzer and heard his voice of the intercom, then the metal door swung open and he stood there in only a pair of shorts and sandals, his Cop Killer pistol clipped to his hip.

‘Look at this guy,’ I said. ‘In his comfort pants and he could still take out the local law enforcement!’

‘Of course,’ He replied with mock gravity. ‘Always.’

We sat around his breakfast table and somehow got to dissecting his gun collection, which turned out to be large enough to destabilise an interim Government.

He produced two Barettas, his Cop Killer, a pack of hollow tip bullets, another pistol which I did not recognise, and a Remington 12 gauge double barrelled shotgun. He then left the room, coming back in giggling like a school boy with a bag containing a dismantled fully automatic M16 carbine which he put together with practiced ease.

The final gun he returned with was another automatic; a Heckler and Koch MP5 with an extended magazine.

My mind boggled at all this. I had never held a pistol before let alone a machine gun. Hardly even the police in the UK have access to this kind of kit. By far and away the most powerful gun was the Cop Killer though.

I had the specs of it explained to me; the thing could hold 26 hollow point bullets, produced no kick back whatsoever, was incredibly light as it contained only two pieces of metal, was illegal in the States, cost over $5000, and was the choice pistol of counter-terror and Special Forces around the world.

I put it back on the table and left it there.

After my education in all things hand held and lethal, we said our final goodbyes to Frances and headed back to our hotel. I said farewell to the Americans outside our rooms, then went inside to pack and to sleep.

Considering the night I had had last yesterday, I was impressed that I made it up by nine thirty.

I ducked out of the hotel, and took a taxi to and from the ATM, not wanting to walk these streets with a wallet full of cash even in the sunshine. I ate at a small comedor tipica , and chatted with some of the locals.

‘Where are you from?’ One guy asked in Spanish. ‘United States?’

‘No, England,’ I replied.

‘Ahhhh, the Motherland,’ he sighed, then turned his back to me and carried on drinking his coffee.

I looked at the back of his head for a few seconds, nonplussed. I was sure I had said Inglaterra not Rusia . I finished up and walked back the two blocks to the hotel. Cody was awake now so we went back out to get him breakfast.

Roberto screeched to a halt beside us and gave us a lift to a place to eat. He was actually at work, just on a quick break to get food.

‘What the fuck?’ Exclaimed Cody. ‘What time did you start?’

‘Six.’ Came the unimpressed response.

The other two ate whilst I drank a strong Americano. I had swapped cocaine for coffee. Roberto dashed off quickly after finishing his soup. I felt sorry for the guy. I could not be working at six in the morning after last night.

Later in the afternoon Cody, Justin and I went over to Frannces' to meet Emilio, the brother of one of the American’s friends in the US.

We sat in Frannces' luxurious living room, his eyes on us even when he left the room thanks to the six foot by four poster of him above one of the sofas. We were alternately watching Honduran kid’s TV, which is a very good way to pick up Spanish, and defending ourselves against Frances’ hyperactive, two year old son.

He was tearing about the house at a hundred miles an hour, jumping off of furniture, throwing toys, and punching me, body slamming Cody, and climbing on Justin.

Everybody was laughing, saying how cool they thought the kid was, and guessing what kind of mayhem he would cause when he was older. I sat there and bottled my desire to throw him out the window the next time he tried to climb up my back or leap at me from the sofa.

I am not a ‘children person’ if you had not guessed.

Emilio arrived and he was a head shorter than me at least and had no neck. He was loud, talkative and could gesticulate faster than an octopus with Parkinson’s disease on cheap speed. He told us he was a DJ and that there was a big night on in a club called El Castillo tonight. Some of the people from the party yesterday would be there, the younger, saner ones who did not smoke crack.

We had said we would take Frances out for a meal to say thanks for being such a good host to all of us, and we would meet Emilio later.

We hopped into the bullet proof behemoth for the last time and rode into town past giant neon logos and brands which lined the dark streets and made us feel like a ball in a giant pinball machine. I could not see the bodyguards this time, maybe they were being more discreet.

We ate in a different branch of the same place we visited on our first night in Tegucigalpa, except that there was a mariachi band playing the whole time. We managed to pay without Frances slinking off to beat us to it, then drove back across town to meet Emilio in a bar called Habia Un Vez .

It was a really swanky, trendy bar with graffiti art on canvas hanging on the walls. Blue fairy lights circled the walled-in smoking area, and we sat and sipped Cuba Libras with Tegucigalpa’s exclusive crowd.

Emilio showed up a few minutes later with a girl who looked about two foot taller than him. We sat and talked, or rather we sat and listened to Emilio talk, whilst we finished our drinks. We headed out into the night, where we said goodbye to Frances, and swapped his armoured personal carrier for Emilio’s beat up 4x4.

We drove downtown to the club which was perched on a corner above a busy road. It lived up to its name El Castilo , with faux buttressed walls, towers and ramparts.

We queued to pay the entry and get inside. Justin and Cody were ahead of me, and were inside first. The doorman, who looked 18, stopped me and said; ‘ID por favour.’

Needless to say, but I do not carry my passport around with me as a matter of habit when I am travelling, and have no other form of ID. I have never been ID’d the whole time I have been travelling; Asia, Europe, or Central America.

I simply gave the guy a withering look, said; ‘Conceda, ’ and walked on through.

Inside the club was like one of the scenes from the first Matrix film; tech-noir ambience, hard-trance, electric blue and acid green lasers arcing through the air, an island bar, and beautiful women everywhere. We lost Emilio quite quickly as he had spotted some of his ‘DJ friends’, yeah right.

There was a large screen above the DJ showing visuals which made you question your own sanity if viewed for too long; Van Gogh’s face melting and merging into a skull which came chattering towards the screen to morph again into The Girl With The Pearl Earring before exploding into a mass of sprinting greyhounds and geese.

I decided to head to the bar before I developed a paranoid complex.

Justin and I kept bumping into people from the night before. Cora, a very attractive Honduran girl with the most beautiful cafe coloured skin I have ever seen, a blond German girl whose name I could not remember who seemed to be whoring herself out to any guy with a pulse, and Alejandro, another Honduran national and third year medical student who made a bit of extra money on the side selling marijuana and LSD. I would like to see his prescriptions once he graduates.

I had got talking to an attractive girl who had studied in Germany but was from Tegucigalpa, only she wanted to leave for Europe permanently. Her name was Jenny, although short for what I do not know, I don’t think Jenifer is a popular name in Honduras.

My chances of anything progressing beyond a dance with Jenny were dashed when Cody, who had been yawning all night, began to pass out on a chair by the bar; we had to get him back to the hotel. I reluctantly gave her a hug and a mucho gusto and then headed for the exit.

We had long since lost Emilio and his six foot Amazon, so we stood by the corner trying in vain to flag a cab until after two in the morning. We made it back just before three.