Safe Arrival in La Ceiba, Dec.28th 2009

La Ceiba, Honduras…. 10:30am and it’s already 28C (82.5F) with high overcast, 1000% humidity and brief moments of blazing sunshine!
Yes, Northern friends, you have permission to call me bad names but I’m barefoot and comfy and as happy as can be what with major construction happening in the hotel courtyard. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it!
After a marathon 31 hour session of roads, airports, buses, security checks, border crossings and a maniacal van ride I arrived safe and sound at the Hotel Paris to find that not only did I HAVE a reservation (a small miracle) but that they had me booked into a ground floor room, just as I had requested (a BIG miracle). I truly didn’t expect it given how Honduras works…
In the past I’ve flown from San Pedro Sula to La Ceiba, on a small “milk run” ancient plane, running the gamut of whether the airport will be open when/if we arrive and paying $109 USF for the joy of doing so. If you’ve followed stories from past years you’ll know about landing in the storm that destroyed the pier (2008), the fact that there wasn’t enough new duct tape on the plane (2005) and other adventures entailed in actually getting to La Ceiba. And upon arrival at the LC airport there is still the additional $10 - $12 USF taxi charge to actually get to a hotel in the city.
Well, I may be somewhat slow in catching on to new tricks but I’m not stupid so I’ve discovered the trick of simply hiring a taxi from wherever I am in La Ceiba direct to the San Pedro Sula airport, complete with the driver dealing with the bags and being receptive to stopping en route. All for the grand sum of $100 USF! That worked so neatly when I returned to Canada last February that I deliberately didn’t book a SPS – LC flight this time, working on the supposition that I could just hire a taxi once I arrived.

Honestly, I think some of the folks from our Houston flight were still going through Immigration when I left the airport. Scooped up my bag, took off my socks and marched right through the airport to the outside patio. Politely declined the services of the money changers and negotiated with the first taxi driver who got to me and within moments was loaded into a van. I still have a problem with some of the money numbers (for the life of me I just can’t catch on to 50’s in Spanish) but when the fellow wanted $150 for one person I definitely understood and immediately refused! We finally settled for $120 and away I went on the next installment of my adventure. Post script: This is the cost for the whole taxi – if you’ve got other passengers, split the fee and save.
Actually, we somewhat flew… Drivers are completely insane in this country and taxi drivers take that to the psychotic edge with an element of carnival thrown in for amusement’s sake. Thankfully, I know this and with the additional caveat that the driver doesn’t really want to die a horrible, fiery death I simply put myself in their hands and try not to make any frightened noises. It’s conceivable that they believe that all gringas are naturally white knuckled, pinch faced and short of breath but I did really well without distracting him.

Speeds posted at 40km for the narrow switch back 2 lane highway meant that Enrique drove 80; highway speeds posted at 80km meant he drove 120km per hour – are you seeing the picture yet? Now, add in passing anything and everything with no regard for solid lines, signs or stray animals and children; then throw in a dozen or so small pueblos (villages) with lots of pedestrians, a few horse carts and finally add in the infamous “speed bumps” that are technically built right into the highway and you’ve got yourself an adventure! I think it’s quite clever that enterprising persons have chiselled out the speed bumps to accommodate drivers that don’t want to slow down, though generally the flat spots are in the opposing lane therefore…. You fill in the rest of the sentence!
In one of the smaller pueblos, in one of the brief moments that he wasn’t doubling the speed limit we had a small incident. As we were passing a knot of folks, adult and children, all clustered intently around something on the ground, I got curious and stuck my head out the window to see what was happening.
I’m not certain of the chain of events after that but some details remain. A loud burst of rapid-fire large popping noises, a good healthy shriek from me, finding myself crouched down into the tire well and Enrique howling with laughter and slapping the steering wheel with absolute glee.

I just wasn’t expecting the fireworks.

Baleadas: The Breakfast of Champions!

I'm "recycling" a couple of scribbles I sent out when I first got back to Honduras last month, enjoy!

Those who know me understand that I literally live on baleadas while in Honduras; I've even gone to the extent of bringing all the makings home in order to do it myself, even though they just don't taste quite as good as the real ones.
By the real thing, I mean the street corner wagons with their burners and metal pans and great messes of "stuff" or else the semi-permanent stalls set up on the old trolley tracks on Avenida La Republica, not a "tourist" type of zone.

Basically a baleada is simply a flour tortilla, hand patted and flipped on a hot sheet of metal. Then you add the refried beans (a rather unattractive sight) using the back of the serving spoon to smear it, and finally add a sprinkling of dried cheese. Fold it in half, slap onto a sheet of tin foil, slip it into a plastic bag and away you go. Many times I've simply opened it up, splashed on the "chili" (hot sauce) and if I can see it, I'll also add a splat of pickled red onions.

If you're fortunate, there will be a short plastic stool to sit on, right there on the sidewalk, and otherwise you simply stand and eat right there with all the pedestrian and vehicular traffic going past you.

Even though I’ve probably broken every rule for tourist travellers – yes, I eat on street corners, chew ice cubes, order salad if I’m eating out, etc.  I’ve also set some marginal rules for myself. Never, ever, ever order a baleada “con carne” tends to be a hard and fast rule for me, because the meat is totally unrecognizable and therefore you have no idea who it used to be.

I also really like the bags of fresh juice that you can buy at street stalls – I have a passion for the orange juice because you can faintly taste that citrus peel tang in it. Besides, I think it’s quite clever how they throw the straw in, do some kind of twist and flip motion and then you’ve got a little “tail” of plastic bag up at the straw that you can hold onto while drinking or carrying it.

Thus, I went out hunting my first morning in La Ceiba, to score my own version of a breakfast of champions and was quite pleased to see that the prices hadn’t risen too much. I paid 10 lempira (60 cents CDN) each for my baleada and my bag of juice and strolled back to the hotel to eat. Tasted great, didn’t hurt when it landed and worked just like rocket fuel for me as I took off to face the day of business transactions.

I have been completely betrayed, after spending last night trotting back and forth to the bathroom. I am going to blame the juice, since I can’t bear the thought of the baleada being at fault! Not too worry – I'm moving home today and a home made grilled cheese sandwich should fix things up proper!

I Brought My Wool Sox

Welcome back to La Ceiba, Honduras folks!

Last year, December of 2008 and January, 2009, I was whining about the cold, rainy weather and stated that next year I would bring back my wool sox.

I did. I also brought along a pair of heavy hemp sweatpants, a favourite warm sweater and extra pairs of blue jeans. People were convinced (yet again!) that I was crazy. I wasn't....

I realized a few years ago that I had acclimatized to Honduran weather and when it is cold, windy and rainy for days on end, I am freezing!

I just shake my head at the fact that back in 2004 and 2005 I didn't bring a single pair of blue jeans or socks with me. I remember walking down the street, in the worst of the weather wearing light cotton trousers, bare foot in my sandals with a bath towel over my head and shoulders against the torrential rain. Oh, how my world has changed!

The cold damp gets into your body and soul; even with the benefits of a non-leaky roof, glass in the windows, extra clothes and bath towels complementing my fleece blanket at night, you just can't shake it. It's dimly dark through most of the day, with nightfall occurring shortly after 5:30pm and the wind whistles and wails through the gaps between the window frame and the walls and in under the doorways.

We had a great weather day on January 1st which I celebrated with beach walks in a skirt and tank top, followed by endless days of rain pounding and smashing on the tin roofs at all hours of the day and night. On January 8th, the weather gods gifted us with a day of sunshine peaking through broken clouds and held off the rains until the following afternoon.

This week has been even worse by local standards with temperatures dropping to the high teens Celsius (equating to mid 60's in Fahrenheit) with very high winds coming straight off of the north Caribbean Sea. I just don't know if I can wait for another Friday to see the sun again!

Paradise isn't all beaches and beers, fellow Canadians - sometimes it entails freezing your butt off! Regardless of my tongue in cheek whining, I am simply horrified for the poorer local population; I'm not joking or exaggerating when I say that people will die of exposure or respiratory diseases due to this lengthy cold spell. So if you pray, please pray for the locals. This transplanted Canadian woman can tough it out!