A place for old men

Along my travels, and especially in Central America, I’ve found myself in a number of long conversations with retired American men. A straw poll of other travelers indicated this doesn’t appear to be a common occurrence, and these conversations occur in the most unlikely of circumstances, although I have noticed that breakfast seems to be the conversation time of preference for the American retiree.

So it was I found myself sat on a wooden bench underneath a rusted bit of corrugated iron in the early morning sun chatting with my latest retiree, who for want of knowing his name I called, ‘Chet’, about the performance of various construction materials on Utila under the constant battering dealt out by the sun, wind and salty sea air.  

With the coming of Hurricane Ernesto I’d spent longer in Utila than planned and decided to gain time by flying a few legs to my next destination of Rio Dulce and then Flores to see Tikal back in Guatemala.  Unfortunately the flight had been overbooked and Chet and I had an hour or so wait for the flight to return to pick us up on the bench that served as the waiting room at Utila Airport for the plane to return.  Like most of retirees Chet was seeking an escape from elements of his life in the US and with a relatively small amount of money by western standards this part of the world offers plenty of opportunities to escape.

Eventually Chet and I made it onto our flight to La Ceiba, which marked the first leg of a crazy, hot and long day of travel.  Following La Ceiba I had another flight to San Pedro Sula, but was bumped again as I had no need to make a connection as I’d be bussing it from then on.  The silver lining being the next plane was a 6 seater and my seat the co-pilots, a novel experience, particularly as the captain let me film the take off and landing, no need to worry about electronic devices on these planes.  As we flew along I kept thinking of the co-pilot scene from Flying High and wondering how I’d cope if the pilot had a sudden heart attack and I’d have to take over as the co-pilot.

Reaching San Pedro Sula at about the same time as if I’d caught the boat and bus connection, I caught another bus to Peurto Cortes and then walked around the block to catch a chicken bus to Corinto and the Honduran border.  Jumping off the bus and changing money I was the only person around by the time I walked through immigration and the border.

By this time it was baking hot and steamy and I amused two bored Hondurian officials who debated whether I was James Bond or not before flicking my passport back.  I then piled into a beat up minivan and waited in the sun till it was packed with locals crossing the border and transported the 15km of no mans land to Guatemalan immigration.

Our van had picked up a group of Caribbean guys that the Guatemalan police took great interest in.  This was too much for our minivan driver who after 10 minutes of waiting ordered all those near into the van inside and put his foot down as we sped away and left the Caribbean guys stranded at the border.  I then changed minivans two more times, waiting at the roadside for another to come along.  The minivans are packed so tight I was standing inside in a half crouch so not hit my head on the roof.  Still I was doing better than the local guys standing on the vans running board and holding on with one hand as we sped along at 120km.

Rio Dulce

About 20mins outside my destination of Rio Dulce the heavens opened, and my backpack, which was on the roof, was soaked through as it’d been tied on with the rain cover facing down. In the driving rain I walked with my sodden backpack to the first accommodation I could find, right on the river and weirdly enough a haven for retired American sailors who bring their boats down the river from the Caribbean Sea for protection during hurricane season.  It was a testing day, but in a way exciting as during the time I left San Pedro Sula to Rio Dulce I only saw locals.

The following morning I completed my journey to Flores and the following day visited the daddy of Mayan Ruins, Tikal.  There were similarities with the ruins I’d seen in Copan but while those in Copan are more intricate, Tikal is of a much grander scale…and also differs in that it’s set in dense jungle, giving a true feeling of a lost city…..which is further emphasized when you realize only 20% of the ruins have been uncovered, the rest appear as giant hummocks with hints of the limestone ruins inside.

Tikal

On the return from my day trip I learnt I’d had a lucky day as we unexpectedly stopped for an hour at the police station.  I learnt that most of the other passengers who’d been on the earlier morning tour bus prior had all their possessions stolen by a gang who boarded the bus with machine guns and machetes, a harrowing experience from all accounts.