COPAN RUINAS, HONDURAS, March 18, 2008 -- Returned to Honduras from an eight-day trip to Guatemala today. Shuttle bus driver Eddie and myself, riding shotgun, jammed out to Mexican singers Gali Galeono and Vicente Fernandez while cruising south--up, over, around, and down mountains and through a thick sun that left a salt-crusted forearm even with windows flung open. The rest of the ten others packed into mini-bus turismo seemingly slept through the fun. I looked back a few times, but their eyes were closed, dreaming through the fun.
Meanwhile, Eddie flew by slower vehicles, passing on curves, darting back into the right lane seconds before oncoming cars reached us. On the side of the road, women in traditional skirts carried gathered sticks and limbs. Small women, smaller than American shrunken-grandma size. Chickens clucked. Eddie almost hit a dog that looked like it was living its last day. One man rode a horse toward us, brown mountain as his backdrop, shirt unbuttoned to his belly-button. Eddie missed him. Dust hung in the air.
Eddie kept the beat to the music on the steering wheel. I tried to talk to him over Fernandez's crooning, but my Spanish is literally useless unless asking for a beer, then thanking for a beer, and so our blunted conversations ended always with 'Esta bien.' Eyes back to the road, ears back to the music, where they belong. Conversation unneeded. I laughed.
After a Thursday, Friday, and Saturday when the thought most often in my head was where is the toilet, then a Sunday and Monday when I backed up, I found strong coffee and a perch this morning at a truck stop Eddie pulled into shortly after seven. Relief. Pipes are back running normal, steady flow.
At the Honduran border, border patrol lady for some reason didn't understand why I was staying in Honduras. She was mad, couldn't understand my useless Spanish and I couldn't order a beer then. So I yelled to make her understand. Like your great aunt at a Chinese restaurant. Finally, I found the right words and she let me back in. But I don't think she wanted to.
Back to the mini-bus turismo and Eddie's cursing because we have a flat tire. "Necesitas ayuda?" (Do you need help) I ask Eddie but I think he tells me it's a one-man job. He's a professional, I tell you. He drives the rest of the way arms and hands greased up, the beat on the steering wheel still in time, guiding us safely back to the cobblestone streets of Copan Ruinas.
Meanwhile, Eddie flew by slower vehicles, passing on curves, darting back into the right lane seconds before oncoming cars reached us. On the side of the road, women in traditional skirts carried gathered sticks and limbs. Small women, smaller than American shrunken-grandma size. Chickens clucked. Eddie almost hit a dog that looked like it was living its last day. One man rode a horse toward us, brown mountain as his backdrop, shirt unbuttoned to his belly-button. Eddie missed him. Dust hung in the air.
Eddie kept the beat to the music on the steering wheel. I tried to talk to him over Fernandez's crooning, but my Spanish is literally useless unless asking for a beer, then thanking for a beer, and so our blunted conversations ended always with 'Esta bien.' Eyes back to the road, ears back to the music, where they belong. Conversation unneeded. I laughed.
After a Thursday, Friday, and Saturday when the thought most often in my head was where is the toilet, then a Sunday and Monday when I backed up, I found strong coffee and a perch this morning at a truck stop Eddie pulled into shortly after seven. Relief. Pipes are back running normal, steady flow.
At the Honduran border, border patrol lady for some reason didn't understand why I was staying in Honduras. She was mad, couldn't understand my useless Spanish and I couldn't order a beer then. So I yelled to make her understand. Like your great aunt at a Chinese restaurant. Finally, I found the right words and she let me back in. But I don't think she wanted to.
Back to the mini-bus turismo and Eddie's cursing because we have a flat tire. "Necesitas ayuda?" (Do you need help) I ask Eddie but I think he tells me it's a one-man job. He's a professional, I tell you. He drives the rest of the way arms and hands greased up, the beat on the steering wheel still in time, guiding us safely back to the cobblestone streets of Copan Ruinas.
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