Honduras

The crossing into Honduras was a nightmare. Everything that I had feared up until then, but had happily not happened, all came on one day, just when I was thinking I'd got the whole border thing sewn up.

It cost me nearly US$70 to finally get into Honduras with the car, including having to bribe the police twice due to an alleged missing fire extinguisher. Hmmm. It's scary being pulled over on a mountain road by a military-uniformed surly-looking man with gold teeth and a machine gun. Yes, the fine would be 2,000 lempiras. Or I could pay him $20 right here, he implied. Unfortunately for me, I didn't have even $20, after my thorough rinsing at the border (apparently, a permit to bring a car through Honduras for a few days costs US$25. Ah, plus a number of "administration fees".) I showed the nice man the five one-dollar bills I did have left, sweating profusely. Miraculously, unpredictably, he accepted them and wished me a safe trip.

There are a bunch of criminals at every border, tramitadores they like to be called, and you pay them a few dollars to help you through the process. You might expect to even be helped. But mostly, they just make sure that the relevant palms get greased. To be fair, the entry into Honduras was the most complex thing I've ever seen, taking several hours between innumerable offices, each box-like room with a couple of shifty-looking individuals playing solitaire on 386s, who would take 2 photocopies of form X4c and print and stamp form Zn9 and give you form PP1 to sign and ask for $5. So the guy probably did help me somewhat. But it's not like you have any choice anyway: the only way to get the shouting mass of dishevelled gold-toothed louts to desist is to accept the "help" of one of them.

Today, four days later, I had finally managed to screw up the courage to attempt to cross into Nicaragua. I had prepared plenty of cash, in various currencies and denominations, spread around my person. After the Honduran police robbed me again ($10 this time) a mile or so before the border, I was ready to face hell to get into Nicaragua. And then... it was a breeze. There was hardly anyone there, everyone was polite and quick, and no-one charged me anything, except for the official $7 entry fee. Nothing at all for the car.

It's all very strange. One would almost think that the alternating horrendous and straightforward crossings had been set up by a master of psychological torture.

So apart from the border crossings... Choluteca was horribly hot, and I should have even paid for air conditioning. I spent a lot of time lying under the ceiling fan in my pants in the hotel room going "urgh", not sleeping well, and having many cold showers a day. I did however meet some lovely and interesting people the few times I did go out and brave the baking gringoless streets. Some people were a little surly but I spent a great evening drinking with the owner of a restaurant and his friends and family, and another morning talking with the sister of the owner of the comedor I ate breakfast at while she was waiting for college. Had almost forgotten what white people look like until I got to Estelí today: I think I am back on the tourist trail.

Some extremely out of date pictures

"Warning, mountains in rear view mirror are closer than they appear" -- crossing the Rockies, Colorado.

A beautiful clear day near Boulder.

The Burban in the Sierras, California.

Perched on a rock above the Grand Canyon watching the sunset.

Caroline the beautiful Quebecoise poses in the Burban in Zacatecas, Mexico.

Revolutionary zeal

At the Guatemalan-Salvadorean border I avoided paying the US$80 "exit fee" that a shifty looking man in sportswear tried to levy. They were rank amateurs though: starting with an amount that just made me stare, then laugh, then immediately halving the alleged tax. No, I thought, I'll just chance my luck without this vitally important signature.

Mayan-Guatemalan women are slim, dressed in loose-fitting traditional skirts and blouses, have long clean hair and wear no makeup. They are beautiful. Salvadorean women are fat, wear tight cheap fashions that make them look fatter, put makeup on with a trowel, and apparently comb their hair with goose fat every morning. They are not beautiful. The men look at you suspiciously. Certainly this is a country less used to outsiders. However, when I have actually stopped to talk to people, I have found everyone to be more than welcoming, and helpful and friendly. Eating breakfast pupusas in Sonsonate, the owner came down with a big grin and invited me to stay in his house! Lots of people here speak some English, as a huge proportion of people are or have worked in the US.

San Salvador is odd. The affluent and leafy Western suburbs (where my hostel is situated) seem like a North American city, in lots of ways. There are three malls, and many gas stations and US fast-food establishments. Then, you can take a bus or a 30 minute walk to the centre, which resembles nothing so much as a huge 30-block street market, with a Cathedral and Plaza more or less buried in the middle, and pretty much not a lot else. I went looking for the Science Museum but didn't have the exact address, and two sets of other Museum curators plus the Sheraton staff couldn't tell me where it was. In fact they thought it didn't exist. It was about two blocks away.

So apart from the capital, I've been hiking in Bosque El Impossible (swimming in the river yay!), and hung out for a day on Lago Coatepeque. I managed to be present for the FMLN's political rallies in both Suchitoto and San Salvador -- quite an experience! They are the party that formed out of the guerillas of the Civil War, and the revolutionary spirit is still very much alive. It was quite fun standing in a city Plaza packed with people wearing red chanting "Hasta La Victoria Siempre!"

Now east, through Eastern El Salvador, then skipping through a very small and by all accounts unremarkable corner of Honduras to Nicaragua. It's hot here!