Read this post in two parts. The first was written when Honduras was warm and fuzzy. The second, afterward.

PART ONE

It’s almost a source of pride for Hondurans that they apparently live in the most dangerous country in the world. I don’t know what study they’re quoting, but people love to fill me in that someone might kill me for no reason, steal my bike, or make a dress out of my skin. Normally I exaggerate a bit, but in the course of typing this I was approached by a man who said I need to change my idea of adventure because it’s not safe here. Obviously I am trying to leave as soon as possible.

I have no doubt that there are bad Hondurans out there, but so far I’ve only felt the love. People are so concerned about me that I’ve had an invitation to sleep indoors every night I’ve been here. I was attempting to camp in the forest when a lone Honduran women saw me and brought me back to her house. People who don’t have rooms for me set me up with their friends or family around town. I’m actually really digging Honduras. And the country is small enough that I’ll be safely in Nicaragua by the time you read this, mom and dad, so no reason to worry.

Big news!! I was on TV! There was one night where I camped at the police station in Saba, Honduras and woke up to a reporter knocking on my tent. He wanted to do an interview right there. I looked so dirty and actually did not have contacts in or glasses on so I couldn’t see anything. My Spanish barely slid by, but it was all successful. I’m officially a celebrity in northern Honduras. Unfortunately, it aired while I was making my way through the backroads of the country so I did not have a chance to see mine own visage on TV. Oh well.

Diving in Utila was fabulous! A ten-dive package on the island costs only $265, which is one of the cheapest in the world. That includes gear rental, boat transportation, and accomodation so it’s not a bad deal at all. The reef was beautiful with lots of parrotfish, barracudas, angelfish and even the occasional squid. But my favorite part was turning away from the reef to stare into the blue void of the open ocean. It definitely made me feel microscopic in comparison. Utila is also great because the cheap diving makes it the backpacker mecca of the Caribbean. The guidebook said it best: “It feel like a chill college town centered around a small diving university.”

After 11 beautiful sunsets on Utila, I packed up and headed back to the mainland. I was itching to ride through some mountains, having spent so much time in the flat Yucatan, flat Belize, and flat Caribbean islands. Honduras did not disappoint. In fact, it might have been overkill. One of the major roads through the country, marked on any map you could find of Honduras, is actually made of dirt. I did not know this when I started the 120 mile trek from one side to the other. I love mountains and I love dirt roads, but I do not love them together. I actually tried to take a bus after getting my 10,000th warning on how unsafe Honduras is, but the driver would not let me board with a bicycle so I had no choice but to ride out of the country.

Speaking of dangers in Honduras (such an undervisited topic in this post), the mosquitoes here on the north coast carry dengue fever and malaria. Because my tent fly has been broken since north Mexico, you can understand why this would be an issue for me. All was fine when I had bug spray, but I lost it in Utila and did not realize until I was being ravaged by mosquitoes on the mainland. I curled up in my sleeping bag to protect myself, despite it being 98 degrees. I’d rather be sweaty and gross than have malaria so that’s that.

A note to Julia, because I know you’re reading this: I showed a few guys I was staying with pictures of us from Chicago. You now have a group of 5 Honduran admirers who are dying to meet you. Seriously, hours later, they kept asking your name and more details about you. Work it, sexy lady!

PART TWO

Imagine me on the desolate stretch of dirt road that is the only way south from Utila to Nicaragua. It’s 100 degrees, I’m drenched in sweat, and a cloud of mosquitoes is tailing me like the dog I always wanted. But something shiny catches my eye. There’s lots of trash on the road, but this trash makes my eyes scream. My heart stops, my stomach turns. It’s a bullet. And it’s not the only one.

There’s only so fast you can ride on a bike, but you don’t remember that when you’re fleeing the site of a gun battle. Luckily, I knew that the only bus running that day would be passing me in a few hours. I kept riding, just to have something to do instead of waiting in anxiety. I had originally tried to take that same bus the day before, but they had refused to let me board with the bike. That’s why I was on this bullet-road in the first place. When I hailed the bus down this time I was all up in the driver’s face, telling him that if I died it would be his fault. He let me on, but charged me a separate ticket for bikey.

Don’t leave now, dear reader. We still haven’t even reached the robbery! So this bus is actually an old American school bus (specifically, DeKalb County) that is now intercity transit in Honduras. At highest count, there were 89 people, full grown adults, on board. I had to sit in the back with the luggage to protect my bike. That was all in vain though because all the knocking around rocked a few parts loose. No big deal, I thought. I can reassemble it on the ground in the Honduran capital of Tegucigalpa.

I get off the bus in chaos. Crowds of people everywhere, moving in all directions, and I’m trying to keep track of my bike frame, two separate wheels, and two bags. For some reason though, the rear tire just won’t fit on to the damn frame. The sun is setting in one of the most dangerous cities in the Americas and I’m immobilized. But a guy around my age comes over to help me out. He holds the frame up for me while I inspect the rear tire to figure out what’s wrong. We almost have it on so he sets the frame down and walks behind me. The bike is on my mind, but then I feel a hand in my jacket pocket.

So many things in my mind at once: my wallet is in there, why is someone else’s hand in there, oh crap, I’m getting robbed. Thankfully, I think fast so in the second it took him to wrap his grubby hand around my wallet, I had my hand around his wrist. I knocked the wallet out of his hand and onto the sidewalk and gave him a hard kick to the shin, something that cycling shoes are great for. He just gave me this stupid look and ran away.

Luckily, I’ve learned a few smart travel skills so losing the wallet would not have been catastrophic. The only money I keep in it was $1 USD, $2 Belize, a few pesos and lempiras. The real money is stashed in several places, my passport is elsewhere, my card somewhere else. The worst loss would have been my driver’s license picture from when I was 16 and the wallet itself, which my sister gave me for my birthday. I would never have bought a trifold wallet, even though I love them, because I knew she would make fun of me. So she bought me one instead. Thanks, Kinza 🙂

So yes, I’m in Tegucigalpa right now, seeking out a bike shop so I can get the hell out of here. I hate to say it, but this place more than any other reminds me of Karachi, Pakistan, the city I was born in. The last time I was there was when I was 13 so I don’t remember it perfectly, but it definitely felt like this. I’ll be in Nicaragua in no time flat so don’t be too down that I’m not having fun right now. I’ll be okay 🙂