The Start of Central America

11/15/13

The last time we were in DIA together was to drop Ash off after her visit; we had mentioned how nice it would be to be there together to with the purpose of boarding our own plane headed for our own exciting destination one day.  Well, four months later we made it happen.  Honduras and Guatemala, here we come!

Georgia:  14 hours straight in the Atlanta, Georgia airport.  Barrett’s friend can’t meet us for dinner.  We take dinner and watered down tequila shots at TGI Friday’s before spending a restless night sleeping on the hard floor of the third story of the airport’s atrium watching ‘The Man from Snowy River’ and eating a candied apple.  Rise and shine, and it’s immediate access through security for military puroses.

Honduras:  We arrive in San Pedro Sula and can’t find access to a bus to take us to Sambo Creek (which at the time we think is a hotel).  We end up taking a taxi costing US $140, and I can tell Barrett is already starting to stress out on the fact that this trip might cost more than he imagined.  The taxi ride goes quickly enough.  Our seatbelts don’t work, no one follows any noticable road signs; they speed and pass each other between two cars going opposite ways.  Our driver spends most of his time on his cell phone and uses his free hand to steer the car around massive pot holes.  Barrett stays tensely awake for the three-hour ride while I get a good nap in.  I’d prefer to be relaxed anyways if we were to crash- get out of the whole thing likely with less bodily harm done, kind of like a drunk driver.

Halfway there, our driver questions us about our destination.  I don’t have an address, but luckily I have our dive instructor’s number.  We call Tony to find that apparently our hotel is not called ‘Sambo Creek,’ but is rather in the town of Sambo Creek and the hotel is called ‘Helen’s.’  Well it would have been nice of him to point out that distinction earlier.  After taking the same road with no turns for almost four hours, passing pigs eating from trash piles, horses tied to the medians of the road, men pissing on houses that sit street-side, and more vividly green vegetation than I’ve ever seen, our driver pulls into a muddy single track that seems to lead to nowhere but the ocean that has been peaking at us through the trees.  Surprise, surprise, we turn a bend and there in front of us is ‘Helen’s.’ 

We step foot out of the cab and a fat black man is there to awkwardly greet us.  Little did we know that these first moments would foreshadow the rest of our time with Tony.  He gets us our room key and graciously offers for us to put our stuff down and settle into our room before we start conversing.  This is the first and possibly the only consciously accommodating thing he does all trip.  I’m exaggerating a little, of course, but let’s just say he needs a good course in quality customer service. 

We come back out and listen to Tony talk for nearly the next two hours about himself.  In total, he only ever asked Barrett three questions (not in relation to our dive trip) about his life, and myself only one.  Tony is apparently from New York, has lived in the La Ceiba/Utila area for nearly nine years, has had to downsize his business due to the loss of tourism in the country (of course it most likely is his lack of business suave) and lives for free off the charity of his friend that owns a hotel there on the coast.  He told us story after story, all of which were filled with the obnoxious uses of “you know,” and “I mean”- phrases that when strung together are quite indicative of someone with little confidence in what they’re saying, because either:  A)  they have no self confidence, and/or B) they’re lying.  Barrett summed it up perfectly when Tony got up to grab a scratch piece of paper from the bar- “I’m certainly not drinking all of his kool-aid.” 

A few details about those two hours that set alarms off in my mind:  he drank a beer the whole time and never once offered us even a glass of water, he was using paper from the bar to write down our diving suit sizes only after two hours of talking about himself, he never once pulled out a waiver for us to sign or an itinerary to look at, and there’s one thing I’m not ashamed to be prejudiced about in people- he was fucking fat.  I’ve never seen a fat master diver and this guy’s ass was the kind that’s like two planets smashed together, a catastrophic event if you will, the kind that sticks out horizontally and is as wide as his torso is long.  Need a place to set that beer he didn’t offer you?  Try his ass.

We were to meet him at 7:30 the next morning to board his boat and head to the islands for a day of diving.

We retired to our room, which was actually quite quaint.  We had beach-front windows, high power AC, warm water, and a big comfy bed.  Not bad.  It was nice to have our own space to relax in.