320 hectic, sleepless miles south of Puerto Chiapas, the dog is giving me the stink eye and I'm losing my mind:
We have to stop.
Guatemala was not an option: the entry fee alone is $125.
El Salvador has a nice marina, so they say, and entry/exit is $30. I can get in and out with some rest for about $80... not bad... not good, either.
HONDURAS: $3 to enter. $3 to leave. DING DING DING! We have a WINNER!
The only things I hate more than CITIES are LATIN AMERICAN CITIES. Fortunately I could clear customs in the tiny "tourist" town of AMAPALA on ISLA EL TIGRE.
Never heard of it? That's because AMAPALA is a tourist town for HONDURANS.
As became apparent immediately, gringos are a rare treat.
The impression of a pimple ready to burst stays with me when I consider Isla El Tigre.
A pimple ready to burst?
1) The whole island is a volcano.
2) Previously wartorn and impoverished, this place is, for lack of a better term, FUCKED UP.
Sailing into the Gulf of Fonseca, I was stopped, searched, and interrogated by the El Salvadora Armada.
They were stoked to shoot the shit with whitey and really liked MAESTRA.
Who wouldn't?
My dog is an ALL-STAR in international relations. She speaks every language. DIPLOMATIC.
As I lower the anchor off the Amapala MUELLE I hear a succession of gunshots. Five of em'. This enhances my apprehension of entering Honduras, but hey, I'm already here.
As I find out later, folks here just shoot the sky for dramatic effect. It happens all the time.
I haven't seen another gringo boat since leaving Huatulco, 500 miles NE. The only boats here are wooden canoes and gigantic pangas, seriously overloaded with passengers or supplies.
They fit 40 people into these boats... or TONS of COCA-COLA.
The waterfront malecon throws back to Spanish Colonialism. The stone muelle (pier) has been there for hundreds of years.
News of a YATE has spread and folks are congregating. I feel all eyes on me as I'm farting around with the sail cover... prolonging the inevitable.
The dog can't take my childishness and takes the plunge. The fearless little Mexicana has to poop... and start collecting novios.
I jump in after her, paddling a surfboard ashore. The current drops us at the private police dock. We're greeted by two cops with assault rifles and a dozen young boys with homemade slingshots.
The cops are initially displeased. The kids are stoked I speak spanish and fight over who gets to carry my surfboard. They ding it all to hell.
The port captain arrives riding bitch on a dirtbike. He's in a tizzy because I haven't IMMEDIATELY checked in with him.
90 minutes and four offices later, I'm officially allowed to stoll around AMAPALA. All the officials were charmingly incompetent and smiley. Unfortunately, I didn't have the required $6 for them to process my exit papers simultaneously.
A crowd has gathered to see "EL VELERO". I should have worn my captain's hat for dramatic effect. All the world's a stage, right?
Several cuties are giving me the good eye. Everyone has to fondle the surfboard and ask me the same questions repeatedly.
1. DO YOU OWN THE YATE?
claro. fue baratisimo.
2. WHERE DID YOU COME FROM?
empiezo seis meses antes en el estado de oregon. norte de california en los estados unidos.
3. WHERE ARE YOU GOING?
mi intento es chile. pero es lejos. ahorita, aqui.
4. WHAT IS YOUR DOG'S NAME?
maesta. una simpatica mexicana. de la paz, bcs.
5. AREN'T YOU AFRAID SAILING ALONE?
siempre.
6. WHY DON'T YOU HAVE A WOMAN ON BOARD?
son caro los mujeres, no? no tengo la plata. tambien, es velerito. no es yate. es como acampando en el mar.
Most men then crack a joke about how I probably fuck my dog. It breaks the ice. Sex and fart jokes always do.
No sooner have I stepped off the dock than I'm waved into a bar where, whaddya know, everyone is my best friend and wants to buy me a beer. Their wish is my command.
Their ultimate intent become apparent.
Every man I meet, except the Port Captain and the wise taxi driver "Eddie" is intent on getting me laid while I'm here.
The most charismatic and scheisty of the town drunks, looks like 2pac and is named Francisco. He's intent on pairing me up with his 15 year old sister.
500 Lempira, for all night, all access he says again and again and again, shamelessly.
500 Lempira is approximately 26 dollars.
I'd had offers for prostitution all through Mexico but never near as blatantly.
I prefer to remain diseaseless and decline continually. The shifting subject always returns to SEXO and FIESTA.
I only want to pay MIGRATION and get my exit paperwork so leaving ASAP is an option. Unfortunately, I have no money and there is no bank. Only the Coca Cola Deposito has credit card capabilities.
Francisco escorts me down the waterfront to barter some LEMPIRA (Honduran currency) but the Deposito's machine hasn't worked in years.
The Deposito is a trip... an ancient colonial warehouse packed to the gills with Coke products.
Francisco offers me dinner and I accept; I'm starving. We have fried bananas and pickled chicken feet.
Walking back to the waterfront Francisco insists I visit his family so we take a cab to the fringes of town. He pretends we're going to eat more but I know the truth:
He wants to introduce me to his sister.
The house is pitiful... a filthy shanty. Francisco looks my age and has 11 children of his own. Several have horrible deformities.
His wife gives him shit for drinking up all the money again.
His sister shows up. 15. A baby on each hip.
I decline more food, arm wrestle his legless son (losingly), thank them for their hospitality, and stroll back to the waterfront.
This sort of thing would have shocked me a few months ago. I'm suprisingly indifferent.
Light waning, I hitch a ride back to SINNY with this guy...
...and sleep off a beer buzz.
The next morning I need to go to San Lorenzo to visit a bank. It is a 30 minute panga ride and an hour in the bus.
Folks in AMAPALA are friendly. SAN LORENZO, a shitty port city, ugly and predominately hostile. It's 8am and many young folks lounging around have to ridicule the gringo. I just smile and stroll on by... pretending I don't understand.
The bank has six guards out front. They're all packing shotguns or assault rifles. They are very friendly and we chat it up. The dog rolls in muddy water and we all have a good laugh.
I'm headed back to AMAPALA by 9 am.
On the bus back a semi-retarded young man is obsessed with MAESTRA. I let him pet her but he is way too rough with her so I eventually have to tell him off. Getting off at a dusty crossroad he tries to steal her. WTF?!
He has to be thrown out the back door of the old schoolbus by myself, the driver, and two other Hondurans. Noone enjoys doing it although we joke about it to deal.
Back in AMAPALA, I get all my papers dealt with and decide to climb the volcano.
The summit was a major CIA/HONDURAN base during the '80s continual conflicts in the Gulf of Fonseca. US-supported Honduras was fighting Russian-supported Nicaragua and El Salvador. It was apparently a very ugly war.
I catch a ride to the "trailhead" with a taxi driver named "Erick".
He comes off as the sanest, most competent HONDURAN I have yet to meet.
As I ascend the "trail" he promises to return in three hours to pick me up.
Crazy shanties litter the trail for the first half-mile. Everyone is very friendly and curious.
I take a wrong turn and end up at a mine where guys are shoveling rocks into bags and loading them into a cart pulled by donkeys.
Another wrong turn puts me at a mid-mountain paradise farm where a friendly man (packing an M-16) offers me a coconut and directions.
Bagged water is pretty rad for . Some muppie should market it to the "light, fast, overpriced" dipshits and charge
The joy of exertion takes hold of me. The dog, now pissed, hadn't heeded my sunrise warning to properly hydrate. Soon we reach the summit.
The old base is a trip. 2500 feet above the water, I find a deserted killing factory.
BARRACKS
BASKETBALL, ANYONE?
ATOP THE CISTERN
AMMO DUMP BUNKER
HELIPAD
RAZORWIRE DUMP
TABLE WITH INTERESTING BARBED-WIRE ACCOUTREMENT
The whole mountaintop is ringed with sandbag bunkers. FORTIFIED!
The dog and I run back down. I reminisce about days of perfect skiing and miss all my crazy ski bum friends.
Erick the cabbie is awaiting me. Unasked, he takes me to his house for a shower.
Apparently, I stunk.
I invite him to dinner and we go to the nicest spot in town. A whole fried fish is $2.50.
We get to talking, and Erick blows my mind.
He's 43. Fought in the war from 85-89. Was stationed atop the volcano in that base for 6 months... recalls frequent Russian bombings.
He has been all over the world working on ships of all sorts.
He is very insightful.
"The previous war is to be blamed for the shameless prostitution and alcoholism here." I agree.
"The next big war is coming and Honduras will be a bad place to be." I agree.
"It will be a war of economy, technology, and information." I agree.
"There will be much hunger. It will be very, very hard." I agree.
"The rich will get much richer and many of the poor will die." I agree.
"Where did you learn all this?" I ask. "Books," he replies.
I tell him about my trip and my motives. He gets very serious... wishes me luck... declines payment for the day's travels. We toast our Port Royal pilsners and call it a day.
I decline three offers for sex while walking to the pier. I also decline to watch the much anticipated Honduras/Mexico soccer game getting underway.
The panguero who shuttles me back to SIN FIN offers to bring me a "novia" for the "noche". I decline.
His shout of "GOODBYE, MY FRIEND!" is eerily reminiscent of my dead friend Chino.
I try to sleep... I need to sleep... but can't.
A roar of celebration explodes from the waterfront bars, down the pier and out to SIN FIN, Maestra, and me. Clearly, Honduras just scored.
Honduras 1. Mexico nada.
Later, a second, louder celebration explodes and is punctuated by a chorus of gunshots, maybe 50 in all... two three shot bursts from an AK-47 and a hearty spray from some fully automatic blend with a smattering of handgun reports.
Apparently, Honduras won.
All over town, volume knobs are cranked to the MAX. A trainwreck of sound echoes off the pier.
I give up on sleep and climb into the cockpit to watch. A hundred lights dance on the waves. The whole malecon is a blur of bodies.
The power goes out but the party continues under moonlight. OVERLOADED.
A few minutes later, all the lights come to life and the wall of sound slowly builds as stereos are restarted. Volume knobs creep skyward until prior intensity is reached...
...and the power goes out again.
Welcome to Isla El Tigre, Honduras, I've been here two days and I'm raring to go.
The moon is big and high so I start the motor and attempt to weigh the anchor. It's stuck beneath an enormous chain fouling the seabed... army navy surplus?
I wait until morning to swim it free. That's daylight work.
MAX
Guatemala was not an option: the entry fee alone is $125.
El Salvador has a nice marina, so they say, and entry/exit is $30. I can get in and out with some rest for about $80... not bad... not good, either.
HONDURAS: $3 to enter. $3 to leave. DING DING DING! We have a WINNER!
The only things I hate more than CITIES are LATIN AMERICAN CITIES. Fortunately I could clear customs in the tiny "tourist" town of AMAPALA on ISLA EL TIGRE.
Never heard of it? That's because AMAPALA is a tourist town for HONDURANS.
As became apparent immediately, gringos are a rare treat.
The impression of a pimple ready to burst stays with me when I consider Isla El Tigre.
A pimple ready to burst?
1) The whole island is a volcano.
2) Previously wartorn and impoverished, this place is, for lack of a better term, FUCKED UP.
Sailing into the Gulf of Fonseca, I was stopped, searched, and interrogated by the El Salvadora Armada.
They were stoked to shoot the shit with whitey and really liked MAESTRA.
Who wouldn't?
My dog is an ALL-STAR in international relations. She speaks every language. DIPLOMATIC.
As I lower the anchor off the Amapala MUELLE I hear a succession of gunshots. Five of em'. This enhances my apprehension of entering Honduras, but hey, I'm already here.
As I find out later, folks here just shoot the sky for dramatic effect. It happens all the time.
I haven't seen another gringo boat since leaving Huatulco, 500 miles NE. The only boats here are wooden canoes and gigantic pangas, seriously overloaded with passengers or supplies.
They fit 40 people into these boats... or TONS of COCA-COLA.
The waterfront malecon throws back to Spanish Colonialism. The stone muelle (pier) has been there for hundreds of years.
News of a YATE has spread and folks are congregating. I feel all eyes on me as I'm farting around with the sail cover... prolonging the inevitable.
The dog can't take my childishness and takes the plunge. The fearless little Mexicana has to poop... and start collecting novios.
I jump in after her, paddling a surfboard ashore. The current drops us at the private police dock. We're greeted by two cops with assault rifles and a dozen young boys with homemade slingshots.
The cops are initially displeased. The kids are stoked I speak spanish and fight over who gets to carry my surfboard. They ding it all to hell.
The port captain arrives riding bitch on a dirtbike. He's in a tizzy because I haven't IMMEDIATELY checked in with him.
90 minutes and four offices later, I'm officially allowed to stoll around AMAPALA. All the officials were charmingly incompetent and smiley. Unfortunately, I didn't have the required $6 for them to process my exit papers simultaneously.
A crowd has gathered to see "EL VELERO". I should have worn my captain's hat for dramatic effect. All the world's a stage, right?
Several cuties are giving me the good eye. Everyone has to fondle the surfboard and ask me the same questions repeatedly.
1. DO YOU OWN THE YATE?
claro. fue baratisimo.
2. WHERE DID YOU COME FROM?
empiezo seis meses antes en el estado de oregon. norte de california en los estados unidos.
3. WHERE ARE YOU GOING?
mi intento es chile. pero es lejos. ahorita, aqui.
4. WHAT IS YOUR DOG'S NAME?
maesta. una simpatica mexicana. de la paz, bcs.
5. AREN'T YOU AFRAID SAILING ALONE?
siempre.
6. WHY DON'T YOU HAVE A WOMAN ON BOARD?
son caro los mujeres, no? no tengo la plata. tambien, es velerito. no es yate. es como acampando en el mar.
Most men then crack a joke about how I probably fuck my dog. It breaks the ice. Sex and fart jokes always do.
No sooner have I stepped off the dock than I'm waved into a bar where, whaddya know, everyone is my best friend and wants to buy me a beer. Their wish is my command.
Their ultimate intent become apparent.
Every man I meet, except the Port Captain and the wise taxi driver "Eddie" is intent on getting me laid while I'm here.
The most charismatic and scheisty of the town drunks, looks like 2pac and is named Francisco. He's intent on pairing me up with his 15 year old sister.
500 Lempira, for all night, all access he says again and again and again, shamelessly.
500 Lempira is approximately 26 dollars.
I'd had offers for prostitution all through Mexico but never near as blatantly.
I prefer to remain diseaseless and decline continually. The shifting subject always returns to SEXO and FIESTA.
I only want to pay MIGRATION and get my exit paperwork so leaving ASAP is an option. Unfortunately, I have no money and there is no bank. Only the Coca Cola Deposito has credit card capabilities.
Francisco escorts me down the waterfront to barter some LEMPIRA (Honduran currency) but the Deposito's machine hasn't worked in years.
The Deposito is a trip... an ancient colonial warehouse packed to the gills with Coke products.
Francisco offers me dinner and I accept; I'm starving. We have fried bananas and pickled chicken feet.
Walking back to the waterfront Francisco insists I visit his family so we take a cab to the fringes of town. He pretends we're going to eat more but I know the truth:
He wants to introduce me to his sister.
The house is pitiful... a filthy shanty. Francisco looks my age and has 11 children of his own. Several have horrible deformities.
His wife gives him shit for drinking up all the money again.
His sister shows up. 15. A baby on each hip.
I decline more food, arm wrestle his legless son (losingly), thank them for their hospitality, and stroll back to the waterfront.
This sort of thing would have shocked me a few months ago. I'm suprisingly indifferent.
Light waning, I hitch a ride back to SINNY with this guy...
...and sleep off a beer buzz.
The next morning I need to go to San Lorenzo to visit a bank. It is a 30 minute panga ride and an hour in the bus.
Folks in AMAPALA are friendly. SAN LORENZO, a shitty port city, ugly and predominately hostile. It's 8am and many young folks lounging around have to ridicule the gringo. I just smile and stroll on by... pretending I don't understand.
The bank has six guards out front. They're all packing shotguns or assault rifles. They are very friendly and we chat it up. The dog rolls in muddy water and we all have a good laugh.
I'm headed back to AMAPALA by 9 am.
On the bus back a semi-retarded young man is obsessed with MAESTRA. I let him pet her but he is way too rough with her so I eventually have to tell him off. Getting off at a dusty crossroad he tries to steal her. WTF?!
He has to be thrown out the back door of the old schoolbus by myself, the driver, and two other Hondurans. Noone enjoys doing it although we joke about it to deal.
Back in AMAPALA, I get all my papers dealt with and decide to climb the volcano.
The summit was a major CIA/HONDURAN base during the '80s continual conflicts in the Gulf of Fonseca. US-supported Honduras was fighting Russian-supported Nicaragua and El Salvador. It was apparently a very ugly war.
I catch a ride to the "trailhead" with a taxi driver named "Erick".
He comes off as the sanest, most competent HONDURAN I have yet to meet.
As I ascend the "trail" he promises to return in three hours to pick me up.
Crazy shanties litter the trail for the first half-mile. Everyone is very friendly and curious.
I take a wrong turn and end up at a mine where guys are shoveling rocks into bags and loading them into a cart pulled by donkeys.
Another wrong turn puts me at a mid-mountain paradise farm where a friendly man (packing an M-16) offers me a coconut and directions.
Bagged water is pretty rad for . Some muppie should market it to the "light, fast, overpriced" dipshits and charge
The joy of exertion takes hold of me. The dog, now pissed, hadn't heeded my sunrise warning to properly hydrate. Soon we reach the summit.
The old base is a trip. 2500 feet above the water, I find a deserted killing factory.
BARRACKS
BASKETBALL, ANYONE?
ATOP THE CISTERN
AMMO DUMP BUNKER
HELIPAD
RAZORWIRE DUMP
TABLE WITH INTERESTING BARBED-WIRE ACCOUTREMENTThe whole mountaintop is ringed with sandbag bunkers. FORTIFIED!
The dog and I run back down. I reminisce about days of perfect skiing and miss all my crazy ski bum friends.
Erick the cabbie is awaiting me. Unasked, he takes me to his house for a shower.
Apparently, I stunk.
I invite him to dinner and we go to the nicest spot in town. A whole fried fish is $2.50.
We get to talking, and Erick blows my mind.
He's 43. Fought in the war from 85-89. Was stationed atop the volcano in that base for 6 months... recalls frequent Russian bombings.
He has been all over the world working on ships of all sorts.
He is very insightful.
"The previous war is to be blamed for the shameless prostitution and alcoholism here." I agree.
"The next big war is coming and Honduras will be a bad place to be." I agree.
"It will be a war of economy, technology, and information." I agree.
"There will be much hunger. It will be very, very hard." I agree.
"The rich will get much richer and many of the poor will die." I agree.
"Where did you learn all this?" I ask. "Books," he replies.
I tell him about my trip and my motives. He gets very serious... wishes me luck... declines payment for the day's travels. We toast our Port Royal pilsners and call it a day.
I decline three offers for sex while walking to the pier. I also decline to watch the much anticipated Honduras/Mexico soccer game getting underway.
The panguero who shuttles me back to SIN FIN offers to bring me a "novia" for the "noche". I decline.
His shout of "GOODBYE, MY FRIEND!" is eerily reminiscent of my dead friend Chino.
I try to sleep... I need to sleep... but can't.
A roar of celebration explodes from the waterfront bars, down the pier and out to SIN FIN, Maestra, and me. Clearly, Honduras just scored.
Honduras 1. Mexico nada.
Later, a second, louder celebration explodes and is punctuated by a chorus of gunshots, maybe 50 in all... two three shot bursts from an AK-47 and a hearty spray from some fully automatic blend with a smattering of handgun reports.
Apparently, Honduras won.
All over town, volume knobs are cranked to the MAX. A trainwreck of sound echoes off the pier.
I give up on sleep and climb into the cockpit to watch. A hundred lights dance on the waves. The whole malecon is a blur of bodies.
The power goes out but the party continues under moonlight. OVERLOADED.
A few minutes later, all the lights come to life and the wall of sound slowly builds as stereos are restarted. Volume knobs creep skyward until prior intensity is reached...
...and the power goes out again.
Welcome to Isla El Tigre, Honduras, I've been here two days and I'm raring to go.
The moon is big and high so I start the motor and attempt to weigh the anchor. It's stuck beneath an enormous chain fouling the seabed... army navy surplus?
I wait until morning to swim it free. That's daylight work.
MAX