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October 15, 2004

Southbound Invalid (Part I)

9

Morning and Early Afternoon of Friday, October 15, 2004:

I need to learn how to speak Spanish and quickly. My last few hours in Teguc teach me that. I spend the morning wandering through the downtown area in search of a new English language novel to read but there are no stores selling them in the vicinity and the one man I speak to who seems to have an inkling as to where they might be delivers a rapidfire, complex response that I am utterly unable to comprehend.

I sit down for an enormous plate of lo mein at 10 AM and read through my Lonely Planet guide to Ecuador, trying to figure out where I should stay for the night. I wonīt be arriving in Quito until some time after 10 PM, so it would probably be smart to have some concept of the layout of the city and where I can find a wide choice of accomodations in close proximity. The "New Town" seems to be that kind of place. I read the section over and over again because I have nothing else to read, unless, of course, I want to start reading up on Peru.

Evidentally as bored as I am, the waitress starts asking me where I am from and what I am doing... in Spanish, of course. I manage to chat for a good 3 minutes in broken Spanish before lapsing into my all-purpose out line: "lo siento, no entiendo" (sorry, I don`t understand). With a few pleasant exceptions, all of my Spanish conversations tend to end this way. I do manage to thank her for the lo mein, though. Finishing enough food to feed a family of five is clearly the universal language for "that was delicious!" or perhaps for "I am a big fat, disgusting pig; oink, oink," but I think those two messages are probably similar enough.

I check out of Hotel Granada at 11:30 to catch a cab to the airport. The flight isnīt until 2:00, but I want to make sure that there weren`t any problems when the travel agent on Utila rescheduled my flight. The cab driver asks me questions about what I saw and how long I have been in Honduras. Again, I manage about 5 minutes of conversation before exhausting my ability to communicate. On the other hand, in my not inconsiderable experience, 5 minutes of (maybe) English conversation with a New York City cab driver is also more than enough time in which to completely exhaust all forms of communication, so I don`t really feel that bad about things going the same way here, but in Spanish.

At the airport, I head to the Copa airline desk for check-in. Fortunately, the agent speaks fluent English and tells me there are no problems with my flight arrangements. l will, however, have to pay a $40 penalty for delaying my flight. No problem, I knew this. I pay by credit card. However, what I did not know was that I would also have to pay an additional $30 cash international departure fee at the gate upstairs. No credit card payments accepted.

While I do have some U.S. dollars on me, I had wanted to save these until I reached Ecuador, where the dollar is the official currency (it replaced the Sucre in 2000 as part of an effort to combat inflation). I will need to have enough left to get to my hotel and pay for the night and, unless I can find an ATM in Quito upon arrival (who knows how easy or hard that will be?), paying the departure tax with what I have in my pocket will be cutting it fairly close. I only have about four dollars in Honduran Lempira left on me too, so I can`t really avoid paying with my few precious dollars unless there is an ATM machine nearby. They have been very hard to find in Honduras, but an airport seems like a reasonable place for one. I wander around. Voila. I see one.

I get behind the man using the machine and note with satisfaction that the ATM takes Cirrus and Plus network cards. Looking good, looking good. The man completes his transaction and leaves. I put my card in, punch in a request for 500 Lempira (about 27 dollars) and wait. The ATM machine makes the universal ATM machine whirring sound. Whirrrrr. Whirrrrr. I look down at the bill-dispenser. Nothing. The whirring suddenly gets louder and more intense. Whirrrrrr! Whirrrrrr! Whirrrrrr! I look down. No money. The screen is now reading: "Please Take Your Money." It even says this in English. But there is nothing. It occurs to me that maybe the money is inside a little door and that you have to reach in to get it. I fidget with the dispenser but nothing opens. Something is jammed. I can see a sliver of a 100 Lempira note wedged firmly inside the machine. The transaction was processed but the money is stuck in the dispenser. Meanwhile, my card is still stuck in the machine and the screen is still flashing "Please Take Your Money."

A young pregnant woman and her mother are standing nearby and they seem to witness the entire sequence of events. They express incredulity and begin asking me questions... in Spanish. I haven`t the slightest idea as to what they are asking but communicate with a few words and signals, managing to show them that my money is stuck in the dispenser and my card is stuck in the slot. The pregnant woman bangs on a few keys. Miraculously, the whirring (quite loud by this point) stops. Even more miraculously, my card pops out of the top. Alas, there is no hat trick of miracles, because the money is still jammed far inside the dispenser. It is looking like I just lost 27 dollars inside the machine. Of course, it could be much worse, but this doesn`t make me too happy.

As it turns out, one of the airport attendants working the lobby has caught sight of the three of us punching and banging on the machine, and of the other people gathering around to watch the stupid gringo lose his money. She is a matronly, middle-aged woman in a blue uniform, dark-eyed with curly black and gray hair. She asks me something in a concerned but pleasant tone of voice. She also asks it so quickly that I cannot discern a single word of what she has said. I look back at her slackjawed: "no entiend---"

Before I can finish embarassing myself fully, the pregnant woman`s mother takes over and, in rapid Spanish, with a great flury of gesticulating and pointing at the machine, me, the machine, the stupid vacant stare on my face, the dispenser, the machine and invalid, idiot me, explains the situation in what I am sure is a perfectly accurate account. This idiot lost money in the machine and doesn`t have a clue in the world as to what to do about it. Something like that. They then ask me how much money I lost and, since I can at least understand this basic question, answer "quinientos Lempira."

They talk some more while I stand there like the helpless, useless lump that I am. Finally, the airport attendant thanks the pregnant woman and her mother and turns to me. She says a few words and waves me forward. Come on. Follow me here, sonny. We walk.

We walk away from the ATM machine and the crowd of people still standing around it. We walk into the lobby and past the waiting passengers and snackbars and souvenir shops. We walk toward and then through the automatic doors of the airport leading out into the parking lot. Then we are walking across the parking lot to a little yellow pedestrian bridge that takes us over a major highway to a series of strip malls and fast food joints on the far side from the airport. Every 100 feet or so, the attendant turns toward me ever so slightly to give me a little encouraging wave onward. Come on. This way. Vamanos. I mumble a few "lo sientos" while we walk, hoping the bewildered look on my face will garner me enough sympathy to convince this woman to keep helping me... or to not push me off of the bridge over the highway, at the very least.

At the far end of the strip mall, I make out a sign for a bank. Evidentally, its the bank that owns the ATM in the airport. A guard with a machine gun waves us into the lobby where we stand in line behind 6 other people. The woman from the airport stands patiently with me, tells me to wait. She doesn`t say much else, perhaps correctly understanding the futility of any such efforts. After 20 minutes of waiting and a few more "lo sientos" on my part, we sit down in front of a young woman at a desk, who asks the airport attendant what we need. A flury of Spanish. Gesticulating. Concerned looks all around. They ask me for my bank card. The bank officer asks me something else as well, but the airport attendant interrupts, apparently clueing her into the fact that I`m really entirely useless in this matter and that it would also really be much for the best if I were treated delicately, like a cross between a shell-shocked refugee street-urchin and a 150-pound head of flesh-colored iceburg lettuce.

The bank officer gets on the phone. She takes down my phone number, then asks for a phone number in Tegucigalpa. I do my best to explain that I have no such number and that I am scheduled to be in Quito, Ecuador in another 8 hours, random insane complications caused by my own profound ignorance notwithstanding.

Finally, the bank officer seems to have a final answer for us. She tells the airport attendant and the airport attendant tries to tell me. I`m not sure I get it. It sounds like they are telling me that I will need to wait 5 days in order to have the problem fixed. I can`t wait 5 days, I have to be on a plane in not much more than another hour. I try to say this politely. They look at one another, trying not to laugh. The bank officer tries to explain again, pointing at my card, speaking a little more slowly, as if to a child. But it works. Entiendo. All they are saying is that it will take 5 days for the charge to my debit card to be reversed. I don`t need to do anything. I can go to Quito, Ecuador. In fact, I sense that they would really, really, like nothing more than for me to get on that very next flight to Quito, Ecuador. Rapido.

Her duty done, the airport attendant leads me back out of the strip mall and over the footbridge, with more encouraging little onward waves. I work on demonstrating all of the different ways I know of to say "gracias" as we go. Two, as it turns out. The ordinary kind and the kind with all of the "muchas" thrown in before it. To avoid monotony, I mix, alternate and repeat. If you ever need to do the same, I recommed that you feel free to throw in more than one "muchas" if you like. Muchas, muchas, muchas, muchas gracias is an option here. Why not? If you`re going to look like an invalid moron, you can at least do your best to look like a sincerely thankful invalid moron. I know now that I can at least do this little thing. The educational splendors of travel...

One last slice of conversation: Running through ways of expressing my gratitude and sorrow at the state of my own helplessness, I tell the airport attendant "necessito a estudiar Espanol" (I need to study Spanish) as we part. She should at least know that I have learned this obvious lesson, dolt that I am. Expecting a smile, even the slightest smile, I am, in this regard, disappointed. She looks at me and nods gravely. Yes. Yes you do.

I really do. I pay my 30 dollars in U.S. bills and settle into a chair at the gate to look up Spanish schools in my Lonely Planet book.

Posted by Joshua on October 15, 2004 03:57 PM
Category: Honduras
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