Honduras - Santa Rosa and some villages, 22nd Sept - 26th Sept
www.gurneysjourneys.com
Thursday 22nd September
A morning tour of Guatemala city taking in Zone 10 (didn’t seem very exciting at 9 am), the botanical garden, the main square in zone 1, and a bit of the market. Should I get a t-shirt made “I went to zone 1 and nobody shot me.” I mean it was a poorer neighbourhood, and if you read the tabloids you hear about people getting shot there every day. But as I’m not in a gang, or trying and rip anyone off, and I didn’t go at night, I figured I might just survive.
In the botanical garden I tucked into my rough guide history of Guatemala, the US got stuck in to mess up what was promising to be a successful liberal government in the 40’s, and the civil war was brutal. At the cathedral there are columns with the names of the people who were executed, massacred, disappeared, and tortured. A lot of names.
I enjoyed being away from the tourists for a while, and figuring stuff out for myself. I got the bus back to my hotel. Obviously I didn’t get the right bus, that would have been almost impossible to find. I followed where we went on the map and spent a lot of time thinking “please turn left soon”, before bailing and walking fifteen minutes to get back.
The bus to Esquipilas was comfortable (first class) but slow and when I arrived in the dark I thought it was too late to cross the border into Honduras. But no, a man came at me shouting the place I wanted to go and so I jumped in his taxi.
Crossing the border in the dark didn’t seem like a stupid thing to do until a drunk man started talking/hassling me on the bus to Nuevo Ocotepeque. The dark and the rain and the drunk man were the bad first impressions, but there were good things too. Two people on the bus helped me get rid of the drunk bloke. The woman in front actually took me to my hotel in a tricycle taxi with a roof. I was laughing at the little contraption as we scooted a hundred meters up a bumpy road. This town is strange, the road to the hotel is mud and gravel and small rivers, but the side roads are beautifully paved.
Oh and another fantastic first impression: when I walked up to the window at immigration the officer was sitting in his smart uniform playing a guitar and singing. He finished the verse before taking my passport! And the guide book took me to a great hotel, all I need to get done tonight is my washing, and my room has a wall full of drying racks and a fan!!!!! Purfick.
Friday 23rd September
Well as it turned out, this is Honduras, and the drying racks weren’t much use to me because there was no water last night. Let alone the hot water shower I had been promised. In every other respect the hotel is great.
I’m a travel guide book writer today and I wander about chatting to people in hotels and restaurants before getting on a bus to Santa Rosa.
Arriving in the city centre I can’t help noticing how many expensive cars are parked on the streets. I guess, like any country, there are rich people in certain places. On the whole this country is extremely poor, it is one of only two latin American countries on the G8 cancel the debt list. I got an idea of how poor when I received change and was handed my first 1 lempira bills. 1 lempira is worth less than 10 cents (US), and they have a note???
Overall I am liking Honduras much more than Guatemala. The people are very friendly and I am practicing loads of Spanish (this may have something to do with the fact that I am still a guide book writer and as such I have a reason to talk to everyone). One comparison between the countries that made me laugh was that “salva vida” (life saver) is the brand name for purified water in Guate, here in Honduras it is beer!
For some strange reason on arriving in Santa Rosa I checked into a very cheap hotel, and spent the first twenty minutes in my room swatting mosquitos. At first I was grossed out by the grim yellow walls with marks all over them, then I was annoyed because I kept mistaking the little black marks for mossies, finally I had added several smeared insects to the walls, including a big splodge of blood, which means either one of them got me, or I have someone elses blood on the swatter (my note book). Nice. I wonder if they will ever clean up.
After dinner in an empty restaurant I start to wonder if I will see any other tourists in Honduras.
Saturday 24th September
After sampling my first typical Honduran breakfast; tortillas, beans, egg, cheese, cream, and fried bananas I made the mistake only a traveller can. I was sure it was Friday and I went to visit the cigar factory, which was closed, obviously, because it’s the weekend. Ooops. So I spent some time “working” at the nearby bus station, which is crowded, noisy, and not a place people normally hang around very long. After wandering around for nearly half an hour the friendly bus boys had answered most of my questions, but rather than just shouting comments as I walked by the fifth time, some of them were actually trying to grab me. They were just being (over) friendly, but it was clearly time to leave.
Back in Santa Rosa I met some helpful people, a guy called Max Elvir who got very excited about me wanting to go hiking. We were chatting for nearly two hours and he told me about every little village, who ran the comedor, whether they had electricity etc. He also drew me a map and told me I would be fine to go off on my own. I wasn’t sure about the “on your own” bit, I was kind of hoping for a guided tour, but I didn’t have any other plans for the next day.
I also found and American ex-pat, who told me everything I needed to know for the book. I could have saved myself a lot of walking if I’d just come to his restaurant first, but I wouldn’t have had nearly so much Spanish practice.
The only person that tried to make friends with me at dinner was a small boy. He was very sweet, but I was a bit disturbed by his dancing. His pelvic movements combined with an “I’m so sexy” facial expression were the kind of moves you might expect to see in “X-tassi’s” the local disco, not from a seven year old.
Sunday 25th September
On Sunday morning I woke up and thought, “yes, why not. I’ll do it.” I packed as light as humanly possible, which, to my shame, involved purchasing a bum bag, and headed off into the Western Highland villages to hike, experience life without other tourists, and practice my Spanish with the locals I had been told were so friendly.
I was still slightly unsure about the safety of going alone (as a 28 year old female you can imagine my worries), but I had been assured by the local tour guide that it was a great idea. When I met him the day before, he enthusiastically shared his knowledge of the area and drew me a map which consisted of the names of the villages and straight lines connecting them all together. Apparently there are paths everywhere then.
My first step was getting to Belen Gualcho, which, according to the guide book has a church, a Sunday market and a hotel. Arriving at midday after a couple of bus rides I saw that yes, there was indeed a church with three domes. And the hotel was a pleasant surprise; no hot water obviously, but a private bathroom and a balcony looking across the tiled roofs and off into the hills. The market on the other hand was nowhere to be seen. My enquiries with several locals revealed the reason for this; it is perfectly normal here to get up as early as 4am, and the whole market is done and dusted by 10am.
This town is a metropolis compared to where I’m heading; it has no less than 4 restaurants. The lady at the one on the square served a typical lunch – tortillas, beans, cheese, eggs, cream, and a cup of coffee. I don’t drink coffee, (partly because of the caffeine, mainly because of the taste), but here my options are pretty limited. Coffee or nothing.
For an afternoon stroll I head up the hill. Apparently, (according to the trusty book) there is a great view of the church from one of the schools. The view evades me, but as I leave town on a muddy path I do some great bird watching. I love the way that when you call it “bird watching” it suddenly becomes a hobby, rather than just sitting looking into the tress. I’m not a very good birder as I can’t name a single one, but I enjoy myself. There are at least three different species, bright red, bright yellow, and bright blue. But unbearable stomach cramps soon stop play and I’m not thinking too kindly about my typical lunch as I get caught short in the woods. Luckily no one comes along the path, and my trusty bum bag provides toilet paper. This kind of wilderness action is a bit much for me and I head back towards the safety of my hotel room.
On the way I see open gates that look suspiciously like a school, I’m not sure whether I’m allowed in, but hey, as a friendly tourist, why not? Two students in their blue and white uniforms are standing outside so I start my usual friendly banter then ask them if there’s a good view from here. They look at me like I’m completely mad and try their hardest to understand why a gringo has just wandered into school. A teacher emerges from a classroom , I give him the standard tourist greeting “Buenas tardes!” then realise that he is in the middle of a lesson and a whole classroom of his students are now also looking at me wondering what the hell I’m playing at. Determined as I am to see the view I head round the back of the building, where I find the toilets, and the teacher from two seconds ago taking a piss with the door open. Oops.
If there was a view, maybe I could justify this snooping, but the trees have obviously grown since the trusty book was written, and you can’t see a thing. By now the situation is just silly and I top off my complete disruption of their day by accidentally walking within arms reach of another classroom window. In the whole town there are rarely tourists and these teenagers are in class on a Sunday afternoon because they work all week. They are looking towards the board, but are distracted by something moving past the window. Imagine their surprise as they see some random foreigner wearing a bum bag and a sun visor, laughing out loud to herself, walking along the narrow gap between the building and the rubbish bins. I freeze as I realise the whole class of 20 is looking at me. There is no way that I can hope to explain why I am there, so I leave confidently and quickly, around to the front and across the courtyard, hoping not to draw further attention to myself, but knowing full well that every eye is looking in confusion at the back of my sky blue waterproof jacket. Hooray for silly missions! I think it must have made class more interesting.
Without appreciating the luxury of options I chose Raquel’s comedor for dinner. After a friendly chat I had learnt the names of all the tourists Raquel has ever met, and that there would be many people walking up to the village of La Mohaga the next morning. There are women in this village that make crazy fruit wine and it is up a massive hill. What great reasons to go!
Back at the hotel I meet a local teacher who is also going to La Mohaga tomorrow for work, but she has to leave at 5:30am to arrive in time. She makes the trek, two hours each way, every day, because she would rather live down here, where she can enjoy electricity and a warmer temperature. I thank her for offering to show me the way, but 5:30 am??? I don’t think so.
Monday 26th September
I managed a pretty early start (7:15am) thanks mainly to the poor plumbing at the hotel. It’s all very well having your own private bathroom, but when the smell of your latest bought of diarrhoea refuses to go away, you would rather be very far away from it.
Minutes after starting my hike to La MohagaI hooked up with Gloria, another teacher who was going the same way. She was expecting a lift at any point in order to arrive on time, but she walked with me anyway and we had great conversations. As usual for the people I meet on this trip her life is fairly tough. Her boyfriend recently moved to the states to find work and she hasn’t seen him for five months. Their child lives with mother during the week while Gloria treks back and forth to school every day. We take a break from the steep uphill trudge, and I am touched by her kindness when she insists on buying me a juice.
After nearly an hour of uphill the conversation has slowed right down, and just in the nick of time her lift shows up. I am left sweating and happy to continue at my own pace. Much as I enjoyed chatting to Gloria, it felt slightly wrong that my holiday hike was accompanying someone on their way to work.
Soon afterwards the road levelled out. I was relieved, but at the same time convinced I had taken a wrong turn. I was kicking myself for not stopping to chat with the last man who passed by on his horse, especially since if I had to retrace my steps on this section it would be an uphill struggle.
As usual, however, I soon see some other traffic. A campesino with a machete and a white hat is walking towards me. I am aware of how this might be construed as a slightly dodgy situation: girl on her own, only other person is a guy with an enormous weapon, but in these parts it would be unnerving to see a man without a machete, and my only reaction is relief at being able to check the way, and it’s not too far at all.
Now I thought everyone had been friendly so far, but the women in La Mohaga were exceptionally kind.
Pedro in the pulperia (shop) sold me a coke. He should have been at school, but his teacher didn’t make the two and a half hour hike in time, so class was cancelled. He told me, as did the radio, that the time was 9am. Pretty good going, I thought to myself.
I announced my arrival in the village by asking everyone where I could find wine. An older lady escorted me to a house where I was invited in to sit down. The bare concrete room had some shelves with soap and batteries for sale, and a few plastic stools for us to sit on. I had the usual conversation about my random wanderings and realised I was faced with the choice of returning to Belen and my smelly hotel room, or continuing to San Sebastian, which seemed like a very long way. Carmen (the wine lady), after meeting me for five minutes, offered to let me sleep on her kitchen floor so I could spend more time in the village and get to know the area better. I was stunned by her kindness, and made my first mistake of the day; I made an assumption that if people here would let me stay in their houses, then surely the same kindness will be offered in the other villages.
I decided to try and make it to Hojalaca, half way to San Sebastian. I wanted to turn down the kitchen floor offer politely and thought that if I asked the time, it would add weight to my argument that it was a little early in the day to be thinking about sleeping. Imagine my surprise when she told me it was 10am. How can there be an hour time difference 200m down the road? I was now entirely confused about when it was going to get dark, but I knew Hojalaca was my goal.
I found Walter who was going half way there and could show me the road. He walked quickly down and up across the valleys, I was struggling to keep up and hold conversation at the same time, but I learnt that he wants to go to the USA to work. After passing his house I was relieved to be on my own and going at my own pace again. I could finally stop to get the stones out of my shoes and nurse a small blister.
Walking alone in the midday heat I could really appreciate how perfect these hills are for hiking; the altitude stops it being too hot, but is not so great that you feel breathless, the rivers, maize fields, and far off cliffs, make for a beautiful backdrop, and with butterflies and birds to spot there is never a dull moment.
After a couple more hours however my euphoria was wearing off a bit. A few people had told me I was close by Hojalaca and that I would surely be able to stay there, and I was really really hopeful about that. My legs were feeling the five hours walking behind me, the blister was giving me jip, and there were ominous black clouds rolling in. By the time I arrived I was pretty much ready to collapse. The first house I got to I had the usual friendly chat, but I realised the problem I had; I really wanted to be offered somewhere to stay without having to ask directly, I knew my best tactic was to make friends first, but I was so tired I couldn’t manage to hold it in.
The first family assured me there would be somewhere down the hill. The second family told me to go to the pulperia. But when I got there I was still hearing the same answer “yes, I am sure you can stay at someone’s house”, and nobody had actually said “yes, my house”. I tried not to panic too much and purchased a scary looking orange drink (I couldn’t see any water in the shop). As I was sitting in what looked like a bus shelter drinking it I was surrounded by about twelve gawping children. It turned out they were all cousins (this village really is small) and I wished I had some games to entertain them while we sheltered from the storm coming in. The best I could manage was a few ritz biscuits, which went down surprisingly well.
The children told me their village has a school, and a church, and a community building, as well as the shop - I was clearly in the central hub. I got to thinking about the last time I had been in a place as remote as this; there are no passable roads, and all the shop supplies are brought in on horseback. It had certainly been a while.
By the last drops of fizzy orange I was feeling better and the rain had passed. I asked the all important question, “How long does it take to walk to San Sebastian from here?” and the answer was a reasonable two hours. Since I didn’t have anywhere to stay I worked two more hours walking into the mental picture of my day, and it seemed ok. The sky was still a bit grey, and I only had between three and four hours of daylight left, but I didn’t have a wide range of options.
Two of the girls showed me twenty minutes out of town to the beginning of the shortest path and I set off again. Uphill. Now my knowledgeable tour guide back in the city had described the short cut to me, and I was intrigued by the wooden gate that he had told me was closed in winter. I have clearly watched too many Lord of the Rings films because I imagined something like the entrance to the mines of Mordor, something enormous and wood panelled, impassable when locked. In fact it was a normal, person sized gate made of several planks of wood, but at least it told me I was on the right track.
The uphillness of it all was really starting to get to me. I hadn’t seen any people since the beginning of the path, and for the first time I allowed myself a little bit of fretting about being completely on my own in the middle of nowhere, what if I have a heart attack? What if someone jumps out of the bushes and attacks me with a machete? Or, more realistically, what happens if I made the wrong turn after the river and I get lost?
When I see a house I am really looking forward to the friendly conversation, but after all this uphill, my face not looking good. I go past the smoking chimney and the chickens to the back garden where I find a mother and small son. As well as surprised to see this foreigner with a sun visor and a sky blue waterproof coat, she looks genuinely worried about me. And when I hear from her that I still have a further two hours I am at a bit of a low point, but at least I am on the right path. She offers me a drink, but the reason I am so red in the face is that I am pushing on to ensure that I arrive before dark, so I decline and keep going up.
I finally get to the top and meet a campesino who gives me tangerines and shows me a side path to avoid the mud. He also has a laugh at the state of me, and is the first person today to point out that I have a red mark right the way across my forehead from my sun visor. Great, I’ve met all these people today with a line across my head.
There are some houses around now - better, and I can see the church in San Sebastian - excellent, but it is at the top of the next hill - aaaaaaah. Several more people pass me on the path and give me encouraging, but varying, time scales, “it’s fifteen minutes from here”, “it’s only half an hour from here”.
When I cross the river and look back across the valley I know that pressing on was the right choice. It is a spectacular view to the forested hills, across meadows and the river. The sun has come out and I’m feeling warm and wonderfully tired. I eat the green tangerines whilst wondering what might be on my hands, and they taste surprisingly good as I am lying back against the rocks.
After a very long break I find some uplifting music to help me the last twenty minutes up to town. In total I have been walking for nearly eight hours when a hero with a horse saves me. I don’t usually go anywhere near large animals, but when he offers me a ride for the last stretch I can’t refuse. And my arrival in town is made all the more amusing. Picture the scene in the town square, groups of men in their white hats are sitting on the walls, children are playing football in the road, and then an absolutely knackered gringo appears being led through town on a large white horse and looking extremely uncomfortable about it. I really had no idea how I was going to get down again, but my chauffer stopped us next to a high curb. I was so grateful for the lift I would have given him a load of money, but he wouldn’t take any during our slightly awkward “tip’ moment.
The hospedaje has to be the most basic accommodation ever seen - a musty camp bed in a room with no windows. I was shocked to see a light switch (and less surprised when it didn’t work), but relished my cold outdoor shower in a breeze block cubicle with no door.
I managed to stay awake long enough to eat some tortillas, beans, egg and dodgy meat in a very basic comedor, and if I remember rightly even struggled through a conversation about the weather with my host Alicia. But, in this dark town where electricity is so new no one knows how to use it, I am asleep before 8pm.
Tags: culture, hiking, Honduras, santa rosa, Travel
