3/21- A Monday, for starters. I gain consciousness sometime around noon, but it's not what I'd call much of a gain. Actually, I feel worse than I can remember feeling for quite a while. The pisswater that passes for beer in Honduras decieves you into thinking there's no alcohol in it just beause there's no taste, but there's some sort of hepatoxic agent there, as proven by my slamming headache and general malaise. Also, the horrible Belmont cigarettes had turned my tongue into something I wanted to spit out, and my lungs into reeking sacs of smoked tissue. It was not a good morning.
Easing out of bed, I try to use the experience to remind myself to never, ever, do that again. I manage to get dressed and make my way down to the shore, with a lot of love and moral support from Maryse, which is far more than I deserved. The ocean revives me a bit, and the Trujillo bay is spectacularly beautiful, with perfect water, almost no waves at all, and a long, sloping beach that means lousy swimmers like me can still stand up and touch bottom 100 feet out from shore. I get a bit overenthusiastic about my swimming, and try to see how far I can swim underwater, which means I am performing strenuous exercise while holding my breath. Surfacing, my head feels like someone is driving railroad spikes into it from several directions. I remember that I am badly hung over, and restrain myself to feebly paddling around in the giant bathtub. I will never drink alcohol again.
Reporting for duty at the bar, Chaz "asks" in her uniquely rude and abrupt manner if we can try to show up by 2PM. We say sure, whatever you say, and then privately discuss how to get out of there in the quickest possible way. Mercifully, Chaz goes away somewhere else, leaving me to sit on the barstool and pass out beer after beer to Tim and Bjorn, who seem unaffected by the last night's orgy of consumption. Bjorn's liver has got to be pickled, or something. Eddy teaches me how to make the house special drink, a "Kiwi Colada," which, oddly enough, contains no kiwi.
Tim attends to homework, grading students' papers on his laptop, and Bjorn explains to me how he came to fall in love with the Princess of Indonesia through his job as a soldier with the UN. They plan to marry, at least according to Bjorn. Bjorn also plans to open a bar in Thailand. Not clear how those two ambitions might intersect, and the subject never came up as one might think it would...
I eventually decide that a Marinero (sort of a Clamato thing) and some vodka, together with a bit of "salsa tipo Inglesa" (Worchestershire sauce) and some other whatnot, might make me the Bloody Mary I need to cure the still-heinous hangover. After three or four tries, I make a half-decent Bloody Mary analogue, and sure enough, I feel better. I play some pool, drink a couple beers over the course of the evening, and smoke _one_ cigarette.
Chaz starts bitching at me for something, and the inevitable confrontation finally ensues.
Me: "Okay lady, get this: I'm on vacation. I'm here to have a good time. Since I've gotten here, all you have done is be unpleasant, which is all you seem to know how to do. You don't train me or Maryse to do anything, then bitch when it's not done the way you want. You wander off without letting us know where we can find you, so we have to just do our best, which you later criticize in your incredibly annoying way. Now, I am not taking one more particle of your bullshit. You can either start being basically pleasant, making reasonable requests, and treating me nicely, or I am leaving."
Her: "You just need to get the chip off your shoulder, because every time I ask you to do something, you have a problem with it..."
Me: "Chaz, has it ever occurred to you that my reaction to you might have something to do with the _way_ you 'ask' for things?"
It hadn't occurred to her, nor could she be convinced that she had anything to do with my negative responses to her. Neither could she be induced to consider changing the way she was dealing with us, so Maryse and I held counsel, and Maryse tried to talk to her. Nope. Chaz just couldn't and/or wouldn't see what was going on, and thus our decision to leave was hastened and finalized.
Aiming for abstinence, I achieve moderation, and go to bed early to complete my recovery.
3/22- Up early (for me) feeling great. Maryse and I decide to go into Trujillo not only to get away from Casa Hell-On-Earth, but to locate some fresh water. Not only is the water system to Casa Kiwi broken, but there is zero agua pura anywhere, Chaz having failed to order any in preparation for Semana Santa, or any other eventuality like... a water system failure, for instance. The kitchen is boiling water to (hopefully) purify it, but somehow, a smoothie doesn't sound real appetizing, and I keep having thoughts of dysentery, so we head out.
The only problem is that there is nobody at all on the road, making hitching a ride problematic. After pointelssly walking for a mile, I suggest that we stop in the only spot of shade anywhere around, a lone roadside tree, and just wait for a ride. Maryse makes disparaging comments about my manhood, but I tell her to feel free to keep walking and prove her superior endurance; I'll demonstrate my superior intelligence by staying in the shade. A pickup comes along a couple minutes later, breaking the meager amount of tension we're able to sustain in the steaming heat.
We get in back with a couple of sorta-rasta looking black guys, who don't return our greetings much as we climb in. Halfway through the ride, one of them, looking at the hundreds of no-see-um bites on my legs, pronounces in his best Bounty Killer voice, "Plenty mosquitoes bite you, mon." Yeah, thanks dude, I noticed that myself... Actually, I think I look like I'm dying of smallpox, at least from the knees down.
On the way into Trujillo, we noticed a sign that said "Casa Alemania" and "Hostel". Yes! Someplace else to stay! We bought a few staple foods in Trujillo, and bought a young coconut that a guy cut open with his machete so we could drink the coconut water. Delicious!
On the way back out of Trujillo, we found Casa Alemania alter much searching, due to poor signage. The place turns out to be brand new, not really even finished yet, and is called “Alemania” because the guy who runs it, Gunther, is German. On the sign are printed prices which seem reasonable, and the idea of leaving Casa Kiwi is irresistible, so we go in and inquire. Well, it turns out that the prices are in dollars, so rather than reasonable, they are outrageous. A dorm room will set us back USD$20 for a single night, while a private room is priced ludicrously at USD$50. Whatever, we have to get out of Casa Kill-Me before it does, so we tell him we’ll be back in a couple hours with our stuff.
Taxi to CK, tell the taxi to come back and get us in one hour, pack in record time (so fast that I forgot my favorite hemp wifebeater) and say goodbye to Joel and Nindro, Bjorn, Tim, and Eddy- everyone but Chaz. As we’re waiting outside for the taxi to arrive, she comes out of the bar and says, in her depressed, petulant way, “You could have at least said goodbye.” Yeah, and you could have _at least_ given us a decent room, and been minimally personable, and had edible food, and trained us to do the job we were attempting to do, among other things, but you didn’t meet those minimums, so I don’t feel any obligation to meet your minimums, how about that? I said “Yeah, well, we could have, but we didn’t,” to her already-retreating back. Damn, what a wretched person. I have rarely been so glad to see the last of someone.
The taxi arrived “en punto,” miraculously enough, and took us to Casa Alemania, where we were looking forward to at least a comfortable night of sleep (albeit outrageously expensive) before heading out on a bus the next morning early. Gunther was a little odd, like overly friendly and solicitous, hovering over us and repeatedly asking if we needed anything else. No, dude, just some peace and quiet, actually. We had a melon from our Trujillo shopping, which Maryse ate part of, and we asked if we could store the remainder in the fridge. “Ya, uf course yoo can use da fridge!” shouted Gunther. Okay, dude, thanks, just calm down a little… The way his blue eyes shone in his florid, heavyset face was a bit disturbing, and I found myself uncomfortably evaluating the spatial relationship between him, me, and the large knife/small machete lying casually on the kitchen counter. Maryse put the melon in the fridge, and went to our new room to unpack, presumably. I was alone with Gunther.
Not wanting to be rude, although I had no real desire to converse with him, I started talking about nothing in particular, and he loudly announced that he cooked breakfast every morning. We could have some of his superlative German breakfast for a few dollars, but we had to let him know that night if we wanted any. Since we were leaving early, I needed to ask what time he fixed it, and because we are vegetarians and I suspected that a German breakfast (especially one prepared by the 300-pound Gunther) might run heavily to sausage, ham, and other forms of meat, I needed to ask what he was planning to cook. Approaching the latter first, I said, “What’s for breakfast?” He shouted back “Breakfast! I cook good breakfast!” I said, “Ah, what do you cook, though? I mean, what kind of food?” Apparently this was some sort of trigger for a trauma, or God knows what, because suddenly Gunther became very, very angry. “WHY YOU ASK TEN TIMES??” he bellowed, “I COOK BREAKFAST!!” He had the look of someone who is right at the point of launching a physical assault. I just could not believe the level of anger he was manifesting in response to my presumably reasonable question. Perhaps this was some obscure Germanic form of humor? Pretending to take offense for no reason? Male bonding, old German style? In a very level tone of voice, I said, “I asked ten times?” “Ya, sorry. I am stress from building hotel,” Gunther said, and stood there fuming. Ah, okay, so it wasn’t some sort of joke; he was actually just a psychopath. Great. “I’m stressed too, dude,” I said, to let him know that I didn’t appreciate his attitude, and might be likely to do something unpleasant if he raised his voice to me again. “Why you stress? You on vacation!” he shouted. Rather than gutting him like a fish with his own kitchen knife (my first impulse) I just walked away, to tell Maryse that Gunther was nuts.
Later, attempting to relax in the hammocks outside and read a bit before the sun went down, we looked up and saw Gunther hanging out of a second-story window, just watching us. Creepy.
Still later, Maryse asked me to get the half of the melon she had left in the fridge. I went to the kitchen, hoping to avoid Gunther, but he magically appeared, blocking my progress with his bulk. “Ya? You need something? Water? You want I cook you dinner? You…” I interrupted his manic questioning spree by pointing behind him to the fridge. “Our melon,” I said, not wanting to talk to him or spend any more time in his presence than absolutely necessary. “Ya, melon, okay!” he shouted, moving aside a few inches and continuing to hover. I edged around him, opened the door of the fridge and looked for the melon, with Gunther’s breath in my ear. Seeing a melon, I took it out and was about to place it on the table. “No! Is not your melon! MY MELON!” Gunther yelled, apparently enraged once again. “Sorry man, I’ll put it back and look for ours,” I said, which seemed reasonable enough. Nope. As I reached for the fridge door, Gunther actually grabbed my hand, and screamed, “NO!! MUST LEAVE DOOR CLOSE FOR FIVE SECOND!!!” I was totally speechless, and just stared at him physically restraining me from opening a refrigerator door. After the requisite seconds had passed, Gunther released my hand and said “Ya, now you open. Is okay,” and smiled his big smile with his bright, bright eyes. Slowly, carefully, with no sudden movements, I reached for the fridge again, keeping my eyes on Gunther, ready for anything at this point. I replaced his melon precisely where I had found it, located our melon, and removed it- slowly, carefully, with no sudden movements. Keeping my eyes on him, smiling neutrally (or so I hoped) I backed toward the door, mumbling my thanks and acting like I hadn’t noticed that he had just suffered another psychotic episode. I closed the door between us despite the fact that he was advancing toward me, smiled at him again through the glass to convey that I was not a threat, and fled to our room, to tell Maryse what I had gone through to reclaim our melon. Jesus.
We walk down the beach to a restaurant, have some really good fish, and talk a bit. Having checked the bus depot earlier, we know there’s a bus back to San Pedro Sula at 7AM, so we decide to get to sleep early. There is one other couple staying at Casa Ale-Mania, (I've decoded the secret meaning!) Americans, and we chat with them a bit. When I go out just before bed to have a last look at the ocean at night, Gunther is there, just outside the wall around the “hostel” dorm room, eavesdropping on all of us. Seriously creepy. On that disturbing note, Maryse and I go to bed, locking the door as best we can from the inside. I pray that I won’t see Gunther until the morning, if then.
He stalks my dreams, dressed as a Nazi, chasing me with a machete while screaming incomprehensible instructions about refrigerators and hammocks in a combination of German and Spanish. I do not sleep well.