Madrid-New York-Houston Leg one of the journeny

I have that exhilarating feeling again. The one I get when I am about to get on a plane and go somewhere far away. It’s always tinged with a bittersweet mixture of anticipation for the adventure to come and the remorse for the people left behind. It was heart breaking watching my love get on to a bus and leave me on the platform. I think that my heart literally stopped for a moment and the air drained out of me, leaving me breathless until suddenly escaping out in horrifying gasps. I started to almost run out of the station and against every impulse to turn back and get on the bus with him.

Mine is a life that will always be marked by separation. It’s unsettling, it’s stressful, it’s inconvenient, uncomfortable and… standing here in the line up, it’s a feeling of being truly alive.

Our journey was starting in Madrid and when we got to the airport, the queue was tediously long and we were asked to stand to one side and let people pass, as there seemed to be some problem with our tickets. Both Anko and I became slightly nervous. Justifying a three month vacation to Honduras to an American airline is not an easy task. Exacerbating matters further is the fact that my passport has almost run out of spaces on the pages and several entries and exits from Venezuela don’t work in my favour. And Anko, my travelling partner and manager in Honduras has a collection of stamps from an eye-brow raising variety of why-go destinations, including, Congo, Bosnia, Serbia and El Salvador.

It seems that we have had the misfortune to be attended by a fastidiously meticulous rule abider, and we are forced to wait for some time before being informed that we will be allowed to travel today but that we have a note next to our names exonerating Continental from any responsibility should we be denied access in Honduras. That of course would never happen. If we meet one customs official that fails to be swayed over by my winning smile or a $10 incentive, then this isn’t the Central America I remember. After complying with a banal series of ridiculous questions about where we have left, packed, and organized our luggage, finally we are allowed out of the clutches of this intolerable woman.

It happens to be Anko’s birthday and the poor thing has to put up with a gruelling 15 hours of flying, queuing, inquisition and airline food. Worse still, the American airlines did away with free alcoholic beverages back in the day when suitcases used to hold 32 kilos and the extra time you spent at the airport was used browsing through the duty free rather than placing all your liquids into a plastic bag and taking off your shoes and belts.

Luggage restrictions today are so tight I was told that even with one extra kilo I would have to pay 50 dollars, and we had to do some slightly strategic repacking. Perhaps I look back with rose tinted spectacles, but frankly, flying today just isn’t what it used to be. It’s unpleasant and unfriendly. The seating space in the aircraft is tight enough to give you claustrophobia and the line ups at security enough to make you weep. Especially if you are unfortunate enough to have to transit through the US.

After an uneventful flight, we land rather shakily into the sweltering smog of New York. It’s 40 degrees in the city today and despite being contained in the artificial air of the terminal, the punishing humidity still manages to drag us down and lugging our cases across meters of mechanical runways is no picnic.
We line up and wait to be granted entry into the States, a little nervous that we may be flagged up for our curious travel habits, but other than scanning a few fingerprints and exchanging basic information, finally they were far more “rompebolas” in Spain than here. I am fortunate to have my birthday on American Independence day and seeing the 4th July on my passport is enough to crack a smile out of even the most poker-faced official.

After clearing both security and customs and locating our next departure gate, we realise that we are fortunate enough that our 3 hour stop coincides with the Uruguay-Holland game. We install ourselves into a diner-style bar in front of the TV screen and watch as the game unfolds. The support is definitely with Uruguay and the latino bus boys and wait staff cheer and shout when Uruguay equalise. It wasn’t the result that we were hoping for but a good game never the less and a welcome chance to knock back a couple of beer after our long journey and before the next one.

Looking around at the faces in the airport, it’s the same old U S of A as always. I don’t know if it’s because we are so culturally similar or if it’s just because I’ve been here so many times, but I always feel at home in the States. There is a sort of feeling of continuity as the clothing, customs and slightly comical way of speaking remain the same. Elderly people dressed in smart outfits; finished off with chunky, white sneakers, and a cumbersome belt bag around their waists, sipping on bucket sized cokes.

You can pay for a Starbucks coffee of a dollar with your mastercard.
The average size person is a lot larger than in Europe and the seating space in the aircraft significantly less. A 15% tip is obligatory even if the service is horrible and doing something considered non-conformist, such as cracking a joke, making an ironic comment, or going to, say, Honduras for 3 months, is met with a farcical raising of the eyebrows and a look that could melt the flesh off your bones. They’re not all like that of course. The man beside me with the Southern drawl going to visit his kids in California is a pleasure to converse with and we touch upon several topics of conversation, from the crisis to marriage and travelling.

He is definitely with me on the fact that planes have gotten smaller, the food less tolerable and, depending on the airline, the staff less welcoming.

I get up to go to the bathroom and the overtly gay flight attendant barks at me and another man waiting to get into the kitchen and (eyerolling) out of the way of his snack cart. As we make way he shoots me a filthy look “he was before you, you know, don’t you cut him!” His female companion who is about two shades up on the charisma scale, rolls her eyes and he asks her if there’s anything he can do for her “sweety”. She responds with “I wanna be back in Houston and not at work”, so that was nice to hear.

Tonight we will be stopping in an airport hotel in Houston and tomorrow destination Honduras. I’m not really nervous anymore. More curious.The last time I was in Honduras I had a budget of about $3 a day and stayed in a converted prison, lived off food from street sellers and filtered water with an iodine dispensing device to avoid buying bottles. This time around I will be staying in a 5 star hotel and shaking hands with presidents and ministers. It’s definitely going to be different.
I only found out about a week ago. I was told to prepare myself for Africa or Asia and at the last minute, was given Latin America and Eastern Europe. I couldn’t be happier. It seems I’m destined to be here in this continent.

So what do I know about Honduras at this stage? The leftist Chevez buddy, Zelaya, was removed from power at pistol point in the middle of the night almost exactly a year ago and is now residing as a guest in the Dominican Republic. The new government elect (it is important to say “elect” despite being initiate bedfellows with the military and rightist sector). There are about 40 assaults on buses a week and 60% of the rural population is at risk of dengue. The country is plagued by drug rings and narcotraffic, and 9 journalists were recently murdered.

Most of this information is from my father, who sent me several mails about the state of the country, entitled “report on Honduras, It sounds absolutely horrendous.”
But the truth is, all this negative publicity is one of the main reasons we go to these countries. To redress some of that bad coverage and give these countries the chance to show what they have to offer for foreign investors. And of course to see them some space in our reports. Keep you posted! Well, tomorrow will be touching down in Tegucigalpa... keep you posted.