Viaje al Sur

"GOMITAS DE PELOOO! ROMPECABEZAS! AGUIIITAA! yell the colorful streetsellers, with a tone not unlike that of alley cats in heat, penetrating the ear drums,and leaving no one in any doubt of their presence. They hop on to the bus, one after another, with large, wicker baskets, pushing and shoving through the constant stream of passengers, touting their wares, selling a whole manner of curious goods, from colorful, shiny children's games to plastic bags filled with water, sliced mango in bite-sized pieces, rosquias (dry, circular, sweet biscuits), chopped meat wrapped in palm and full knobs of bright yellow corn in its leaf. "Tamales no quiere? Quiere tamales?," coos the flat nosed lady with the wide set eyes, a thick braid of dark hair trailing down her back.

One of several popular products that sells like ice cream on a steamy summer day, is a set of neon embossed posters of Jesus Christ on the Cross; and the Virgin Mary with the wording "Dios Bendiga esa casa" ("God bless this house"). The passengers push and claw between them to obtain these gaudy wall hangings. When the skinny young man with the scarred face jumped on the bus with this box of "salmos" I thought to myself, what a tough product he's got to peddle, what people really want on a hot, uncomfortable bus ride is a cold drink and a packet of biscuits. The woman at my side turns to me and beams widely, clearly pleased with her purchase. Cultural differences.

I don't know what it is about being on a bus on the road in Latin America that makes me feel so alive. Something about the coming together of so many characters, literally breathing life into the air, each more interesting than the other. As a large man with a blanket covering a basket begins to yell "taquillas, taquillas" my interest is peaked and I finally stop him and ask for a bag. They are crunchy, hard, yellow fried curiosities with potato inside and a strong sprinkling of white cheese on top, with chilly sauce.

What a contrast from my working week. It was a quick and seamless transformation. We stepped out of our last meeintg of the week at Banco Central, perhaps one of the most tedious places to get to in Tegucigalpa, located near the central plaza. A lively and colorful chaos of a place, where drug addicts with wide, vacant eyes converge with school girls with shockingly short skirts, pulled up high, provoking salivacious licks of the lips from hot dog sellers on the side and a raise of eyebrows from passing monjas (nuns).

Vendors, police, business men, vagabonds, and stray dogs mingle together in a rich tapestry of unlikely paradigms. Some hanging out under the shade of a leafy tree dotted here and there about the plaza; others begging for food or money, or sleeping in the midday heat on one of the broken benches, empty bottle of aguardiente at their side. Some simply take shelter from the penetrating sun by the doors of the cathedral.

Here the traffic is at a permanent stand still, and you will watch with frustration from the back of the car as old and fragile ladies with wizened faces and zimmer frames and old men with only one limb progress faster up the street than you do. The fragile arteries of the city are clogged with enormous station wagons, buses dripping out black tar from the back and taxis honking incessantly on their horns.

This past week the traffic has been particularly bad, as parts of the city have been taken over by the Resisdencia (those from Partido Liberal, that of Manuel Zelaya). Every now and again they pour out into the streets to gather against the "golpistas"; the current government who, depending on your point of view, contributed to his removal from power, backed by the military and (as they loudly speculate, the United States).

Whether they are truly loyal to the ex president or are just paid to manifest every now and again through a dark chain of dirty cash from dubious sources, I really can't say. But between these sporadic swarms of people, the striking teachers, manifesting students, and parts of streets that have been swept away by the recent rainfall, the city is getting harder and harder to traverse.

Yet it's only really here and in Comayaguela that I feel truly nervous circulating in a skirt and suit, heels and jewelry, laptop at my side and Anko's camera equipment. The protocol when we go to these locations is to have Dimas, our driver, drop us off as close as possible to the door and we dash from the vehicle to the entrance as fast as humanly possible (in three inch platforms).

We dart out of the heavily guarded bank and Dimas takes me straight to the bus station, with Anko chuckling at my travel plans, "estas loca" he says as the terminal comes into sight. I am being rather generous with the term "terminal", as there is little more than a broken down building with two windows resembling ticket booths, although not actually in service; here you buy your ticket on the bus.

I take a deep breath and slip off my heals, earrings and jacket. Wiping my lips clean of pink gloss, and throwing an old sweatshirt over my dress, I trade my briefcase for my backpack. Anko looks at me as if I have lost my mind as I step out of the car and say, "see you Sunday". He lets out a wry smile "call when you get there".

As Dimas accompanies towards the decaying building, a man with the uneven smile cackles at my confusion at thinking the ticket office is a ticket office. He begins to wave his arms with vigor, as he points to the rapidly filling buses outside. "Pero, hay un bano aca? (is there a bathroom here?) I plead, fully prepared for a long, rickety journey with no toilet breaks. He laughs harder, seemingly highly amused by my lack of knowledge at how these things work, and hands me a key to a rotten door with a sign requesting users to through a bucket of water down the pan after use.

There is not a soul inside the terminal. All the action here takes place outside, as you are waved and beeped at, and ushered onto the bus. Luxury it isn't, but for Central America this is really a decent service. I have my own seat for a start, which never happened to me in Guatemala, where the average sized person is smaller and they figure that four people can fit in bench designed for 2 small children.

There is even a television set with a flashing and fuzzy picture and an inappropriately violent film for the amount of children present, which doesn't start from the beginning and from which you cant escape; the volume ranked intolerably loud. Some passengers are standing and there is a family of four on the two seats opposite; well, more a mother and grandmother, each with a toddling child balanced on their knees. I look out of the window at the ominous storm clouds pierced by a giant rainbow and listen to the increasing rumbles in the distance as we wrench and shudder our way out of the city.

Moving around Central America just isn't the same in a private vehicle. In this sweaty and bumpy trajectory, is where you meet real people, listen to their problems and opinions, share in their delight at purchasing florescent Jesus posters, and marvel as they take everything with such good humor; as 20 minutes passed the stated departure hour tick by, the passengers begin to giggle and start to tease the ticket collector about not making it in time for dinner. In England people would be huffing and puffing and tapping their feet impatiently on the floor.

It is raining heavily as we pull out of the capital. Most of the rivers in Honduras are on high alert and evacuations have begun, especially in the South, of the people that live in the lowlands, as houses have been washed away, cattle drowned and crops destroyed by violent, unrelenting downpours. We pass houses built precariously one on top of the other, a clutter of broken bricks that seem to be sliding into the river. This heavy rain will surely bring more problems.

As we reach the highway, the mist rises off the mountains and the road is punctuated by rich, copper colored fallen rocks, eroded into the path due to large volumes of water. One of the little boys perched on his mother's lap beside me sleepily closes his eyes and rests his forehead on the seat in front. I try to sleep too, but the cramped space and unpleasant mix of odors; sodas, sweet biscuits, tacos, sweat, and stale breath; prevents me.

A Coke bottle roles in the aisle from one side to the other; each time we turn a bend it taps me on the ankle. I push it away but it relentlessly bounds back on every second corner in the twisty route.

We pull up at a "comedor" on the road side. I am not really clear on the need to stop for supplies just half an hour outside of the city, but three quarters of the well over-capacity bus trapces out, each banging me on the elbow as they pass. More persistent and persuasive vendors jump on to the bus, not missing the opportunity to sell agua de coco, quesadillas and tamales. As the people begin to board again, they have to fight for space between each other, the large bags of food and drinks they have picked up at the comedor and the men and women with the giant baskets and strong determination.

The family next to me has stocked up with supplies for what seems like a week, as the mother manages to stuff into her mouth rice and beans, chicken and platanos with a small plastic fork and a child on her lap bouncing up and down and trying to pull her in all directions. I am beginning to doubt that this journey could really take as little as 2 and a half hours, with the 20 minute delay, half an hour roadside stop and painfully slow progress we are making.

We come to a shuddering halt as the whole bus groans against an obstacle in the road. We hold our breath collectively as we realize that we have dropped a tyre into a hole. This section of the highway has split in two and we are precariously teetering on the edge of an alarmingly wide gap. We stay like that balanced for a while until the driver builds up the courage to start to the bus again. We lurch sharply to the left and then tilt upright, breaking free and spluttering onwards.

As an explosive crash, that echoes through the land, vibrating off the thin bus windows and rays of fork lightning fall about the sides of the cliff edges, the lady by my side and I exchange nervous glances. She smiles "que susto verdad?" (what a fright?" I laugh in agreement and we begin to talk. She shows me photos of the three children she has in Choluteca that she can only see one weekend a month, as she has to work in the capital. To scratch out any kind of a life for her family she works every day and has to suffer the biting pain of separation.

I am starting to build up quite an extensive profile of the Honduran population. Lilian will definitely appear in my book. I hope she had a good weekend with her kids. Monday comes so damn hard for us all.