I took one bus to a fork in the road, where a taxi driver offered to take me to the border. I told him that I was taking a bus to San Pedro Sula and wouldn't need a taxi. He told me that the bus didn't go to San Pedro Sula. Another man asked me to take the taxi, too, and it occurred to me that they wanted me to pay for the two of us. A group of women at the "bus stop" seemed to keep their eye on me and put me one the right bus ... which took me to another bus, from which my passport was stamped. I took that to mean we'd crossed the border, but I was wrong. That bus took me to a truck that drove a bunch of us standing up in the back of it over a flooded road to the bridge that was out and to a boat that would take us across the river.
Once across the river, there was the ever-present offer to exchange money. I asked if we were in fact in Honduras and was told we were. I told the man that I wanted to be sure because I didn't want to exchange money if I were going to need more Guatemalan money (quetzales). He told me again that we were in Honduras and wouldn't need more quetzales. He quoted me an exchange rate, and I told him that I had no idea if that were a fair rate, that I had to trust him, and we made the exchange. I climbed the bank and found another bus whose driver quoted me a price in quetzales. I told the driver of the conversation I just had and that I only had Honduran money (lempiras). He again quoted me a price in quetzales. I asked him what I should do as all I had was lempiras, and he agreed to let me pay in lempiras. I told him, also, that I didn't know if he were quoting a fair price and had to trust him.
This bus took me to the border, where I met Juanita (more about her in a bit), who put me on a bus in Cortez, which finally took me to San Pedro Sula. When I got on this bus, my bag was put in one seat, and I was put in another. There were four young Irish women on the bus, too, and their bags were stacked in the corner. When it came time to pay, I was told I would be paying for two seats. I asked, "Because you don't have room for my bag, I'm paying for two seats?" He money collected confirmed that. I climbed on top of my bag and paid for the single seat. The four young women sat with their bags on their laps. I told them that it felt good to do that, that it felt like the first stand I'd taken in quite a while. I was dropped off downtown and took a cab to my hotel ... and I'd finally arrived in San Pedro Sula.
Back to Juanita: She greeted me at the migration office and offered to take me to the bus station in Masca, where she lived. Given my experiences in Belize, I'm not sure what prompted me to accept the offer, except that maybe I believed that I was either going to be taken advantage of by this woman or by the man driving the next bus. Juanita spoke English, said she worked for immigration, and offered to let me stay at her house if I wanted. I declined and said that I just wanted to get to San Pedro Sula. As she drove to Masca, she told me a little about the area and offered to show me some sights, which I agreed to and enjoyed. She offered again to let me stay with her, and I declined again. She continued to show me some sights, and as we were getting something to eat, I asked if I could please change my mind and accept her offer. I stayed with her four two days. Juanita and her daughter took very good care of me, and I relaxed some in their care and company. While I was eager to get to San Pedro Sula, from where I would be able to fly home, I was reluctant to leave the safety and security of Juanita's home.
The hotel at which I stayed in San Pedro Sula was quite nice. It was secure, and the staff there really understood customer service. I'd commented to the front desk clerks that I hoped their employers treated them as well as they were treating me, and I was informed that staff and services were being cut. The taxi companies the hotel worked with were wonderful, too. They picked me up when and where they said they would, and they talked with me slowly in Spanish. They reminded me of Enrique, the bus driver in Panamá with the kind and ready smile.
The Church in Honduras ... I don't quite know what to say about that. It's a part of the Province of the U.S., unlike the other countries in Central America. The bishop had e-mailed with a wonderful invitation, but when I'd arrived in Honduras, I learned that the bishop was having knee surgery and wouldn't be available. I visited the church in San Pedro Sula, Catedral El Buen Pastor (The Good Shepherd Cathedral), and no one initiated contact with me there and few greeted me at the peace. There was a group from North Carolina who has had a long-standing relationship with the Diocese of Honduras and the Episcopal School there, and I learned a little about that. I asked to speak to someone who may have answered the bishop's phone a couple weeks earlier, as I wanted to apologize for being rude to someone I had spoken to when I tried to call the bishop to make further plans. I spoke with the bishop's wife, who happened to be the priest-in-charge at El Buen Pastor. She hadn't answered the phone and didn't know who would have. I had explained who I was, how I'd been in conversation with the bishop about this trip, and how I wanted to talk with someone about the Church in Honduras. The priest-in-charge reiterated that the bishop was not available; she did not extend an invitation.
San Pedro Sula is one more dangerous city I was encouraged not to explore. I did walk around near the church and that seemed fine. As I was sitting on a step waiting for my taxi, a boy (maybe 10 or 11 yrs old) asked me for money, in Spanish. I asked "why?" and he said "please?" It was an amount that meant nothing to me, nothing at all, and I said "no." The day before I left, I took the hotel shuttle downtown and was deposited at the National Palace. I walked around the small square and took a few pictures. A woman approached me and spoke to me softly and rapidly in Spanish. That's never a good combination for me, and it took me a moment to realize she was asking for money. I was going to give her what I had on my person, except for what I would need for a taxi back to my hotel. Alfonso, a Mexican man in my parish, had given me money to give to someone who needed it, and I was going to give this woman that money as well. As I began to open my purse, a man called to me in English, "Hey, lady." I immediately walked away from him and the woman. The man said, "Hey, lady. I'm from New York. Why so scared." I found a taxi and retreated back to my hotel.
I took a walk later near my hotel and found a group of boys playing soccer. I spoke with their coach and learned that it was a soccer school. I explained to the coach about the money Alfonso wanted to share, and adding what remained of my funds, gave it to him. He in turn shared that news with his players. They thanked me in English and went off to play. I watched for a short time and was grateful that my final experiences in Central America were of healthy, active, smiling children and of volunteers giving of themselves to ensure those children have a chance at something more than the poverty and desperation in which they are growing up.
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