Honduras 08: Archives

DANA NELSON writes:
I feel like I'm one of those people who probably would be more fortunate if I didn't go anywhere. Ever.

See, I'm the type of person who tends to miss things. Like the bus, or the train. I'll be 10 feet away from the turnstiles and the train will leave. I'll be turning the corner to the bus stop and the bus will just drive past. It's not like I miss things a few minutes away. I just miss things. And it doesn't matter if I leave earlier, because I've tried that. I still miss the bus, or the train, or like what happened a few weeks ago: I missed my flight.

My boyfriend and I were traveling to Virginia to visit his parents. They live in Richmond, and we had a 7:20 a.m. flight directly there out of O'Hare International Airport. Since his grandmother lives close to the Blue Line, which is the train that goes directly to the airport, we slept over at her house the night before our flight. Then very early that morning, I'd say 5 a.m. or so, we were out on the Blue Line platform, waiting for the train to arrive.

Waiting ... and waiting ... and waiting.

We looked up at the clock above the platform. It said 5:54. An announcement came across the loudspeaker, something to the effect of "Sorry, but there's a delay. The train will get there eventually."

And 15 minutes later, the train to O'Hare pulled up. We got on, and it crawled toward the airport. What should have taken 20 minutes at most took nearly an hour. We raced through the airport toward the check-in, but the computers wouldn't let us check in. The time was 6:57 and we were too late to check in for our flight.

"Would you like to stand by for the next flight?" The computer asked. Sure, we said, even though we might have not gotten on the flight at all.

Fortunately, four hours later, we made it onto the next flight to Virginia. There were only two empty seats on the tiny airplane, and my boyfriend and I got them. I feel sorry for the third person who was waiting on standby because I understand her pain. I really do.

So as you can see, traveling anywhere makes me anxious. I'm late to a lot of things and no matter how early I leave, something happens to make me miss my bus, or train, or plane. And as I prepare for the trip to Honduras, all I can think about is how scared I am of missing my flight, and how I'm going to leave my house at 6 a.m. just to make sure I make it onto the 1 p.m. flight. But even then, I have to take a bus and a train, neither of which I really trust.

I'm just unlucky when it comes to these sorts of things.

DANA NELSON writes:
On top of feeling incredibly anxious about this trip, I also feel really fortunate. As much as I've wanted to travel (for such a long time!) I've always felt, just a little bit, like I'd never be able to.

I'm not, nor have I ever been, particularly wealthy. I'm hardly (and I think it may be just a mentality) middle-class. I'm second in a family of five kids, which means I'm paying for college on my own, along with day-to-day living expenses. With my on-campus job, it's hard.

Of course, this scenario is not unusual, especially for college students. But living paycheck to paycheck has a way of making people think that they don't deserve golden opportunities when they come up. For a long time, I thought only rich people could make their dreams come true, could do the things they wanted, when they wanted.

Sure, this trip isn't free, but because it's through school, I can pay for it using loans. Even with that option, I struggled with whether or not I should go. I wanted to go to Prague with students in the fiction department, but decided against it. It was too long and too expensive.

Then I wondered about Honduras ... should I sign up for this trip? I was literally thinking about it every day. Weeks after I'd put down the deposit and paid for the plane ticket, I thought, "I can't afford this. I shouldn't go."

But the nagging part in the back of my head kept saying, "No. This is your dream. You have to go. You might never get this opportunity again."

I won't get another opportunity (to use loans, anyway) because I graduate this May, which scares me. I don't know if I'll get a job and be able to pay back my loans, or if I'll ultimately become hopeless, work a desk job, and become a hermit for the rest of my life. I don't know if I'll struggle to pay the bills, like my family has done for the entirety of my life. I wasn't living in a shack or anything—honestly, I think I had it pretty good—but I remember the struggle and the worry and the anxiety my parents had. I remember moving into a smaller house, and my father working long hours and always being tired.

That anxiety has been passed on to me, and I spend hours agonizing over the loans, graduation, and any money spent that could have been saved.

It was hard for me to decide I wanted to go to Honduras. It was hard to let go of the worry and grab onto my dreams. But I'm glad I did. We haven't even left yet and I know how lucky I am. Because of student loans, I'm able to go to a place some other people can't—maybe because of the money. And right now, the important issue is not how much more I'll have to pay back once I graduate, but how much more experience and knowledge I'll have when I do.

So what if I can't buy new clothes or gear? I'm going to Honduras and I'm going to have a good time and produce some great writing samples. Maybe they'll be read by someone who won't have the opportunity I have now and I'll be able to help them see the world as I see it.

The more I think about it, the more privileged I feel.

Dana Nelson is an undergraduate journalism student.

DANA NELSON writes:
As we skidded around the last turn to the bird preserve, I could have seen my life flash before my eyes, if I wasn’t seeing my death flash by a lot quicker: there was the car, tipping and skidding out on the gravel, falling to the left. I fell out the open side of the car (since I was sitting on that side) and hit the road with a sharp smack. Then the car fell and crushed me.

Fortunately, the toc toc (Honduran taxi cab) didn’t tip as we turned, and I didn’t die by being crushed by a tiny red vehicle.

You may think taxi drivers are crazy in Chicago, with the way they swerve in and out of lanes, pull up in no-stopping zones and stop on a dime (or at least a quarter). Even in New York City, I remember holding on for dear life as drivers skidded like drag racers through snow- and sleet-covered streets in a blizzard.

But New York City and Chicago cab drivers have nothing on Honduran toc toc drivers (or any Honduran drivers for that matter). In charge of a powerful, tiny, three-wheeled vehicle, these drivers maneuver through rocky, pedestrian-filled streets and around large trucks coming the other way. But the skill, and perhaps madness or luck, of these drivers is so great that they can roar through the rocks and dart around corners without toppling the seemingly highly unstable vehicles.

Our group had been admiring the toc tocs since we arrived in Copan Ruinas, so Michael (our guide) decided that we would take them to the coffee plantation and bird rehabilitation center called Macaw Mountain.

All 11 of us crowded into three toc tocs. In my car, three people (me, Sharon, Molly) squeezed knee to knee on the short bench in back. Michael sat in the front with Miraela, our pretty Honduran driver.

The cars are about four or five feet tall and are open on the side, so while we bumped speedily along the narrow streets (imagine cobblestone, except with rocks), Molly throwing bread out the door for the poorly fed stray dogs and Miraela swerving to avoid potholes, I held on for dear life, afraid of a too-fast turn that would tip the car and drop me right out the door and onto the road.

And then the hills! I didn’t think the car had enough power to get up, but it did, sputtering and groaning and growling all the way up as it struggled to tote all five of us (I think it was only meant for two or three, four at best) up the hill. Downhill was horrifying, with all the people and vehicles in the road, but uphill was scarier, as we had no idea if the car might decide to stall and drop us back down—not like the way we came, but much rougher. The fear of crashing into one of those much-larger vehicles brought to mind this statistic: The leading cause of death for tourists to Honduras is vehicular accident.

Since toc tocs have only been in Copan Ruinas for about three years, the experience level of these drivers isn’t very high. It’s enough to make anyone anxious.

Smoke clouds rose as huge trucks and vans passed us, getting dust into our eyes but fortunately not destroying us. Children shouted to Miraela from the side of the road and she honked to them and other toc toc drivers, and fortunately didn’t hit any of them.

Once we made it out of the city, the roads were wider and paved, but not much smoother. We still jolted uncomfortably in the tiny toc toc as she whizzed down the curvy road.

The last curve, well, you know how that went. We lived and made it to Macaw Mountain, and Miraela had a smug grin of accomplishment on her face as her neon orange and yellow mesh vest hung off her shoulder, as if she knew we would make it all along.

Photo: Miraela smiles from inside her toc toc, which is decorated with Tweety Bird stickers. Most of the drivers put the name of their vehicle in stickers on the windshield, and other fun stickers throughout the cab and on its outside to showcase the driver's personality.

DANA NELSON writes:
I'm overwhelmed.

I'm overwhelmed by the smell of a finished meal being cleaned and the sounds of millions of bugs humming into the night. I'm overwhelmed by the range of mountains that flood every viewpoint, no matter how high or how low I go. I'm overwhelmed by the calluses on my dusty, traveled feet. I'm overwhelmed by the difficulty it takes to type these words because the keys are so hard. I'm overwhelmed by the pressure to write and write and write before these moments slip away and vanish.

It's no longer about a class for me. It's about the experience to explore and study (more like cram) this country into my sphere of awareness. It's about a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that I may not have again.

And yet, I have been trying to let go (just a little bit) of all the moments. I've been establishing friendships I probably wouldn't have made if I didn't go on this trip. I've been learning about my own sense of the world, where I'm wrong, where I could be right, and where there is no real answer to the questions I have. I've also spent a lot of time longing to see my boyfriend and cats again; longing to take the "el" instead of being transported by reckless van-driving Hondurans; longing to not be completely overwhelmed with every new discovery and the desire to tattoo it into my memories.

The country is beautiful, no doubt about it. There are hills feathered with trees taller than I've ever seen. People with seemingly simple lives whom I admire. Rivers and streams and pools that lazily tickle the huge rocks they run past. I've seen birds painted all colors of the rainbow and stray dogs so friendly they'll follow me home (barking all the way) to ensure my safety.

And I've seen run-down shacks that would collapse with a heavy gust of wind, as small as a walk-in closet, where families live. I've heard the stories of rising electric rates and government corruption. I've read about the poverty of people who don´t even have the resources to plant a reliable food crop. And more, each and every day.

So all I can really say now, halfway into our trip, is that no matter how overwhelmed I am by this beautiful, wonderful country, I will go home different. But I don't think that will be a bad thing at all.