Honduras 08: Archives

KRISTEN RADTKE writes:
My deltoids are stiff and bandaged with skateboarding dinosaurs from this morning’s immunizations. (Influenza on the left, Hepatitis A on the right.) I’m amazed by their scaly agility and prehistoric skill as they flip over ramps—in helmets, of course—whilst providing the necessary cushion for my pin-prick wounds.

The rest of the medicines required to maintain a rock-solid immune system while traveling are fortunately taken orally, which my needle queasiness appreciates greatly, and the pharmacy is stocked with capsules that help ward off malaria, typhoid fever, and stomach bugs. Oh, the miracles of modern medicine.

I’m nothing short of elated to embark on travels that take me far past the confines of the #72 North Avenue bus and sardine-style Blue Line subway cars brimming with early-morning Red Eye readers. My longing for travel has intensified over the past year, as the familiar city streets of Chicago seemed to shrivel into those of a small Midwestern town beneath my feet.

My wanderlust could no longer be contained within the glossy photographs of National Geographic, and sometimes when I rolled over in bed I could hear my unstamped passport begging for international ink under a thick layer of dust in my nightstand’s sock drawer. I’m sure ancient Mayan ruins, hot springs, and jungles will serve as much better company than fuchsia leg warmers and fuzzy slippers.

My bookishness and dislike of treadmills sometimes leaves me winded after a particularly steep flight of stairs, so I’m hoping that I’ll be so overcome by the beauty of Honduras that I’ll master the rugged terrain as my body surges with a newfound physical strength akin to that of the dinosaurs on my purple Band-Aids. I suppose I could have upped my exercise regime, but I’ve been too transfixed by a crop of new books to tear myself from their fresh-smelling pages (particularly the languid travel essays of Mary Morris, which make me want to drop out of school and travel the world solo with every feminist bone in my body). Maybe new tennis shoes will do the trick.

KRISTEN RADTKE writes:
We've just arrived at the hotel in San Pedro Sula, which is new but feels old. It is charming; windows have no screens and hallways end with terrace gates above the streets instead of walls. I can hear everything, from cars below to bathroom sounds next door I'd rather shut out.

From the short ride from airport to hotel, I've confirmed my belief that American fast-food chains are everywhere. I also squished a large bug (a species I've never seen before) with my shoe, which makes me a little proud but no one witnessed it.

I've no idea what time it is, since my computer declares it 4:44 a.m. and I didn't bring a watch. Nevertheless, I'm exhausted and a cold shower awaits.

KRISTEN RADTKE writes:
Copan Ruinas is dramatically different from San Pedro Sula. The 11 of us piled into a tourist van yesterday morning and rode two-felt-like-five hours to the quaint cobblestone town.

The streets are a series of potholes and sharp turns, and driving seems like a godless act of faith. Cars pass semi-trucks two at a time despite solid yellow lines down the center of dusty, winding roads. Pedestrians saunter across highways with no regard for oncoming traffic, crosswalks be damned. Streetside sights change quickly, and the poverty is astounding in places, with some homes constructed of sticks and cloth.

Minutes later we pass elaborate stucco estates. Little villages dot the foliage, and horses walk free in the parking lots of Shell gas stations next to roadside fruit stands. The batches of civilization crop up intermittently, and then suddenly, a town of narrow streets, outdoor vendors, and whitewashed churches.

Children play in courtyards and stray dogs are everywhere. In each direction I am surrounded by mountains. I want to pull it all in and hold it. I wish I could stay up all night and write, pouring every sound and smell into this tiny Macintosh computer. Still, I know that pieces will be lost, and it breaks my heart a little.

KRISTEN RADTKE writes:
At five a.m. tomorrow we will fold our discoveries and experiences into our packs and pull the straps around our backs as we leave Roatan. For home.

Leaving the island is like waking up from a dream, dense with foliage and lizards scurrying across paths, surrounded by an ocean filled with coral, stingrays, and clown fish. The return home will be long, 18 hours in transit, and I’m leaving with a plethora of nostalgia, a resistance to re-enter the world of sub-zero temperatures, and an excitement to return to the people and places I know so well and love so much.

Due to unfortunate lack of internet access through much of the trip, I have not documented it here as thoroughly as I had hoped, but I'll have much more to say about how Honduras has changed me once I leave the country of friendly slowness, of taking my time to breathe deeply and enter the city of delayed public transportation and frustrated shivering commuters. It’s astounding to me the way I have grown to love such different places and see myself reflected so much in both.