The Cat Boy Part Dos

Once my pterodactyl thumbs had finally got themselves into the right position and Mr Immigration Man was happy, he waved he through - 'thank you for letting me in - sorry about my funny thumbs', I retorted.  That sounds daft in English and doesn't mean a thing in Spanish.  I should have learnt some more Spanish before coming here - I can do the important things, like order beer, ask where the toilets are, in both the familiar and formal ways - I learnt this when I went to the World Scout Jamboree in Chile and vividly remember learning both just in case the President of Chile was there and I had to ask him where the toilets were.

On the boat, as well as two abnormally tall Australian backpackers, there was a European boy who had a spectacular animal tattoo adorning his arm, featuring all sorts of fantastic animals.  He had an Animal Rights wristband on and seemed to be travelling, but not backpacker style.  He had sat with the backpackers during the boat crossing, whilst I was busy vomiting.  We fell into conversation whilst queuing for immigration.  It transpires that he is going around Central and South America working in animal sanctuaries.  He had just been helping out at one in Belize where there are now only thirty cats.  I got a bit confused because I thought he meant there are only thirty cats in the whole of Belize, which even though it is a small country, that's not many cats.  There are probably more than that in my road.  But he meant in the sanctuary.  I didn't feel stupid at all when I explained that I thought he meant in the whole of Belize.  Hey ho.  

There was a taxi man working the queue, advising on how we could get to San Pedro Sula, the massive transport hub which is - in theory - about an hour away.  I was keen to get a cab because I had to catch the 6pm long distance bus to the capital.  My new friends agreed that we would share a cab, which we proceeded to do.  Local buses were available but time was not on our side.  We bundled into the cab.  The Cat Boy spoke Spanish, as did one of the Australians.  I couldn't even fathom if we were going to make it in time for me to take the 6pm bus.  We got stuck in traffic, the likes of which I have never seen; it makes sitting at Five Ways, Green Lane in rush-hour, look like a picnic.  The driver swerved in and out of the traffic, as best he could, but we were beset by massive lorries, squawking local buses, thousands and thousands of cars.  The driver pulled off and took another route.  That was packed too.  He tried something else.  I started to worry - what would I do if I missed that bus? It was 4 hours to the capital and there wasn't another bus that day.  I saw a Pizza Hut - I envisaged curling up next to a large stuffed crust Hawaiian overnight, then taking the first bus in the morning, to the capital, then straight to the airport.  6pm past.  Cat Boy had booked somewhere to stay and I thought about asking if I could go with him.  But I hesitated as I could imagine that he might have booked a hammock in the corner of an animal sanctuary, which wasn't quite what I had in mind. I thought of stopping a passing motorbike and asking if I could jump on the back and be whisked to the bus station - I did that once in heavy traffic in Cambodia and made the flight with seconds to spare.  But I didn't have enough Spanish to be able to convey this in the precious minutes remaining, plus I am certain that my travel insurance policy wouldn't cover that, despite having not read it.  

I asked The Cat Boy to ask the driver if there was another bus to the capital, Tegucigalpa.  He casually said that the last one went at 6.30pm.  It was already 6.21pm.  Things weren't looking good.  'Carry me there', I prayed.  Suddenly, the drive swerved to the left - 'is here, is here', he exclaimed.  He stopped right outside, I pressed the cash into his hand, said goodbye to the new travelling companions, grabbed my awkward orange tortoise from the boot and ran like a thing possessed, into the bus station.  'Bus to capital?' I panted at some cab drivers touting for business - 'Is Viara', said one of them, pointing ahead and to the left.  I ran through the door; they ran after me - 'No Senora, Viara' - indicating that I had run through the wrong door.  I ran through the right door, the sweat beading on my face and pouring off me.  One day I will get round to doing some exercise, but it won't be any time soon.

'Bus to capital, is possible?' - I'd even lost command of English at this point, I was in such a flap.  'Si', came the dulcet reply, and the teller calmly sold me a ticket to Tegucigalpa.  I almost collapsed, partly with joy, partly because I'd vomited up breakfast on the boat and hadn't had anything else since - you can't pull your weight when you haven't got much to pull.

The bus turned out to the a luxury, air-conditioned situation, where I had a window seat with plenty of space.  A kind lady wearing an apron worked the bus, bringing myself and the rest of the passengers all sorts of things - water, hot sweet coffee, a pillow, a blanket, a little bag to put the rubbish in.  About two hours in she even gave me a tiny pastry.  I was so hungry at this point that I nearly ate the clingfilm it was wrapped in as well - then I remembered about that Facebook video about how some lettuce is actually made out of plastic! Trust no-one.

I wanted to take this long-distance bus to see something of Honduras.  I think on reflection that is about as sensible as saying 'I want to drive up the M1 to see what the UK is like'.  I do like journeys though, and saw some interesting things that you just do not see elsewhere.  I always draw on that poem 'Slow Dance', the line where it says 'when you rush so fast to get somewhere, you miss half the fun of getting there'.  Had it not been dark, I would have seen more.

Since I started travelling age 19, I have learned to try to not arrive at an unknown capital after dark.  We pulled into Tegucigalpa, Honduras, a capital totally unknown to me, at about 11.30pm.  I was expecting a bustling bus station, alive with people, snacks and a plethora of cab drivers.  Instead there were two men, one of whom had a very large gun.  I couldn't quite believe it.  Plus I had neglected to look at where my budget hotel was in relation to where the bus was arriving; in fact, I didn't know where the bus was arriving.  It could have been arriving in the equivalent of Greenwich, with the hotel in the equivalent of Stanmore.  I asked the lady who had provided the snacks, pillow and blanket if she knew where I could take a cab from; she didn't.  I asked the man with the very large gun; he didn't know either.

There I stood, awkward orange tortoise on one shoulder, small black rucksack on the other, in the middle of the night, in the capital of Honduras.  

Then an angel appeared.