Going deep.... - Dan Rodgerson

Here is the airport. Dirt runway

Here is the plane :(

Every time I grab a cab, I negotiate feverously for a lower price. Usually after I get it, I end up tipping close to the amount the driver originally game me. What is wrong with me? I guess I just don’t want to be taken advantage of. I think I got that trait from my father. Incredibly generous until he feels someone is taking advantage of him.

Sitting in the airport for a few hours so I have a few minutes to write. A few things I forgot. Martin, my buddy from Denmark was on the island when the tsunami hit. He was fortunate enough to be on high ground but spent the following few days of his vacation pulling bodies out of the mess. Across his stomach he memorialized the experience in a tattoo. When he told the story on the snorkeling boat, everyone was riveted. When he was asked what the tattoo on him back meant, he replied that he could not remember, he was too “pissed drunk.”

Got up at 4:30 to catch the flight and did not know until I arrived it was first come first served. They put me on the following flight at 9:30. Gad I woke at 4:30. Eight seats on the plane. I wonder if a meal with be good. I hear the fish is wonderful.

Got a hotel with hot water. At the desk they always say not to leave valuables in the room. Local thieves check into rooms of the hotels, make copies of the keys and simply return to lift what they can.

One of my first days I came into contact with the American hippies. Now that I have gotten into some of the more poor areas I have found even worse. The Christian evangelists. They are easy to spot. Mostly pale white with funny clothes like crocs, visors, fanny packs, Velcro shoes and wear their nicely pressed pants too high. They take more pictures than oriental tourists and often found in souvenir shops. Very pretentious and seem to finish each sentence with an inflection at the end. I would rather be an American hippie than an American Christian evangelist. If you are sensitive please don't read on.

Now my tirade. The latin people are not more receptive to Christianity or the gospel. They are receptive to anything that can help them. Here they do not have social security, savings, welfare, retirement programs, health insurance. If barney the dinosaur came walking through town giving out loafs of bread, the people would believe and follow whatever ideology he was selling. Barney actually peddles some good stuff. Love, patience and I remember that song about turning off the water when you brush your teeth. I believe in Barney.

I don’t intend to be cynical but it is true. It is not a belief, it is basic survival. If these pasty white Americans can help me and my family, sure I will listen. So they swarm into poverty stricken areas from their upper middle class neighborhoods in the states with their satchels full of books, never realizing that most of these people cannot read. So the hope for dozens of “converts” so their status on the right hand of their maker is elevated. In reality the people are simply trying to create a social network or social safety net.

On the flip side, I do believe that if people put into practice basic Christian principles they will live happier and healthier lives. The problem is that basic Christian principles get saddled with so much rhetoric and “teachings of men” that they become polluted. I suppose they are doing more good than harm. God bless them. God help them. They need it.

A cab driver told me this morning that 50% of the girls between the age of 13 and 16 have babies. That is amazing.

So I hate to fly. Sitting here at a shack of an airport watching my plane pull up. It only holds eight passengers. Propellers. No jet. We need to fly nearly straight up to avoid the surrounding mountains. No co-pilot. What will happen if this guys empanada he ate this morning is tainted? No more zanax. I was popping them like tic-tacks on my last flight. Too early to get a drink. I may cross my fingers and re-acquaint myself with god. Maybe I don’t want to remind him who I am. I figure there will a few bible toting evangelists on the plane. Hopefully their righteousness will carry us safely there.

I asked the pilot if he had parachutes on the plane. He laughed. I did not reciprocate, I was serious. If this plane is going down, I would put more trust in a fabric parachute than Pablo the pilot. Hopefully we arrive in one piece.

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A day wandering the streets - Dan Rodgerson

This is the old pier. Watch were you step for a few different reasons. There are four family living under this on the shore side.

This is the old train from Dole bannana company

After my near death experience from costa rica I have no interest in getting on a plane. Since the flight does not leave until tomorrow, I decided to head toward the port to look for passage to Puerto Lempira. While looking for passage you are looking at two things simultaneously. The seaworthiness of the vessel and the trustworthiness of the crew. It is illegal here to book passengers on a cargo ship, so you are already operating in a grey area. There are horror stores that get told around hostels after a few beers about tourists being asked to walk the plank. Of course without their gear money or passports.

I was pleasantly surprised to find a dozen boats in the harbor and three heading in my direction. The boats had been in port for over a week. Apparently they were waiting for two things. A break in the weather and high tide. I found passage on two boats, one for free and the other for about $60. The vessel which was free gave rides to the area to missionaries for Karma points. I became a missionary. Take about Karma. The only problem was that they did not know when they would leave. Maybe sat, maybe Sunday. “Solo dios sabe” only god knows. Figured since I lied about being a missionary, it would be inappropriate to ask him.

I would have rather spent 36 hours on a cargo ship than one hour in a plane but since my time is limited here, I will stick to my flight plan. From there it is a combination of trucks, boats and hollowed out wooden canoes to get to the village.

Spend the day wandering the streets, fishing with a few kids on the pier and taking a bus back and forth to the pier to see if god let the boats go. The old dock was constructed back in the twenties by the dole banana company to transport bananas stateside. It had seen better days. While walking back I saw a guy squatting on the lower level of the bride. I was curious and stopped. Not to self, it is a good rule to never stop and look when someone is squatting. Yes, dropping bombs 15 feet down into the ocean. No sign of paper anywhere. Now that we are on the bathroom subject…. In bus stations they charge to use the bathroom. I asked the attendant if there was a different price for number one or number two because I believe there are significant differences in the impact. He tried to answer but did not realize I was just giving him crap. In more ways that one. It was two and a half cents. No real reason to bargain. Also, they do not throw the paper in the toilet. It goes in the trash can. So yes, you guessed it, you are sitting there inches away from feces from a dozen dudes from a third world country.

I recieved a call from a municipality regarding a potential job. Although I have three interviews set up, this is the one I am really interested in. At first, I thought they would feel strange about getting a call from Honduras but the secretary found it amusing. Hell, anything to stand apart from the pack. Hope it works. The interview is next Friday so I will only be able to spend about 6 days with the tribe. Maybe by that time I will be ready to leave. I have about a 4 day threshold of bathing without hot water. Before I go, I do want to climb a volcano, see some mayan ruins and damn it, I want to see a monkey.

I have to wake up around 4:30 to catch my flight in the morning. Will be another boring night

This is a park in the center of town

This is a dead dog

From a small cafe overlooking the water

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The night in Tela - Dan Rodgerson

The hotel on the hill was $25 American a night. It was expensive but had an amazing view, hammocks on the balcony, and hot water. I had not taken a shower in three days.
Still disappointed and confused, I dropped off my laundry and walked down by the beach. It was a bit dark and rainy. I noticed there were three little kids following me; I was not sure why. I turned a corner, and they were still behind me. I finally realized why. I was drinking a Fanta soda in a glass bottle, and they were waiting for me to throw it away so they could dig the bottle out of the trash to recycle it.

I went to have dinner and bumped into a six pack of gringos. The cafe was crowded so I invited them to join me. Three men from Ireland came to help build houses. Two men from England were teaching English to the locals. And the sixth person was a tattooed girl with several facial piercings from the States. Of course, the one that looked like a clown was American.
Conversation was lively but hard to understand with such thick accents. The single guy from Ireland told a story of a woman who came up to him in a club the previous night. She was anxious to introduce him to her daughter. After a few dances, they parted and the mother approached him looking for payment. She was pimping her own daughter.

I enjoyed my time with them but was preoccupied with the thought of whether this would be my last night abroad or not. I walked home and was approached by a woman who asked for about $10 American for "services". I immediately left.

Early the next morning, I took a bus to San Pedro to see if I could catch a flight. I received a call from a municipality who wanted to schedule an interview. The bus driver left me on the side of the road and pointed toward the airport. I put out my thumb and was picked up by the first truck. I booked a ticket to Miami.

I planned to crash at my buddies’ place in Fort Lauderdale, but he was not returning from Miami until the following night. So, I found a cheap hotel in Fort Lauderdale. I was tempted to ask if they had hot water. I was without a car in South Florida and figured if I could navigate my way through four third world countries I could get around on the Broward County bus system. I was wrong. I found my way to a mall to buy a charger for my phone. When she said it would cost $20 I literally asked, "Is that the best you can do?" I was conditioned to Central/South American haggling!

I had made it back to the States and was still disappointed and depressed. I nearly had a meltdown the following day in Deerfield Beach and navigated my way back to the airport to meet my buddy.

The goal of the trip was to spend time with the Moskito Indians and hopefully forget about my life's dramas. I did not meet that goal. I did, however, meet some amazing people. I swam with rays off the coast of Belize, traveled through jungles and mountain villages, and most importantly really connected with many of the locals in regard to their lives, values, cultures, and traditions.

I really feel that when we meet our Maker, (however you define that) He/She/It will ask a series of questions. Did you visit foreign lands? Walk on the Great Wall of China? Learn about other people’s values and culture? Did you try to walk in the shoes of the less fortunate? Did you surf on the coast of Costa Rica? Hopefully Maker does not ask if you maintained employment.
Being there felt good, natural, and warm—until the realities of my life crept back in.
I feel that my purpose or mission is not done here. I will be going back. There are several chapters of my guide book that have not been opened, and several unstamped pages of my passport.

I think I am addicted to this type of travel. I caught the travel bug, and hopefully that was the only thing I caught while I was there.

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10/19/2100

The point of no return... Dan Rodgerson

Up to this point in the trip, things were very clear and easy to find. You could turn to a page of a guide book and pretty much find your way. La Cieba was the jumping off point to head deep into the jungle without organized transportation or roads.
Got up early and walked the streets just as the shop owners began to open up and put things on the curbs. The city did not seem as scary as it did the previous night, but it still had guards with machine guns in front of the banks.

I had a rough night sleeping. South America is one of the few places I have heard city sounds as well as a rooster crowing.
A woman in the restaurant the previous night told me that passage to Puerto Lempira would be three days on the deck of a cargo ship, three days!

Kerrie was heading to the Bay islands and was on her way to the port. She suggested that I go with her and check the boats at the dock myself.

At the port we got bread and some coffee and made our way to the bus stop. A taxi driver stopped to offer us a ride because he said there were no buses heading in that direction on Saturday. We did not fall for it, and the bus arrived in two minutes.

After I got Kerrie situated, I gave her a big hug and headed back to the docks. No boats were leaving for the next four days. Discouraged but determined, I checked with another 10 smaller boats with no luck. That meant I would be waiting four days to travel for three days on a cargo ship, then back again.

I was not ready to give up. The guide book said that it was possible to fly there for about $100. I grabbed a cab to the airport and missed the flight by 15 minutes. No other flights until Monday, two days later.

As I sat on the steps of the airport, I cursed and wondered I came all this way! I felt kind of like a member of the Griswald family in “Vacation”. Should I wait two days to fly or wait four days for the ship? There I sat in the middle of remote Honduras: confused, frustrated and discouraged. I had thoughts that things were not really settled in the states. I just had a sickening, hollow feeling. Do I turn back? Push on? The drama and reality of being unemployed settled in. But I had come so far!

Once more, I put out my thumb at the airport with my head hung low and hitched a ride to the bus stop. I landed in a small town outside a city called Tela. I sent an e-mail to a friend to ask her if she could check flights back to the States from a few surrounding cities. It would take me at least 5 days to get back to Cancun.

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Random thoughts... Dan Rodgerson

I spent the night in Tulum and loved it. I did not really interact with anyone until I was leaving and sitting at the bus stop. I noticed that most backpackers had covers over their packs. I asked a wise ass girl from Ireland “why”, and she condescendingly responded, “Because we are close to the RAIN forest.” I smiled and thought, “Does she shave her armpits?”

When you meet fellow travelers out here the first question is always, “Where are you from?” The second question is, “How long have you been out?” And the third question is, “Where are you going?” So, in the interest of time, people will greet by answering the questions without being asked. My response is, “Utah, four days, and La Moskitia”. This trip really seems like much longer than four days. When I tell people I am going to Moskita, their responses are concerning: "wild", "brave", "jungle", "rough", etc.

The weather has been about 75 degrees. Actually, that is unseasonably cold, but I think I have followed a cold front through (puddles everywhere).

Backpackers are very cool people. They are much different than tourists. Weathered, a bit dirty, and always quick to strike up a conversation for any insight about where to go and where not to go.

I was very relaxed in Tulum and loved walking the city streets at night: no fear at all. I realize that sounds stupid for a gringo with $300 bucks in his pocket. This country has many similarities to my time spent in Uruguay: smells of fruit, tortillas, and burning garbage.

Since I had an hour to kill in the morning, I offered to help a young man make tortillas. I don't think that I helped much, but he was amused.

To be down here is like walking into Disneyland....sensory overload.

On the bus from Tulum I met two guys who became running buddies for the next two days: Jimmy and Martin from Denmark. Traveling in groups is much safer and cheaper.

I spent 8 hours on a bus Tuesday. The first bus I took at the airport had air, TV, and total luxury. The second bus didn’t have TV, but it still had air. Then, the third bus....literally an old school bus from the seventies. I think it was the bus from the Partridge family.

I have been thinking that I wish my girls were here to experience this. Chloe would love it, and Aubin would bitch the entire time but secretly enjoy herself.

I watched a young family on the bus traveling with a 3 year old. The child was so content just playing with his mother for three hours. He was quite a contrast to the family on the bus at the airport from Illinois whose child squealed like a pig every three and a half minutes for attention. The Nintendo DS and DVD player were not enough to keep him amused. I wanted to stuff him into my backpack.

Helmets are required here on motorcycles, but apparently riding a family of 5 on a 1980 Honda Passport 70cc scooter is legal. Hmm Maybe that is why helmets are required.

I have been stressed about money and time. I am totally blowing my budget. Yes, it is possible to live here for $20 per day, but not with busses, taxis, internet, etc. My more realistic new budget is about $40 a day. So, I set a new goal as well: no more than 5 hours a day on a bus!
The nights have been a bit chilly. I did not expect that.

I need to lose some gear. My bag is so heavy.

We missed the bus at the border of Chetsumal. Our new friend from Ireland showed us where the other bus terminal was. It was a hot day now, and I was carrying a heavy bag 20 blocks in a border town.

I really don't mind when the kids beg for money. It just really bothers me when they touch and hang on.

I had my morning coffee and was thinking...should I really be drinking something that acts like a laxative? Especially if I am getting on a bus for 4 hours, I considered.

Long ride into Belize City. It is a scary place, and we arrived late. Three white guys with backpacks on the worst side of town. Horrible situation to be in; I was terrified. People offered us weed, coke, girls, and even little boys (okay, maybe better my girls are not here).

We finally found a cheap hotel: about $35 for the three of us. We had a private room with private bath and hot water (you need to ask about the hot water). Isabella’s Guest House. The three of us did the math by first converting to our own currency then dividing by three. The lady from the hotel highly suggested we NOT go out at night, but we had to get something to eat.

We took a cab and found a good restaurant. We had a few beers and local food. In the cab the driver once again offered us any and everything. I was going to ask for a monkey, but I was afraid he might have one. We were all exhausted from the day’s travel and crashed by ten.
Amazing how the world watched Obama take office. I had no idea. Jimmy, my running buddy, said that when the US sneezes, the world gets sick: sad.

I need to exchange money.

It is a simple life here. Many houses do not have front doors. There are homes made of cardboard, scraps of sheet metal, and even some shacks on stilts over swamp land. I know is sounds cliché after that description, but they are happy people.

I am now in an area not without any Americans: feels kinda good.

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Lessons Learned... - Dan Rodgerson

I am thinking that I may need to change career paths completely. Repo man comes to the top of the list. That is an industry that will be flourishing in the next year. I don’t really like being shot at. Maybe just continue dealing real estate. “Danny Day Care” was another suggestion as a local day care closed its doors. “Curriculum Writing by June” (my mother) even occurred to me.

I had a great conversation with my dad with inspiring words like, “You are only limited by your fears.” “You are well-educated and articulate, and you will rebound just fine.” My mother asked, "How are you at selling used cars?”

Another day….no passport.

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The Clinic...

Trekking into the jungle is not as easy as it seems. It takes time and planning to get the passport, shots, and gear necessary. My brother, who is a physician, was kind enough to send some warm and fuzzy videos about malaria, botflys, yellow fever, etc. So, off I go to the clinic on Friday to become a pin cushion. Other threats are dengue fever, rabies, hepatitis, tuberculosis, and typhoid fever (not to mention the high probability/certainty of explosive diarrhea).

I get to the clinic and talk with the receptionist. “Did you bring your shot records?” I answer, “Uh, no, I don’t think I have any.” She gave a half-smile, “Well, looks like we will be sticking you a lot today.” As the list of shots began to pile up (three, four, five, six) her half-smile became a full smile. She seemed to enjoy the fact that I would be in pain, or maybe she had some commission on the number of shots she stuck in a day.

“Do you plan to be sexually active down there? Just remember that 10% of the prostitutes in Central America have aids.” She winked at me.

I thought of a dozen missionaries that I knew who brought back walking-talking souvenirs from their missions. Don’t get me wrong, for some it is a pretty good gig. It is a great way for a
mediocre guy to land an attractive wife. Maybe you need to teach her that shoes are required in Wal-Mart or not to do laundry by hand in the front yard; but these are small prices to pay. “You can get a girl out of Central America, but cannot get Central America out of a girl”

The area that I am going is accessed by two routes: no roads. The first option is a small one and a half hour flight on a shaky airplane. One blogger suggested to check the fuel gauge before leaving and to check the blood alcohol level of the pilot before boarding. Considering I need two zanax to fly, or two doubles with Captain Morgan, I will probably take option two: spend the night and day on the deck of a cargo ship for about 24 hours. That option would be nostalgic and memorable even if there was rain, storm, or high winds.

The main reason I went to this clinic was to get a shot for yellow fever. Apparently, the countries I am going to do not require that shot, and it would not be necessary. The suggestion to head to Salt Lake was from my physician. I guess that is what you get when you have someone who is part farmer, part vet, and part doctor give you advice. Before my appointment he was delivering a breached calf.

I have been waiting for my passport like a kid anticipating Christmas. I want to get out of town!




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The plan....

About 6 hours a day combing classifieds...career builder, monster, hot jobs, yeah! Staring at this box, thinking as each day goes by my income requirements seem to go down. (This is kind of like dating in your thirties.) Do I want to manage a beach in CA? Do I want to manage fairgrounds in WA? Or, do I want to be a Parks and Recreation Director in the small town where my ex in-laws live? Not!

When you are teetering on depression, you might consider that a small remote oil field town in Northern Utah where it averages 8 degrees in the winter is not one of the best places to be. I feel about as out of place as I did as a Yankee living in South Carolina. The only thing worse than not being Mormon and living is Utah is once having been Mormon and living in Utah.

I figured the best way to keep my head was to head out of town. I headed back east to eat turkey with my folks for Thanksgiving. I received an e-mail from Gigi Love, an artist/musician/friend, whose mother runs a foundation in a remote area of Honduras. I spent some time looking at the site...her mission...philosophy, etc. Suddenly, I thought, “How can I help?” I am not much of a builder or farmer, and I have no medical skills (besides putting hydrogen peroxide on everything). Hell, I could help them recreate! At least I am good at something. My girls and I met her as she strummed a guitar in a coffee shop in Sugar House about two years ago. I-tune her. Good stuff. She was singing a song about giving her a smile and making her day. Apparently, she was not specifically talking to me.

You can view the foundation at normalove.org. Enter the site and watch the video on U-tube. I particularly like the idea that they are not trying to cram an ideology or sell salvation for a pair of shoes.

I have spent years writing grants and soliciting money for municipal organizations. I figured I would visit the area, humor them with my attempts to help with manual labor, and come back to the States to help where I can. Since I am technically unemployed, I figured the trip would have to be cheap: dirty chicken busses, hostels, hitching a ride whenever possible, etc. The most expensive part will be getting there and back. I figured the best way for me to travel would be to fly into Cancun or Belize and travel down the coast.

While looking for fares on Orbitz, I saw one of those annoying ticklers about "Cruise to Cozumel for $199". Since I was on ambien and a bit dazed, I followed the link. I am pretty sure this is how gay porn infiltrated and took over my desk top computer (following links, not chasing porn). Twenty minutes later I was on the phone with the lady from Carnival Cruise Lines. "Sir, why would you not want to get back on the boat in Cozumel?" After lengthy communication three supervisors later, I learned you need the captain’s approval to "jump ship".

I have been on a few cruises before, and I felt that nearly every port on the K-mart cruises was so plastic, fake, staged, and no real representation of the local area. They were more like some cardboard cut-outs from Hollywood with 150 locals broken-English hawkers pushing taxi rides, tours, and weed. I was looking to quickly get out of the tourist areas. There is nothing about this trip that makes practical or financial sense. Not sure why I am inclined. I think mainly to help put things into perspective and realize there is life past Utah.


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