The Guatemalan - Honduras border

We are finally on Utila Island. We made it across the border into Honduras with fairly little difficulty, although our cab from the border to Copan broke down 3 or 4 times. When it could move, the driver sped in first gear the entire trip, causing the engine to spark. We were a little worried . . .

         This was my journal entry a few days after the incident, written while on a care-free Carribean island. I was preparing to partake in a week long scuba diving course; the Honduras border seemed days away at that point. But the actual experience was much different. We honestly thought we were going to die.

         The night before, I had met up with my travel partner Sarah again, after we had been traveling on our own for three weeks in Guatemala. We had planned on crossing the Honduras border a few days prior, but our travels had taken longer than expected. Our new plan required an early morning in order to catch the first bus to Guatemala City and make the trip across the border before nightfall. Our previous experience in Guatemala City did not make us eager to return. Furthermore, our direct bus to the border would be located one block north from the most dangerous street in the entire city.

         As is typical, once we reached the bus terminal we were bombarded with men advertising their prices and departing times. We finally decided on the bus nearest us; apparently going directly to the border and leaving immediately. As is also typical, after waiting on the bus for 45 minutes—and watching three buses leave before us—we realized we had been duped yet again.

         After being on the road for half an hour, Sarah found a report in her travel guide warning that many buses do not actually make it to the border. She spoke to the man collecting tickets, and our worries were confirmed. We would be stopping in a small town where we might have luck finding another bus to the border.

         When we disembarked in this small town, the unreliable bus driver told us that we had arrived too late; there would be no buses leaving for the border until the next day. An entrepreneurial taxi driver approached us advertising his overpriced fare, and confirmed that there would be no bus leaving that evening. We had become accustomed to these set-backs throughout the trip—and did not want to pay the exorbitant price of the taxi—so we opened the travel guide to look for a recommended place to stay. None of the hotels sounded appealing, but we finally decided on one that boasted clean bathrooms. But as we walked down the street in the direction of the hotel, a van full of people slowed down, yelling.

         “Copan! Copan!”.

         Unsure of who to trust but wanting to get to the border—and open to any possibility of avoiding the less-than-desirable hotel—we squeezed in.

         The van hardly had room for us when we first got on, and we were forced to half-stand. This was quickly remedied as more people disembarked. Soon it was only Sarah and I remaining in the van, and we hadn't yet reached the border. At this point, the driver informed us that he would not be taking us all the way because there were not enough people to make the trip worth while. He dropped us off in an even smaller town telling us we might still find a ride to the border here. By this time the sun was close to setting, and we were sure our choice of hotel would be even more limited in this town. Nevertheless, we were approached by a man saying he was catching a bus to the border; it would arrive in 30 minutes, and would be the last bus of the evening. At this point we were very skeptical. But we knew this town was only 15 minutes away from the border, and we were not ready to be defeated. So having come this far; we waited.

         Sure enough, the bus did arrive against our lowest expectations. We clambored on hungry, tired, and thirsty, amongst a couple dozen other passengers. As we sat on the dark bus, we began to mentally prepare ourselves for crossing the border. We had not yet crossed a border on foot, and were slightly worried about arriving this late, unsure if the crossing would be open or not. We were aware of the increased risk of bandits at night, especially so close to an unstable area. As the passengers thinned out, and we were left as the lone women on the bus amongst a handfull of men, our fears increased.

         The bus slowed down, and we saw two small buildings, one rickety road block, and two security guards pacing with heavy machine guns. We had made it. As we submitted our passports and filled in the paper work, we had two taxi drivers approach us with their prices. The border workers told us for the last time what we had heard so often that day; there was no longer a shuttle bus running from the border to the closest town of Copan 30 minutes away. The last one had left at 6:30, half an hour before we had arrived. Both drivers asked the same price, but we recognized one to be the same driver from the first small town. To add salt to our wounds, he was asking for the same price now, but would take us half the distance. We selected the second driver, not wanting to admit failure to the first.

         We finished our paper work, picked up our bags and followed the taxi driver to his car. Immediately, we wished we had agreed to the original driver, who had since left without fare. This car was in horrendous condition. The windshield was the only window still in place. The two front seats were missmatched, terribly stained, and neither belonged to this car. The dashboard was missing large pieces of it's covering. The back bumper sported a large dent, making the trunk close askew. The tires had virtually no tread left on them. We were certain these were only the visible problems. But having no other choice, we climbed in. It was safer to try our luck in this vehicle than to spend the night outside on the border.

         The car reluctantly started, and we rolled across the border. The guards on the other side stopped the driver and inspected every last square inch of the car, demanding that the driver pay them a bribe to allow him to proceed. The driver refused profusely, waiving his papers allowing him and his car to occupy the road. This argument ensued for 20 minutes, and we sat in the backseat wondering if our only ride would in fact get us to Copan after all. Eventually the driver managed to convince the guards without bribing them, and we were on our way.

         As the car picked up speed, it started to squeal. The driver swore, clearly having problems getting into gear. We stalled. The driver swore again, started the car, and took off. More squealing ensued, more swears, and we stalled again. This cycle repeated itself 4 or 5 times, each time our fears increased of getting stranded in this incredibly dangerous zone. We reached the top of a hill, and the driver decided to use the decline as a tool for increasing the speed of his vehicle. We zoomed down hill at around 90 kmph, staying in first gear the entire way. The car was screaming it's protests, the wheels screeching at the turns, and eventually the engine started to spark. Sarah and I were holding each other in the backseat, repeating a prayer. Eventually, Sarah screamed at the driver to slow down.

          “No hay problema! Esta bien senorita!” There was nothing we could do.

         The hill petered out, and so did the speed of the car. We saw lights ahead of us, and celebrated that we had made it to Copan. The driver turned onto a small road—driving much slower—and eventually stopped in front of the hotel we had asked to stay at. We stepped out of the car in a daze, feeling as if we had just cheated death. We took our bags from his trunk, and payed him what he had asked. He watched him sheepishly climb back into his car and putt away down to road, before turning to our hotel. We both stood silently for a few moments on the street, with our bags at our sides, each thinking of the events that took place to get there. We had made it, and we were—against our best attempts—alive.