At Least There’s a TV?

What man actually needs is not a tensionless state, but rather the striving and struggling for a worthwhile goal, a freely chosen task.

-Viktor E Frankl, Holocaust survivor

I read an article recently that named Honduras as the “Most Dangerous Country in the World”, and that went a long way in convincing me I needed to give it another look.  I intended to write about relative and perceived danger, but  honestly?  My time on the island was so completely far from dangerous, I would have made a mockery of the subject.  I repeat:  Utila is totally safe and holiday ready and you should go there immediately because the one bad weather week of the year is over.

That said, the violence in Honduras is centralized in the capital, San Pedro Sula, and is a result of the country’s recent overtake of Mexico as the drug trafficking gateway to North America.

I only spent one day in San Pedro, on my way home.  And being so happily distracted the week prior, it only occurred to me the morning I left the island that I hadn’t made sleeping accommodations there yet.  Normally this is my M.O. and not a problem, but in hindsight…seeing as it is the murder-kidnapping-crime capital of the world….I probably should have at least looked into it.

20/20 folks, but I swear sometimes I’m blind all the way up until that moment of perfect clarity.  It’s a very delicate ignorance that both hinders and enables me.

Anyway, I went to the information booth at the bus station in San Pedro, and the guy gave me a guide which listed hotels in the city and their prices.  Cheap to the last, I opted for the Gran Marina #1, a cool 300 Lempiras (about $15).  When the cab stopped at the door that looked as though it might be the last door I ever stepped through, I hesitated and asked,

“Uhhh, which is better, Gran Marina #1, #2, or #3?”

“#2”, the driver said.

“Okay.  Take me there, please.”

Gran Marina #2 at least had a lobby with couches and a fountain by the door, but otherwise, it looked like it had lost all it’s “Gran”ness decades ago and been allowed to fall into slow ruin since.  The girl at the counter was nice.  After some initial confusion over whether I wanted a/c (I DO NOT), she gave me a key and told me to go to the 4th floor.  The hallway floors were wet and smelled of cleaning solution, and there were 2 ladies floating around mopping and chatting, but there was also garbage in the halls, clothes in piles, an old mattress leaning against a wall, and abandoned cleaning supplies.  I didn’t see any other guests.

I am not discerning when it comes to places to pass a night on the road.  I have slept on a concrete slab on the floor, on strangers’ couches, in huts, in jungles, in temperatures ranging from sub zero and no blankets to well over 100 degrees with no fan.  I have slept in every transportation hub you can imagine and every form of transportation itself, whether or not it was intended to be slept on.  I’ve gone months with only cold bucket showers or days of trekking with no showers at all.  I have peed in a hole in the floor.  I have peed where there was no hole, just a place where the floor was slanted to take things outside.  I have peed outside.  In New York City.  But aloud, crossing the threshold into that room, I said to no one in particular, “Aw hellno.”

First off, the room smelled of black toxic mold, and I know what that smells and looks like because I researched and led a campus-wide environmental assessment on black toxic mold back when I thought that’s how I would enjoy spending my days.  (Have I come so far?)  The floor was damp, but not because it was recently cleaned, rather because there was a leak in the ceiling, dripping from a wooden panel, completely rotted through.  In fact, it was rotting off, and there was a piece of the wood on the floor.  The sheets were stained, the walls were worse, but it was hard to award that prize fairly seeing as the light was so dim.  The only window led into the hallway and was made of paneled glass that could be easily removed, ostensibly from the outside.  “Aw HELL no” I repeated, and went straight back to the front desk.  My second room was better, but only marginally.  It didn’t pose the same threat of asphyxiation and there were considerably less those might be blood stains? on the sheets.  Also, the window faced the outside, and was on the 2nd story, which made me feel much better about the prospect of a break in, while still allowing me to overhear a couple of working ladyboys make deals in the abandoned parking lot behind.  Home sweet home.

Anyway, I made it through the night and beyond (obviously), and now I’m back in New York, missing baleadas like you wouldn’t believe.  There was a guy with a hard earned Guifidy Challenge sweatshirt sitting across from me in the airport, and it made me a little sentimental for the stuff.  From recent pictures posted to Skid Row’s facebook page, I can only deduce the challenges are becoming more difficult; the reward becoming that much more valuable.  Ain’t that always the way.