The Landfill
This isn't my first time in Honduras. The last time I was here, a friend was at a bus stop while a man was threatened to be killed at gunpoint, I was stopped by a massive border protest, I was harassed by a teen prostitute, I got lost in a major city as the power went out and the town screamed, and I got nasty parasites.
My visits to Honduras were always wracked with issues both physical and logistical. I got some good stories out of them. I've already seen everything I want to see in Honduras, so I planned on just pushing through as I run south during the rainy season.
There is one thing I'll never forget that I saw in Honduras, however. It's the lowest human life experience I've ever witnessed.
On the Panamerican Highway in Honduras there is a landfill. When crossing the country several times in my travels back in my University Days, I would pass by this landfill. It's absolutely miserable. It's about a couple acres in size and it's always on fire. Just like 13 years before, I saw people hanging out outside and digging around in the burning landfill. They're scavengers, looking for anything worth using or selling that their countrymen have thrown away.
Honduras is the 3rd poorest country in our hemisphere, behind Nicaragua and Haiti. Honduras has been tied with El Salvador as the murder capital of the world, with the highest homicide rates on the planet. Since El Salvador's crackdown, Honduras may be back to holding the title.
I just remember seeing these poor people and feeling disgusted in myself. When you see human injustices like these, such as people digging around in burning trash, even having a clean bed, clean water, or just a predictable meal makes you feel guilty. It's a terrible feeling. You feel helpless and even somewhat responsible.
I never forgot the landfill but I forgot where it was. When I passed by it again, all of those feelings rushed back. It feels like nothing has improved. People were still digging through trash as fires and smoke pepper the property here and there. I still feel for those souls, whoever they are.
NICARAGUA'S BORDER -- THE HARDEST ONE YET
The sun rises and tilts past noon, the hottest time of day. I arrive at the Hondruan-Nicaraguan border at 2PM. I knew it would happen. If I would've waited past the hottest time of day, I would've arrived at my hostel in Leon, Nicaragua past dark.
Keeping up with the sun, I roll up to the entrance of the border zone and get bombarded by money exchangers and fixers asking for tips. They bark pre-rehearsed English phrases like "Come with me, no problem no problem" like I'm a robot that will respond to the same happy stimuli if it's pushed on me on repeat. "No worries no worries, my friend my friend, no problem no problem." I repeatedly tell them that I can figure things out on my own. I don't act panicked, I smile, and I try to wave them off but they're not listening. For anyone that's type A or hates being overstimulated, the social assault of being confronted with thirsty border fixers can be overwhelming. When you arrive at the border, they swarm you like vultures around a cadaver of a stray dog on the side of the highway.
Did I mention the heat?
I get into the immigration office and wait in line. When I finally get to the border guard, he asks me how long I'm staying. Keeping up with tradition, I try to ask for the longest amount of time they'll allow me. He seems perplexed and even threatened by that. He says "Well, when are you leaving?" In the past 6-7 times I'd been to Nicaragua (some 13 years ago) I had 90 days, so I asked for 90. He scoffed and decided to put me through a special screening process. He handed my passport to another clerk to take into the back office and told me to step aside and wait.
After waiting in the boiling building, I notice my shirt is completely soaked. My face is dripping over my paperwork. I made the mistake of putting my documents under my arm to do something with my helmet and I got the creases wet with sweat. If I continued to fold them, they might have ripped the paper. Gross. I open them and blow on them to dry the paper.
The border agent finally calls me in line and tells me I have 60 days, the maximum they'll allow. I'm now in, it's now Lechuza's turn next at Customs. I get in line and look out the window. From where I'm standing, I can see about 3 bikers hanging around my motorcycle. They slap a sticker on the bike and take pictures with it. I have no idea who they are and I have not talked to them.
Again, like, what the fuck is this. Twice in one day? The Customs agent has to put me through a search. She walks over to Lechuza with me and she goes through EVERYTHING. You think all that camping gear slowed her down? Nope. What she's looking for is a drone. Since the Nicaraguan president has become a bit more authoritarian, since he jailed all of his political opponents in the last election, he is a little more wary of international press coverage and videotaping. He even banned cameras for a short time which earned him ire from the international community. He rolled those back, but not for drones. I was worried about this search. Nicaragua is the most authoritarian state I'll run through on this journey and there's no way around. I can't easily take a boat from El Salvador to Costa Rica.
The Customs agent continues and finds my cases that keep my extra cameras and laptop. That's what she's looking for. She opens them up and makes sure that the parts she finds aren't components to anything drone-like. After confirming, she leaves me in the hot sun to put my gear back together and pack.
Did I mention how hot it is?
Then, after finally going through the last Customs check, they have a look at my title and all of Lechuza's paperwork. They stamp it in. Lechuza has 30 days. I have 60 days on my visa, but Lechuza has 30. After all that haggling with the first border guard, too. FINALLY I arrive in Leon at about 4PM. Just as I remembered from years ago, Nicaragua's highways and roads are fantastic. They're well-maintained and in good condition, as always. This is good for me, because Lechuza's back tire is down to threads. I slowly make my way to the Poco a Poco hostel where I'll be for 2 weeks. I find out my tire is impossible to find in Nicaragua, but more on that later. Double Border day is over. Let the tire hunt begin.
-JT
7/4/2023