Noli Me Tangere

Honduras Travelogues - Vol. 1

Three weeks ago, I was talking to my brother's wife's parents about their trip to Honduras. Specifically, I was asking for tips, and they gave them willingly, apparently still a little ticked about their experience with Taca airlines. Tom had warned me that they "tend to lose luggage" but Mrs. Clarkson, in particular, used words like, "horrible" and "the worst" to describe their experience with Taca. "Just get to the gate as soon as you can, because if you're not there within, say, an hour of departure, they just give your seat away."

This warning was ringing in my head as I power-walked through Miami International Airport on my way to the Taca counter. I had 2.5hrs to get on the flight; should be no problem. Then, I got in the "express" line.

Over the next hour, I waited. I watched as a livid latina woman screamed at the face of a poor Taca agent. Apparently, she lost her seat. I envisioned losing my seat, missing the last flight out, getting stranded the next day by the oncoming Frances, and then simply flying home to Atlanta a few days later having wasted my money and my vacation.

The man behind the counter looked at my ticket, typed, and then said with a concerned face, "This flight is full."

"What?"

"I'm very sorry, sir. The flight is full."

I looked at him incredulously and then announced very forcefully, as if I was trying to physically burrow the words in his skull, "But I have a RESERVATION."

He reluctantly typed a few more things, then eventually, his face relaxed and he produced a boarding pass and instructions to hurry. I have no idea what changed, but I didn't stick around trying to figure it out. I only had about 75 minutes to reach the gate, which is perilously short when you've got to go through int'l security. When I approached the gate, the Taca guy ran up to me questioningly.

"You are Okie?"

"Si," I replied, surely impressing him with my grasp of Espanol.

He seemed relieved to have found me and pointed me to the closing gate. I was the last person on the plane. I said a prayer of thanks as we pulled out, truly relieved to have dodged that bullet.

In San Pedro Sula, one must board a smaller prop plane to make the short hop to La Cieba, which is the city below Las Mangas, which is the village where TKO reside. Because the plane was so small, I couldn't carry on the new guitar I was bringing as a gift for Peter. I reluctantly let it go, and told the baggage boy to be careful, as it was fragile in its softshell case. He smiled as if he understood.

Sure enough, in La Cieba, the guitar was waiting for me on the tarmac when I deplaned. And once the rest of the luggage appeared, so did TKO, much to my merriment. It was Tom's birthday, and I was glad to be there for it. They wisked me away in a beat-up 80's-era Toyota pickup complete with a brand new wooden bed.

As dusk descended on La Cieba, Kelly took a hard right on the gravel road that winds up through the valley to Las Mangas. She didn’t slow down for the potholes or other impediments. Tom and I sat in the back catching up, and the Honduran evening air was cool on our heads as we jostled and jerked our way up the mountain. It hurt, but it was a good kind of hurt.

Posted by aokie at September 2, 2004 01:49 PM