A while ago, I posted about the highly ineffective fort the Spanish built in Omoa. In case you don't remember, it was so ineffective that the English captured it and promptly abandoned it within two weeks. Right before Semana Santa I ventured to Guatemala (legally this time...be proud of me) and have come to two conclusions:
1. Life in Central America NEVER gives you what you expect.
b. If you are counting effectiveness and not asthetics, the Spanish were the worst fort builders in history.
The following account is how I happened to arrive at these conclusions. Let me know if you think I am off...
Like most of Latin America, Honduras is an incredibly Catholic country, which means that we get a HUGE break for Easter. The entire week before Easter is Holy Week, or Semana Santa. Due to some scheduling conflicts, our school did not have classes the Friday before Semana Santa (w00t!). Gabrielle was going to Copan with a visiting friend for the weekend. In order to give them some quality friend time, I decided to hop up to Guatemala for the day on Friday and then spend the rest of the weekend doing laundry and other grown-up stuff. My goal was to visit the Mayan ruins at Quirigua, which is a mere 3 hours by car from San Pedro Sula. Since I would be relying on the Honduran/Guatemalan public transport, I asked around to see if that was possible to do in one day. I was assured by many that it was. So Friday morning, I hit the bus terminal.
First surprise. The company whose schedule I had looked up the night before no longer existed. A series of smaller buses would get me to the Guatemalan border, and I could figure out a new plan from there. Three and a half hours later, I arrive at the Guatemalan border. After getting ripped off by my first Guatemalan minibus driver, I am on my way to Quirigua. Or am I...?
I see a sign for the city I want and ask to get off. The guy says "You don't want to get off now. We'll be going up there in just a few minutes." I should have argued with him, but foolishly, I believe him and sit back down. An hour later we arrive at the super sketchy town of Morales (where I do NOT want to be). An hour after that, we leave again for Rio Dulce. I ask how long it will take to get there and was told it was less than an hour away. It is only less than an hour away if the bus driver doesn't stop every five feet, and then spend 30 minutes flirting with the lady near the tree he stopped to pee at (gross!!!). If that happens, the trip takes two hours. By the time we finally pull into Rio Dulce, I have missed the last bus to Quirigua AND the last bus to Honduras. Guess I'm staying the night...
I find a pretty sketch hotel near a restuarant where I hunker down for the night. I met some really interesting people there. By interesting I mean super drunk and/or high. One man told me about something horrible that happened to him at the Miami airport in angry, rapid, slurred Spanish. I had no idea what he was saying. When he finished, he asked me if that was legal to do in the United States. I told him I had no idea what he said. So he repeated the story, more angrily and much faster. This cycle repeated itself about two more times (it was kind of fun) before I finally just said "yes. It is totally legal." He shook his head sadly, and then asked me to come home with him. I politely declined. A hooker who had just walked in congratulated me for sticking to my values. She proceeded to get very drunk and tell me crazy stories involving turkeys and I don't know what else. The more she drank, the more she congratulated me for respecting my body. If you have never had your morals appluaded by a drunk hooker, I don't know what to tell you. As she left, a crew of fairly drunk Americans and Swedes walked in. We played darts for a little while, and then I called it a night.
The next morning I discovered that there are no buses to Quirigua on Saturday from Rio Dulce (why would there be? It's just the weekend...) Fortunately there is a fort near the town, so I head out there. This fort was another one that was captured quickly by the British, and then abandoned within two weeks. I don't know if the Spanish built very crappy, non-strategic forts on purpose (Hey...if we make it crappy, they'll give it back to us!) or if they were legitimately just bad at it. But thus far I have not seen the Spanish having a good fort building record. But, as seems to be the Latin American motto: If it don't work good, at least make it look good. It was a really beautiful fort. Fun side note...the original fort was destroyed in a hurricane or earthquake a few decades ago. When the Guatemalan government rebuilt it, they wired it for electricity, but they did not put any lights in. So there are electrical plugs and wires all over the place, but no lights. If you ever visit this fort, bring a flashlight, because there are many dark tunnels and basement rooms that could use the light.
Fortunately at that moment, a bread vendor came by and tried to peddle me his wares. My refusal did not damper his spirits, and he struck a conversation with me. Turns out, he was heading to Puerto Barrios, which is where I needed to go, and he offered me a ride. It took forever, because he stopped and sold bread every five minutes. And he had this huge speaker on top of his car that blared out accordion music and advertised his merchandise at an incredible volume. But it was a free ride, and he was a nice man. Right before he let me off, he asked if I would mind if he got some gas. He pulled into this gas station, where all of his buddies came over to the truck and asked if I was his girlfriend. It was kind of hilarious, but I didn't really laugh about it until we pulled out of the station.
Several hours later, I made it back home. I still have not seen Quirigua, but I did get to see a cool/ineffectual fort. Plus I totally have an in with the Guatemalan bread underground, and at the end of the day, isn't that really what it's all about?
1. Life in Central America NEVER gives you what you expect.
b. If you are counting effectiveness and not asthetics, the Spanish were the worst fort builders in history.
The following account is how I happened to arrive at these conclusions. Let me know if you think I am off...
Like most of Latin America, Honduras is an incredibly Catholic country, which means that we get a HUGE break for Easter. The entire week before Easter is Holy Week, or Semana Santa. Due to some scheduling conflicts, our school did not have classes the Friday before Semana Santa (w00t!). Gabrielle was going to Copan with a visiting friend for the weekend. In order to give them some quality friend time, I decided to hop up to Guatemala for the day on Friday and then spend the rest of the weekend doing laundry and other grown-up stuff. My goal was to visit the Mayan ruins at Quirigua, which is a mere 3 hours by car from San Pedro Sula. Since I would be relying on the Honduran/Guatemalan public transport, I asked around to see if that was possible to do in one day. I was assured by many that it was. So Friday morning, I hit the bus terminal.
First surprise. The company whose schedule I had looked up the night before no longer existed. A series of smaller buses would get me to the Guatemalan border, and I could figure out a new plan from there. Three and a half hours later, I arrive at the Guatemalan border. After getting ripped off by my first Guatemalan minibus driver, I am on my way to Quirigua. Or am I...?
I see a sign for the city I want and ask to get off. The guy says "You don't want to get off now. We'll be going up there in just a few minutes." I should have argued with him, but foolishly, I believe him and sit back down. An hour later we arrive at the super sketchy town of Morales (where I do NOT want to be). An hour after that, we leave again for Rio Dulce. I ask how long it will take to get there and was told it was less than an hour away. It is only less than an hour away if the bus driver doesn't stop every five feet, and then spend 30 minutes flirting with the lady near the tree he stopped to pee at (gross!!!). If that happens, the trip takes two hours. By the time we finally pull into Rio Dulce, I have missed the last bus to Quirigua AND the last bus to Honduras. Guess I'm staying the night...
I find a pretty sketch hotel near a restuarant where I hunker down for the night. I met some really interesting people there. By interesting I mean super drunk and/or high. One man told me about something horrible that happened to him at the Miami airport in angry, rapid, slurred Spanish. I had no idea what he was saying. When he finished, he asked me if that was legal to do in the United States. I told him I had no idea what he said. So he repeated the story, more angrily and much faster. This cycle repeated itself about two more times (it was kind of fun) before I finally just said "yes. It is totally legal." He shook his head sadly, and then asked me to come home with him. I politely declined. A hooker who had just walked in congratulated me for sticking to my values. She proceeded to get very drunk and tell me crazy stories involving turkeys and I don't know what else. The more she drank, the more she congratulated me for respecting my body. If you have never had your morals appluaded by a drunk hooker, I don't know what to tell you. As she left, a crew of fairly drunk Americans and Swedes walked in. We played darts for a little while, and then I called it a night.
The next morning I discovered that there are no buses to Quirigua on Saturday from Rio Dulce (why would there be? It's just the weekend...) Fortunately there is a fort near the town, so I head out there. This fort was another one that was captured quickly by the British, and then abandoned within two weeks. I don't know if the Spanish built very crappy, non-strategic forts on purpose (Hey...if we make it crappy, they'll give it back to us!) or if they were legitimately just bad at it. But thus far I have not seen the Spanish having a good fort building record. But, as seems to be the Latin American motto: If it don't work good, at least make it look good. It was a really beautiful fort. Fun side note...the original fort was destroyed in a hurricane or earthquake a few decades ago. When the Guatemalan government rebuilt it, they wired it for electricity, but they did not put any lights in. So there are electrical plugs and wires all over the place, but no lights. If you ever visit this fort, bring a flashlight, because there are many dark tunnels and basement rooms that could use the light.
So I leave the fort and decide to head back home. The bus leaves town and turns to go back to Morales, and I ask to get off. The guy says that if I stay on, I can catch a bus to Quirigua. Foolishly I believe him. An hour later, I am at the same crossroad. The guy says to get off (at the same spot I asked to get off previously) and a bus will come along within an hour. At the risk of sounding repetitive, I will say it...foolishly, I believed him. I waited and waited and no bus of any sort appeared. So now I'm wondering how the mess I am going to get home. If you are my mom, or if you are going to tell my mom any of the following, stop reading now and just know that I got home safely. For the rest of you...
Fortunately at that moment, a bread vendor came by and tried to peddle me his wares. My refusal did not damper his spirits, and he struck a conversation with me. Turns out, he was heading to Puerto Barrios, which is where I needed to go, and he offered me a ride. It took forever, because he stopped and sold bread every five minutes. And he had this huge speaker on top of his car that blared out accordion music and advertised his merchandise at an incredible volume. But it was a free ride, and he was a nice man. Right before he let me off, he asked if I would mind if he got some gas. He pulled into this gas station, where all of his buddies came over to the truck and asked if I was his girlfriend. It was kind of hilarious, but I didn't really laugh about it until we pulled out of the station.
Several hours later, I made it back home. I still have not seen Quirigua, but I did get to see a cool/ineffectual fort. Plus I totally have an in with the Guatemalan bread underground, and at the end of the day, isn't that really what it's all about?
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