Accessing The Inaccessible

I wrote this one up far too long after the actual event, but hey...

The Mosquitia region of Honduras is a great place to get away from your problems, but getting there and away can be problematical. Particularly if you’re not a fan of water…

Wet with sweat and but a few hours into my adventure to find La Mosquitia, a remote, crocodile inhabited area of western Honduras, it began to rain. After cursing my umbrella-less state, I searched for a boat - no mean feat despite the miles of Caribbean Sea lapping at the edge of town - until hope arrived in the form of a family of fishermen who were to depart that day. With typical Honduran urgency they considered my request for some time until the rain passed over and the heat returned, finally agreeing on my inclusion. The departure was set for that very afternoon, so all that was to be done was to wait on the shore and let the sand flies have their lunch.
At five we were on our way, the six of them, their supplies and me aboard the mighty wooden dinghy that was to be our home for the next few hours. Precisely how many hours was still something of a mystery but as the sun set over the coast, the rhythm of the waves soothing the burning of the bites, we motored south to Brus Laguna, and entry to the Mosquitia.
Tiredness washed over me in time for bed, in the glorified glove compartment of the hold that was badly designed for half a midget, let alone seven grown men. Kept conscious for the majority of the night anyway due to the heat and consequent moisture I was involuntarily exfoliating, I eventually disappeared into dreamland at dawn with thoughts of crocodiles, only to awake mid-morning with what appeared to be half the Caribbean attacking me through the window.
As if needing further awakening I head-butted the compartment roof in alarm, and dazedly flew about in directions dictated by the waves. The crew dashed from one end of the boat to the other, negotiating a passage into the lagoon that didn’t involve the sand bank, which we subsequently hit a further four times - each one sending a different crew member into fits and a different part of the sea into my mouth.
After spending the next five eternities at forty-five degrees in alternating angles, we were saved by the arrival of a proper boat, which threw us a line and dragged us kicking and screaming into the Mosquitia, finally touching dry land for the first time in nineteen hours at midday. In return for the near death experience they had granted me I bought them fifty pence worth of petrol and made my hasty goodbyes. It was not that they were unpleasant, merely inept.
By this point I had had my fair share of liquids, somewhat unfortunate given that I had arrived in a region where roads are made of water, so I checked into a dry hotel and inspected the damage. Remarkably the only item that seemed to be wet was a hat, which was both in the centre of my bag and soaking. You could thus forgive my surprise when I awoke the following morning to find a lake in my room, swimming in which was most of my belongings. The maid came in to mop the floor, mutter something about Hurricane Mitch (which happened six years previously and is still getting the blame for Honduran incompetence) and give me a towel, presumably to dry my dictionary so I could look up the word for ‘refund’.
The following day could not have been more different from the last, with the type of sunshine that turns people pink beating down, meaning my only moisture concern was fast developing under my arms. The brown water and sporadic islands of green were alive with activity that contrasted with the tranquillity such barrenness offers. I caught sight of my elusive crocodile cooling off in the suddenly appealing water; its proximity exciting me to the point that I nearly added wet shorts to the list of already damp belongings.
The next few days were spent attempting to commandeer an assortment of crafts, with varying degrees of fortune - a typical response would be “yes”, followed by an amount of wandering about avoiding eye-contact, before their quick exit was dramatised further by the inclusion of a boat. On the rare occasion I found my request accepted I would be taken off in another direction, quite different yet somehow immediately similar to the last, perhaps because of an unshakable feeling I was in Vietnam, searching for a crocodilian Colonel Kurtz.
Just as I was beginning to appreciate the locals’ quaintness and melodic pace of life it was time to leave. Surprisingly I found I could do so by air, keeping me a good distance from the water I had become so acquainted with. Despite having my credit card appropriated with the guarantee it would be passed back to me upon arrival in civilisation, I was confident that the opportunity of seeing the area from above was not to be missed.
The morning of my departure arrived. I made my way to a runway that seemed as suitable as soup for landing planes on in time to see the arrival of my vessel, which promptly ran over a chicken and almost decapitated a man on a bike. Though this was not an ideal introduction, any fears were erased once we had taken flight; the view of meandering expanses of water congregating around patches of uninhabitable land was serene. Despite the technology that had afforded me this view, the naturalist in me was awoken one final time, gazing down in awe at a world that has only Coca-Cola in common with my own.
Moments later and I was back in reality, at a busy airport that hadn’t met my credit card and wouldn’t do so for a further five hours, so I waited in the roadside café for the rain clouds to gather once more, the mouth-watering memory of fish slowly dissolving into instant coffee. All that was left to do was get back to the city, which seemed to get further away as the day drifted by. With my trusty plastic companion now back by my side I produced my best hitchhiking thumb, and smiled.
Halfway there and with darkness approaching, the inevitable downpour arrived. Cars were now cascading by while the locals waited patiently undercover and my thumb waited patiently under rainfall. Just at the point that I was wet as a hotel room a little boy came over, handing me an umbrella…