Honduras

I'm now in a little town called Omoa on the north coast of Honduras, where I arrived earlier today with the two Swiss girls. Tomorrow I'm continuing southwards, and they're going to stay here for a week, so we shall be parting company after a few pleasant days travelling together.

The sailing trip down the coast of Belize didn't happen because of the weather. I was quite relieved - it was only after I'd signed up that I realised it involved snorkling in shark-infested waters. Apparently a lot of people think that's the best bit(radical, I think they call it), but personally I'd rather be taped into a cardboard box full of wasps. The woman who organises the tours from her little hut on the beach was very apologetic about it all, in the way that only incredibly posh English people can be. "Ok, yah, the weather's looking beastly, and it's a frightful bore, but we just can't go - I know it must be terribly maddening for you, but there it is. Ok? Yah?" Earlier I'd heard her on the telephone: "No mummy, don't worry. What mummy? No, I've told you, I'm fine for funds, Ok? Yah? Ciao."

So, it was a water taxi into Belize city, and then buses down to Placencia, which seemed to be a good stop-off point to break up the journey. It's a lovely little place, all things considered, but it has been colonised by a certain type of retired American. It was quite surreal, it was still the Caribbean, with a local population of Rastafarians, but the only music to be heard was Country & Western. And, chillingly, Christian Rock.

The hotel I stayed in was run by a right bunch of God Botherers, but I didn't realise this when I signed in late on Saturday night. In the morning I found myself standing under a shower with a toothbrush in my mouth wondering where the water was. So I went to their little restaurant to see what was going on. All over the walls were Christian messages, inspirational pictures of Jesus and buttock-clenchingly awful poems about god. The owners were sat round a table doing some early Sunday morning bible study. As I still had my toothbrush in my mouth and was starting to dribble froth down my neck I was unable to insult them. But I just wanted to remind them that Jesus was a carpenter, not a plumber, and besides which he, nor the saints or angels, would be likely to intercede on such a trivial domestic matter and that they would have to break their sabbath and sort out the water themselves. The owner (flecked with toothpaste by this time) understood and reluctantly went to get it running. I noticed that he'd been reading Leviticus - and this a man whose menu was entirely composed of pork and shellfish, specifically banned for the righteous in that very book. I wonder if he'd just realised, and that was why he was so miserable. Perhaps he was planning to add incest and bestiality to his sweet trolley and go for the clean sweep. Who knows?

We left Placencia quite early and caught the fantastically-named Okie Pokie water taxi to exotically-named Mango Creek, where the buses depart for Punta Gorda, which is the embarkation point for boats back to Guatemala.

This part of the journey went through some fantastic scenery, with orange and banana groves on the level plains and pristine jungle covering the hills that filled every horizon. At one point we stopped in the middle of nowhere to pick up a group of mothers, who all had quite profoundly disabled children with them. Cow skulls and feathers were hanging in trees by the side of the road, and I realised that they must have been to see a traditional healer. It was quite sad to see the children carried back onto the bus. They were obviously no better, despite being rubbed with eggs and having incense wafted at them. I just wonder how much their mothers had spent on it. Happily there was an American nurse on the bus who gave them the address of a nearby medical charity - I think some of them just needed a bit of physiotherapy, rather than 'soul cleansing'.

It was Sunday evening when we arrived at PG (so known by the locals on account of their famous laziness) and the place was desserted. We found a hotel and I got chatting to a pair of German girls, who had managed to hitchhike down from Belize in just one day. No sooner had they stuck their thumbs out than a Belgian powerstation worker had picked them up and, having nothing better to do, driven them all the way to their destination. I think he got his money's worth though, they were great company. One is an actress who does experimental theatre (that involves talking in gobbledegook) and the other has just finished working behind the scenes on a film by that bloke who directed Showgirls and Total Recall. The Dutch one. We got through quite a few beers and the Belgian paid, which has given me a whole new perspective on his funny little nation.

The next morning it was off to the customs house (a tiny shed on a pier) to get stamped out of Belize before setting off for Guatemala. We arrived there about two hours later in the place that Guatemalans will happily admit is el culo del mondo - the arsehole of the world. It used to be a major shipping port, but all the trade vanished years ago. But the brothels and brawling bars stayed open and speeded the descent of the place to the very bottom of the gutter. As we arrived at the quay six or seven of the fattest taxi drivers I have ever seen were crowding round the edge noisily vying for our custom. To get out of the boat we had to squeeze ourselves between their massive bellies. An unpleasant welcome to an unpleasant place.

Everybody on the boat decided to club together for a minibus to get the bus station and out of town as quickly as possible. Even though he'd done really well out of the deal the driver couldn't help trying to pull a fast one and started driving us to the Honduran border, telling us that his little van was the official public bus. He immediately recieved a volley of abuse in at least five different languages. At the bus station the German girls headed south and the rest of us continued into Honduras. It was only a couple of hours, but I had quite a macabre experience. A bloke came and sat next to me and started chatting. He told me he'd just been to the hospital and then showed me his hand. With a lurch I realised that his thumb had been cut clean off and was covered with a bloody flithy-looking bandage. He told me he'd had an accident with a machete at work. The really odd thing was how relaxed he was about it all - he was laughing about it, even though the wound was obviously still fresh. When he got off the bus he said goodbye with a big grin and a 'thumbs-up' sign, which was spooky.

The border crossing into Honduras was the usual trial of desperate moneychangers and bored officials, but we were soon here. Although this is still the Caribbean, we are now back in Mayan country - I've not seen any Africans or Europeans at all so far. I got quite cross looking for a hotel, because I had to plead with people to take my custom; they just cannot be bothered. The only one who made an effort was a strange Dutch lady who rents a couple of rooms. In a torrent of half-German and half-English she explained how all the other places were disgusting and dirty, and how her main competitor had burned down her backpackers' hostel a few weeks ago. I found her scarey, so I went to one of the lazy Mayan hoteliers. It's a strange little place, and I shall be glad to leave tomorrow; inland, to the mountains.