After two nights in Gracias I feel the pull of its magnetic charm sucking me into itself with the plea: stay here for at least another night! This place is making me want to stick around nearly as much as Leon captured me this year and Granada/San Juan del Sur did in 2009.
According to legend the founder of Gracias, a 16th century conquistador, struggled his way through the rugged country of the region looking for a suitable site to build a Central American capital city. When at last he stumbled upon this relatively level but small valley, he is said to have fallen to his knees crying: "Gracias a Dios! Finally some flat land!"
Its attributes were immediately apparent to me once I was checked into my room at the Guancascos. My room is on the top level of a multilevel edifice built into a high hill overlooking the entire town. The terrace outside my door therefore offers one of the most stunning private views in the area. Rocky forested hills surround us but in stark contrast to the typical hot and dusty towns of western Honduras, this place is enveloped in multiple hues of green foliage.
The hotel--maybe the finest in town--is owned and managed by an expatriate Dutch woman, Frony, who oversees a capable staff of locals who run the good restaurant (with excellent local coffee) and keep the place beautifully clean. At around $20 nightly, this place is one of the best values I've encountered on a six week journey of hotels which runs the complete gamut. I believe most of my readers will not blame me for feeling that another late afternoon with a cold drink on "my" terrace as the sun goes down, enjoying the beauty of this place, is definitely in the cards.
On the recommendation of Rachel, the intern I met in Marcala, I ate at the restaurant of the Posada de Don Juan where I ate a sopa de tortilla that absolutely was to die for. (A common regional dish, sopa de tortilla has a curry-type soup base with fresh cheese, avocado, and baked tortilla chips--like Doritos without the MSG.)
The town has the usual cathedral, in this case a small colonial structure, and a well-kept parque central plus a couple very good supermarkets as well as the usual bustling local markets and dusty bus terminals. Despite the obvious signs of poverty in some of the residents (my post yesterday was partly inspired by the unusually high number of beggars I've bumped into here) there are also unmistakable signs of prosperity, notably in the many young people. Perhaps this bodes well for the area's future.
A somewhat unusual feature of this beautiful little town is the 19th century castle which is perched even higher than my hotel and has absolutely stunning views for miles around. In the cool interior of the castle are informative placards in Spanish and English, one of which tells us that the local kids grow up playing here and "many fall in love here." This confirmed my initial impression that the site has all the best characteristics of a lovers' lane.
The foreigners one meets here are mostly young volunteers of various NGOs and of the Peace Corps which, in Honduras, has its largest delegation (of about 260) of any other country in the world. But here and there one can meet other backpacking tourists like me. It's well worth the effort it takes to get to this remote settlement--which maybe is yet another good reason for me not to push onward too quickly. Of course, the longer I stay here the more remote my chances of getting to Chichicastenango, at least this year.
I have eleven days to get to Guatemala City for my return flight home.
Showing posts with label Peace Corps. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Peace Corps. Show all posts
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Thursday, July 1, 2010
The Road to Marcala, Honduras and Beyond
If I had known that the 25 mile trip to Marcala from Perquin was mostly dirt road I might have thought twice about attempting it. I knew beforhand that I was facing a three hour ride but what I didn't know was that three hours was the minimum I could expect.
With too late a start on Tuesday--about 3 p.m.--it took about an hour to reach the remote Honduran frontier post where the immigration office wasn't even open but a friendly Honduran policeman waved me through with a bus full of locals headed to the high and muddy villages on the opposite side.
During the notorious "football war" of 1969, El Salvador's stronger army seized this territory from the Hondurans. With the end of the civil war in 1992, the Hondurans took El Salvador to the World Court which ruled in favor of Honduras. El Salvador accepted this verdict but under protest, and therefore it doesn't maintain an immigration checkpoint here.
The people who live in this tiny slice of territory--mostly of the indigenous Lenca tribe--are technically Salvadoran who happen to live in Honduras. This political grey area also happens to be one of the most remote and impoverished of both countries.
By 4.30 I was dropped off with some locals as far as the bus could go on these steep muddy roads near the village of Sabanetas. From there, I was told, I could try to hitchhike the last treacherous 12 miles to Marcala. Or I could walk. There were no more buses that day.
Fortunately there was one "hostal " in a tiny settlement called Los Cipreses where I was able to get a bunk in a cabin with no electric but with outhouse amenities. All the other cabins were occupied by Honduran NGO workers.
The helpful people of the hostal hooked me up with the one gringo living in the area, a young Peace Corps volunteer by the name of "Frank." He is about nine months through his two year stint here, and as his Spanish is excellent he is a wealth of knowledge about the area. We chatted for about two hours.
It soon became clear that it is the rare tourist who passes through this stunningly beautiful region. (Frank said I was only the third stranded backpacker in Los Cipreses during his tenure thus far.) I spent a chilly, rainy night in my candlelit cabin.
The next morning, Wednesday, found me hiking with my gear up and down the kilometer or so to the Honduran army post where I was able to squeeze onto a micro for the 90 minute journey to Marcala, a town of about 11,000--by far the largest settlement around.
There is a surprisingly large number of foreigners here, but not of the tourist variety--yet it's not so surprising once the brain truly registers the immense scope of the poverty of the locals. The westerners one meets are very busy as aid workers for government and NGO alike (when I checked into my hotel I was asked "Who do you work for?").
Marcala has almost no paved streets at all which tells us, at the very least, that there are more pressing priorities on the very limited resources that are available.
Yet the town boasts a couple cyber shops and even a tiny cafe with an espresso machine which is where I met Rachel, a Wellesly College senior who is on a ten week internship doing research for a Yale-sponsored entity called Innovations for Poverty Action. She enthusiastically described her project studying the underground micro-finance economy of Honduras--basically she's researching loansharks and their customers--and comparing that data with the economy of legitimate micro-finance. With the knowledge gained by her excellent Spanish she was able to fill me in on the latest political situation including details of the coup in 2009 and events since then.
Transport from here to my next destination La Esperanza is also difficult and sporadic. If I cannot catch the 11.00 micro today I'll probably have to hitch a ride on a pickup, a common practice here. Usually the driver will charge the going rate, a dollar or so, same as the buses.
But there's certainly no turning back for me now. Thankfully, Marcala has an ATM so I was able to get stocked with lempiras, the local currency, enough to get me Gracias or hopefully Santa Rosa de Copan. It's only after that that I can hope for better, paved roads
With too late a start on Tuesday--about 3 p.m.--it took about an hour to reach the remote Honduran frontier post where the immigration office wasn't even open but a friendly Honduran policeman waved me through with a bus full of locals headed to the high and muddy villages on the opposite side.
During the notorious "football war" of 1969, El Salvador's stronger army seized this territory from the Hondurans. With the end of the civil war in 1992, the Hondurans took El Salvador to the World Court which ruled in favor of Honduras. El Salvador accepted this verdict but under protest, and therefore it doesn't maintain an immigration checkpoint here.
The people who live in this tiny slice of territory--mostly of the indigenous Lenca tribe--are technically Salvadoran who happen to live in Honduras. This political grey area also happens to be one of the most remote and impoverished of both countries.
By 4.30 I was dropped off with some locals as far as the bus could go on these steep muddy roads near the village of Sabanetas. From there, I was told, I could try to hitchhike the last treacherous 12 miles to Marcala. Or I could walk. There were no more buses that day.
Fortunately there was one "hostal " in a tiny settlement called Los Cipreses where I was able to get a bunk in a cabin with no electric but with outhouse amenities. All the other cabins were occupied by Honduran NGO workers.
The helpful people of the hostal hooked me up with the one gringo living in the area, a young Peace Corps volunteer by the name of "Frank." He is about nine months through his two year stint here, and as his Spanish is excellent he is a wealth of knowledge about the area. We chatted for about two hours.
It soon became clear that it is the rare tourist who passes through this stunningly beautiful region. (Frank said I was only the third stranded backpacker in Los Cipreses during his tenure thus far.) I spent a chilly, rainy night in my candlelit cabin.
The next morning, Wednesday, found me hiking with my gear up and down the kilometer or so to the Honduran army post where I was able to squeeze onto a micro for the 90 minute journey to Marcala, a town of about 11,000--by far the largest settlement around.
There is a surprisingly large number of foreigners here, but not of the tourist variety--yet it's not so surprising once the brain truly registers the immense scope of the poverty of the locals. The westerners one meets are very busy as aid workers for government and NGO alike (when I checked into my hotel I was asked "Who do you work for?").
Marcala has almost no paved streets at all which tells us, at the very least, that there are more pressing priorities on the very limited resources that are available.
Yet the town boasts a couple cyber shops and even a tiny cafe with an espresso machine which is where I met Rachel, a Wellesly College senior who is on a ten week internship doing research for a Yale-sponsored entity called Innovations for Poverty Action. She enthusiastically described her project studying the underground micro-finance economy of Honduras--basically she's researching loansharks and their customers--and comparing that data with the economy of legitimate micro-finance. With the knowledge gained by her excellent Spanish she was able to fill me in on the latest political situation including details of the coup in 2009 and events since then.
Transport from here to my next destination La Esperanza is also difficult and sporadic. If I cannot catch the 11.00 micro today I'll probably have to hitch a ride on a pickup, a common practice here. Usually the driver will charge the going rate, a dollar or so, same as the buses.
But there's certainly no turning back for me now. Thankfully, Marcala has an ATM so I was able to get stocked with lempiras, the local currency, enough to get me Gracias or hopefully Santa Rosa de Copan. It's only after that that I can hope for better, paved roads
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