Beyond Paradise

Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow mindedness...

Mark Twain

Beyond Paradise

The True Story

Copyright 2013 - By Richard Allan

HumanHorse Publishing

All Rights Reserved – This publication may not be copied or transmitted by any means of retrieval device including electronic, mechanical, photocopying or audio recording. It also may not be resold or quoted without the expressed written permission from the author or publisher. It is for personal viewing only.

This story is a work of nonfiction.

Chapter One 

Having just flown in on the Tropic Air commuter jet, leaving Belize City and flying directly into San Pedro Sula, Honduras, was my first luxury travel enjoyed for quite some time. The brief one hour flight could be described by most world traveler’s standards, as a one beer flight. It was thanks in part due to an unfortunate border skirmish with Guatemala. A border dispute going back many years, when the country of Belize was actually then known as British Honduras. The Royal British Air Force had an airbase in Belize, so the constant roar from those vertically landing Harrier Jets, could be heard plus seen, as they would be constantly taking off then returning back to base. A few of the British pilots inquired if I would like to go hangout at the Split or maybe do some shore fishing out on Caye Caulker...

No,  I wished that I could but thanks for the invitation anyways! Today just doesn’t work for me . . . but maybe next time and tell me something, just how good has the fishing been lately anyways? I asked while declining their offer. The same pilot replied, Great mate, I caught a beauty last week! But if you’re after lobster you can forget it, because you won’t get anything bigger than a Louisiana crawdad, they’ve bloody well wiped them out! It’s nothing more than a bleeding shame! I then asked him out of curiosity, What’s in the ice chest? The older pilot sporting a full waxed moustache replied, It’s loaded up full with Belikin Beer mate . . . what else, might you expect? I replied, "Now you’re talking but I didn’t think you Pomes liked to fish? A tall pilot smoking a chubby  Cuban cigar smiled saying, Ah . . . good on you mate, I see you’ve been to Australia because them blokes plus the Kiwis are the only ones who call us that - Prisoners of Mother England."

The word on the street was that it was far too dangerous to continue onward overland. My ultimate destination wasn’t so much a place but rather a point of consciousness...

I had just traveled by bus from Merida, Mexico, all the way across the Yucatan and how I love this region! The home of the ancient Mayans . . . Just to breathe in the hot, steamy, thick air that can almost be cut with a knife is a sensation all of its own. While the bus hauled ass through the jungle at high speeds over the arrow straight highway, I daydreamed as I thought about re-climbing the Uxmal Pyramid up to its apex and taking in the vast jungle view from the top, as I had done the day before. As far as I’m concerned, there is no finer climate plus an esoteric level of positive energy, to be found anywhere on this green planet.

In San Pedro Sula I spent a day exploring, checking the place out. The hotel I found was moderately priced, starting at $ two dollars. So the majority of the travelers and locals alike could be found there. Also included was the national soccer team of Honduras, who were also staying there whilst they trained for their next big match against Brazil. And incidentally at that time Honduras was one of the best Latino teams in the entire region.

The next afternoon to my amazement, I saw an old travel compadre named Frenchy. He stood out with his chiseled thin face, and thin beard resembling El Greco’s classic "Jesus Christ," coming down the wide stairs into the lobby. I had lost contact with him two years before and hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the man since we boarded the government owned, Kelimutu ocean liner. That ship departed every other Wednesday from Kupang, West Timor, then cruised extensively throughout the vast Indonesian Archipelago, while visiting all of the major sea ports. I disembarked the massive black and white ship in Bali, while Frenchy ventured on in the northerly direction of primitive Borneo, taking a smaller ferry. He was hoping to meet up with an ancient head hunter tribe and to spend some time with them deep in the jungle. He was a most interesting character indeed as he was born in Paris, France, but he had been traveling the world for nine years prior to date, but not before spending three years in the French Foreign Legion stationed in Northern Africa, assigned to driving a tank. That night we talked about the travel pros and cons of traveling in Central America. We also continued to bullshit about old times as we polished off a half a case of Salva Vida brand beer, while sitting on comfortable hammocks in the lobby when I next brought up the subject of money, I know it’s been some time but do you remember what you told me before in Asia that to this day I still have never forgotten? Frenchy replied "No," as he laughed, But I suppose you are going to tell me anyway!

Yeah, you told me that a million dollars in hundred dollar bills weighs exactly twenty- two pounds. Now who in this world would know something like that? Maybe people from the drug cartels would know, plus Mafia family members and last but not least, Frenchy. He then asked me to take a guess on how many letters are in the Bible? I inquired, Why, did you count them? He answered in response saying, No but . . . it is right at three point five million.

That next morning, I struck up conversation with a man sitting at a nearby table who was drinking his black coffee with a sad face. He told me that he was not Honduran, but rather an El Salvadoran soldier, a Sgt. Major taking some R and R time off from the civil war going on in his country, where some seventy-five thousand people had already lost their lives so far. Mankind has killed in excess of one hundred million fellow humans in the twentieth century alone, is beyond comprehension and something close to madness...

Later that day I headed up to the city square where, there were an abundant number of money changers providing their services. Unfortunately U.S. dollars were hard to come by, thereby making the black market exchange rate better than that offered by the government banks. After taking care of business, I strolled on over to the luxury Hotel Sula, at the east end of the downtown city square, to watch cable news on a big screen television.

At around four in the afternoon I headed north, going up the wide two way street, that was split in the middle by a grass covered island area, encasing large beautiful trees. As I walked along the side of the road, I noticed that at least three jet black cars lacking license plates plus with tinted or blackened out, side and rear windows passed along close by. Honduras was well known for its infamous Death Squads causing mayhem and terror especially around the capital... After walking maybe five minutes more I came upon a Pizza Hut located on the right side of the street, where two young soldiers were doing guard duty near the front door. They were standing vigilantly with automatic M-16 rifles slung over their shoulders. The two so called soldiers were so short in stature that their muzzles just about scraped the ground as they walked. Upon passing by directly in front of their path I greeted them saying;

Hola buenas dias, como estas muchachos? I got the hint as they totally ignored me plus my amiable gesture . . . those unfriendly little pricks!

Inside I ordered a locally brewed draft beer accompanied with a small, personal pan pizza, then sat down enjoying rock music videos on the television. I wear my sunglasses at night video by Corey Hart was playing. The air conditioning felt great too, it was great to cool off from the intense heat outside.

Some guys from a few booths away had noticed me come in and wasted no time calling me by waiving me over to join them. Why not? I thought to myself they seem harmless enough! But my gut intuition was sending me a different message . . . and I should have paid attention to it...

After finishing my small pizza I strolled over to their booth when the light skinned guy in the middle of the three said for me to sit down while asking me where I was from. The other two referred to him as El Jefe, but he simply liked to be called "The Bossman" in English.

To my dismay, he began telling me that he was a coyote/cocaine smuggler and damned proud of it! The thug on his right was huge, easily weighing over three hundred pounds, with his impressively huge biceps, the size of a Thanksgiving dinner ham... He was most certainly Bossman’s main bodyguard. The third guy was the scariest looking with his whole face, arms plus upper torso tatted, including several tear drops coming down from his right eye. I had just learned that morning from the Sgt. Major at breakfast about this gang from El Salvador known as the Maras Salva Truchas - thirteen and eighteen... He said their menacing threat has spread out from the capital, San Salvador, into Nicaragua and Honduras, and even all of the way up to Southern California, where the majority of the funding came from