After leaving Alton’s Dive Shop, I headed to the Utila Airport. Or rather, the tarmac strip up on the hill. I managed to catch one of the first flights back to the mainland where I supposedly had a ticket for an onward puddle jumper flight to Roatan where my flight to the US was leaving that afternoon. Lo and behold, when I got to the mainland, my onward ticket was no good. I ended up not being able to get a flight to Roatan until when I was supposed to be boarding my flight to America. In Roatan I tried to dash across the runway to catch the tail end of boarding but the airport staff turned me back saying something about security screening and proper ticketing. A kid on the flight from the mainland to Roatan helped me find the right place and the right people to talk to to get my ticket rescheduled for the next day’s flight.
Having secured a morning flight for the following day, I was left with the daunting challenge of figuring out where I was on Roatan, and getting to somewhere with cheap lodging for the night. I walked out of the airport and into a maelstrom of taxi drivers. Rather than randomly pick one and hope that I got lucky, I decided to walk out onto the main road and try to determine where I was. Perhaps there was a close-by local hotel that I could stay at without having to pay for a taxi. As a precaution, I also put my thumb out in case someone wanted to let me hitchhike.
Lo and behold, someone did let me hitchhike. Three people from Massachusetts stopped in their rental car and picked me up. Upon hearing my story, they promptly offered to let me stay in one of their hotel rooms for free. As I got to know my newfound friends, I discovered that they lived one town over from my aunt and uncle. It is a small world when you try hitchhiking from an airport on an island off the coast of Honduras and are picked up by people who live almost next door to your own relatives. Over the course of the afternoon and evening, they took me to different hotels where they bought me drinks and dinner. We talked about all sorts of things including their ideas for buying a few businesses in the area and retiring to Honduras to run them.
The next morning I slipped out of the hotel room early to catch a taxi back to the airport. A nice guy from Guatemala was the driver. I helped him practice his English on the way to the airport. He gave me a discount because I taught him some new and useful phrases. At the airport I quickly went through security and found the duty free area where I bought a couple of bottles of Flor de Cana five and seven year rum. It seemed only fitting to purchase such things.
The flight back was uneventful and I made it to Portland successfully. My adventures through Central America had taken me to four countries and many different environments. From the ruins of Tikal to the summit of Izalco. From taking a boat down the Rio Dulce to diving off the coast of Honduras. It had been a great trip but I was glad to be back to somewhere that I didn’t have to buy bottled water for every drink.
All my worldly possessions. Somehow I lost that orange sleeping pad between Roatan and Portland. No clue where it went but it wasn’t on my backpack when I got back to the states. I bet it stayed in Houston.
One of the little puddle jumpers that was braving the weather to evacuate stranded tourists from Utila.
The terminal building in all its glory.
In the plane and ready to go.
Luggage was crammed in the last two rows of seats and along the wall.
Open cockpit.
Goodbye Utila!
My only photo from Roatan outside the airport. This was looking off the deck of the hotel room I got to stay in. Living the high life as it were.
Aboard the plane to America.
Above the storm that had made me miss my flight the day before.
The Gulf of Mexico. Almost home!
