Washing day & border triangle

The Rio Cangrejal is considered one of the best white water rivers in Central America. In the rainy season, it is often impassable for weeks, when the water flows over five-metre-high stone giants. Now, in March, it is good for canyoning, a few high jumps into cold whitewater pools, some rafting and a proper full wash.

The protective wall at my hostel in La Ceiba looks like a cross between a velociraptor and a German hunter’s fence. It has certainly taken down numerous bad guys – even though its hunting ground lies within a gated community. Honduras remains the second of the 80 countries I have travelled to that has permanently frightened me.

Early the next morning, I set off for Guatemala, 350 kilometres to the west. The border crossing is a small hut in the middle of nowhere. I am waved through to the next country with almost no checks and, for the first time at a Central American border, no money or waiting time.

The light changes instantly. I don’t know why, maybe it’s the hunter’s fences that are still omnipresent here, but much more lovingly forged: I feel safe again. People address you as “amigo” instead of “muchacho”, and there are no more pump-action shotgun securities outside petrol stations and banks.

The provincial capital of Puerto Barrios is Guatemala’s largest Caribbean harbour. Every day, hundreds of trucks deliver bananas and pineapples to the harbour via dusty roads for shipment to the slave drivers of Chiquita and Dole. The sailors and truckers give the city a unique reputation as a sex metropolis. Whether or not there are enough opportunities to relieve aggression, the perceived safety drives me to bed early.

The next morning, I take a small speedboat across the glassy sea to Punta Gorda in Belize, 60 kilometres away. Punta Gorda is a sleepy little town without any tourists. It will probably disappear once the motorway to Guatemala is completed. At the moment, an hour and a half by water taxi saves me a one-day bus journey through the interior of Guatemala. Panamericana, km 4,873: I have reached the penultimate country on my journey.

Travelling surprises me again. One of the Chinese supermarket owners, who are usually very busy in Central America, reacts to my correct Spanish request for a large bottle of water with bored incomprehension. My Spanish course is over. They speak English in Belize.

I work through the most important website tasks while the radio, in the best socialist tone and choice of words, praises the successes of the Belizean government and reports on the fight against the worst drug cartels (4 g of marijuana).

In the evening, my hostel sopa turns out to be the son of a US presidential adviser. His opposite number is a high-ranking US military officer from Guantanamo. Their stories are almost as frightening as they are interesting. To avoid nightmares, I give myself an overdose of the most stupid series of all time: “Vikings” works.

The five-hour freezing transport to Belize City departs before sunrise. Long before kilometre 400, frostbite forms on my arms. They last until the speeboat to the cayes.