For simple everyday conversation it’s fine if you’re not 100% sure what was said. But when it comes to safety, double or even triple-checking is a must. Learning a new language makes it tempting to nod along and pretend you understand, but sometimes swallowing your pride and asking again is crucial. This story offers multiple lessons (see travel tip #1), but ultimately, the difference between an OK and a disastrous situation hinged on one simple question: “Am I on the right bus?”
Roatan, Honduras
I had reached the final stretch of a three-month backpacking adventure through Guatemala, Belize, and northern Honduras, which landed me and a few friends on the sun-soaked island of Roatán. We spent the week diving in crystal-clear waters, marveling at the vibrant reef, and perfecting the fine art of doing absolutely nothing at West End and West Bay. It was glorious.
Eventually, my friends left, returning to their responsible adult lives, while I, ever the frugal traveler, had booked a slightly later flight out of San Pedro Sula—a journey requiring a taxi, a ferry, and a bus ride. No big deal, right?
Sundowners, the best bar on the island (don't fight me on this), was where I spent my final night. It had a double-decker dock perfect for all sorts of high-dive tomfoolery. Just as I was settling in for a final beer, in walked Chris, my new Australian dive buddy. He and a few friends were heading to the dock for some late-night jumps, and obviously, I followed. Because, priorities.
Somewhere in the depths of my mildly inebriated wisdom, I remembered to remove my debit card, ID, and remaining Honduran lempira from my swimsuit pocket and carefully placed them on the top step of the dock. I can still picture myself doing it.
What followed was thirty minutes of peak life enjoyment: drunk dock jumping under the stars. But alas, reality (and my 7 AM departure time) loomed, so I snuck away and stumbled back to my hostel, ready to pack like the responsible traveler I sometimes pretended to be.
Then came the moment of horror.
As I neatly arranged my well-traveled treasures, I opened my wallet for a routine check and felt my stomach drop. My debit card and driver’s license were gone. My brain did a slow-motion replay of the past few hours, and with sudden clarity, I realized: I had left them on the dock.
I bolted out the door and sprinted back, breaking personal records in speed and coordination. Sundowners had closed, the dock was empty, and my carefully placed belongings? Vanished.
For the first time, the severity of my situation hit me like a rogue wave. I sat down, staring at the water like it might spit my card back out in an act of mercy. I had no money, no access to money, and a flip phone that was useful only for playing Snake. It was 2009. Things were different.
Panic set in. How was I going to pay for my hostel? How was I going to get to San Pedro Sula? Was there a Western Union here? (Google it, kids.) Did I know anyone who could bail me out?
Enter: Chris.
I remembered him vaguely mentioning where he lived, so I set off down the sandy West End road, guided by sheer desperation. By some miracle, I spotted the landmark he had mentioned, and through a dimly lit window, I saw him.
I knocked. He answered, mildly confused, as we had literally just said our goodbyes.
I explained my predicament and, with the kind of confidence that only sheer necessity provides, asked him for $50.
To his eternal credit, Chris didn’t hesitate. He handed over $50 USD, accepted my promise to mail him repayment (plus interest, because I’m a man of honor), and wished me luck.
Now came the real test: would my plan actually work?
I woke up at dawn, hungover but determined. I sat down with my journal to do some hard math.
The Budget (USD):
Taxi to ferry: $12 (estimated)
Ferry to La Ceiba: $23
Bus to the depot: $3
Bus to San Pedro Sula airport: $10
Total: $48
Perfect! I even had $2 left for a celebratory baleada and a bottle of water. What could go wrong?
Just as I was about to leave, I remembered a small, horrifying detail: I still owed my hostel $14.
New total: $62.
New plan: walk 11 kilometers to the ferry.
So, off I went, trudging along the road in the early morning heat. After about 7 kilometers, an older man in a pickup took pity on me and let me hop in the back.
I made it to the ferry, paid my $23 fare, and enjoyed the ride with the heightened awareness of someone operating on razor-thin margins.
Once in La Ceiba, I caught the $3 bus to the depot, where I was greeted by absolute chaos. The ticket counter was a scene straight out of an 80s stock exchange. When I finally got to the front, I double-checked (twice) that I was getting a ticket to the airport. The woman nodded.
I forked over my final $10 and boarded the bus.
As we made our way towards San Pedro Sula, doubt began to creep in.
Was this bus actually going to the airport? What if it wasn’t? What if I ended up stranded in downtown San Pedro Sula at night with exactly $0?
Cue: worst-case scenario.
If you haven’t heard of San Pedro Sula, let’s just say it’s not the place you want to be lost, broke, and alone. The city was infamous for gang violence, “the murder capital of the world”, and my survival instincts were kicking into high gear.
I marched up to the driver, attempting to confirm my destination in broken Spanish. A kind Honduran couple overheard and, with a look of mild alarm, informed me that this bus was NOT going to the airport.
Panic Level: Red Alert.
The couple intervened, speaking quickly to the driver. After a brief radio exchange, the driver agreed to drop me off on the side of the highway where another bus would be passing. I would switch buses. Alone. On the highway.
Miraculously, it worked. I jumped buses in the dark, and ten minutes later, I arrived at the airport. I walked in with $0, a passport, and a printed plane ticket confirmation.
I collapsed onto a bench, exhaling deeply.
Imagine how this would have ended if I hadn’t double-checked my bus?
Moral of the Story:
Always double-check what you heard if not your native tongue
Always carry emergency cash (see tip #1)
Make friends with Australians.
Thanks, Chris. I still owe you a beer (hope you got my $ DHL)