Hotel Guancascos' pleasant open-air restaurant

Happily, Gurpreet left a note to break our drinks plans, and the talkative Canadian hick didn't show either. I was so tired after Celaque I could barely imagine being sociable.

I ate all my meals in my hotel, which is rare for me; it was more expensive than other spots in town, but everything was done well and I loved the location. I happily ate a decadent anafre, and listened with annoyance to the group of young Canadians—yes, Gurpreet's fellow volunteers—obnoxiously talking about parties and stealing beers from the restaurant. I had to down multiple Salva Vidas to block them out.

The next morning I was still incredibly sore, and quite unsure how I was going to manage hiking in San Juan the following day. I didn't show my face in the restaurant until 10. Guancascos' Dutch owner Frony confirmed that the only way to San Juan was hitching, so I was really in no hurry.

I had bided my time over two café con leches when, to my surprise, Gurpreet appeared apologizing over the previous night. We ended up discussing travel and volunteerism for hours. A young Belgian I'd seen the previous night joined us, and we had a very enjoyable, lazy morning of traveler chat.

Well past 2pm, I realized I should get to San Juan before dark at the very least. I headed to the bridge for a jalón (hitch), but instead found a gathering of vans. With pain still emanating from my knee and knowing the paved road ending soon after Gracias, I couldn't have handled the back of a pickup truck anyway.

As the sole gringa on the bus, I didn't feel comfortable turning around to get this shot...I just held it up and aimed

Room for one more? How about two?

I got in what appeared to be a 15-passenger van, but after the seats filled we still didn't move. What were we waiting for? Apparently there was unfilled airspace, and seats wasted on children who obviously should be standing, because the driver stuffed at least 5 more people on.

Oblivious to our growing irritation, the driver continued to pick up more people for the next two hours. Now even adults were standing, albeit in an exceedingly cramped and hunched-over way because of course, this was just a van, not a real bus.

The visitor's center in San Juan wasn't obvious, so I wandered up to inquire at a hotel near the bus stop, where a very pregnant young girl giggled a great deal, tried to offer me a room for 150Lps (seriously?) and eventually after much clarification led me to the visitors center.

Gladys Nolasco was as helpful as Moon Honduras indicated, and informed me that the Peace Corps volunteer who had set up community tourism in San Juan had long since left; disappointing because I had hoped to hear more about the project. Gladys gave me a room in her mother's house for only 60Lps, without the TV and hot water the hotel had promised. Gladys' information sheets claimed the town didn't have phones so I needed to book now to hike tomorrow.

The big shock—other than the fact a two-street town needs multiple hotels plus Gladys' mother, considering I was literally the only tourist in town—was that a town without phones had high-speed internet. Then again, I think I saw someone on a cell phone so perhaps the information sheets were old.

Gladys took an old mop and pushed the dirt on the floor to new positions. The bed was rather uncomfortable and the shower extremely basic, but hell—it cost less than $4 and felt more convenient to the "center" of town.

Although there were two restaurants near my lodgings, I dawdled too long at the internet and missed the closing time of 9pm. I satisfied myself with plenty of water and a stroll about the dark street, peeking in on one restaurant that now held an evangelical meeting, and staring back at the teenagers staring at me, packed into a truck bed, just cruising around as small-town kids are wont to do.

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