I left the next morning. Borris told me which bus to take out of the city, and I could hitchhike to Honduras from there. The bus was packed of course. I stood near the front. There was a woman sitting behind the driver who was putting on makeup. I don't know how she could do it with all the jerking and jostling. Another bus passed us while we were making a stop and filled our cabin with black smoke.
Buses in Latin America are all similar: they work in teams. The driver drives and doesn't collect money. The ticket-taker, after collecting fares, stands on the step in one of the doorways. As the bus slows at a stop, the driver opens the door and the ticket-taker drops down to the pavement and starts yelling the bus's destinations to the crowds. People pile on herds them in. He always yells the destinations with an auctioneers tone, as if he's trying to sell the destinations to people who don't know where they want to go yet. It can be hard to tell which destination is co-linear with my route, so if I'm unsure, I'll try to ask the ticket guy if the bus is going to my destination. The ticket takers are always reluctant to talk to someone at my decibel level. But they do always wave me on while still hollering city names. Probably many tourists have interpreted this as a "yes" and were subsequently delivered to remote towns they'd never heard of. Some of them are still looking for the bus back home.
Outside the city, it was slow hitchhiking. I made it to the border and rode my skateboard across the diamond-plated bridge. On the Honduran side, I stopped at a roadside store. It was tended by a girl. The only other person in the store was a drunk man with a sloppy grin on his face. He had no shirt and only wore jeans with no belt, and a handgun tucked into the back of them. He looked at me curiously but said nothing.
There was not much traffic, but a few cars were passing through. I hitchhiked a motorcycle for the first time from the border. I proceeded to burn my calf on the hot exhaust as soon as I got on. I would burn that scab off a week or so later on my second motorcycle ride. By my third motorcycle hitchhiking ride, I knew to stay far away from the exhaust pipe.
I didn't make it to Tegucigalpa, my next destination. I made it to the crossroads at Jicaro Galan and had a plate of food at the restaurant. After that I slept under the stars in the outskirts of town. I was completely eaten by mosquitoes, and there was no way to prop up my meager netting to prevent them from getting at me. I'm not sure how I ever slept; I think they eventually left me alone. I had brought a malaria preventative with me, but it had been left in Mexico City along with the rest of my hygiene kit.
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