Fin.

My backpack is empty for the first time in a year and half, and my mind is overflowing with memories and reflections. I’m in limbo; not quite traveling, but not settled either. I said looking back at 2015 that happiness is the conviction that I’m doing exactly what I should be doing. Where does that leave me now? I return with more questions than I started with, a longer bucket list, and little direction. And yet, life is the best it’s ever been. 

Forgive me - it’s hard not to be sentimental. Sometimes I get self-conscious; I’m just a brat who got to go on a long vacation, and maybe I shouldn’t wax poetic about what it means. But it feels like I’ve done something important. When I scroll through my blog I feel overwhelmed by a sense of accomplishment. I traveled many thousands of miles, learned a new language, developed new hobbies, saw more beautiful places than I could count, did some work I’m proud of, read, wrote, and drew more than ever, and met a thousand people I hope I never forget. For once, I’m stressed not about what to change in my life, but about how to keep it the same. I feel content, independent, optimistic, and refreshed. In short, I feel whole, and that’s enough to power me through at least a few months of uncertainty.

The morning after that amazing day swimming with whale sharks, I woke up at 4am to catch my flight home. Nick, James, and most of the rest of the hostel guests were just returning from a night out, so I got a hearty, drunken, farewell before a taxi carried me into the darkness. At the airport, I sauntered through security and took a seat in the terminal while I waited for a gate assignment. Through the giant bank of windows along eastern edge of the atrium, the sun peered over the horizon - tentative at first, but gaining strength by the second. I watched as the morning light brought a fleet of airplanes to life, and reflected off their tireless wings. I choked up; sad but grateful. I remembered a note my mom had sent me a few days before; “I have a feeling this is only the beginning of your journey,” she said, “not the end of your trip.” I smiled.

Seven hours later, I touched down in Los Angeles. Home.

Cozumel and Cancun

As had been my pattern in Central America, I did no research before I arrived on the Yucatan Peninsula. Vague memories from a spring break there 11 years ago served only to mislead me. I got off the bus in Playa del Carmen, which I expected to be more backpacker friendly than nearby Cancun. It wasn’t. With signs advertising wet T-shirt contests and all-you-can-drink bars, it felt like spring break. After a quick walk along the main drag, I hopped into an internet cafe and did some reading. “For a more chilled out vibe, try Cozumel,” said one travel blog, so I booked a hostel and arrived at that large Caribbean island two hours later.

It did feel more relaxed, but no less touristy. Every day brings a new cruise ship and it’s payload of passengers shopping for jewelry and tacky souvenirs. Otherwise, Cozumel is a dive destination, and I’d already blown my diving budget. So I rented a scooter and drove the beautiful 40 mile loop around the southern half of the island. It was a fun day that felt like my last hurrah.

Done with Cozumel, I took a bus to Cancun. It was a dreaded stop; a not-so-grand finale I’d have to make the best of. I did find a hostel I was excited about, and quickly met two South Africans, Nick and James, who were traveling south and eager to pick my brain. We became fast friends, which is about all it took for me to shed the pessimism about a disappointing end to my trip. In between two nights chatting over beers at the hostel, I had one last day to fill, and I convinced them to join me on an adventure.

Whale sharks, which can measure over 40 feet long and weigh more than 20 tons, are the world’s largest fish. They are gentle filter feeders, and swimming with them has been on my bucket list since I first saw a photo of a big shark with a toy human several years ago. Opportunities had taunted me throughout the tropics, where I always seemed to have just missed their migration. When I checked into Ka’Beh Hostel in Cancun, however, I was greeted with the news that it was their peak whale shark season.

As excited as I was, I was equally concerned that we would spend the morning driving around searching for one fish, which we’d find surrounded by tourists. Initially, that’s exactly what happened. A flotilla of speedboats was unloading snorkelers into the water and circling a solitary animal. When I joined them, I could barely see through a cloud of bubbles and furiously kicking feet. Eventually I stole a glance of a young whale shark, retreating to the depths. It was breathtaking, but worrying.

Thankfully, it got better. Ten minutes further out to sea we came upon another island of boats, now spread thin by a herd of whale sharks 50 strong. I jumped in the water, turned hard to my right, and found myself alone, flanked by four full-grown adults. Swimming towards a head-on collision, I lost a game of chicken. Then I won a close-quarters staring contest. I escorted a giant through the water in what I told myself was an exercise in symbiosis, and his tail fin, my own height, gently brushed my shoulder as he swam off. I couldn’t decide if it was more meditative calm or heart-pounding adrenaline rush.

I hate to recommend this activity to anyone, because ecotourism associated with whale sharks has apparently grown to unsustainable levels. It was a guilty pleasure, and I feel a bit sheepish admitting how much I enjoyed it. Summarizing the experience exposes the limits of my vocabulary: really awesome, so beautiful, incredibly spectacular, very big, the best thing ever.

So much for concluding my travels with a fizzle.

San Cristóbal de las Casas

After three weeks in Honduras and Guatemala, Jean and I parted ways. San Marcos was more or less the end of the road for both of us - he turned south, backtracking towards a flight home a month later, and I continued north, with a week to travel the long road to Cancun. My first stop was 12 hours away, in the Mexican city of San Cristóbal de las Casas.

I was excited to cross into Mexico, mostly for the sentimentality of “hello, neighbor.” A few backpackers had sung praises of San Cristóbal, but I knew almost nothing about it. The shuttle dropped us off on a nondescript street corner, and I walked through town - past the central plaza and along a handsome pedestrian street lined with appealing shops, restaurants, and bars - until I got to a street whose name, Tapachula, sounded like a mashup of my two favorite hot sauces. By the time I checked into the nicest hostel in town, which cost me barely six dollars, I had already fallen for the city. 

I was in San Cristóbal for the better half of a weekend, and the city was at it’s lively best. I went out briefly on Friday night, and spent Saturday wandering through local markets and artisanal shops. I might have done more, but my stomach - still recovering from the ice cubes in San Pedro - protested. I sacrificed Saturday night in favor of a 4am Sunday morning wakeup call, and a tour to a pair of waterfalls and the spectacular ruins of Palenque. It was a one way tour that left me five hours north of San Cristóbal, in a town whose main attraction I’d just seen. I booked an overnight bus to Playa del Carmen, a stone’s throw from Cancun. After watching Argentina lose another heart-breaking Copa America final, I boarded the last of my journey’s overnighters and wondered how to fill the following days. I regretted that I hadn’t spent more time in San Cristobal, which turned out to be among my favorite cities.

Atitlán

Arriving in Lake Atitlán was bittersweet. We’d booked a hostel we were excited about and our first views of the lake were breathtaking, but it was also the last planned stop of my trip. I started to get sentimental, and couldn’t help but count down the hours.

Atitlán is an interesting place. There are nearly a dozen towns on it’s shores, and each offers something unique. San Pedro de la Laguna and one or two other tourist towns occupy the waterfront. The more savvy indigenous communities are further uphill. The locals know what tourists and foreign investors have learned the hard way: the lake is rising. There are countless abandoned structures in the shallows as testament, and the depths are spotted with ancient cities, which are now archaeological dive sites.

Jean and I spent two nights in San Pedro, which was in the doldrums of low season and abandoned, apart from periodic groups of Israeli backpackers. We spent one night in San Marcos, where chill cafes, yoga studios, meditation retreats, and plenty of hemp bracelets and Birkenstocks are the hallmarks of a bohemian community. Laid back was exactly what I needed; after close to 75 weeks without incident, I finally got food poisoning from a few bad ice cubes. The countdown slowed.

Antigua Guatemala

Antigua Guatemala is a city all it’s own, only a few blocks from the dilapidated sprawl of Guatemala City. The transition - from the ugliest of Guatemala’s cities to the prettiest - is abrupt. The old capital is surrounded by volcanoes, some of which erupt regularly. But life goes on uninterrupted in the city, where cobbled streets are lined with inviting bars, restaurants, plazas, shops, and a tolerable balance of tourists and locals. 

Jean and I were checking into our hostel when I heard an enthusiastic “No fucking way. No fucking way!” over my right shoulder. I turned to see Lau, one of my closest friends from the month at Hulakai, standing there with her dog, grinning. It was the last of perhaps two dozen chance encounters throughout my travels, and was a very pleasant surprise.

Enchanted by the city and excited to see Lau, I passed on a trek I shouldn’t have. The overnight hike summits a dormant volcano with an active neighbor, and if the pictures I’ve seen are to be trusted, the sight of Volcan del Fuego spitting lava above the clouds at dawn would have been a lifetime highlight. Missing it was one of the biggest mistakes of my trip, but I’m not being too hard on myself. I had an unusually good night bar hopping with Lau and Jean, and we cheered from the hostel terrace as the volcano erupted into the night sky.

Semuc Champey

To travel to Parque Natural Semuc Champey, 150 kilometers inland from Rio Dulce, Jean and I opted for the circuitous public bus route with a four hour head start on the direct but seemingly overpriced tourist shuttle. It was a mistake. It took us almost 36 hours and, after the price of a hotel, cost us nearly double. It was painful to waste a day, the roads were in ruins, and the busses were uncomfortable and overcrowded. If the experience sailing to Guatemala argued for ad libbing, the busses to Semuc Champey were the counterpoint. So we took our punches, but arrived at our hostel unscathed. Nestled into a corner of the jungle formed by the junction of the park’s edge and the Rio Cahabon, the beautiful El Portal Hostel invited us to forget the stressful journey. With a refreshing sunset dip in the river, we obliged.

The next morning we awoke to birdsong and a hearty breakfast, and hiked into the park. Semuc Champey means, “where the river hides under the earth” in the indigenous language of Q’eqchi, which is still common in rural Guatemala. The park features a sequence of emerald pools trickling peacefully over an immense slab of rock. It looks placid, but it’s a facade. The muddy Rio Cahabon roars at either end, and passes unnoticed beneath the rocks. It was impressive, unique, and pretty, but we saw the whole park in two hours, which left us uncertain it had been worth the trouble. I might have spent a few days in the surrounding forest, but July first loomed, so we contented ourselves to leave early on the third day.

We took the shuttle.

Cloewa

Adjusting my schedule on a whim to sail to Guatemala was an emphatic reminder of why I love traveling without an itinerary. I could not possibly have invented such a perfect plan, and the serendipity only sweetened an already spectacular experience. Nothing is so peaceful as drifting on a calm sea under a gentle breeze, with only the quiet lapping of waves and the fluttering of sails and ropes to break the silence. Awaiting us in Guatemala was the stunning Rio Dulce, a cliff-lined river that cuts through a tropical forest, and gives way to a beautiful bay and the picturesque town of Livingston. 

Merek and Ian are father and son; nonconformists with an atypical relationship guided by mutual respect and a shared sense of adventure. Ian is kind and vibrant, but fancies himself a pirate. The sea has bestowed a confidence and steeliness upon him, but a fresh tattoo of the Little Prince on his left shoulder betrays a softer side. Merek, though balding, manages something between a mullet and a rat tail, and wears a rotating selection of T-shirts with slogans like, “I don’t need sex. My government fucks me every day.”  He has been sailing for most of his life, but bestowed the title of captain on his son after two years at sea. They operate as equals, but Merek knows there are times he must obey Ian, which he does eagerly. His pride radiates as he watches his son dance around the boat tying ropes, throwing anchors, and reading the wind. Their relationship has benefitted from five years in close quarters, and they talk about philosophy, love, sex and drugs with the fluency of close friends. I enjoyed their company and their stories, and wondered how a ten year itinerary and life at sea would suit me.

Utila

It took Jean and I six hours of busses and a one hour ferry to get to Utila, the small Caribbean Island known for its parties and SCUBA diving. On the way, Jean ran into a couple he’d met in Nicaragua several weeks before. Cedric is a gregarious and talkative French Canadian with a childlike penchant for doing backflips off of every dock and boat he could get his feet on. Jenny is a multilingual Swede with icy blue eyes, a radiant smile, and a contagious and enthusiastic disposition. The four of us spent most our time on the island together, which turned out to be much longer than the four days I had planned. It was low season on Utila, but world-class diving, a handful of chilled-out bars and cheap restaurants, and a close-knit community of tourists, locals, and semi-permanent dive instructors made it easy to extend my stay. I picked up a freelance project, which added two days, I tacked on one extra day of diving, and when I thought I was ready to leave, I happened upon a captain looking for crew to sail to Guatemala three days later. I’d spent nine days on Utila by the time we embarked,  but I left the Island in style.

On the People of Honduras

Most of the people I’ve met on this trip have been friendly. I would readily describe most of the countries in Latin America that way. But, because Hondurans were just a little bit nicer, and the tourist industry a lot less developed, the people of Honduras are what motivated me to stay, and they’re what I’ll remember. A few of them stand out.

There was America, the cosmopolitain girl from Tegus, who’d lost her job, her husband, her father, and her house all in the same year, but was excited to have a fresh start on life. She offered to drive me to some of her favorite places outside the city for lunch, before delivering me to the bus station in the afternoon.

Next was the stranger who warned me not to get in stranger’s cars, after he picked me up.

Then there was the wonderful woman whose closet-sized restaurant we frequented in Lago Yojoa. The softness of her demeanor was disarming, her smile warm, and there was a quiver in her voice that hinted at a past we later learned more about - her husband had been mugged and murdered eight years before, leaving her alone with four young girls and no income.

Lastly, there was Duni, the round, middle-aged, mestizo woman I met on the bus out of Yojoa. We talked about many things, and eventually she told me her husband was living and working in the US illegally. She told me about the lack of opportunity in Honduras, and the pull of America. She looked out the window and pointed at a house that was less ramshackle than the others. She said in Spanish, “that house was built with American money.” Then she added, “all the nice houses are.” I could hardly believe that the peanuts illegal immigrants earn in the US can afford them so much at home. At the end of our conversation she asked me if I had many friends, noting that she didn’t. She then wrote her name and phone number down on a piece of paper and handed it to me. “Now we are friends,” she said. 

After that rocky start in San Lorenzo, Honduras turned out to be another highlight. In my experience, the longer a place has been a “destination,” the less it’s citizens care about visitors. There are exceptions, but it’s not coincidence that I’ve received the warmest welcomes in Vietnam, Colombia, Cuba, and now Honduras - all places that, due to war, embargo, and/or violence have been off-limits to tourists until recently. What the road less travelled lacks in zip lines and resorts, it often makes up for in friendlier people and more authentic experiences.

Tegus, Yojoa, and the Way Home

Tegucigalpa is the sprawling capital of Honduras and the sixth most murderous city in the world. Knowing that and little else, I arrived anxiously. But none of the locals I met saw any reason I shouldn’t wander the city freely, and apart from tighter security while boarding busses, and men with shotguns standing guard at many ordinary stores and restaurants, I saw little sign of violence when I did. The fighting is mostly gang related, and shouldn’t affect a sensible backpacker. Indeed, I never felt threatened, and I enjoyed two days there enough to erase the bitter taste of San Lorenzo, and dive deeper into Honduras. At the hostel owner’s recommendation, I headed towards Lago Yojoa and a brewery-hostel that sounded like just my cup of beer.

After a five hour ride, the bus dropped me off at a crossroads. No one had mentioned I’d be unable to find another bus or taxi after 7pm, so I had to take the risk of hitchhiking the last 20 kilometers to my hostel. Luckily, a friendly hardware store owner with a voice for radio stopped before I’d even decided to raise my thumb. He seemed as eager to get me off the dark highway shoulder as I was to leave it. He quickly (and ironically) reminded me that hitchhiking is dangerous in Honduras, but he delivered me to the doorstep of D&D hostel with a smile and a firm handshake.

After checking in, I settled into a home-brewed coffee porter and began chatting with Jean, a 25 year-old from France. We traded jabs about our respective nationalities, he called me old, I patted him on the head condescendingly, and were fast friends. We spent the next few days hiking around the surrounding forests, waterfalls, and lakes, eating Baleadas and Pupusas, and drinking craft beer. It was a short stay, but it forced my hand; it was time rethink my long term plan.

I had always assumed I would fly home from Mexico City. The questions had been how and when I’d get there. I have the energy and freelance income to keep traveling - but the idea of missing another summer in the US was stressing me out. Likewise, I didn’t want to rush whatever was in front of me. So I decided to save most of Mexico for later and fly home from Cancun on July 1st. That allowed me to travel slower, spend more time in Honduras, and had the added benefit of aligning my schedule with Jean’s. We’d travel to Utila together, find our way to Guatemala a few days later, and I’d sneak into Cancun at the last minute.

It was a good plan. But it took me a moment to hit “confirm” on my flight. It was hard to believe that this whole adventure had an official expiration date.