My Name is Pablo

by Derek Barthel (United States of America)

A leap into the unknown Honduras

Recently dumped and desperate to feel again, I asked Armen if he wanted to go to the jungle. I was always drawn to it, having grown up glued to the now-dead-and-buried Discovery Channel’s quality nature programming. Jungle episodes were the best. The weirdness always called to me from behind the static. How hard is it to visit? Everyone I knew would say “impossible”, because their version of the jungle is one where you’re eaten alive, whether by insect or cannibal… Too dangerous. Not realistic. Is it even real? Who knows! I didn’t care. Neither did Armen, luckily. So we went. Neither knew what we were doing. So we bought the cheapest tickets. Honduras. There’s jungle there. Google says so. And who can believe it, but there’s a microbrewery in the jungle there! Beer. Jungle. It’s fate. How can it not be? We land in Honduras. This is a few months later. We both had jobs we were abandoning (just for a week) to accomplish this goal. We step off the plane and are met with the obvious-to-come-in-retrospect-but-surprising-at-the-time burst of humidity and sunlight that comes with these things. Upon stepping outside, we realized... We forgot to research what to do next. (We were new at this, remember.) We knew that this microbrewery was in the jungle, and that this jungle took three hours to get to via bus. But neither of us thought to research which bus, or from where the bus departs, or how to get to the place from where the bus departs. Nothing. I can’t speak for Armen, but I was under the impression the bus was meant to materialize out of that thick, humid air, right there in front of us. It didn’t. It was still in the ether. After an anguishing 20 minutes of “Donde esta el bus”-ing everyone in sight, a man pipes up: “Are you going to the microbrewery?” What relief! English! “My name is Pablo.” Pablo! Hello! Como esta! Please, help us. We are foreigners, mere visitors in your land. Take pity upon us and give your knowledge as to donde esta el bus! Wait though. San Pedro Sula is “the murder capital of the world”, the internet said. I didn’t research where the bus was, but I did learn we should get out of SPS as soon as possible and get to that jungle (and beer). I look over at the teenager in military fatigues holding an assault rifle, looking bored. “Es ok?” I whisper, pointing at Pablo, while Pablo motions for us to accompany him to his car. The soldier shrugs indifferently. Ok. What choice do we have? We follow Pablo. I’m sweating. Not because of the heat, but because I have the intense feeling we’re being fooled. Pablo’s name isn’t Pablo. Maybe it’s Tony. Tony is a kidnapper planning to sell us back to our parents. I don’t know. Armen seems fine. This bothers me. How can you be so calm, Armen? At a time like this! Pablo knew about the microbrewery. Was that part of Tony’s plan? He preys on microbrewery-goers. I’ll never realize my lifelong dream of seeing the jungle and thus making my ex-girlfriend jealous! “I’ll drive you to the bus station. It’s about 30 minutes.” Nice try Tony comes out instead as “Thanks, that’s very nice of you!” and we got in his Ford Escort. Sixty minutes later and we’re still in traffic and I’m dying. I’m so nervous I can barely breathe. Tunnel vision sets in. How could I be so stupid? A stranger in a weird land, one so dangerous, how dumb can I be to get in a car with this guy... He has all the power. He’ll turn around and knife me and Armen both and we’ll deserve it. There’s no bus station. This is a twisted corner of the world where “the bus” is a metaphor for holding up today’s newspaper so we can get our picture taken and the President can be briefed about us on a Wednesday morning. How dumb. I’m so dumb. “We’re here!” I open the door and step out. “Thanks, Pablo! Want any gas money?” “No thanks! Welcome to Honduras!” Pablo was a nice man.