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Frankie Hink’s Salida (Exit) Loca
My dear dad, Frankie Hink, returned home to Montana a couple of weeks ago after an amazing, adventurous and hilarious 20 days in Salvador and Honduras. Our trip went extremely smoothly, save for a few bumps in the road (a flat tire, the attack of the black blood sucking flies in Prudi’s coffee fields, a decapitated chicken shooting blood in his face, etc.) and my dad got to experience almost every aspect of my campo Peace Corps vida (life). Because of our rented car, our mostly tranquilo (relaxed) schedule, and 8-9 pm campo bedtimes, we were able to avoid some of the more chaotic, mindboggling and frustrating aspects of living in a developing country in Latin American (i.e. ridiculous public transportation, the great change crisis, aggressive campo fauna (save for the black flies), etc.). These aspects, while often very irritating, have also provided some of the most hilarious, adventurous and unforgettable memories I have been so lucky to experience as a PCV. Though I was sending my dad home with plenty of amazing campo memories and wonderful isla (island) tales, I was a little disappointed that Frank didn’t have a complete “disaster of a day” experience to take back to the Big Sky with him. I shouldn’t have worried. Central America didn’t disappoint and what follows is a complete recap of Frank Hinkle’s Shit Show Salida (exit) from beautiful and crazy Central America. I feel like many of our other adventures and tales can best be shared via photos, captions and short descriptions (which I will continue to post in the coming days). My dad requested that I give his final day in CA the full blog write up that is so genuinely deserves.
We started the morning at 6:00 AM waiting for Captain Vern and his catamaran at the end our hotel’s dock. There was a light drizzle, the skies were an ominous and glowing gray, but the sea looked mostly calm. This morning catamaran trip to Roatan was our last chance to make an 11:30 AM flight and had been decided upon after much debate, consultation with locals, weather watching and assurances from Captain Vern. The previous few days on Utila had been somewhat stormy and the bay and public ferry had even been completely shut down at points. Locals had been telling us that we would most likely have to charter an expensive private plane to make it back to Roatan in time to make our flight. As luck would have it, however, the skies cleared up somewhat and Captain Vern called and said we were good to go for that morning. The catamaran ride was scheduled to take about four hours, getting us into the West End of Roatan about 10 AM, where we would then have a 20 minute taxi ride to the airport, giving us just over an hour to check in and board the plane. No problem and easy beeeesy!, everyone on the island assured us.
We passed on our luggage, tossed on our shoes and boarded the beautiful Nina Elisabeth II and set off for Roatan. We had about 7 fellow travelers accompanying us that morning all bright eyed and ready to head to sea. Papa Hinks and I made our way indoors, to avoid the drizzle, and took a seat at the big table where Captain Vern had set up his navigation helm and entertainment studios. Sounds of the 60s and 70s started to blast from the catamaran’s speakers, and the voices of Elton, the Allman Brothers and CCR all played from Vern’s famous playlists. Things started out pretty easy going, just as promised, and then about 20 minutes in… we started hitting some rough water. While I fully admit and acknowledge that I have inherited the John Livingston/Mary Hinkle exaggeration gene, I think that Frank Hinkle will confirm that the normally steadfast Nina Elisabeth II, suddenly found herself engulfed in sea swells approaching 10 ft. I suddenly began to feel like a bolo (drunk) on a roller coaster and instinctively curled into the fetal position on the padded bench below the captain’s table, closed my eyes and prayed that Elton’s Tiny Dancer would hold me even closer. Frankie Hink was a bit braver, and wondered the deck of the catamaran sin miedo (without fear), even offering aid to a number of fellow passengers who were projectile vomiting (think Linda Blair in the Exorcist) from sides of our ship. Frank also witnessed a large metal ladder, used for maintenance and repair when the catamaran was docked in Utila, shoot off the roof of the Queen Elizabeth II, knock off an antenna or two and sink slowly into one of the foam sea swells surrounding the boat. The barrage of sailor/pirate-esque expletives that then flew from the lips of Captain Vern let us know that he or his first mate had forgotten to tie down the ladder before setting sail. At this point, Captain Vern’s demeanor became a little sullen, he turned on some Pink Floyd, and said, “Well, Dan and Frank, I’m just not sure we’ll make it to the West End in time…” Frank Hink shrugged and gave me the “It’s not going to be much of Christmas,” look only his eyes are capable of making. Perhaps only the Hinkle clan will understand this one, hahahaha. I groaned, rolled my eyes and was lulled back into a nausea filled Stair Way to Heaven stupor, hoping to high heaven that I wouldn’t be joining the Linda Blair fan club outside on deck.
What seemed like only minutes later, I was shaken awake by Papa Hinks, who happily announced that we’d made it to the dock in the West End and that we better get a move on and jump in a taxi if we had any hope to make it to the airport in time. I looked outside and saw blue skies and rays of light shining down upon us. Things were looking up! We handed Captain Vern a wad of the carefully divided Lempiras (Honduran currency) we had divided for each remaining leg of our trip the night before (the catamaran, the taxi, last minute souvenirs, snacks at the airport, etc.).
We jumped into a taxi and headed out for the airport with some Caribbean Christmas tunes playing on the stereo. We both let out huge sighs of relief. We made it to the airport with about 45 minutes to spare, which made us a little nervous, even thought the airport is about a quarter of the size of good old FCA. We entered the airport and quickly made our way to the Taca Airlines desk only to find a large line of frustrated travelers leaning on their luggage and bored looking Taca staff staring blankly at their computer screens. The Taca computer system had completely crashed and all travelers were being told to standby for further instruction. We soon learned from other travelers that these computer crashes were rather common and that no flights had left the island for the last several days due to poor weather conditions. We looked at each other and nodded happily… it could have been much worse. The Taca gente (people) finally decided to manually check in each passenger and each piece of luggage, which equaled mountains of paperwork, copying of documents and dusty looking luggage tags cerca 1950. While waiting in line during this tedious process, Frank Hinkle looked up at the departure/message board reading the important messages about prohibited carry-on items, new airline regulations, etc. He nudged me and said he thought he just read that each person leaving the country on via air, had to pay a $35 tax before being allowed to board their flight. I gave Frank Hinkle the infamous Mary Hinkle eye roll/you have no idea what you are talking about sigh and continued to focus on the slowly moving and monotonous line ahead. Shortly thereafter a nearby fellow traveler mentioned something similar and my eyes shot towards the message board. Frankie Hink was dead on. I had assumed we’d be paying a 3-5 dollar exit fee, as Mary Hinkle and I had done when we exited Honduras via micro-bus during our journey to Copan last March. This extra $70 dollars had, needless to say, not been calculated into the very precise budget we had created the night before. I clenched my teeth apologetically at Frank Hink, grabbed his wallet, told him to stay put and ran for the bank window where the tax was to be levied.
At the bank window, I was confronted by two smug looking banking gals who looked extremely unimpressed with sense of urgency and panic evident in my eye. I inquired about the tax, they nodded, and I asked if they accepted credit or debit cards, to which they rolled their eyes and chuckled. I asked where the nearest ATMs were and they pointed to the other end of the airport and told me good luck as those ATMs hardly ever worked or had enough cash. I ran to the machines and tried about five different cards, Papa Hinks and my own, to no avail. I began to panic. A hungry heard of taxi drivers approached and said my only hope was to take a ten minute taxi ride into Roatan and try to find a functioning ATM there. I informed my dad and headed off with the first taxi I could find, not even knowing if I had enough Lempira to cover the ride into town.
We arrived in town and the cabby pointed me in the direction of the two banks in town. I ran to the first and, no joke, found a hand written note on a torn piece of notebook paper that said, “NO SIRVE” (out of order/broken more or less). I ran to the next bank and found a long line and a sign that said its ATM only accepted VISA… I looked down at a pile of MasterCards in my hands and felt like weeping. I start thinking about what I had on me… my I-pod, my cell phone, my shoes… perhaps I could sell these items to somebody or find a pawn shop. A bank guard must have seen the desperation in my eyes and pointed me towards a fancy looking liquor/cigar shop across the way saying I could find a cajero en dentro (an ATM inside). I raced over and found a dinky ATM, the kind you find in dive bars, in the corner of the shop. I signed myself, clenched my teeth and swiped the card… SUCCESS! The ATM spit out $100 in Lempira (enough for the taxis, tax and some snacks) and I ran out the store saying thank you to anyone who would listen.
I ran to where the taxi driver had dropped me off and found the taxi, but no driver. I looked around frantically for a few minutes and was about to hail another cab, even though I had yet to pay him, when I saw the man wander out of a little store with a beer in hand. VENGA! (Come on!) I screamed and he moderately increased his stride. I arrived back at the airport ran into the terminal and found Frank Hinkle still at the desk filling out the ancient luggage tags. Ughhhhhhhhh! We boarded the plane, exhaled deeply and gave thanks we were finally Salvador bound. The day from hell was over… or was it?
We arrived in San Salvador, had another brief ATM scare, as Frank needed to pay another $10 entrance fee… Would we ever learn? We got through customs rapidly and headed for the baggage claim to wait for our luggage. And we waited and waited and waited. Somehow, during a direct flight from Roatan to San Salvador, Taca had managed to lose both my father and I’s checked bags and now couldn’t even tell us where the bags might be, and it appeared as though there had been a problem with the computers in Roatan? REALLY?!? Dios Guarde (God save us). I held back from screaming and tried to explain that my father was leaving for the U.S. the next day and that his checked baggage has some pretty important items therein (his special shoes, some of his medication, all of his warm clothing, and all of the souvenirs he had bought during our journey to the Islas Bahia (Bay Islands)). The Taca agent informed me that it would be extremely unlikely to locate the baggage before Frank’s flight left the next day, gave us some money for a taxi, a little voucher for the pain and sent us on our way. My dad was confused and wanted to put up a little bigger fight, but I assured him his Spanglish would get us nowhere. We left the office, heads hanging low, arrived at ADUANA (Customs) pressed the button and thankfully got the green light for the dinky backpacks we were carrying on our backs.
Gracias a Dios (Thank God) we arrived at Jeni Rae’s oasis in San Salvador just 40 short minutes later where we were greeted with a delicious serving of homemade turkey enchiladas and margaritas. We washed the few beach clothes that Frankie Hink had had on his person and in his carryon and prepped the baggage he had left behind at Jeni Rae’s for his early AM flight. Early the next morning I sent my pops off for a very frio Norte (cold North), in shorts, a long sleeve cotton dress shirt, and some Keen sandals with wool socks. His checked baggage contained little more than machetes, coffee and booze. Well done, don’t you say? Frank’s trip home was made much more comfortable as the wonderful Jeni Rae regalaed (gave/gifted) him a President’s Lounge pass for his five hour layover in Denver. Frank enjoyed his time in Denver eating cheese and snacks, drinking beer, watching the news, chatting with fellow travelers, all while sitting in comfy furniture with his feet up. Thanks JR! He was then greeted in chilly Kalispell by my dear mother with a parka jacket and snow boots. Quite the end to his journey.
My journey with Taca continued for several more days and two more trips to the airport to sort our luggage situation. I came to find out that our luggage had never actually left Roatan, most likely due to the illegible and antique baggage tags. I was finally able to claim our bags and had to separate some of our mixed items (we had packed some items together, as family members tend to do on family vacations) which confused the Taca folks to high hell. I was then interrogated on just exactly where I was trying to send this unmanned luggage, why I had removed items from it and where in the hell was Kalispell, Montana. Finally, Taca was able to talk Continental into sending the bag to Kalispell as a courtesy. Relief! I stepped out of the office and went to leave the airport with my luggage in hand and my father’s luggage headed for the Continental desk. I pressed the ADUANA (Customs) button and RED!!!! Thirty minutes of explanations of why I only had one of our checked bags on my person and I was set free.
Frank Hinkle received his bag about 7 days later after substantial stateside stress and frustration all blown northward from some good old fashioned Central American confusion. Haha. The End.
Al final (after everything being said), I am grateful to both Taca and Continental for finally remedying the situation and offering exceptional service, save for the airport from hell on Roatan.
Hope you enjoyed the recap of your last day in CA, dad!
I’ll be working to post more photos and write more entries in the days and weeks ahead as I also begin to deal with the stress and realization that my time in beautiful Salvador is coming quickly to an end.
Love and miss you like crazy.
Daniel John
