Worth The Risk

I was prepared for cholera, dengue fever, malaria, typhoid fever, and traveler’s diarrhea. I had packed a first-aid kit with children’s Tylenol and Benadryl.. Despite having travelled extensively in India, Nepal, Morocco, and Turkey when I was young and single, this was my first trip to a third-world country with my child and I wanted to be ready for anything. But I have to say that the earthquake threw me.

I was already second-guessing myself. Why, again, was I taking my seven-year-old to one of the poorest countries in the Western Hemisphere, where disease and poverty were endemic? It didn’t help that almost everyone to whom I told our vacation plans asked first, “Why?” and then “You aren’t taking your child, are you?” So when a friend called two weeks before we were to leave and asked if I had heard about the massive 7.1 earthquake in Honduras, I was so tempted to cancel our trip altogether. The ultimate parental fear—that I would make a mistake, an error in judgment, that caused harm or even death to my child—gripped my heart in panicky spasms. Was it worth the risk?

I didn’t know. But I didn’t want to let fear rule me (and ruin my vacation). So, after I had been assured via emails with people in Honduras that the earthquake had caused little damage, my small family and I boarded a plane for San Pedro Sula, Honduras.

After a three-hour plane ride and a three-hour van ride, which included a bird’s eye view of the major bridge that had been destroyed by the earthquake two weeks before, we arrived at a lodge tucked into the mountains above La Ceiba.
Set on a lush hillside overlooking the spectacular Rio Cangrejal, the Jungle Lodge turned out to be everything I had hoped for. Our cabin was basic, with rustic wood and screen walls, three single beds, and a deck with a hammock. No A/C, no TV, no private bathroom. But with the noises of the creek below and the jungle all around, spectacular orange and red ginger flowers and their attendant hummingbirds, and an emerald green tree snake that entranced us as it slowly wound its way through the jungle outside our cabin door, it was its own kind of unplugged paradise.

The next day, while my husband enjoyed the hammock, my son and I had our first Honduran adventure. Led by 68-year-old Alejandro, and accompanied by a young English couple, we set out to hike to El Bejuco, a waterfall set high above the river valley in Pico Bonito National Park. After wading across the river into the national park, we commenced to climb straight up a steep rocky path, pausing while Alejandro taught us about scores of fascinating trees and plants, enthralling my son with ferns whose powdery leaves created feathery tattoos on the skin and tambor trees that boomed like drums when struck with a rock. During this amazing hike to one of the most spectacular waterfalls I have ever seen, we paused to swim in a clear, waterfall-fed pool and clambered up steep rocks, at one point even using a rope to ascend. It was one of the most difficult hikes I have ever attempted, my legs actually quivering by the end, but the almost 70-year-old Alejandro in his wellington boots didn’t even break a sweat. And my seven-year-old son, who complains about taking the dog for a walk around the block at home, kept up with him every step of the way, walking almost worshipfully behind the leathery old Honduran man and hanging on every (Spanish) word he said. Afterward, I marveled at the fact that in the United States, no tour company would have taken a young child on a hike like that, thinking it too strenuous and too dangerous. Yet it had swelled my son with pride when he finally scrambled to the top and stood beneath the fine mist of the waterfall. I thought how his eyes had shone when Alejandro had congratulated him, calling him an hombre fuerte, and I reflected that maybe we were right to risk taking our child into the jungles of Honduras.

Like that first hike, the rest of our travels in Honduras were both challenging and wonderful, exhausting and refreshing. One day we traveled for seven hours, by foot, ferry, taxi, bus, and tuk tuk (a kind of motorbike taxi) to get from the coast to the mountains near the Guatemalan border. Not an easy day for anyone. My son learned what it was like to have a boy his own age beg him for money and also what skilled soccer players barefoot Honduran boys can be. We all learned what it was like to be together constantly and without the usual distractions.

In the days before the we left Honduras, thousands took to the streets in San Pedro Sula and Tegucigalpa to protest President Zelaya’s attempts to rewrite the constitution. With a showdown approaching as Zelaya tried to force his way into a second term, we reckoned it was a good time to be leaving Honduras. Two days later, the army surrounded the presidential palace, ousted president Zelaya, and took control of the country. Once again, I felt shaken by events in Honduras. But this time, I didn’t question our decision to travel to that country.

By choosing to travel off the beaten track with my family, I teach my child that the world is a big, wild, beautiful, occasionally dangerous place. I teach him, through experience, that democracy is fragile and not to be taken for granted. I teach him that most people in every country are basically good, friendly, and helpful. I teach him, through experience, that he need not fear people and places that are different.

I think it is worth the risk.