This is not a story of fiction, but an experience of survival. A group of people caught in a real life
nightmare, a near catastrophe, or fatal statistic, a drama that comes too close for comfort, with the drowning of a heart,
and the rising of a tortured spirit. We set our tracks back to the realities of the third world on Monday,
February 09, 2004 from the scuba haven of Utila, Honduras to our transit stop in the challenging, over populated and tough
city of San Pedro Sula, Honduras. We arrive at the Tica bus station at approximately 6 pm, whereupon purchasing a ticket to
head to Managua, Nicaragua the following day at 5 am. After considering the costs of overnight hotels in this rich part of town we decide to
escape the luxury of privacy and comfort to stay up all night in the confines of the Texaco gas station, which is
open 24 hours per day. As an alternative source of relaxation we consider the grass lawn outside the Tica bus station.
After eating, laundry, and the cinnamon rolls at the mall we wonder off to the Texaco gas station at
8 pm, drinking water, eating popcorn, and playing cards until midnight.
Our bodies start to feel the effects of exhaustion as we have sit at one table for over 4 hours. Kids outside
stand with no shoes begging for money through the windows, and locals drinking Coronas party in the parking lot.
Vehicles pull up for fuel, blasting Reggaeton, a Caribbean style of hip-hop, with an offbeat, thick bass, and amazing
Spanish freestyle rap lyrics. From midnight until 3am we sit motionless trying not to close our eyes. From 3 am until 5 am
Mitch and I head outside to the back alley singing songs like 'On the Road Again' by Willie Nelson, and random tunes
by Jack Johnson, attempting to keep awake and motivated. We watch out for stragglers while our minds bend from
exhaustion and sleep deprivation, thought process slow and irritated to the most miniscule annoyance.
The bus arrives, and we hop onto it leaving the bus station at 5:10 am towards Managua, Nicaragua with future plans of surfing
paradise near San Juan del Sur. As soon as we board the bus, the force of our exhaustion blasts our heads back into deep sleep. The next 30 minutes are
spent between the dream world and occasional awakening, caught in the
dreary state of sleep deprivation. I remember the bus coming to a stop, feeling a presence come on board the bus and then blackness....
I awake to a halted bus. It feels 20 degrees over to its right side. I ask Mitch who just came out of his
sleep "Where we are?" He says we are in the jungle. We open the curtain to reveal tall grass, or a type of palm
touching and rising high above the bus windows. What the fuck is going on here I think to
myself. Our minds do not register what is happening. We are confused. Jungle? I try to mentally map our destination in
Honduras, but nothing makes sense.
It is now 5:45 am, 30 minutes after leaving the bus station in San Pedro Sula. Darkness and eerie silence have engulfed the
bus. I walk to the front of the bus to find a woman and her two daughters
crying, speaking rapidly in Spanish to the bus driver, in a pleading, begging, fearful manner. My heartbeat rises.
My first thoughts are that the bus driver and his local crew are now robbing us. I ask one of the girls who happens
to speak broken English, what is happening. "We are robbed," she says, "Men with masks, guns came
and robbed bus driver, took all money from Tica, ran to fields. Hold gun to driver's head." My blood pressure rises; Are they
still here? Where did they run? Where are we again? Are they coming back? Anyone hurt? Backpacks still here?
I assess the events, trying to construct some kind of a story line. The atmosphere hangs heavy with fear and confusion.
The drowning fiery effects of lack of sleep prove to create a dreadfully uncomfortable blend
of emotions. Mitch comes to the front, "We have been robbed," I say. I make my way passed the girls; a
haunting feeling thick with darkness and the cries of women drapes onto us like visions of a deep hell far below any trace of
light with hollow shadows touching your skin and prying at your neck. I step outside to find a
hard muddy terrain, with tall green palm-type grass. The bus is in fact turned over about 20 degrees on its side.
Where the hell are we? I walk around the other side of the bus to find us hidden among the farm fields of
countryside. Obviously we have taken a detour off the highway onto a deserted gravel road. An early morning mist hangs over
the brown fields accompanied with more deafening silence. Dead silence.
People start to show up, local farmers pass by on bikes, and yellow "chicken" buses drive passed without stopping.
Mitch peaks through the curtains of the bus. Everyone speaks Spanish and I cannot understand.
I look under the bus and it seems to have been stuck in a small ditch. I look closer to find the back right
tire stuck in a large, completely random hole.
Supposedly, men dressed in army camouflage and black ski masks with assault rifles and automatic weapons, hijacked
the bus. They instructed the bus driver to turn down this gravel road just outside of San Pedro Sula, then, to turn
abruptly right into a path heading deep into the hidden fields of tall grass where our fate was to be decided by
forces unknown. By miracle, the bus jammed inside the hole while making a sharp turn into the field, halting the momentum of
the turn.
All of a sudden, 7 policemen arrive in the back of a truck, dressed in army camouflage of green and black print uniforms
carrying assault rifles,
machine guns, and pistols. In the distance another truck heads our way with 8 more policemen. At this point everyone
from our bus stands outside talking amongst one another. Mitch
paces with nervousness, wanting to take the next flight home, but I assure him that things will be okay, and
there is surf awaiting us in San Juan del Sur! I attempt to control my fear, standing calm as a Hindu
cow, yet suffering from sleep deprivation intensifies my overall emotions. My fear is of bandits coming back. We have survived, but what about the repercussions of
retaliation. What if the bandits come back to reclaim their prize!
close to san pedro sula, honduras
A third truck of police storms down the gravel road. There are 3 men in the back of the truck, wearing
light blue and dark blue army camouflage, with black ski masks! You can feel the surge of fear rip through the crowd
like the presence of the devil swarming in with killer bees. They
jump out of the back of the truck to meet with the other police. Everyone looks suspicious. The eyes of the local
police as most other people in Central America are large, black pupil, and glossy with a strikingly
sketchy glare. Who can we trust at this point?
Mitch and I are the only white people among the crowd of 10 civilians and 20 odd police. I can feel their eyes pierce through
me with curiosity. We stand out like exotic fruit. My general thoughts are these are not police but rather guerillas
picking out whom to kidnap.
Two tractors drive up slowly through the fields while police talk to the crowd. A large
tractor hitches a wire to the bus and manages to free it. Everyone is searched. Backpacks are torn apart, but
mine is missed. Huh? What a system.
The bus was suppose to be taken down this secondary stage of the hijacking. Hidden among the palm fields, the
bandits could of easily robbed the entire bus, or kidnapped us at gunpoint. Or worst, murder. Mitch knew a friend who was
taken away into the jungle, and held at ransom for 3 months until contact and money arrived.
We stand in the field, wanting to be elsewhere. I say I want to be on a beach, and that is as far as any
conversation goes. One guy, who seems to have been awake through the whole experience, provides a detailed
description of the events to the police. When searched his baggage reveals a suitcase full of empty pop cans, as he
claims to be heading down to Costa Rica. Sound fishy? I'd say, but the police do nothing.
With 3 armed policemen in the Tica bus, we are driven to the police station back in San Pedro Sula.
We are taken to an interrogation room and our passports seized for photocopying. Since the guerillas were dressed in similar
uniform We are asked to look at a huge poster board with 200 small photos of the police force. Mitch and I slept
through the initial ordeal and cannot identify anyone. In the interrogation room, the crowd is tense, and the only
thing I can think of to say is "I want some ice cream."
This was a scene from "Proof of Life," with Russell Crowe and Meg Ryan. A movie depicting terrorist guerrillas from
South America who take an American engineer hostage deep into the jungle and hold him for ransom. This is Rambo, 007, a
Vietnam documentary, a real life story of coming close to being kidnapped by guerrilla soldiers in the
countryside where no one can see it, hear it, or even do anything about it.
This is the juice of life. A close encounter with the human force of greed and violence, and an example of the
ruthless power it holds on a person's security. This is a Robert Young Pelton exclusive, of his up close and personal
journey to seek the truth in the front lines of the Taliban in Afghanistan.
This was not living on the edge at all. This was going over
it, and heading straight down into molten lava where your heart sizzles black and is returned in expectation
of continuing to beat! Two weeks earlier in Guatemala we heard about a bus of Mormons on a humanitarian project
that was hijacked by bandits and left with two shot casualties. But these things happen, its part of the
cycle of life, an adventure, and a good story to share with your friends and the only reason why it seems amusing now
is that nobody was hurt.
At 9 am, four hours after the initial attack on the bus, and only three hours after the hijacking, police seem to follow a
simple procedure: return the passports, shanke hands, and wish you better luck in the future. We get back on the same bus
with the same bus driver and restart our journey to Managua, Nicaragua. No break, and no consolation. This is Central America,
where the adventure is raw and in your face.
Back on the bus at 9:30 am and heading to Managua, we become weak, tilting our heads back to Jack
Johnson as our only other friend while the comfort of warm sun pours in through the tinted windows to
soothe our shock.
One could not ask for a more surreal experience than this. This is third world style at its best. And its worst.
That day, while standing alone in those fields, I truly was shaken, with hope hanging on by thin strings. If it wasn't for
Mitch, I probably would have lost my mental composure and trembled like a little calf on a conveyor belt heading for the
slaughter house. It was the strength of our friendship in our most weakest moment that held us together.
