Lost in a Third World

San Pedro Sula had a deceivingly comfortable breeze upon my arrival. Known as the murder capital of the world, San Pedro Sula looked more like an abandoned tropical paradise than a hub for drug trafficking. Yet twenty minutes into the city revealed skyscraper garbage piles and amputated dogs. My taxi driver drove by an abandoned toddler on the road wearing a diaper and dragging a broken lawn mower by a piece of twine wrapped around his waist.
4 hours earlier, tears filled my eyes as reality struck. I was about to arrive in this third world country alone.
“Excuse me miss? Are you okay?” When I looked up, I found a handsome man sitting in the first class seat next to me. His skin was dark and he had a well-manicured, shaved head. Dressed in a casual black suit, he could not have been more than 40.
“Oh, yes. I’m just nervous. This trip was unexpected.” The corners of his mouth tightened.
“How is it that you find yourself going to San Pedro Sula? It’s…” he lowered his voice, “...quite dangerous.”
Perhaps it was his charisma or maybe I was too exhausted to have any doubt. Still, I could not help but trust this strange man. I explained to him that after a semester in Sweden, I was meeting my family for Christmas. I explained how I ended up stranded in New York, with no luggage, no money, and no phone. He, in turn, discussed his itinerary in Honduras, though he spoke little detail of his new business venture that brought him there. After 3 hours of friendly conversation, he slowly pulled a white envelope out of his pocket. He sifted through hundreds of green bills and handed me two of them along with his business card.
“You cannot be in this country without any money,” he winked as we descended.
With the help of my benefactor and the exchange rate, I had been granted a brief sensation of wealth. 3,750 shiny, purple and green lempiras laid in my hand and I hailed the closest taxi waiting outside.
“Necesito un hotel,” I stuttered.
The driver pulled up to what appeared to be a large penitentiary tucked away in a local barrio. Its barrier consisted of cement walls 20 feet high lined with barbed wire. 2 armed guards with machine guns waited outside of the entrance and spoke few words to my driver. As we slowly drove into my new sanctuary known as Villa Nuria, I kept assuring myself that it would only be 24 hours until I saw my family. When I noticed the men with the machetes at the rear gate, I started to wonder if leaving the airport had been a mistake.