A Month Burning Alive in the Americas’ Gateway Part Three: A Taste of Tegus

Ready for Post-Election Content? Me Neither; Let's Bathe in Travel Instead

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Urban Tegucigalpa in All It's Rustic Glory

Given that The H, as it is nicknamed, was the poorest country per capita, I started the most nervous here. The old school checkpoint didn't help. The town north of the Nica/Hondu border was essentially vacant, and I quickly attracted the attention of locals who were particularly eager for me to take their (seemingly non-existent) bus. This enthusiasm shifted when they learned I wasn’t British or South African, as they’d assumed (thanks?), but American. They instead directed me to a private van, which, like all buses in the region, idled until it was filled with its passengers. It took some time, and without any air conditioning, but I made it.

My first city was characteristically similar to the one I’d left Nicaragua: One of the largest in a smaller country, meaning a small town. Choluteca, despite its charming name, had recently been hit by seasonal storms, leaving the power out, including at my hotel. Yet my assumptions of the developing world were swiftly challenged by the kindness of the people and the swift return of electricity—a turnaround quick for even some local suburbs in the States.

As Honduras was the first poor country I’d visited without a strong-armed state, the income divides among its population was more palpable. Modern shopping malls sat on the city’s edges, geographically close by but, developmentally, worlds away from nearby slums. I dined at a pizza place with prices comparable to mid-range American spots, and similar markers of affluence were all around. This was also one of the first places where I noticed the sizable presence of the Latter-Day Saints in Central America—both via fellow Americans as well as Latin Mormons themselves. True to form, they were friendly and a reliable source of information whenever I needed it.

We Love a Good Staircase Shot

The journey to Tegucigalpa took significantly longer than expected, but the approach through hills and mountains was breathtaking. Tegus, as I have learned to refer it as, was a sprawling, poor city whose layered, urban decay left me mesmerized. The city’s overpopulation was apparent in the state of its infrastructure, its density, and traffic that could rival the 405. The U.S. dollar stretched far here, and despite some doubts about my hostel’s advertised amenities, there was ample warm water, a fitting feature considering it was located in a wealthier area. Despite US embassy warnings about nighttime movement, I noticed affluent neighborhood security was virtually guaranteed day and night; I soon relaxed my own rule of not going out alone. Yet I do admit I found myself retreating slightly from local spaces, gravitating more toward corporatized and commodified areas—after all, I’m not the best at picking up on subtle safety cues.

Yet, amid Tegucigalpa’s charm, I also saw brutal inequality—later seconded only by Guatemala. The wealthy drove alongside impoverished neighbors, not separated by suburban sprawl but by a form of passive, painful subservience. That is not to say the city was always safe for locals; a connection I made there reported a recent history of ATM withdrawals at gunpoint for the affluent. But apparently this was on decline. The heavily armed guards posted in upscale areas further reinforced this sense of separation; the message was unmistakably clear: certain spaces were not meant to be shared.

The Haves and Have-Nots: We Love a Juxtaposition

Tegus itself boasts several scenic parks and views alongside its (surprise) poor sister city, Comayagüela. True to regional inequality, Comayagüela was only a creek away but felt like a world apart: Its downtown was a sprawling market with none of the semi-touristic polish of Tegucigalpa in its. Its separate jurisdiction and lower status starkly underscored the country’s extreme inequality. This is not to say that Tegus' historic downtown wasn't rundown, but the city overall boasted newer lush neighborhoods that could not be found in its eastern neighbor.

Shopping Tourism in Tegus? Girl, Same

Tegucigalpa’s tourist appeal was minimal; its main tourist strip was shabby, lined with discount stores that awakened the bargain-hunter in me. Alas, the cleanliness and general state of the area, especially post-rain, left much to be desired. Despite the grit, I found its duality intriguing. National museums were either run-down, closed, or undergoing painfully slow renovations. Meanwhile, the playgrounds for the rich were expansive—several prominent malls dotted the skyline, one even beside the city’s tiny airport. Some government bureaucrats walked through the trodden historical downtown, but never for too long...

I was somewhat shocked—though not surprised—by what seemed like attempts to “Bukele-fy” the country. President Xiomara Castro was strengthening her image through a new PR campaign plastering her face all over refurbished government spaces. I wonder how effective this will be, especially as some posters plastered around the city curiously accused her government of biological genocide. At the same time, my time in the country nearly coincided with the announcement of a new prison meant to double the country's jail capacity. Furthermore, more than one long bus ride featured military checkpoints checking credentials. Unlike Bukele though, the current regime is not a new commodity but a continuation of past partisanship. The Castro family’s long political tenure (her husband was president - and overthrown- before her) perhaps suggests a similarity to the Ortegas rather than Bukele’s model, though one might argue both could end in the same place...

In many ways, Tegucigalpa may have been my favorite stop. It felt like a true city, with diverse neighborhoods that were more relatable than the sanitized feel of Managua and a rustic city design that added nuance to its inequality better than I would find in Guatemala City. Yet I can’t help but wonder if I thrived here partly because of the chaos inherent to such stark inequality. It’s easy to revel in the novelty of something when you feel inherently detached, or, dare I say, like a foreigner.