Tattoo #16 - Honduras: Unity Etched in Adversity

If every tattoo tells a story, Tattoo #16 is the kind that starts with a sigh, ends with a toast, and leaves you questioning why you do this to yourself.

Let me explain.

This tattoo, out of all the ones I’ve earned, is probably my least favorite experience. Not because the ink didn’t turn out right. It actually ended up being one of the most thoughtful, compact, and symbolically rich tattoos I have on this journey. But getting it? Absolute chaos.

It began during my second work trip to Nicaragua, a trip already rich with meaning and emotion. Cindy had just completed her second international tattoo, and the momentum of our journey urged us forward. Nicaragua borders Honduras, El Salvador, and Costa Rica, each offering the potential for another inked milestone. But Honduras stood out—not for its allure, but for its proximity and the edge it carried.

Choosing Honduras wasn’t just about convenience; it was a calculated risk. I had read the travel advisories, the forums, and the warnings. Honduras, particularly the southern region near the border, is infamous for crime, corruption, and cartel activity. Land border crossings are known hotspots for scams, bribes, and unpredictable confrontations.

Still, something in me said this was the right time. Perhaps it was the thrill, the idea of turning adversity into art. We knew it wouldn’t be easy, but that only made the mission feel more significant. With caution in one hand and determination in the other, the plan was set. Honduras, here we come.

Crossing Borders, Literally and Figuratively

We decided to take the most reputable bus company we could find, because flying wasn’t viable, and crossing land borders solo in Central America? Not for the faint of heart. We woke up at 4 a.m., bleary-eyed and hungover from the night before (yes, we partied like amateurs), and got on the bus. Clean. Comfortable. Even had outlets. I thought maybe we overhyped the danger.

That feeling vanished the second we neared the border. The sun was barely up, and already an endless line of semis stretched for miles. Our driver maneuvered like a rally racer, dodging oncoming traffic from the opposite lane to bypass the gridlock, and each blind turn felt like threading a needle through chaos. The road narrowed as we went flanked by dense, overgrown brush. The air grew heavy, charged, as if the land itself knew we were entering a no-man’s land where law bent to currency. Everyone on this packed bus knew it was time.

Then came the stop: we had to walk across the border while the bus "caught up."

Spanish curses echoed, a baby wailed in the distance, and the air reeked of sweat, dust, and tension. My gut twisted because I glanced at Cindy, still smiling, blissfully unaware of all the eyes and attention on her. We weren’t in Omaha anymore. This was survival disguised as a border crossing. The officials smelled opportunity. Corruption lingers in the air at these crossings. Luckily for us, two Serbian passengers who didn’t speak Spanish took the hit. I helped translate, they paid the bribe, and we were waved through. Not proud, just grateful.

Choluteca: Honduras in 24 Hours

We arrived in the nearest Honduran town—Choluteca—and were dropped off at a mall that was small but clean. We had barely any reception, no Uber, no taxis in sight. Just as I stepped outside to look, a cab appeared like divine intervention. He got us to our hotel after some negotiation, and finally... we could breathe.

The hotel was modest but had a beautiful pool and bar. For a moment, it actually felt like a mini-vacation. We even visited a famous bridge modeled after the Golden Gate and took a photo holding Honduran currency—a local tradition.

Five Stars. One Promise.

Now the tattoo. This was something Cindy and I brainstormed even before crossing the border. Researching Honduran symbolism led me into the history of all five original Central American nations: Costa Rica, El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras, and Nicaragua. Many of their national symbols and flags include five stars or five mountains, representing unity.

And just like that, inspiration hit—an idea that would transform this nerve-wracking border dash into a symbolic mission. The five stars weren't just borrowed from a flag—they represented something deeper. For me, each star became a promise to revisit these five nations, not just physically but spiritually. The large central star, split between both hands and shaded in to represent Honduras, became a badge of courage for making it through the most dangerous journey of this entire tattoo project. The remaining stars were not empty; they were potential—each one a blank chapter waiting to be written. It was a blueprint for returning, reconnecting, and honoring the shared identity and struggle of Central America. In a way, this tattoo wasn’t just about unity among countries—it was about unifying parts of myself: the traveler, the survivor, the storyteller. Through pain and fear, I earned not just ink, but meaning.

I didn’t want a large design this time. My right arm is reserved for major nations and milestones, so this one had to go on the left. We chose five stars. One large star split in half between both hands, placed just below my thumbs. When I bring my hands together, they form a complete star. It represents Honduras.

Then we added four smaller stars around the main one—two on each hand. These stars represent the other Central American countries. But only the Honduras star is shaded in. As I visit each country, I’ll shade in their star. One tattoo. Five journeys. A promise.

We inked it poolside on a gorgeous night, with music in the background and people playing in the pool. Cindy’s third international piece. It was almost peaceful—a stark contrast to the stress that came after.

The Return: A Bad Movie Ending

Finding our return bus was pure guesswork. Conflicting addresses. No instructions. Hotel staff clueless. I gambled and returned to the drop-off spot.

By some miracle, the bus arrived. But at the border, we were no longer shielded by Serbians. This time, the immigration officer targeted us.

She claimed I needed COVID documentation from months ago. I tried to reason with her, explaining how long ago I’d been in Colombia and how it wasn’t a risk—but she wouldn’t budge. Her tone turned mechanical, rehearsed, as if she'd done this a hundred times.

“Ten days or go back,” she said flatly, referencing a nonexistent waiting period. People around us began cutting the line, some sneaking glances, others blatantly shoving forward. The air tightened. It was clear: this wasn’t about health or policy. This was about power—and money.

Anger bubbled in my chest. I could feel my jaw clench, the weight of helplessness settling in. We were being extorted. I had limited cash and even less patience, but I wasn’t going to lose this fight. I approached the bus staff quietly, a sense of shame and frustration burning in my gut.

I slipped a small amount into a folded paper, feeling like I was betraying something important—but it worked. Within seconds, our passports were returned, stamped and cleared. Just like that, the wall crumbled. Bribery wasn’t just a tool here—it was the key. We crossed by foot again, this time filming a secretive rum toast over the bridge.

Darkness and Light

When we got back to Managua, it was dark. The bus stop was crawling with danger. I had booked our ride early, thank God. Within minutes, our driver arrived. We forced our way through and got into the car. The driver said, "You’re lucky. This place is not safe."

I know.

Back in the comfort of our five-star hotel, I finally relaxed. That’s why this is my least favorite tattoo experience. It was stress layered on stress. But the tattoo itself? Brilliant.

It embodies unity, purpose, and the Central American dream of coming together. It reflects not just the journey itself, but the sheer determination to complete it despite adversity. This tattoo wasn’t just about crossing a border—it was about pushing through fear, trusting instinct, and holding onto purpose when everything around screamed uncertainty.

The experience of getting it was the most harrowing of the entire journey, but that’s what gives it weight. In that moment, with danger circling, I realized this wasn’t just a hobby anymore. This was a mission—a living testament to the lengths I would go to complete something meaningful.

A symbol etched in sweat, nerves, and grit.

One ink at a time.

Unity, under pressure. Tattoo #16 — Honduras.