"Driving at night is not recommended, due to a general lack of lighting and inadequately marked highways. Additionally, vehicles often are driven at night without adequate illumination, and animals and people wander onto the roads at all hours."
Consular Information Sheet for the Republic of Honduras - Sept 5,1997
U.S. State Department
As my father drives us through the darkness, I sit in the rear seat and let my eyes follow the taillights of the lead vehicle in our convoy of five Toyota 4x4 pickups. We're on our way to a medical clinic in El Paraiso, or "Paradise", which will serve as our headquarters for the week. Each day we will travel out to a different village, bringing doctors and medicines to areas too remote for proper medical care.
In the dark and rain, our truck convoy crosses a stream on the way to the clinic in El Paraiso.
Ginger, a nurse from Greenwood, South Carolina, sits next to me in the back seat. Frustrated by the darkness, she puts away her new camera. Although she claims not to know how to use it, the camera has been snatching every roadside view since we left the airport in San Pedro Sula. In between photos, she flips a few more pages through the instruction manual.
Glen, or "Flash" as he is more popularly known, sits in the passenger seat beside my father. Flash is retired, and his easy-going manner makes it a surprise to me when I learn that he used to work as a stock broker - a business which I normally associate with fast-paced deals and high stress.
My father, Terry, is a retired chemical engineer. Too busy with his work, he missed out on the start of our present Computer Age, but is now making up for it in his new-found free time since retirement last year. This morning he was a little sleepy-eyed from battling most of the night with a technical problem on his Casio pocket computer. He is tenacious when it comes to solving a problem. This strategy has served him well in fixing cars, houses, and just about everything else. He is a real handyman. But with the advent of today's high technology gadgets, sometimes there are problems that are too complex to be worth fixing. However, this is a principal that I have yet to successfully explain to my father. It was all I could do to convince him not to bring the laptop computer and digital camera on this trip.
My father hands Flash a Global Positioning System (GPS) receiver, and encourages him to press the right buttons to get a fix on our position. Then he goes on to explain how the backlighting is operated on the liquid crystal display of the small device. After a couple of minutes, a little scrolling map appears under a greenish glow, showing a triangle moving roughly southwest from San Pedro Sula. Next he gives Flash a hand-held two-way radio and asks him to try it out to make sure it works.
I smile quietly at this new display of Dad's gadget fever, shake my head, and turn slowly back to my window as we are entering a small village. There are quite a few people out and about at night, and farm animals, too. Some of them walk along the roadside. Some sit before concrete block storefronts. Some lean against doorframes of dirt brick houses. Occasionally I see light streaming through an open doorway ahead, and I turn my head to look as we pass the house -- just a bare lightbulb shining on a dirt floor. Some of the houses have concrete or tile floors. I suppose a carpet would be an invitation to fleas, or something worse -- I don't know what sort of insects live in this part of the world. Most of the rooms are sparsely furnished, if at all.
The dim lights fade as the village recedes behind us, leaving just our headlight beams on the bouncing grey Toyota tailgate of the truck leading before us. 
Randy is driving that truck. He has been to this area a couple of times before on previous mission trips. 
His son, Brooks, age 11, is also with us. They both hail from South Carolina, where Randy works as a doctor. Randy's invitation to my father was what eventually led to my presence on this trip. Randy goes to my dad's church.
Most of the members in our group are from South Carolina, with the exception of myself, from California, and Cora, a nurse from Indiana. I know little of Cora, save for the phrase I saw imprinted on the small travel purse that she used to pay at the hotel counter where our group stayed last night -- "Law Enforcement Officer's Spouse". The hotel stay had been an unexpected addition to our travel plans, after our flight from Houston to San Pedro Sula was delayed from 6pm to 4am the following morning. Why? The runway lights at San Pedro Sula went out, preventing the plane from landing.
Also in the grey truck are the Mohlers - Steve, Laurie, and their son, Nathan. 
Steve, Laurie, and I had instant conversation material since our first meeting, because we are all pilots. Steve, a doctor, seems the strong, silent type, but his wife Laurie, a nurse, has much more to say, and much of it is about Steve. On the way to the Honduras, we had the pleasure of hearing a few stories about how Steve and Laurie met, as Steve sat quietly closeby -- perhaps slightly embarrassed, but smiling. Nathan and Brooks have occupied themselves thus far on the trip with two hand-held electronic Sega games, but now press their bright eyes to the window glass and into the dark scenery with the rest of us.
The moist night air begins to cool, and soon tiny beads of moisture sprinkles onto the windshield. Our convoy splashes through a small stream that crosses the road. Luckily the road surface here is firm and rocky, providing good traction despite the light rain.
The last two members of our 12 person team are Shawn and Brigadier General Joe Lax . I had the opportunity to sit with them on the flight from Houston. 
Rising through the military ranks to such a degree that he eventually became somewhat involved in the the nation's politics, Joe is now retired. He seems rather mellow, contrary to what you might expect of a General, and doesn't really talk about his military experience much unless you ask. 
Shawn is a nurse. She seems rather young, and I'm surprised to find out that she is married for six years to a welder, with two children. She and I are the only people in our group that speak much Spanish, but neither of us feel that confident in our abilities.
Luckily, our group of 12 Americans will be supported by 4 locals. 
Doctor Roman Cruz leads the expedition, and his efforts to recruit help for his native people are what brings groups like ours to this area. 
Alejandro is a dentist, and also the pastor of a church in San Pedro Sula. Dr. Cruz and Alejandro met us first thing at the airport this morning. As we were completing a deal to rent our trucks at the airport, their friend Edwin arrived in his own truck. 
Edwin is another doctor, giving us a combined total of 4 doctors, 1 dentist, and 4 nurses for our medical efforts this week.
Afterwards, our entire group of trucks drove to attend a 3 hour church service under a large outdoor canopy. The hot, humid climate combined with the large crowd was rather stifling, but I enjoyed the animated music and singing. As people milled about after the service, we met a young woman from Alabama who is working here as a volunteer in a local orphanage. 
Her name is Angie, and she originally planned to stay in Honduras for only 3 months, but now has been here 6, and will probably stay indefinitely. Although she has no medical experience, her Spanish language skills would be invaluable to us, and somehow Dr. Cruz, Alejandro, and Edwin have convinced her to join us on this trip. This is a lucky break for Shawn and I, who will refer to her time and again when we get in a linguistic pinch in our own translations.
Our convoy approaches yet another village in the night, and this time it is our destination -- El Paraiso, or "Paradise". We follow the lead truck down a very rocky alleyway, through some more mud, and turn into the gate of a fenced compound. It is the clinic, which includes three small buildings and a garden area with fruit trees.
There to greet us is Eriberto, the caretaker of the clinic. He doesn't speak much English, and smiles silently most of the time. We let the women have first choice in bedrooms, then Brooks, Nathan, and their fathers take another room. The remaining room gets occupied by the rest of the men, including Joe, Dr. Cruz, Edwin, Alejandro, my father and myself. The beds are narrow hospital-style beds with thin mattresses, but they seem to sleep well enough. After getting bedsheets from a closet and making our beds, we all gathered in the main building with the kitchen area. Randy unpacks dozens of brown, rectangular, plastic pouches called MRE's, or "Meals Ready to Eat". Used by the U.S. military, these all-in-one meals contain everything necessary for consumption of food, and even cleanup. I chose a packet labeled "BEEF WITH MUSHROOMS" and tore it open. Inside I found more pouches containing:
Someone put a large pot of water on the stove, and I chunked my packet of beef w/mushrooms in with everyone else's pouches. After a few minutes, I removed it, then tore open the top and ate it straight out of the pouch. It was actually not bad, and when I was finished, I had no dirty dishes to wash. It occurred to me that these might make a convenient dinner for a bachelor. I should check to see how much MRE's cost when I get back to the states.
After eating, I went outside and started brushing my teeth with bottled water, which is always a slight juggle to hold the bottle, toothpaste, and toothbrush at the same time. I got out my GPS receiver (which Dad gave me for Christmas), and let it sit and acquire satellites as I brushed. Eventually it got a fix on our position, showing us to be somewhat south south west of San Pedro Sula, and not too far from the Guatemalan border. I flipped down the antenna and put the device away. Looking up into the night sky, I glimpsed several silhouettes just a few feet over my head, gliding quickly and silently in erratic patterns -- bats, probably feeding on mosquitoes.
Turning to go inside to bed, I found the wooden door to be blocked from within. Pushing a little harder, it gave way, and I peeked around the other side to find a large bucket pushed up against the door. Inquiring as to its purpose, I was told that the door doesn't stay closed by itself, and otherwise the mosquitoes will get in.
I lay down on my narrow hospital bed and listened to a dark room full of snoring men, thinking to myself of better ways to keep the door closed.