Roatán Day One

It’d been three years since I left the US. The early uber from my apartment to the airport, the layover in MIA, even while seated on the plane, all felt like I was going through the motions—this was just something I had to do. Another rendezvous to scratch off the list, pending my return to work and repetition.  I’d lost the sense of wonder and excitement I felt since my first major solo trip. This family vacation, I presumed, would be a leaf of lettuce sandwiched between the white bread mundanity of my life back in Wilmington. 

Outside the Roatan airport I was immediately harassed by taxi drivers, and hugged by the hot, wet air of the Caribbean. I declined all the driver’s aggressive requests, and put my faith in RTB’s spotty Wifi network, contacting my hostel host via email about a taxi she arranged for me. She was slow to respond to my emails, and I was getting impatient. I didn’t want to wait around unnecessarily, especially when getting a ride could happen  immediately with all the available drivers at my leisure. But I already agreed to her arranged ride, so I waited nearly two hours.

It took a bit for my annoyance to fizzle out. I sat at a bar—my one hour of wifi spent—and asked a man my age if there was any way I could use his hot spot.

“I speak English, you know,” he said. His name was Danny, from New Jersey, but had lived four years in Jacksonville, North Carolina.

“Oh,” I said, “You’re a marine.”

Jacksonville is an hour outside of Wilmington, and home of camp Lejune, the largest marine base on the east coast. I’ve met more marines than I can count on my fingers and toes. They come to Wilmington to party and meet girls. I’ve dated the type.

“But not a marine anymore! I just got my electrician’s license. I’ve come down here to celebrate with my brother.” He was cute—slim faced and exuding machismo energy. I heard my name shouted at the crowded entrance in three distinct syllables. Cam-ee-elle. My taxi was finally there. Before leaving, I asked for Danny’s number.

As I followed Joshua through the maze of collectivos, trucks, and taxis, evading piles of pigeon droppings, and old cigarette ash clinging to the foam soles of my Teva’s, he knocked on the hoods of cars saying hola amigo! He waved at the drivers of other taxis, even stopped to give an older Honduran a half hug and ask, Como esta su esposa?

“How do you know all these people?” I asked.

“I’m the mayor.”

“No you’re not.” 

He only chuckled. We loaded into a taxi, but there was another man in the driver’s seat. I asked what his name was, and he replied Devon in a perfect, American accent. 

Devon wove around parked vehicles waiting in no discernible pattern in the airport pick-up. He launched us through intersections, claiming right-of-way instead of waiting for it. When we zoomed over hills, I swear I felt the taxi catch air. 

Devon spoke little Spanish, but was born in Roatan, and moved back for a change of pace. He was raised in Boston, working there as a taxi driver for the past thirty years.

“So you must be a really great driver,” I said, groping for the Oh Shit! bar.

“More like a crazy driver,” Joshua chimed in. 

I gave a crack at my rusty Spanish, commenting on the scenery, asking about the wildlife. Joshua said they have all sorts of animals in the jungle, including pandas. I called him out for a fibber.

“Could’ve fooled me,” said Devon. “I mean, I haven’t seen any pandas, so how could I know they don’t live here.” 

Joshua taught me the name for sloth: mono perisoso, i.e. lazy monkey.

We drove through Coxen-hole and Joshua told me to never go there, that it was dangerous and ugly. He pointed out the tourist hot-spots. We drove by West Bay, a cruise ship port. The ships were cities on water. I was struck by their structural heft, and claustrophobic design; I don’t see the appeal in being cooped up in one place. Cruise ships have never stoked my interest.

We drove through West End, then past Half Moon bay, with it’s slim lips of gold beach. I was deflated by the density of white tourists I saw prowling around—I was hoping to forget about America for a while, not be constantly reminded it existed. Not much longer and we hurdled up a steep hill. There were large houses in varying degrees of completeness—some of the projects completely abandoned—but for the most part we were in the jungle. Fat vines snaked up the sides of Gumbalimba trees. There were the bright reds, pinks, and yellows of hibiscus sidling the narrow road.

I chose the Runaway Pineapple because it had the cheapest dorm room in Roatan. I didn’t consider its location, or reviews. I figured I could slum it out for the next day, before my Dad and step mom arrived, to stretch my cash. 

But the Runaway Pineapple was perfect. An eco-lodge utilizing rain water for the toilets and showers, and solar panels for lighting and electrical outlets. It was at the top of the hill, three stories and three balconies wrapped around  its circumference. The siding was unfinished, and the sienna of the exposed wood made it look like it belonged there—if it wasn’t for the pavement that construction workers were spreading around it.

My host was an older white lady, which I didn’t expect given the short, simple way she communicated with me via email. She was an American named Shelley, and this was her permanent vacation home. She guided me up to the top floor, and into a large room with six single beds. Two of the beds were located up a steep ladder in a loft, all decorated with thin, woven blankets. Tapestries hung off the lengths of extension cables that stretched every which way like spiderwebs. The whole set-up was DIYed, and though the layout was unstructured, I admired its charm.

Though there was no one else present in the room, I thought it would be a splendid idea to lug my suitcase up the ladder, half-way up realizing how much more difficult I was making this for myself. What if I need to shit in the middle of the night? But daddy didn’t raise a quitter. That, and Shelley was right at my heels and I didn’t want to surrender with a witness.

I immediately set to peeling off my airport clothes, getting ready to spend the remainder of my day out and about. The hostel smelled like pine, though I doubt that’s what it was built of, with the expedition of north american pine trees being so expensive. Out on the deck, I could see through the trees all the way to Half Moon Bay and the ocean. I could feel my sense of wonder seeping back in.

West End is a strip of beach along the edge of Roatan. About a mile-and-a-half of small restaurants, cafes, bars, air b&bs, and souvenir shops. Signs point down small alleys leading to more restaurants, one of them I meandered down for lunch. The sign had a yellow arrow, and because of my time on the Camino, I blindly followed it. The restaurant was called Pura Vida, tucked in the shade of the north enclave of Half Moon Bay. The annoyance I felt waiting for the taxi was great integration into island time. I busied myself with a book as I waited for tigerfish and pineapple ceviche.

Oh, how I love fish. Coastal protein. Briny, tender, succulent fish. Getting high off long-chain omega-3s , though this could have also been the caffeine in my diet coke, or my limited supply of nic pouches. Pura Vida had a private beach in the shade and the water sparkled turquoise. After eating, I walked further down the main stretch in hope of finding a spot to lay my towel that wasn’t within another tourist’s personal space. I roasted in the sun for three hours before lumbering back to the hostel.

On my way, I passed an old man with wicked teeth smoking a Marlboro red. Of course, I coyly asked for one—when in Rome—then struck up conversation. Another Caribbean dweller from the states, smoking outside so his tattoo-artist wifey in the shop behind him didn’t have to smell the smoke.

“Boy do I love just love it here.” He said. “Wells of rum and pretty girls. Very pretty girls.” His eyes slipped to my toes and back up. I have, in my experience travelling, grown accustomed to eel-like men. They exist and they will remain. I don’t engage, or entertain their sly remarks (unless I have a stellar joke) because they want exactly the opposite.

“That’s great, Rusty,” I said, then changed the subject. He told me about an excellent bar called Beachers he frequents that serves “lobster as big as your face” every Monday for twenty-five dollars. As soon as my cigarette was finished, I said goodbye. It was gross—if I do happen to smoke, it’s typically with my bestie and her hand-rolled Norwegian shag. I prefer to be a lady with exquisite taste at the end of the day.

At the hostel I took a cold shower and changed my outfit. It was nearly dark when I left the room. The Sun disappeared behind the patch of ocean visible through the trees, leaving a rouge on the indigo sky. 

I walked down the hill, past the Mayak chocolate factory, and the only three-story building I’d seen besides my hostel—fitted with a gigantic fiberglass turtle on its roof. Taxi drivers laid on their horns as they passed me, making my evening stroll about as peaceful as a nickel arcade. I wanted to eat somewhere nice, and decided to let God lead the way, which was right at the round-about as I reached Half Moon Bay. There was an open-air restaurant with yellow lighting, a hanging wooden sign read The Argentinian Grill. My waitress seated me at the restaurant’s center. 

Both single tables were plopped six inches apart, at the other, a gentleman sat caddy corner to me, preoccupied with his cell phone. I leaned back in my chair and sipped on a tequila soda with lime. Most of the restaurant’s tables were occupied by families, couples, and huddles of old men, all of them happily chatting. 

The tequila soda lubricated me enough to take a stab at conversing with my fellow loner. His name was Jean Paul and he was in Honduras taking a dive course. Back home in Italy, he works as a taxi driver. Seems there can never be enough of them. 

I got provincial shrimp—a heap of prawns braised in garlic sauce, and a side of rice and red beans. Jean Paul and I tittered between mouthfuls and agreed to accompany each other to another location, with the excuse that I needed to top off my dinner with dessert. 

We meandered until we reached the restaurant/bar Rusty told me about—Beachers—I knew why this would be a place he’d frequent. I walked in, and it was all arrays of old man expats. One of them across the bar looked like Rusty, but this time with a black leather cowboy hat. Hey Rusty! I called out. But this was not Rusty. 

“I can be Rusty if you want me to be, Darlin’” He handed me his business card. Not-Rusty worked in the Bay Islands as a  Real estate consultant. I ordered a slice of what was advertised as the best key lime pie in the Caribbean. And they weren’t wrong, granted I’ve never had key lime pie. Which was basically a slab of cheesecake with an essence of lime, piled high with whipped cream and a maraschino cherry. My guts would soon be having a ball. Another tequila soda for the road. 

In my low-tolerance for liquor, I was beginning to tolerate Jean Paul’s looks a little more than I had earlier. He was half-bald, late middle-aged, and pudgy around the middle. I wasn’t going to allow any romance, at least not with this guy, but I would be lying if I told you I didn’t entertain the idea. What’s a single and solo girl to do on vacation! Either way we were friendly, and enjoyed each other’s fleeting company. Jean Paul offered to walk me the mile-and-a-half back to my hostel, and as we departed, I could feel a kiss may have been expected. I shook the thought from my head and bid him farewell. Then I walked up the three flights of stairs to my room, climbed the ladder to my loft bed, and had the best sleep I’ve had in months, and for the remainder of my trip.