Honduras: Trujillo to Utila

I think this is a great way to describe my relationship with sand flies: When I look down and see that I've been bitten, and I realize that it's a mosquito bite, I'm happy, because a mosquito bite will go away in a day or a two. A sand fly bite will stay on me for four (and counting) days, slowly spreading across my body like a colony of itchy warts that refuse to cease in their mission to make me miserable. While I'm normally allergic to spider bites, those haven't even registered on my itchy scale. They just sit placidly on my kneecaps like giant red lumps passively observing the raging fire on my hands and feet. If my stomach and upper thighs weren't totally spared (and unevenly pale), I might otherwise assume I'd gotten chicken pox again.

Where was I? On the 4th of July, I woke up early with the caretaker family, dined on warm oatmeal with fresh fruit and granola (delicious curveball, Hondurans) and headed up into town in the family truck. They dropped me off in the central park while they went off to attend the sermon, and I marveled at how quiet a pious town is early on Sunday morning. I zigzagged across the town under a blazing hot sun, with little order as to what places I visited. I had a quiet giggle to myself at the crumbling grave of William Walker, the American so-called pirate who in the 1800s made himself president of Nicaragua for a couple years. When he tried in Honduras, they shot him at the Fortress of Santa Barbara. They even marked off the exact spot for tourists! His headstone also clarifies that he was ¨fusilado,¨or executed. Way to go, Bill. I was hungry, but put off my feeding until I swung by Cafe Vino Tinto, which sounds utterly charming by name alone. Cute hand-painted placards point visitors off the park and down a neatly maintained gravel road to the garden-patio restaurant. Apparently everyone else in the state had the same idea, because it was so crowded I couldn't even figure out what was going on. My delicious meal of tapas and pasta ended up being another plate of...yes, fried fish. Granted this fried fish was the best I've had in the country, prepared with gourmet saucs and nicely garnished. But fish? Again? Por favoooor.

The family had offered to give me a ride home from town to the resort, but since I didn't have a phone and was already on the edge of the city, which I considered to be close to the resort, I figured I'd just walk home. That way they wouldn't have to swing all the way back into town. Turns out it was about an hour-long walk along a very dusty, swervy and apparently not-so-safe road for lone pedestrians (in terms of mugging). I of course only got whistled at, so I wasn't aware of this danger until I got home. It also turns out the family was waiting in town for my phone call, and didn't realize this until they called another relative who was there to see if I'd come back. My bad. Around the dinner table that night, I asked mama caretaker for another delicious boal of oatmeal for dinner. The family and I sat around for hours talking about her Catholic faith, the men's belief in local witchcraft practices, and my uncomfortable "yes, I agree with that" and "no, I don't think the world will end in 2012."

In the late morning, I backtracked across the coast, grabbing a bus to La Ceiba and a taxi to the ferry for Utila. This westernmost Bay Island is mostly known as a backpacker's paradise, as it has some of the cheapest diving courses in the world and an overall young, scrappy vibe. So I wasn't too shocked to see that almost all of the other passengers looked like me. On the fancy ferry to Roatan, many of the travelers were spiffed up Hondurans and foreign families, kids and all. In the wood dock, no credit card-taking ferry to Utila, most of us donned some form of shorts, be it athletic shorts, board shorts or nasty-smelling cargo shorts. Most of us had teched out backpacks with an excessive number of zippers, straps and ropes that never seem to find a function. Many of us probably needed a shower.

Once I got off the boat, I was greeted by the French bartender at an exclusive dive resort out of town and further south on the island. From their dock, we took a truck down a coral-lined road that was covered in scuttling blue and yellow crabs. They live underground, so when it rains, they come out of their holes and make constant mad dashes across the land. So, it goes without saying...crunch. After a shower, I grabbed a delicious glass of wine with some of the owners and other guests, and then we had a very gourmet filet of breaded chicken. Just kidding, of course it was fish. Still more delicious, however, was the homemade vanilla ice cream topped with cinnamon-covered roasted bananas. I might have cried at a second serving. Once the guests went to bed, the bartender, his Italian girlfriend and the resident dive instructor, a sassy Honduran, and I stayed up for a while enjoying the fruits of the bar. I thought it was midnight when I went to bed. Turns out it was 10.30. Aside from the raving backpackers, that's mostly what I observed island time to be. Wake up around 6, go to bed around 9. Matt would love this place.

On Tuesday morning, I made the very stupid decision to not take the instructor up on a discovery dive session for beginners. I was worried that if I went out with the group, I wouldn't have had enough time for my mad dash routine. However, everyone was so incredibly accommodating I'm sure I could've made it work. Instead I (finally) snorkeled and marveled at the brilliant colors and textures of the fish and coral, all while brushing back bits of log and trash. After a heavy rain, all the trash that mainland Hondurans dump into rivers or into the ocean floats in a giant mass toward the Bay Islands, arriving a day or so later and washing up on the beach. Most resorts and beaches have people clean up the debris, but inevitably it will come back. Almost all of Honduras' tourism is based on its natural offerings, so it's really a shame to see that the government isn't helping to protect one of the most important economic sectors. Then again, it sounds about fitting for one of the poorest countries in the hemisphere.

Anyway, pretty stuff. After the snorkel, I had lunch on the Upper and Lower Keys, just off the main island. They have a similar feel to Guanaja's Bonnaca - a community that was once built on stilts and waterways is now a crazy urban playground in the middle of the ocean. People from the keys consider themselves (and are considered to be) different from Utila residents, and the crazy cluster of more than 300 people mostly stays where it's at. Like the main island, people there principally speak Creole English and have suntanned English features. From the keys, I headed into Utilatown, the central hub of activity around which almost every dive center, bar and restaurant operates. A local real estate agent graciously offered to drive me around the island on his golf cart. We stopped at hotels and restaurants, vacation rentals and beaches, and as a 6-year resident on the island, he gave me great local insight and anecdotes for each place. Then I realized, just as in Guanaja, that is absolutely the best way to do ambush travel writing - have someone who knows the place well drive you around.

After our tour we met up with his wife and group of friends for an informal Utila bar hop. Utila being about 8 miles long, of course they knew almost everyone at every place we went. At a small martini bar, we devoured delicious bleu-cheese stuffed olives and cream cheese-stuffed jalapenos. I was disappointed in myself when the jalapeno was too much spice for me to handle. I've been out of Mexico too long. For dinner a had a - what? a fish burger? really? - and then we went to a treehouse bar at the hotel where I was staying. The hotel-bar can only be described as magical. The owner is an artist who specializes (quite obviously) in blown glass. Throughout the botanical garden he has built sculptures from shattered bits of glass plates, glass bottles, shimmering glass beads, tile mosaics, etc. He's built tunnels, steep staircases, oval-shaped pagados, sculptures. It is truly impressive. Personally, blown glass is my favorite artisan treat. I one day hope to own a lot of it. It will probably break, so maybe I can take a cue from this gue and glue-gun it back together into some kind of Yellow Submarine-like madness.

As with most places that I've stayed at, from luxurious jungle lodges to Bali-inspired cottages, I only had about six hours to really soak in the hotel's beauty, and I spent it fitfully sleeping. At the ripe hour of 5 a.m. I awoke to wash up and purchase a ticket back to La Ceiba on the 6.20 ferry. On the way I grabbed possibly the best biscuit ever (sorry, Mom and Pillsbury), so hot and fresh out of the oven that I had to hold it in a bag before I could devour its buttery goodness. Back on the mainland, I headed straight to a tour guide office to settle the craziness surrounding my trip to the Moskito Coast that has been plaguing me ever since I got here. I took a nap in a big dorm room with 8 single beds that the operater offers to clients for the night before a trip. When I arose a couple hours later, we had everything settled, including the part about the Honduran Institute of Tourism absorbing some of my trip costs.

So what's next? A five day adventure into the Moskito Coast, where I will purify my water with a little eyedrop bottle full of chemicals, pee in buckets, and probably offend the indigenous peoples. And then...MEXICO! And one day later...OHIO!

Honduras: Gone to Guanaja

(<-- View from my cabin porch)

Guanaja was a welcome surprise along my trail of travels. The island is the lesser known and least-celebrated stop in the Bay Islands. I arrived on Thursday with my standard itinerary and gut-clenching nervousness that something would go wrong and foil my calculated plans. In the end, however, I left wishing that I had accidentally allotted 5 nights here instead of two. Not that I could stand another second of the sand flies, but let me wax romantic for a second.

After I’d successfully crossed off my list for La Ceiba, I woke up early to pack and grab a “busito” to the airport. Walking up to the airline counter and purchasing my ticket on the spot was slightly horrifying, as I’ve become accustomed to buying plane tickets two months in advance and considering that last minute. I grabbed one of the remaining spots on a 15-passenger propeller plane to Guanaja, and as I waited in the lobby, I eyed the strange man in the neatly pressed khakis, cowboy belt buckle, Panama hat, slick leather shoes and a button-up black linen shirt that looked like it was worn for the purpose of unbuttoning to the navel. In Mexico, I automatically judge anyone dressed like this to be some kind of drug runner, and I didn’t make an exception for him. Naturally I glowered at him when he came near as I waited in the Guanaja terminal after a 30-minute flight. Finally he approached me and, as it turned out, explained that he was my ride. He’s the close friend of the hotel owner whose place I stayed at, and he’d come from La Ceiba to fish for three weeks. His strong English and tycoon-esque outfit I assume are the results of 30 years spent working in the Louisiana oil business. His crazy Caribbean English-Creole whatever-it-is, however, I give to Guanaja.

When our boat docked at the hotel, which is actually a private cay off the mainland, I approached the owner with a hurried hello and explained that I’d like to put my stuff down, see the place and leave immediately for the island to explore its accommodations. He didn’t understand a word of what I said, and when I spoke again slowly, he laughed at me and explained that I could see New York City in that amount of time. He said I didn’t need to hire a water taxi, that my new friend would whisk me around tomorrow at my whim. Finally, nothing to do!

I walked to my 3-bed cottage facing the calmer side of the cay and starting cheering to myself with excitement - turquoise, deep blue, seaweed green waters all outside my bedroom window. After a monstrous plate of breaded wahoo and french fries, I went for an awkward breaststroke just five steps outside my room…the water was only a foot deep in some places, but spiky bits of shell were too much for my princess feet to handle, so I just kind of bobbed until the wind picked up and I was too lazy to put up a fight. I walked to the other side of the cay along a path of dried black coral bits, then turned down a two-plank dock that lead to a thatched roof shelter with two fishnet hammocks facing more turbulent waters. I took a nap, and once the sand flies got a little too friendly, I headed back to my cottage to take a nap on the porch swing. When that fetal position got a little too cramped, I went inside and sprawled out onto one of three beds, taking another nap and retreating from those damn bugs.

Dinner was again a monstrous plate of seafood and pasta, and I polished off two Salva Vida-brand beers while the bartender and I watched Mexican telenovelas together. When he told me he was 20 the next day, it all made sense.

In the morning, my tycoon friend and I set off around the island. First we stopped in Bonacca, a city that is as densely populated as Hong Kong. What tour guides once deemed “Little Venice” for the charming canals that cut through the island city has now become a series of narrow concrete alleyways that zigzag like a labyrinth with little rhyme or reason. Far less quaint than little gondolas traversing through waterways, but I’m sure the city residents were like ‘Man, do I really have to get in this stupid boat again?’ and decided to pave them over. Like every place I’ve been here, there are no street addresses or numbers anywhere, just the main street, which is really a glorified alleyway.

Next we zipped by several shuttered dive resorts. When Hurricane Mitch ripped through the Caribbean a few years ago, it destroyed millions of dollars of tourism infrastructure in its path. With the financial crash and coup in Tegucigalpa essentially erasing all tourism to the area last year, many people couldn’t or decided not to rebuild.

We had a Port Royal-brand beer at a beach resort on the other side of the island at 11 a.m. It made me pretty sleepy, but hey, I wasn’t driving the boat. We stopped by a couple of places that turned out to be closed, then we headed to a bar-restaurant run by a German couple. And there we stayed for 5 hours, while I sampled tasty Franziskaner beer and wine fermented from a local fruit whose name I didn’t write down, plus homemade split pea soup. I chatted about Utila with a young fellow who I convinced myself to be a heroin fiend – mysterious black stuff under his finger nails, a nervous, shifty way of speaking and that one time he told me how he smuggles California weed into Honduras by way of peanut butter jars.

The German man who provided the local wine also brought along dried mangoes that he’d made at his nearby organic, self-sustaining farm. And my escort, predictably, unbuttoned his shirt one button at a time with every glass of that special wine he had. He made me play him in pool and, after cleaning the table before I took a turn, confessed that he used to do this for a living. Of course. Me and heroin fiend played darts for a while until it was evident that I would never come close to the bullseye.

By the time 5 p.m. rolled around, it appeared that for the second time I would miss out on some of Honduras’ best snorkeling. We had brought a mask and tube along in the boat, but something told me I might drown at that point. Back at the private cay, I had another hearty plate of pan-fried grouper and baked potato. A millionaire couple that owns a nearby cay, helicopter and charter plane had stopped by for a drink with the owner, and we looked at proud pictures of when Jimmy Carter and his wife had swung by Guanaja last April for a fishing trip. The woman explained that he had brought a 23-man Secret Service detail along with him. Before I could give a generic, “Wow, that many?” response, she threw up her hands in exasperation and cried, “And that’s with our money!” And then I immediately became very bored at the prospect of talking taxes and scratched my bubbling sand fly bites instead.

A 10-hour night’s sleep helped wear off that devilish Guanaja wine, and I got up early to watch Germany play Argentina in the quarterfinals with a bunch of enthusiastic Germans who stared at the TV like boys playing a video game. I was sad to go when it came time to leave, but didn’t have much time to dwell. After my 3-person flight touched down in La Ceiba, I took a collective cab to the bus “station,” a single concrete room with a man behind a computer and watching reggaeton music videos. From there, it was a 3-hour ride to Trujillo, and a very expensive cab ride out to my resort painfully outside of town.

The Canadian owners at the place I’m staying only come down a few times a year, so I’m mostly in the hands of the Honduran family who looks after the place. Tonight at dinner, while my new 6-year-old friend showed me pictures of the pet monkey on her mom’s cell phone, the mother explained that she had bought tickets to see famed Catholic missionary Salvador Gómez speak on Sunday, but that she couldn’t go since she had to look after me. It wasn’t as passive aggressive as it sounds, and it took a little while to convince her that I wouldn’t even be here during the day. Tomorrow is my day to run around like a crazed gringo scribbling in my soggy notebook with a dried up pen. So they’re dropping me off in town on their way to the community center, and then we’re all going to have a big 4^th of July barbeque and set off sparklers. Not.