After a whole day and a whole night at sea, where you see nothing but waters, not even seagulls or bugs, we woke up one morning to land, only about what seemed to be 100 yards away from the ship. It was probably more like a couple of miles, but it seemed awfully welcome and close. We docked in Roatan, which is an island in the country of Honduras.
As we walked off the boat, there were dark clouds gathering about, menacing and too close to the tippy tops of the lush green trees. We shooed them away with all our might: we had only about 6 hours to spend on this island and we did not want some random sprinkle to ruin our vacation pictures.
We docked in this small marina, but you could not see any other ships – just ours. The island looked like a small hill, all covered in forests.
We joined our group and off we went, with our guide, Sonja, a bubbly lady of 35 (she honestly looked more like 18) to reach the landmarks we had planned for the day. Sonja is Honduran, born and raised. More precisely, a Roatanese (?!), she exudes pride for her island and she will definitely be my favorite guide on this trip, not because of her knowledge necessarily, which was basic, at best, but because of her passion. She does nothing, not even breathing, with lack of it. And she is contagious.
Sonja assured us that the clouds will pour for a bit, and then they'll blow over. Someone said, “oh, it's like Florida. It will blow right over.” She looked puzzled. But she was right: it poured cats and dogs for about 15 minutes and then the sun came back to stay for the rest of the day.
She stuffed eight of us in a minivan, and off we went to our adventures. Being driven like maniacs through the very crowded streets of Roatan, we learned that there is no speed limit, nor traffic signs or traffic lights anywhere on the island. It's just “the honor system”, she said. I figured that's a lot to be left to a lot of honorless people, but who am I to judge, right?! The streets were not only very narrow for the too much traffic they absorbed, but they were full of potholes like I have not seen since communist days in Romania. You could comfortably curl up and take naps in some of them, and no one would even notice.
The size of the potholes we drove through
She pointed landmarks to us, the Hospital, the pharmacy, the private Catholic school, another public school. Kids wore uniforms and they were out in groups, possibly just starting the day.
We stopped at what looked like a souvenir mall, for 20 minutes. To ask eight Americans to shop for all their Honduras fare for all their family at home in 20 minutes in a large store which they are not familiar with is a crime, I believe, and everyone was very confused. I am not sure whether people thought they should better give it up altogether and not even bother looking for stuff, or to just not worry about the time and shop to their heart's content and just be late for the minivan. Sonja kept threatening to leave without us if we're not back by the time she gave us, or that she won't take us to all the other places we had signed up for if we're late. And some people completely disregarded the whole time affair and we ended up being there for more like 45 minutes, rather than 20.
We continued towards what seemed to be “out of the town”. The island is only 80 miles long and 8 miles wide, so the whole place feels like one cohesive town, but there are areas of nothing but hills and forests, with no homes, that feel like the outskirts, at least. Sonja pointed out houses that belonged to “rich people”: “This guy, right here, he is American. He is very rich. Look at his house! But he did a lot for Roatan. He did a lot of good things for the island. This lady, she's the rich guy's sister. She is rich, too! Look at her house.”
There were hundreds of houses that looked condemned, seeing them through American eyes. Some of them were leaning on one side, some of them on rickety stilts, barely holding on, some had no windows, just holes covered with cardboard. They had no driveways or lawns leading to the front doors, which were mostly wide open, they were pitched on small molehills, really, randomly, it seemed, sitting on nothing but dirt. The only indication that someone was actually living there were all the clothes hung on the lines outside, usually in front of the house, or on the front porch. Sometimes, a chicken or two pecking at the dirt. She did not talk about these houses at all.
The houses she pointed out (the “rich” ones) all had solid metal bars at all the windows and in front of the front door. All of them were fenced in, and the fence was 6-8 feet tall, with metal gates. We asked her if security is a problem and she vehemently denied it, although the security bars told us otherwise. She said “In Honduras, the crime is high, not in Roatan. If security were a problem in Roatan, the boat would not leave you here. It doesn't dock in Honduras.” Although we always thought we were in Honduras, on Roatan Island, she very often referred to Honduras and Roatan as if they were two separate countries.
She told us you cannot go to college in Roatan, except “for easy stuff, like a nurse or an electrician”. “If you want to be an engineer or a doctor, you have to go on a ferry, to Honduras.” When she pointed out the hospital, which looked like an oversized house, hardly capable of housing any large amount of equipment or humans, she said “people don't go to the hospital here. You have a lot of home doctors who can take care of you. Hospital is too expensive and a long wait.” I imagined hundreds of babies being born at home, most likely.
She started telling us names of herbs and various fruits and what they cure: diabetes, high blood pressure, headache. Then she told us the best cure for a cold is “two shots of tequila and salt” and “honey, you are better, the next day. But two shots. And it works!” Every muscle in her body jiggled as she expressed how you are up and ready for action the very next day, even if you had the worst cold of your life the day before. She “did it last week.”
We stopped by an iguana farm next, where iguanas live like pets. The farm belongs to a guy who wanted to protect iguanas from becoming stew on the island. “They taste like chicken” - she said, licking her lips. But if they come on the farm, no one kills them, they are protected. They were definitely the friendliest iguanas I have ever seen. We could feed them by hand and pet them, and they were tame. The farm also had parrots, monkeys and lots of fish, as well. The farm was minuscule in size, comparing to the American-size farms and reserves. To experience these creatures this up close though was a treat.
This guy is an an 'agouti'. Looks like the biggest rat you have ever seen but he does not seem to mind humans, nor the owners of the farm seem to mind him roaming around.
Onward we went towards what seemed to be the top of the island. Much like Oahu, the island seems to be a huge mountain in the middle of the ocean. The more we climbed on through the potholes, the better view of the ocean we gathered. She stopped us at what seemed to be an ad-hoc farmers' market, with people selling Honduran artifacts, mostly made of mahogany and teak – which are local precious, rare woods that Honduras is famous for. From this small market we could see the coral reef, which is one of the main attractions in Roatan: part of the Mesoamerican Barrier Reef, it is the second largest coral reef in the world. The view from the top of the mountain was amazing: just what you dream about when you are thinking about The Caribbeans: blue and turquoise waters in millions shades, crystal clear and bottomless, as far as the eye can see.
Atop the highway, overlooking the coral reef ashore Roatan Island
We continued the trip through winding roads, dodging motorcycles, and many other vehicles that honked left and right for the right of way. You know, that whole “honor” thing. Peeking through the forest, we saw glimpses of the ocean, at times, amongst the poor homes, through the trees, a shipwreck here and there, on some of the bays.
Most businesses looked like mom-and-pop stores, some of them convenience stores, most of them geared towards mechanical repairs, of cars, or other appliances. Lots of ad-hoc tables with people selling pineapples or bananas. One huge plant looked brand new and very fancy, and it was located right there, on the side of the winding road, between us and the ocean. Roatan really feels like it has just one road slicing through the middle of the island. The plant had the name “RECO” in big, bright blue and yellow letters written on all the equipment and all the semi trucks parked in front. Sonja said with a longing in her voice: “An American built this. This is aaaall his. All this land.” She held her chin in her hand and shook her head left to right, like you do when you're looking after your loved one walking away and you know it's the last time you'll see them. A sadness overtook her eyes for a brief second. I found out later that that was the electric company that supplies the island with electricity. I would imagine that makes some cash in a place like this.
The amount of trash on the streets of Roatan is overwhelming. At times, mountains of trash, 8 feet tall or more bookend the streets without sidewalks. Drainage ditches are full of empty plastic coke bottles and food wrappers. Stray dogs roaming through it.
We see a lady washing clothes on a washboard at a sewage pipe. Someone points that out. Sonja assures us that some people can afford washing machines, but they are not worth buying, because they don't clean your clothes. “The clothes are dirty after they go through the washing machine”, she says with pathos. “They are. You use the washboard and they are clean! I mean C-L-E-A-N. Nah, not worth the money for the washing machine.” She, then, tells us that some women wash clothes for other families to make money and that sometimes that's the only income for that family.
Washing clothes in the 'stream'
After a short stop, we headed towards the Las Palmas Beach, a small resort, which is under construction right now, to build villas for future tourists. However, the patio and the bar are in use right now, and this is where our lunch will be. Las Palmas is this pristine beach, with soft, white sand, sun chaises meticulously lined up like little soldiers, waiting for their guests. She told us we have almost two hours just to enjoy the beach and eat.
Easily my favorite beach the entire trip: Las Palmas Beach, Roatan. It was small, clean and uncrowded. They are still building out the resort yet, so I am sure it will not stay quiet for much longer.
This was probably my most favorite spot that day. The beach was pristine, and so quiet. The water was again beautifully clear and bottomless. We ate the best grilled lobster tails at the bar, and we had to try Sonja's heartfelt recommendation: the Honduran beer, “Salva Vida”. She told us: “I don't drink. But every once in a while, very rarely, I have a little Salva Vida, and it's yum yum … makes you happy.” - then, she giggled with a guilty grin.
The contrast we saw at every corner was stark: the dirt and poverty of most people and the riches and safety of a small number of them. There is definitely a feeling I have experienced in Third World countries everywhere: there is no middle room: only a very small high and an overwhelming low. People are serious and preoccupied in Honduras. All except for Sonja. She is a smiling beauty and nothing seems to ever crush her spirit and her cheerfulness.
Sonja continued her stories on the way back. She continued to make the very clear distinction between Honduras and Roatan: she tells you constantly that fruit is best on the island, not on the Honduran mainland, because they don't put hormones in it “to make it fat faster”, like they do in Honduras. She is proud of the way things are on the island. It's like her personal brand, and she wants us to make sure we come back.
The poverty is palpable, though, like a beating heart, you can feel the tough life of most people here. She tells us that gas is over $5 a gallon (it was $2.30 when we left Utah), and that she makes $25 a week. We ask her if she has a car, and she says no, cars are too expensive, and gas is too. We ask her where she lives and she says “on the other side of the island” - I am imagining at the end of this 80 miles of land, because we were on the West side of the island. We ask her how she gets to work and she says by bus, which is $1 a day. We asked if she can get a cab and she vehemently denies “no, no, cabs are expensive. They are $2 from one end of the island to the next. I take the bus, because it's only $1.”
Through this whole journey I am thinking how spoiled I am, as an American, and how hard life is in some places. I have lived a life close to that life so to me, this is as real as it gets. I can smell that life, still. All of it, including the trash and the stray dogs. I think of my friend whose Honduran father came to the United States and is now a lawyer with four beautifully accomplished kids himself. He started there, on those streets.
It feel fortunate, but also guilty. I want to help. I make sure we tip her well. She tells us that at $25 a week her salary is not enough to feed her son. She says she does the job for the tips, and some people tip and that's her livelihood. I make sure we give her extra – anything helps, and everything is not nearly enough.
We go back to the ship and we buy a hot cup of freshly brewed Honduran coffee. I didn't have any, my husband did, but it smelled like the best coffee I have ever come across in my entire life. So strong, oily and perfumy, in a masculine and bold way. From the deck on the ship, we look back to this pretty port, all clad in flowers and bidding us farewell.
The view from our ship back onto the marina in Roatan, at sunset.
“Salva Vida” means “lifesaver” in Spanish. I can't help but wish for a lifesaver for the population of this small island. They are beautiful people and they tell a beautiful story. I left them wanting only the best, cleanest, safest and most abundant gifts in life. Or maybe, I didn't get them at all. Maybe they fulfilled their happiness as is. With all the penury and bare-bone-ness I have seen in Roatan, Sonja was happiness incarnate: jovial, laughing even when she talked about the hardships (no hospital, no college, no money for cars), simply brimming with pride about her land. Maybe they have figured out their “salva vida” after all, and maybe it's more than just a beer.
Me, with Sonja. Click the picture for more shots from this journey