Thursday morning we packed our bags early, aiming to catch the 2pm ferry. We dawdled around and ate smoothies, and then went to pay for our room around 1:00. Rosalie, the owner, rang up our bill and said it would be $100 cheaper if we paid by cash. Not having enough cash on us, we ran down to the ATM to withdraw money and ran back (about 10 minutes each way in the midday sun). It was 1:35 when we pulled out of the driveway and we had no idea how far it was to the ferry, but Rosalie assured us that we’d make it.
One thing I haven’t mentioned is the driving (or lack of it) we’ve experienced on the island. Here are the rules I established from observing the road:
1) Honking means:
- Move it
- Go ahead
- I like your bum
- Hey Bob, how’s it going
- Need a ride?
- I’m going to hit you.
The drivers honk constantly. If they’re not honking, you, as a passenger, should be concerned as this may indicate that they may have passed out or died. (I'm joking of course.)
2) Cars have the right of way and if you’re a pedestrian, watch out.
3)If you’re a passenger in a car, close your eyes and pray. (Even if you’re not religious, you will get the urge to be.)
In town, we weaved in and out of other cars, vespas and tourists. It also helps to have free hands as a passenger, the better to shield your eyes with. The cab was stuck behind a scooter that was going fairly slow, so we tailgated for quite a ways. As we went around a particularly sharp corner, I heard the unmistakably sound of a flat tire. With three girls and their backpacks in the car, it wasn’t very reassuring, but the driver didn’t seem so concerned and we continued on. At 1:50, with no ferry in sight, I asked the driver “Esta lejos?” (is it far?) and he shook his head, no, not far. We arrived at the terminal at 1:58 and I truly thought we’d make it until we encountered speed bumps the size and shape of bowling balls. In slow motion, it took us a minute just to cross those speed bumps and the flat tire did not help matters (at one point I thought we’d get stuck). Anyway, long story short we missed the ferry. “I’m so sorry, friends”, our cab driver tried to console us. Needless to say we were in foul moods and did not want to make the trip back to the West End. Collectively we decided to head up to the unexplored French Harbour on the east side of the island, and the cabbie agreed to drive us. His English wasn’t very good, and our Spanish was worse. We asked him to take us to one hotel and he said, no, three girls should not stay there. So we tried another and he said maybe he should just take us back to Coxen Hole (where the ferries left from) because there are nicer places there. Finally we asked how about the french harbour yacht club, and he agreed to take us to the inn there. The West End, where we’d been staying, caters to independent and budget travelers, while other places we’d been on the island are very resort-like and touristy. The thing that we loved about the West End is that we had the chance to interact with locals and got to see what ‘island life’ was like as travelers rather than tourists.
French Harbour sounds lovely and exotic, but in reality, it showed us a different side of the island. This side of Roatan offered a wider perspective of life in Honduras, one of shanty houses with corrugated tin roofs and people cooking out of metal barrels in their yards. People walk the streets with machetes (well they do that in the West End too, that’s how I opened one of the coconuts on the beach “Excuse me, sir, may I please use your machete for a moment?”) but our sense of security had certainly diminished. Traveling, however, is going off the beaten track. Our room at the Yacht Club was nice enough but overpriced. However, like I said, our cabbie wouldn’t let us stay at any of the other places we suggested. In our room, I opened a drawer and found a cockroach, and there didn’t seem to be anyone else staying there, which we all thought was slightly spooky. At one point I left the room alone to join Robyn and Danielle for dinner, and when I closed the door a seven inch long green lizard fell onto my shoulder. Of course, I screamed like only a girl could scream, alone in a strange place and being accosted by reptiles. That night, as we did not want to walk around town in the dark, I wrote a long blog entry. In the midst of writing the power went out and it was all lost, hence the hiatus in entries. Apparently in French Harbour the power goes out every night around 9 or 10, but the hotel has it’s own generator and we soon had electricity. I just didn’t have the motivation to re-write the blog (and it was mostly about bad-driving anyway) and went to bed early. Next morning I was up at the crack of 4. Our cabbie came back at 6 and we were at the ferry terminal to catch the 7:00 boat (because like my parents always tell me, it’s better to be one hour early than one minute late). The boat was called the ‘Galaxy Wave’, and boy we were ever excited to go on such a fast-sounding boat! In our excitement, we all fell asleep as soon as we stepped on board and missed whatever exciting things happened along the way. It was hot when we reached the mainland, a little city called La Ceiba, which was bustling with morning activity around the outdoor markets. The driving was even worse in the city, but we made it (alive) to the bus station in time to catch the 10am bus. It was a little unnerving that before we stepped onto the bus that they took mandatory photos and record all of our passport information, despite the fact that the journey would not cross any international borders. We also had assigned seats (I was in seat 1 at the front of the bus) and I assume that these procedures were taken in the very likely event of a horrific accident when we, the passengers, would be smooshed beyond recognition and the only way of identifying us would be from our seating arrangements. My runaway imagination pictured Canadian papers with the headline “Canadian Woman Smooshed Beyond Recognition in Honduras Bus Crash” with my photo beneath (which was very sunburnt, tired, and sweaty. Yuck). It was a long, hot bus ride but at least I had a window seat. Uneventful, except that every time the driver honked (and if you’ve been paying attention to my descriptions of driving, then you’d know it was A LOT) I could feel the intense-bus horn vibrate beneath my feet so I didn’t get much sleeping done. We passed industrial parks and farmland, beautiful rivers and fields, watermelon and banana stands, and many little shanty towns.
Arriving in San Pedro Sula around 1pm, we decided on a budget hotel suggested in the Lonely Planet guide called Hotel Terraza. It was a decent place with a restaurant downstairs, but we were anachronisms within the hotel, which secreted the essence of the 70’s in its cigarette emissions, olive green and orange décor, moustaches and music. We stepped into the elevator, which was barely large enough to hold the three of us, and I felt the flimsy floor shift beneath the weight of me and my huge backpack. I have been in outhouses larger than that elevator (and smelled better, too). We took the stairs from then on. Because it was still early in the afternoon we agreed to walk around downtown and maybe do some shopping. We’d been told that the city is not safe, and to try and blend in and not look so touristy, which is hard if you don’t have a moustache and a bottle of hair gel (to look like many of the locals). Walking downtown we nearly caused accidents (people stopping the middle of intersections to stare at us and say Hola) and I nearly had a couple of accidents myself, one when I nearly walked into an open sewer hole, 5 feet deep and unmarked, and the second time when I got distracted by a street vendor selling ‘baleadas’ (tortillas with beans and cheese) and I definitely walked straight into a 3 inch cable holding up a telephone pole. Lesson: Kimie needs to pay more attention when she’s walking as there are dangers even when she’s not crossing the street. Especially when people are walking down the streets with rifles and AK-47s.
We returned home to grab a camera and Robyn and I ventured out to visit a beautiful downtown Cathedral with some impressive architecture, which offered respite from the hot sun and chaos of the city streets. At the hotel again, we ate dinner and tried to relax in our room. It was hard to do so with the intense heat and non-stop sounds of gunshots from the streets (there was no screaming. I hoped it was from a Police station we’d passed earlier, but we’ll never be sure. There was constant shooting for 20 minutes around 7pm, and we really didn’t want to leave the room and find out what it was.) We pushed the beds together and slept with no covers due to the heat.
Saturday morning we ate breakfast and paid for our room ($24 total for the three of us. One room and breakfast included, yay budget traveling. Elevator Insurance not included.) Our cabbie from the previous day returned to drive us to the airport and we all piled in thankful that it would be our last car ride in Honduras. Highway driving is not something I would ever recommend doing with a small child in Honduras, or a grown man for that matter. Or anyone sane. In fact, bring your own set of eye covers and maybe a Michelin-Tire man outfit if you can find one, just to protect you and your sanity. We were driving along the highway at 90km an hour and standing between two lanes of traffic was a small boy guiding a blind man. Traffic didn’t slow down when the small boy stepped out into the middle of the road, so he jumped back (just in time) not to get hit. Farther on down the highway, a boy of no more than eight riding a horse bareback galloped across our lane and I covered my eyes because I thought we were going to hit them. Closer to the airport, still going 90km an hour, we passed a group of people gathered at the side of the road at what I assumed was a bus stop. Approaching them, we saw that they were actually standing there staring at a man who was dead and lying face down on the pavement, his leg, from the knee down, had been ripped from it’s socket and twisted around away from it’s original position; just one casualty of the many I imagine are caused by the appalling driving down here.
You are now reminded that this was in no sense an all-inclusive resort vacation. Our encounters with locals and other travelers were unforgettable experiences that will not be easily forgotten (especially now that we’ve seen a dead man and AK-47s). The people of Roatan were friendly, and had great senses of humor and adventure that they generously shared with us. Two weeks went by far too quickly and we didn’t accomplish as much beach time as we had hoped (ha!). There is so much more to Roatan than I’ve shared in this blog, but to experience it you’ll just have to go on your own sun and sand and parrot and banana and fish and mango and coconut and filled adventure.
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