Scary!*

* not actually.


Airplanes fascinate me to no end. Not in a little six-year-old boy cars and trucks and models kind of way, but rather in a way that makes you really appreciate human accomplishment: high volume, long distance transportation via air is arguably one of the most extraordinary accomplishments of human kind. I do this anachronistic mind exercise where I imagine what someone from each time period would think of a situation or contraption. I find it helps me appreciate what we have here and now, and not to take any of our modern-day conveniences for granted, and it also emphasizes that we live in the ‘futuristic’ world envisioned in previous decades. No experience highlights this future quite like being on a plane. (Other emulations include taking the escalator in the new Holt & Renfrew in downtown Vancouver and also the simple experience of gazing at a city from a distance)

Anyway, being in an airplane never goes underappreciated by me, but I also think it’s a little scary (and by a little, I mean a LOT). When everyone is seated and the little instructional video comes on explaining what to do in case of an emergency, I can’t help but think that most passengers won’t be able to recall any of the instructions from the cool-spoken, calm and graceful demonstrations when (if…) a disaster or emergency occurs in-flight. When the video started up on my last flight it was the third time I’d heard it in just as many days, so I tuned out to my own little world.

“Yeah yeah… oxygen masks, life vests under the seat. Piece of cake. Got it.… hmm… if something were to actually happen, let’s say we crash land in the middle of cold, desolate Saskatchewan or a deserted island or something… which fellow passengers would I want to be stuck with? That guy over there looks pretty cute. Cute doesn’t necessarily go hand in hand with competence though…. And…Oh.No.He.Isn’t… he’s not actually going to- NO! He’s picking his nose on the plane. Ewwwwwww… cross him off my Competent People-To-Be-Stuck-With list. The woman on my left has a trendy haircut and is noshing gum while flipping through a French fashion magazine. The pink high-heels scream high maintenance. Nuh-uh. She doesn’t make the cut. Well, maybe she’s pretty resourceful, who knows? Guy at the window beside me looks like he’s too dependent on his blackberry to know how to build a fire in an emergency. Plus he cursed under his breath when they asked him to take out his headphones. Way too technology dependent and high strung. He might even panic at the sight of blood. Probably wouldn’t survive if our plane crashed anyway… don’t the window seats have the lowest chance of survival? Or maybe it’s the seats at the front of the plane… shit… remember to look up the stats online before you book your next flight. Wait, we’re near the wings. Not good, not good!!! …The dude and girl over there look pretty down-to-earth. Wait what’s that on her shoulder? A tattoo of a duck?! Who gets a tattoo of a duck on their shoulder? And who dates someone with a tattoo of a duck? They’re both off my list. Umm… soooo… now there’s no one on your list. Panic! No wait why are you panicking? The plane isn’t crashing. Just calm down. You’d probably die if the plane crashed anyway and that would solve the problem of whoever you are stuck with. Whew. Okay. Relax. All good… and who are you to judge competence anyway? The announcement is over. Good job, Kimi, you completely missed it! Where’s the nearest emergency exit…it would help to know these things, you know. What if the plane crashes and you have to crawl out of the burning cabin? You should have been paying attention! Now you’re one of those incompetent people that no one wants to be stuck on a deserted island with. I wouldn’t want to be stuck on an island with you. Try and look smart at least…What was that Will Roger’s quotation that Mom said to you last week when you wanted to get intelligent looking reading glasses?... Oh yeah, I think it was ‘You do look smart, Kimi. Just don’t open your mouth.’”

"Planes can fly because they go faster than gravity"

Had a dream last night that I was a giant snail creature with an ornate shell and stubby stegosaurus legs wearing a toque. Crawling around in a forest covered with leaves on the ground I remember thinking to myself that snails have got to be the most patient, loving and under-rated creatures EVER. I was so frustrated that I couldn’t go faster, and everything I touched was sticky and smelled like beer. Another giant snail creature explained to me that this was our snail juice that we left behind as we slimed around, and not to worry because it’s easily removed with a sponge and butter.

I guess invertabrates with domestic tips are just floating around in my subconcious, or I'm seriously craving some escargot.

Off to Montreal.

Distractions from pluvious June

Korean Artist Yeondoo Jung bases photographs on children's artwork. If only life worked this way...
http://www.yeondoojung.com/artworks_view_wonderland.php?no=88

And also...

This lollipop company has only two flavors: Absinthe and Maple Bacon.
It's like the quintessential food: Lollipops, meat, alcohol, maple and anise flavor. How excited are we?

About a million.

http://www.lollyphile.com/absinthe.php

Something to Crow About

I’m going to set up a crow attack hotline. It is mainly for people who have been traumatized by crows but it could also be a potential entertainment source (callers could listen to horrific anecdotes by people who have been attacked by these surly beaked monsters.)
The inspiration budded when I walked in my door two days ago and my room mate, Robyn, dropped everything and ran to me looking completely traumatized. “Kimie! I was attacked by CROWS!” My immediate reaction was to laugh, but then I remembered my crow-stalkers from Victoria last year (See: ‘Crows’, previous facebook message) and decided that crow encounters should not be taken so lightly. I listened to her story intently.

Apparently she was on Beatty Street, just east of Smythe on the edge of Yaletown. It’s not such a sketchy neighbourhood. The lawns are mowed, the sidewalks are squeaky clean. There is no apparent scruffiness or evidence of rats. Unlike the Downtown East side that I walk through everyday (“How was your day Kimie?” “It was awesome! I didn’t get mugged!”) it is a decent neighbourhood. If neighbourhoods were men, you’d bring this one home to meet your mom.

So anyway, she was skipping along (I imagine) minding her own crow-free business when one flew down and grabbed her hair! It swooped up and landed on an awning and Robyn, a little flustered and distressed, kept walking. Then it did it again! Now, grabbing hair is NOT pecking out eyeballs, but it is still a blatant invasion of personal space. Unharmed, but majorly weirded out, she continued walking. That’s it. Creepy crows! Things like this happen in other neighbourhoods, but not Yaletown.

After she told me this story, we speculated for a moment about why a crow would dive bomb her. Maybe her hair looks like good nesting material (it sure does! In many a bird-like moment I have been tempted to nest in it myself.). Also, crows like shiny things, and her hair is shinier than the shiniest thing you can think of (which in my case is Robyn’s hair, hence the lack of simile). Having come up with the two most logical reasons, we continued on to crow-less conversations.

So that happened two days ago. Then yesterday, on my way home from work kitty-corner to where Robyn’s crow-attack occurred, I saw a well-dressed gentleman crouching beneath a spindly sidewalk tree and cursing to himself, touching his head and looking up. Perched above on the branches were two crows. People were walking by this man giving him strange looks: in Gastown it’s not unusual to see a man crouched and mumbling to himself, but to see it in Yaletown raises eyebrows. Especially since he was wearing the socially protective uniform of a business suit. Things like that just don’t happen to guys in suits! Of course, two crows were perched above him. Instead of asking if he needed help I booted it home so as not to get attacked by the crows myself. I was hungry and exhausted, and while I thought it was strange, I can honestly say that the episode was wiped from my mind.

Until today, that is, when I was whistling on my walk to work and for once I wasn’t late or frazzled. In fact, I was quite content because I’d made myself a nutritious pile of hot sauce slathered eggs for breakfast and had a fairly easy day ahead of me at work. As I was walking along, smelling the roses and skipping (metaphorically), I stopped dead in my tracks, for I looked up to see a bird perched on an awning, staring at me. Surely there are many crows in Yaletown, but how many of them hold a hostile ‘Im-gonna-attack-you!’ expression? (Figure 1: Actual mental picture) IT WAS THE EVIL CROW!!

I started walking faster and covered my head, maintaining eye contact with the bird. And would you believe that it swooped down and grabbed my hair? Not once but TWICE!! I started running, scared for my life. Two business-suit clad gentlemen gave me quizzical looks as I ran towards them from down the block. They were both dragging along suitcases on wheels and kind of slowed down as I approached them. “A crow attacked me down there!” Out of breath, I pointed at the site of torment. Then I kept running. Last I saw I looked back and the two men had stopped completely, scared to continue on.

The tickle and scratch of the crow’s claws still fresh on my scalp, I pulled out my phone. I had to talk to someone about this. But who? Robyn had biked to work and probably wasn’t there yet, but I figured I would leave a message. This was far too important for a text message. I had a voicemail message all ready, but to my surprise she picked up: “I was just attacked by a crow!” I screamed. “Oh my God!” she retaliated. I recounted the last few minutes to her over the phone and felt like I really had someone to connect with over this issue; someone who really understood the trauma I was going through. Someone who had also felt those little avian claws get tangled in their hair for one distressing moment. Yet, if the same thing had not happened to her only a few days prior, would she have been so understanding? So empathetic? The answer is NO she would NOT HAVE. Hence why there is a need to create my Crow-Attack hotline. And for all you people who think this is not a serious matter, just wait until you get attacked by a crow and have no one to turn to. I can’t help feeling for that poor man in a business suit, (the one I completely ignored) who is surely out there wishing he had a Crow-Attack hot-line to call. And if any of you out there ever get attacked by a crow, please give me a call. I know exactly how you feel.

Jumping on the Blog Wagon

I’ve started a blog. Not because I’m bored or nerdy (debatable), but because after keeping a travel blog a few people have said I should try out writing. Since I’m not traveling to any exotic places these days here are the travels of my thoughts.***

*** I assume no responsibility for injuries caused from reading my blog. This includes injury from snorting beverages up your nose, or biting your tongue too hard to keep from laughing at work. Should injury occur, please blame your employer (for not keeping you busy enough, thus allowing free internet browsing time) or your cat (because cats can be scapegoats for almost anything except adultery: "Please understand, honey: the cat made me do it.") And if you don't have an employer OR a cat email me and I'll hook you up with either. But not both. Or a cat AS an employer. Why are you reading this? No one reads the fine print. Continue on, there are more interesting things to read.

Paradise Lost (From Travel Blog)

Our last night on Roatan, we ate fish tacos made of a Wahoo that had been caught on my fishing trip a few days before. I brought the fish, in steaks, to the place where we’d been having the tacos at the whole time we’d been here and asked if they would cook it for us because we had no kitchen. The cook, a woman, took one look in the bag and her eyes bulged. She spoke Spanish and I didn’t understand her. I thought she was saying she could not cook them and was angry that I would ask such a favor, but Sean translated and said that yes, she would cook them up no problem, and could she please have one of the Wahoo steaks herself? I had at least 2 pounds of fish, far more than Robyn, Danielle and I could ever eat, and I said of course, just make three orders of fish tacos, please, and you can have the rest. Nothing has ever tasted so good- it was like halibut, only a million times better.
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.

Skeeter Fodder

It's been raining on and off all day. When it rains it gets so humid that everything just feels wet. I hadn't even been in the rain but all my clothes are damp just from sitting outside undercover. I just walked down the street and bought bananas (bananos) and mangoes out of the back of a pick-up truck, which is how the fresh produce is sold here in the West End. I know I go on and on about food, but these are seriously the sweetest, most delicious bananas ever and I think I might move down here just so I can eat these and fish tacos every day. I will never again eat those awful pesticide soaked flawlessly yellow imitations that they sell in North American grocery stores now that I've had a real banana. The same thing happened when I had strawberries in Japan and went home and could never enjoy strawberries again because they weren't as delicious as the ones I had there.

I went for a short swim in the rain and saw a man-of-war, those highly poisonous jellyfish with the big blue bubble heads that float on the water. The water is still beautiful even when it rains and I was hoping to get one last snorkel in before we leave tomorrow (or the next day, or the day after that...) but due to the runoff from the road, the water is pretty murky so here I am writing this instead.

I would also like to brag about the extensive collection of bug bites that I have collected on my left leg. At last count it boasted a grand total of thirty-six bites. My right leg would feel left out if I didn't mention that it has accumulated an impressive thirty-four bites. Keep in mind this does not even count the remaining bites on the rest of my body. I have this great 30% DEET repellant that I used every night, but forgot to slather it on one night when we went for a walk and as a result I have achieved that attractive polka-dotted epidermis look made popular by sufferers of the chicken-pox.

Last weekend on Roatan

Does anyone appreciate how difficult it is to wake up at 5:30 without an alarm clock? I was invited to go fishing with Cony, his brother and his nephew and had to wake up early. Luckily, the bars stay open until 4am, so I knew that when the music stopped, I had an hour to sleep. That was the night I spent sleeping on the hammock, Saturday night, which is the reason I was awake at 2am (I had to wait until I knew it was 4am to fall asleep. Does that make sense? No. It's ridiculous.)

Anyway, so I went down to the dock when I thought it was 5:30, and Sean was down near the cabin office. I asked him if he knew the time and he just said "Too early." So I waited, having no idea what time it was, and within 5 minutes, a little yellow boat came along (evidently I have a very accurate inner-clock) with Cony, his brother Loni (who has amazing dreadlocks) and his nephew Anthony, who is about 15. We went off shore and there was a beautiful tangerine coloured sunrise behind the island.

The water was calm and it was already warm, and as we puttered along flying fish jumped out of the calm sea and flew away from us. Bizarre creatures, and nothing like I had ever pictured them being like. Pelicans flew by, too, and a huge turtle surfaced and poked his head out of the water. Contrary to my belief that it's bad luck to have a woman on board while you're fishing, Loni and Cony said that it's actually considered good luck, and within half an hour we'd caught two wahoo, about 35-40 inches long, 'small', they said. We were fishing for tuna, wahoo and blue marlin. There was a huge cooler kept in the back of the boat, where bait fish was being kept, and I asked what kind of fish they were using. Turns out it's tuna. Beautiful tuna flesh being used as bait, can you imagine? That's like $20 worth of sashimi right there. But it did catch some huge wahoo, four in about 4 hours.

The first was small, about 15 lbs. The second had it's tailed bitten off as it was being reeled in (by a shark...?) I reeled in the biggest one, about 32 lbs. At about 11 we headed in to shore, passing other fishing boats along the way and sign languaging that we'd caught 4 big wahoo. (hold up four fingers, stick out your thumb and little finger, give it a wiggle, and then hold your arms out to indicate 'huge'). We sold them onshore (not sure how much for) to a rich American with a huge cigar in his mouth and his hair slicked back.

I went back to the cabin and the girls had gone to the beach (we keep walkie-talkies handy so that we always keep in touch without phones). It was so hot I was drenched by the time I'd grabbed my swim stuff and we went to the beach. We lay on the beach for awhile and decided to head down to West Bay beach, which is a 10 minute water-taxi ride ($2.50) or a 45 minute walk. We walked down there along the coastline which is covered in eel-grass because of the storms from last week, and arrived hot and exhausted to a beach festering with people for the Easter Weekend. I've never seen so many people crammed into a beach. The water was like people-soup and just as warm. We went to the far end of the beach where it was less crowded and public, so you don't have to pay the $5 'beach lying' fee. The downside of this is that there were no security guards watching over our things, so one of us always had to watch over our things. We walked back at sundown (except that it gets dark so quickly we were stumbling over beach rocks by the time we got back. Good thing we eat our carrots, I said to Robyn).

Dinner was at the italian place, which has excellent sea-food. There were some annoying people sitting next to us at the restaurant. The kid, about 10 or 11, with glasses, waved his menu around and shouted "DOES ANY OF THIS COME WITH ANYTHING?!?". In fact, they were so obnoxious we wondered if we were on one of those reality TV shows where they torture you until you crack and then everyone laughs about it later. But no, there was no laughing later. A kitten came and sat on my lap while I ate dinner, and the girls at that table were appalled "Oh my god!?! Does it bite? Look at that girl, she has a cat on her lap. It probably bites. Oh my god." I'm just stating facts here, and will not elaborate on the annoyingness of the situation. I'm not being mean either, just factual. Let's just say that we needed a drink or two to help us get through that awful situation.

Now we're trying to figure out how to get off the island. We were going to fly from here to San Pedro Sula, and then take a bus to the ruins at Copan, but we waited until the last minute to book our flight and it looks like we may either be stuck here an extra day (there are worse places to be stuck, I can imagine), or take a ferry to the mainland and then bus it to San Pedro, where our flight leaves on Saturday. Rumor has it another storm is coming though, and the ferries don't leave when it's crazy-windy. Either way, we'll find a way to get off this beautiful rock. (Or maybe we've developed the island aloofness and just say 'meh. Guess we missed our flight and have to live down here. Meh. Pass me another smoothie.")

The ABCs of Roatan

This is the type of categorical nonsense I come up with at 2am when I can't sleep, when I go lie out on the hammock, mess around with the thoughts in my head and get dive-bombed by bats.

The Unofficial ABC's of Roatan, by Kimie, with input from Robyn and Danielle:

A is for Alex, my codename down here. As in "Hi I'm Mario from Mexico, and who might you be?""Nice to meet you, Mario. I'm Alex from Kansas."

B is for Banana soda, like cream soda, only tasting more of bananas!

C is for Creole- my new favorite language. As far as I can tell it's a mix of spanish, english, french and sign language. Something like "what are you doing tonight" is "whatyalldoonnight?" only mumbled, and without any consonants so it sounds like "ayallooight?" and the answer is "yeh." I can understand it. There's a lot of head nodding too. I am a master of it by now and Robyn and Danielle keep telling me to quit mumbling.

D is for Dylan. As in, "Oh Mario, you haven't met my friend Dylan." aka Robyn.

E is for Enormous ex-football players that Robyn spits on like a llama when she laughs. This girl is no longer allowed coca-cola.

F is for Fish tacos. I've eaten them every night for the past 5 days for dinner.

G is for Gabriel Garcia Marquez, a Colombian writer. I just finished 'Love in the Time of Cholera' while lying on the beach. Best book I've read in a long while, and it takes place on the shores of the Caribbean.

H is for hammocks.

I is for iguanas! They're as common as squirrels down here, only three feet long. I asked the lady who owns the place where we're staying how they get down from the trees. She says they fall down.

J is for jacuzzi water. I'll never get tired of swimming in a warm ocean.
K is for lack of key lime pie. Every night after fish tacos we ask if they have key lime pie because the sign that says 'desserts' on a white board says 'key lime pie'. So K is for lack of Key lime pie.

L is for leaf cutter ants! Every night between 9 and 10pm little leaf cutter ants march in a line across our walkway up the cabin. The other night it started pouring rain, and the next morning when we went down the stairs, there was a perfect little trail of abandoned leaf pieces. It started pouring and they abandoned their leaves and ran for their poor little ant lives!!

M is for Cony, a local we met at the dive shop and who has invited us to volleyball games. I asked if it was short for anything, and he says that because his dad is half Scottish, he wanted to name one of his sons a Scottish name, so he named him McConey. When his birth certificate was being written out, they wrote 'Mercury' by mistake, which is now his legal name. So M is for Cony.

N is for Natalie (Danielle's codename). "Mario, meet Natalie." "Nice to meet you, Alex, Dylan and Natalie. Do any of you speak spanish?"Dylan: "Yeah Danielle speaks a little."Mario: "And who is Danielle?" Oops.

O is for octopi. Haven't seen any.

P is for Parrots! They're in a cage at the bottom of the stairs leading up to our cabin, and they whistle and give catcalls every time we walk by.

Q is for BBQimie, because I have been nicely seared.

R is for rumbrella! We ran down the street in a torrential downpour and used a bottle of rum as an umbrella.

S is for sand and salt. It could be for smoothies, or snorkeling, or SNUBA diving (yes, snuba) but sand and salt is in every fold of clothing and embedded in our scalps and our ears. We're marinating in it.

T is for Typical Breakfast (plato typico!) Refried beans, fried eggs, avocado and white cheese wrapped up in a corn tortilla. Mmmmmmmmmmm.

U is for Utah. The first friends we made down here were from Utah, and they get special mention in here. They also attended 'The U' which is what they call the University of Utah.

V is for vanity out the window. We get so salty why bother taking a shower? PS: Apparently my hair is curly.

W is for Wahoo! I went on a fishing expedition this morning and caught a 32 pound Wahoo (I've asked why they're called that and no one seems to know. We can only guess it's because that's what you shout when you've caught one.

X is for X-ray. Our waiter, Sean, at the fish taco place broke his hand the day before we arrived here, and his hand is in a cast. He's a skinny little guy and has glasses. He's lived all over the states and couldn't be much older than us, but he's really gotten into island life.

"How did you hurt your hand, Sean?"

"On someone's face."

He said he got an X-ray of the rest of his body and he's going to put it onto a T-shirt.

Y is for "Yaloa", how the local girls say "hello"

Z is for Zupa. (soup). As in, it's a bird! It's a plane! It's Zupaman! (Just like the more well known superhero, only more likely to be found carrying crackers and a spoon). Actually it's not even spelled with a Z. It's an S. Nothing down here starts with Z.

And there you have it.
PS: It's not a problem for anyone if I don't ever come back, is it?

No Sharks. I promise.

On Tuesday, one of the local guys had offered to give us a tour of the island in his mom's car. We waited on the beach at 11, when he said he'd meet us, and he never showed up. A little miffed at being stood up (or maybe he couldn't let his mom to lend him her brand new car...?) we sat on the beach and contemplated whether to nap, swim, or eat a smoothie as our first activity of the day.

As we sat there in our states of lethargy (and for Robyn and Danielle, states of hangovers induced by caribbean rum) enjoying the sun, we saw our buddy Ty walk by, so we shouted at him and asked what he was doing. He shrugged nothing and asked if we wanted to be taken out to a shipwreck to go snorkeling? We had our snorkel gear on hand and said of course. He needed to fuel up first, and we needed to fuel up on Smoothies, but 20 minutes later we were speeding and weaving through reefs on his little boat, with his buddy Ernie. We zoomed up the island about 12km and there, about 1km out from shore, was a big rusty heap.

Danielle was skeptical because she hates Groupers, those huge ugly fish with big lips. Completely harmless, but annoying, she says. I was skeptical because it was a big rusty heap, and we were so far out from shore. The water was really choppy and Ty said to keep our eyes out for a black buoy. We circled and circled again, looking for it. And after a few tries he said said we'd have to tie the boat to a rock. Now, as a seasoned boater (okay, well I've been on a boat at least) my sailor's instincts told me that tying a 15 foot boat to a rock under water in choppy weather is not a good idea. The water was completely clear and only 10 feet deep, and eventually I saw something that looked like a rope, about a foot beneath the water. We were still circling, trying to find the best rock to tie the boat to, but when I pointed out the rope I saw, that was anchored to the bottom, Ty dove down and got it. Apparently the buoy had come loose, but it was the right rope. I have a feeling my trained sailor's eyes finding that rope saved us from losing the boat.

Before hopping in the water I needed some reassurance. "Hey Ty, what's the protocol if we see a shark?"
"No sharks here." He said in his easy-going Creole way.
"Promise?!!!"
Ty, laughing: "Yeah, promise."
I hopped in the water, feeling slightly relieved.

It was the most beautiful, colorful, radiant place I've ever seen. Stretches and stretches of pristine, lively coral reefs. Hard to believe that below that choppy surface, and below the rusty tops of that shipwreck was a magnificent (and I don't usually use that word) world, so serene and calm and clear and blue. I spotted a little squid or cuttlefish with huge eyes who fluttered curiously around us. Ty pointed out an ugly barracuda moving past us, and beneath him, a huge sting-ray gliding along the sand. We saw a turtle dart away from us (I had no idea they were so fast! So fast I didn't have time to snap a picture) And eventually we were so far from the boat we had to make our way back after an hour and a half.

We hopped out of the water and thanked Ty for sharing that beautiful place with us. He shrugged, grinning, and said "Yeah it's too bad I couldn't find the nurse shark I was looking for." "You promised there were no sharks!!"
"It was a NURSE shark! Harmless."
Having been so far from shore, and so far from the boat, in only 10 feet of water, and having been promised there were no sharks, I can only imagine the ensuing panic had he successfully found a nurse shark to show us, harmless or not.