West End Girl

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Cursing early morning bus departures, I groggily pulled out of bed around 5AM. Fatigue prevented me from packing up the previous night; I was certainly regretting that choice now.

Hotel Gómez wasn't conveniently located to the heart of La Esperanza, but was a 5-minute walk to the bus station; fortunately, since I had to poke around a bit to find a family/staff member to open the front door. With a 6AM departure there was no reason to drive up and down the streets trawling for more customers, so we were soon on our way.

A familiar scene played out upon reaching San Pedro Sula: I had missed the pricey Hedman Alas bus. The ride had been under four hours, but the distance between terminals made catching the 10:20 impossible. The next bus to La Ceiba was too late for the ferry, and I realized that a few days of hitchhiking with locals made taking the luxury bus seem foolish. I inquired about my other options. In clear English, the Hedman Alas clerk said, "well, there are chicken buses, but I don't recommend them."

I never knew that residents of chicken bus countries actually referred to them that way.

The chicken buses were frequent, so I had time for the internet café. The first one I tried was closed. A couple sweet Honduran soldiers were right behind me, and offered to walk with me to another café. Both originally from Tegucigalpa, the English-speaking one told me he'd once been stationed in Morocco and loved it. I had no idea the Honduran military was so far-reaching.

We passed up the café I used last time in favor of one in a small mall off the Parque Central. The English speaker claimed it was safer. Eyeing the giant guns strapped to their hips, I wondered what could possibly make them feel unsafe.

After we checked email, the English-speaker begged me to wait for Hedman Alas, again emphasizing safety. I hated to be contrary but I absolutely had to get to La Ceiba for the 4:00 ferry. Giving up, they walked me to the chicken bus terminal.

Lingering doubts dispelled when I sauntered up to the ticket booth with two gun-toting soldados in tow. The bus line Catisa cost slightly more than I expected, but perhaps the soldiers had steered me toward the company using Mercedes buses rather than creaky Bluebirds. It was very comfortable, most of the seats empty, left on time and made few stops.

I grazed on bus food all day: vendors got on at every stop offering baleadas, empanadas and salted peanuts. A mobile buffet of tastelessness, with the empanadas being the most disappointing.

I arrived just an hour before the 4:00 boat, but luckily there were plenty of tickets available. Moon Honduras was way off on the price: a shocking 400Lps one-way!

I beelined toward the only other Asian person in the waiting area. He told me his cousin also worked in fashion, and he wasn't able to make it to Fashion Week this year. I rambled a bit that my mother was forever sending me clippings of up-and-coming Asian designers, and that the various fashion houses I'd worked in always had plenty of Asian worker bees.

Ken said, "Well, my cousin is Anna Sui."

How utterly random. Even stranger, he told me that Anna loved my new workplace, Rugby and had once dragged him to our NYC store that I hadn't visited yet myself.

A quick glance around the ferry confirmed I was heading toward the country's heart of tourism. After a week alone on La Ruta Lenca, I had to admit a small part of me was relieved.

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We met Robin and Sheldon while boarding the ferry; the laid-back couple was driving from Canada all the way through South America. In Roatán we agreed to split a cab, as Coxen Hole was a long way off from West End. Ken was actually headed to West Bay, but he'd still save some money.

The process of getting our luggage back was bizarre: the handlers would either hold up a bag waiting for recognition from the dense crowd, or they'd state the numbers on the bag tags but not quite loudly enough. And of course, multiple handlers would speak at once. It was kind of like the stock market, or at least the Hollywood version of such.

I knew hotels in West End close early, but I'd hadn't expected to arrive past 7. The cabbie tried a few hotels but we found many shuttered receptions. He was really pushing for Dolphin, so much so that I suspected he was getting a commission—but Dolphin's only vacancy was a dorm room that at $40 would only be considered reasonable if Sheldon and Robin shared with me. What vacationing couple doesn't dream of that?

Chillies—my original goal—was still open, so we got off there and bid farewell to Ken. The receptionist put me in the only room available, which had 3 beds. There was no dorm option on Chillies' pricelist, so it was unclear if the $18 I was charged would have reduced if the room were full; I just knew that for a shared bath, $18 was crazy steep. [Prices have raised since 2/2007]

The room was stuffy so I unpacked with the door open. A friendly girl named Jenny peeked in and told me she had a cabin in the back, and her roommates were leaving the next day. As we were both staying until Saturday, it made sense to room together. The private ensuite cabin was quite pleasant, surrounded by tropical plants and set back from the road. Sharing it was a relative bargain at $13.

I hung out with Jenny and her friends Jamie, T.J. and Jake the rest of the evening rather than exploring. T.J. cooked up a huge batch of cheese-covered pasta, which was just what my tired body wanted. The group had met in a Guatemalan Spanish school, but while Jenny, Jamie and T.J. were heading home soon, Jake had settled into Roatán to get his divemaster certification. Jake was a gregarious Chicago boy who'd done a fair bit of traveling; he peppered his passionate speech liberally with "man," "shit" and "fuck" and dreamed of improving his underwater photography.

With plenty of beer and weed to go around, the long travel day quickly took its toll. I headed to bed early, fantasizing about snorkeling.

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West End appeals to a range of budgets, but is known for being the more inexpensive area of Roatán. Thus, when I got up early for a contemplative stroll, I would be alone while all the backpackers slept off their various nighttime beach activities. Except for Sheldon and his big-ass camera waving cheerily as he passed me on the dirt road; he'd woken up early enough to shoot the sunrise.

I've never known why banana pancakes are considered a backpacker ghetto staple—at least that's how it sounds described by Lonely Planet—but I headed straight to Rudy's to sample his specialty. I was surprised firstly at being the only customer in the rather large restaurant, secondly at the all-Latino waitstaff (supposedly not the norm in the Bay Islands) and thirdly at the price—120 lemps for pancakes and café con leche! On the plus side, the pancakes were light, fluffy, infused with sweet banana flavor...they justly deserved their fame.

I rented snorkeling equipment from the Marine Park office, which offered a reasonable rate of $5 per 24-hour period, and the assurance that 100% of the fee went toward Park conservation & activities. English ex-pat Nick pointed out spots around Half Moon Bay with easy access to snorkeling. With a wicked grin, Nick's co-worker helpfully described all the sea creatures that could possibly maim or kill me, just in case I spotted them. His description of one breed's spike sliding through a rubber sandal was especially vivid.

As the name implies, Half Moon Bay curves inland, while the coral forms a straight line from point to point. It didn't seem worth anyone's time to swim out to the coral from the midpoint of the bay; I headed to Half Moon Cabins, a nice hotel with steps leading into the water from the seating area.

Despite what I'd read in Moon Honduras, I didn't find the snorkeling here to be particularly electrifying. It had nothing on the crystal-clear blue waters of Dahab, still the most amazing snorkeling I've ever experienced. There, the breathtaking drop-off allowed me to view variations in sea life from the surface to many meters down. In Roatan, the water was a greenish-yellow, the fishes' color less than brilliant, and the water was almost uncomfortably shallow. Thanks to the boys at the Marine Park, my usual anxiety of accidentally destroying coral was now combined with images of fish trying to kill me.

However, snorkeling is snorkeling, and I love being underwater. I clearly didn't fit in with the older clientele of Half Moon cabins, but the staff welcomed me to enjoy my lounge chair. With each subsequent entry, I loved it more.

I wandered around looking for lunch, nothing sounding particularly appealing. Prices were disappointing, even considering the high levels of tourism and difficulty in getting supplies and services to an island. I ended up at a place called Hot Chillies which served "Island Cuisine." My fish tacos weren't Baja style, but more like ceviche on top of grilled sopes. Interesting but not that great. My fries were terrible...I really need to stop trying to order fries. With a couple Fantas to slake my thirst, it came to 247Lps, again giving me sticker shock.

As much as I enjoyed any snorkeling opportunity, it was financially beneficial that I would only be in Roatan a couple days.

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To my immense surprise, I stepped out of Hot Chillies' and spotted Ken walking down the street. Roatán is hardly a big, bustling place, but I was still stunned to encounter someone I (barely) knew, especially one lodging in a fancier part of the island. Perhaps the two Asian people on Roatán are naturally inclined to find each other. He was headed back to West Bay, so I figured it would be a good opportunity to see a different crowd of fish while simultaneously researching a possible beach wedding locale for some friends back home.

The water taxi is a lovely way to travel—for 40 lemps we breezed along the less backpackery spots on the west side of the island. The taxi pulled up in West Bay at the shallowest point it could, and from there we waded onto the beach. It's probably not a good option for those wanting a nice night out in West Bay's restaurants.

I wasn't sure what I expected from West Bay, but I had gotten the distinct impression it was a more "couple-y" beach, meaning...well, romantic. It wasn't. It looked far more like a resort than West End did, with larger, taller hotels abutting all the way down the sand. The beach was prettier than Half Moon Bay's, but the larger crowd and hotels detracted from its beauty.

Underwater, it was marginally better than Half Moon Bay. I saw a turtle, which made my heart flip. I also found the coral more colorful, and the water—perhaps just 8 inches deeper—gave me a bit more swimming space.

Once I'd snorkeled to my heart's content, Ken greeted me with a big grin and a beer. We'd discovered on our initial taxi ride from Coxen Hole that we both considered Syria one of our favorite countries—finding another traveler who'd even been there was rare, to say the least. I relish these travel conversations, when everything sounds inspiring. If only there were more time to visit all the remote and untouristed places in the world: we discussed the beauty of Central Asia, debated the touristic appeal of Pakistan, and dreamed of returning to Syria. We chatted happily through sunset.

I was in no rush to get back to West End (despite really wishing I'd brought a dry change of clothes) so we headed to Bite on the Beach. The seafood was a bit more thoughtfully prepared than what I'd seen on West End menus, but it was only good, not great. Some sautéed fish, tostones and a couple beers really shouldn't cost $25. I had to remind myself this was the Caribbean, not truly Central America.

Our conversation lasted until closing time, so while I was wondering how to find a taxi back to West End, our waiter Rupert offered me a ride. We stuck around through clean-up, and made loose plans to meet at Sundowner's Bar the next day. As I jumped into a truck crammed with 10 staffers heading to Coxen Hole, I remembered that in Honduras—even on the Bay Islands—a jalón is never far behind.

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I quickly realized I preferred spending as much time as possible underwater. I'd already planned a boat snorkeling excursion with Jenny in the afternoon, but managed to squeeze in an early morning dip in West Bay. The fish relaxed quite quickly, surrounding me tightly; in fact, I think one bit me.

Back in West End, Jenny informed me she'd found some weed. Also, we were hungry. So there were a couple things to take care of before heading out snorkeling again.

With everything in Roatan being a bit pricier than I'd like—especially since I missed my man and couldn't resist sending him overpriced emails—it seemed the most inexpensive option was the beach bar Sundowners, which offered a limited menu of items actually cooked in a shack across the lane. At 95 lemps for a well-made cheeseburger and 25 lemps for some ice-cold beers, it was definitely reasonable for the Caribbean.

Colorado-based Jenny was a few years older than me, yet had never left the States before this trip. After three months of wandering alone through Central America—a brave prospect for a newbie—she had learned a great deal about herself and now knew she wanted to spend her life traveling. It was a vastly different travel conversation than I'd had with Ken but still quite enlightening to hear her point of view.

Jake was currently "working" (salary-free) at Coconut Tree Divers while getting his instructor's certificate; he'd clued us in that snorkelers could join dive trips for a mere $5. Our boat parked quite far from the coral, which was strange, but maybe it was to give the divers practice at wending through the water.

The reef was worth the cold swim, though: far below the water surface but offering a clear, lovely view and greater variety of sea life. When we compared notes afterwards, it turned out Jenny and I had both spotted the same barracuda. Its stillness was freaky as hell, appearing to be stalking a meal. Jenny was even luckier and saw a squid.

In my underwater reverie I managed to miss the return signal—always a worry for me with boat snorkeling. I suddenly looked up and realized the boat was very far away—but before I could entertain thoughts of being stranded, I noticed it was heading toward me. I was so late the crew actually came to pick me up. I was surprised that we'd only been given an hour; I always thought of dives as half-day affairs.

We met up with Jake and headed back to Sundowners for a final-night drink. I hadn't been in Roatán long enough to get sentimental by any means, but Jenny had been on the road a while and Jake clearly developed a thing for her since meeting in Guatemala.

It felt silly being back at Sundowners so soon, but the sunset was as beautiful as claimed, and the happy hour prices were fantastic. Ken snuck up while I chowed down on a large grilled chicken sandwich. It turned out Robin and Sheldon were there as well, and they'd decided to all go to dinner. I liked them so much I wanted to join, even though I'd already eaten; but then Jenny and Jake found another cache of weed. Fuck it, I was on an island, I could either bond with some really sweet people or just take down their email addresses and get stoned on the pier with the young male locals. I chose option B.

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I had just enough time for another morning dip. Jenny left in the early hours; her quiet departure was my gentle alarm clock.

I breakfasted in Half Moon Cabins' outdoor restaurant, where the pineapple pancakes compared poorly to the banana pancakes at Rudy's. And the service, while gracious, was incredibly slow. My waiter forgot tell me the restaurant was out of bacon until after serving the pancakes. Oddly, when Robin and Sheldon entered and took a table near mine, I overheard him listing bacon as one of the side dish options.

I sauntered to what already felt like my spot in the seating area. Previously, I'd followed the reef along the edge, where I found it a bit too shallow for my comfort. This time, I swam straight toward the cone in the middle of the bay and marveled at the difference: just shallow enough to feel close to the reef without chancing any contact.

I needed to check out by 10:30, so after an hour of snorkeling I decided to sun myself dry instead of going back in. I fell into conversation with a sweet elderly couple. The Honduran man with obvious European ancestry and his American wife were embarrassingly impressed at my evident swimming prowess. He'd visited West End back in the 70s, when there were no hotels or restaurants at all, and seemed excited at the difference.

I cleared out of Chillies and tucked my backpack firmly under wetsuits in the equipment room. I'd managed to work up an appetite again, but when the highly-recommended Velva's Roadside Restaurant was closed until 2pm, I resignedly headed back to Half Moon Cabins.

Ken was there. This was getting spooky. Turned out he was on the same flight back through San Salvador, so we had the airport in our future as well. I felt a little guilty for interrupting his journal-writing, but then again, he'd been under no obligation to invite me over. He was such a nice, pleasant guy, but our age difference—he was 44—may have led to some moments of disconnect. Still, knowing random people around West End made me feel at home.

Ken headed back to West Bay to pick up his luggage and a taxi, while I went cheapass and grabbed the 20Lps minibus from West End's main intersection to Coxen Hole. That bus...oh man, that bus...it was a short-distance chicken bus. The van barely broke walking speed, picking up everyone in sight even as some riders stood crouching. Squeezed next to the driver, I was hyper-aware of being touched every time he switched gears.

Coxen Hole looked much more intriguing than the guidebook implies. Yes, it was dusty and there weren't any nice beaches, but it seemed like an energetic mix of Latino and Caribbean cultures; and it may have been a market day. There was a distinct lack of tourists, who pass through in taxis to the more beautiful parts of Roatán.

A taxi cost 20Lps to go to the airport; I shared with a woman on her way home. She loved Brooklyn and noted that many "island people" lived there. She was an embroiderer and asked if I'd taken any special souvenirs from Roatán. When I realized I hadn't—and regretted not getting chance to see her work—I knew despite the fun I'd had on the island, I missed the local connection. I would like to visit Roatán again, but after some quality time underwater, I hope to explore a different side of the place.