Maybe somebody was trying to tell me something. After months of financial stress in a work place destined to implode upon itself before too long, I was totally burnt, as was Steve who had spent too many hours lately running dispersion models for some project or other. He was sick. I was tired.

Maybe somebody was trying to tell me something because it was more then the six hour red-eye from San Francisco to El Salvador, followed by the one-hour puddle jump to Roatan, Honduras that left the unders of my eyes looking like abandoned, soggy, teabags. Steve's nose ran incessantly. We'd been running hard.

After luggage retrieval and customs we hopped a $15 taxi for a short ride to Posada Las Orquideas, our lodgings for the week; both of us were twitching bundles of nerves. We arrived at 10:00 and tried to check in, but were told check out was at noon and they still had to clean the room. We could leave our bags with them but would have to wait until 1 o'clock to check in. Thoroughly exhausted we checked out of our winter Northern Californian clothes and checked into shorts and t-shirts before heading into West End proper, the SCUBA centric village we had come to immerse ourselves in. We had three hours to kill.

Dragging ourselves into "town" through the slow, humid air we walked past a fence full of heady red hibiscus and a small, canopied area where green banana's hung from the trees. Further on we came across a few pink-washed cabanas on stilts, as well as a few other places to rent on the outskirts of the village. Walking on we read the signs of dive shops Native Sons & Coconut Tree, the shop we would dive with. We passed the sign "Go Deeper" advertising the yellow submarine you could rent for an afternoon to take you down the sea wall to depths of 1500 ft. We walked past motels such as Posada Arco Iris & Half Moon Bay Cabins, and restaurants Sundowners, Argentinean Grill, and #2 Bakery we had read about while researching our trip. One after another these places lined one side of a white sand, pot-holed road, the Caribbean lined the other in a beautiful blue curve called Half Moon Bay. It was third world meets paradise. It was there in the bright blue Caribbean that we intended to spend a week doing 2 dives a day but not before having something to eat, a few naps, and a good night's sleep. We were exhausted.

Maybe somebody was trying to tell me something when Steve woke me up at 8am the next day for our SCUBA refresher course because my soggy tea bagged eyes had turned to cement. Drool from a heavy night of sleep kept me clung to my pillow. Oh I was sleeping so hard. "Boy it rained really hard last night," he said while wiping his nose and clearing his throat. I was wondering if I could find a translator because I couldn't comprehend simple sentences and his cold was sounding increasingly horse and bronchial, but we were going to dive today so I bucked it up and started to walk to town.

It wasn't more then 500 yards before I experienced the rain of which Steve spoke of from the night before. I tried to take cover up against the hibiscus fence, but Steve looked at me like I was nuts, which of course I was because there was no way in hell that the hibiscus fence was going to provide any such cover. I was instantly soaked. Steve slung the SCUBA gear over his back and hightailed it to Coconut Tree Divers about a third of a mile away while I trailed behind him wondering why I was dragging myself from bed in the rain to refresh my diving skills. Weren't we supposed to be on vacation?



Once safely out of the rain's giant drops on the porch of the dive shop we were greeted by P.J., the Brit Expat working behind the desk and then introduced to Tim, the guy who was going to freshen our barely used diving skills. Maybe somebody was trying to tell me something because as we talked the rain poured down as it only can in the tropics. Thick drops poured from the sky. We could see the beautiful, crescent, Half Moon Bay fill with white sand, runoff silt and there was some mention of being able to do the class in the pool which the dive shop guys joked was cold, 75 degrees. This of course made us laugh after trying to dive at Monterrey, 55 degrees, but dive shop guys were used to the 81 degrees of the blue sea waters before them and I could tell they were secretly not into the chlorinated pool out back and neither was I. I wanted a refresher, but not bad enough to do it in a pool in the middle of a downpour while suffering from sleep deprivation. Shrugging and sighing heavily Steve and I looked at each other and sadly decided to put off our diving a day in hopes of clearer and warmer waters. Leaving the shop we avoided the rain filled potholes and retired back to our room by 10 am.



We read for a bit. I fell asleep on Steve's chest briefly but clearly I wasn't adjusted to island life. I felt the urge to do something; an unnatural need to accomplish something the first whole day on vacation. If I couldn't dive because of the stupid rain there must be something else I could do on Roatan. So we made a plan. Emptying a backpack and stuffing pockets with Lemprias, the national currency and tissues we decided to hop a dollar fifty "Collectivo" mini van to Coxen Hole, the city where the cruise ships come in, to do a little shopping.



The "Collectivo" made me stunningly aware of the fact that we were in a 3rd world country and not just a diver resort town. Steve and I were the only white tourists in a van filled with over a dozen of the locals who were conscientiously being picked up and dropped off on our journey. When the van seats were full, people stood bracing themselves against the ceiling and windows. We left the main road briefly and drove into the real Honduras where families lived in small, colorful yet drab shacks not much bigger then my living room. The power was out again on the island, something that happed several hours each day randomly, so most people were relaxing outside to escape the stale, fanless air of their houses on that Sunday afternoon. No lush gardens of hibiscus here like where we were staying; rather clothing lined fences separating the view from one's neighbor. Garbage littered the muddy runoff ditches and I wondered if it was randomly tossed there or washed there from one of the storms over the last day or so. These people were poor and I wondered where they worked and how they lived since many of the people who worked in West Bay were clearly Expats. I felt kinda sad.



Eventually we made it to Coxen Hole, but someone was trying to tell me something because everything was closed. All stores, restaurants, tourist attractions, everything closed. We had to laugh. Perhaps the journey was the adventure of the day because the destination sure as hell wasn't anything more then a dirty barrio ghost town. We hailed the next direct 5-dollar cab back to Posada Las Orquideas but not before stopping for gas and watching from the back of the taxi the gas station guard walk around with his sawed off shot gun. This sure was an interesting day.



I have to say, all this unnatural, forced running around wasn't my fault. I'm conditioned. Conditioned to accomplish tasks in a regular and steady workflow. A creature of habit and yet here in the tropics I was the mouse in the maze, led without cheese. Without direction.



When we went to Jamaica 10 years ago the Rastas chased us down the beach yelling after us that we were going too fast. "In Jamaica mon, you go slow". And in Caye Caulker, Belize last year they had a sign when you landed at the airport that read, "Go Slow" but here in West End, Roatan, Honduras there were no signs. There was nothing to tell us to go slow. That we only needed to be and not be somewhere. Only after a series of mishaps did we get what someone was trying to tell us. Slow down! Get some rest. Get over your cold. Roatan will wait. The reef will be there tomorrow.



Maybe somebody is trying to tell me something and it only took a day for it to sink in and many failed touristic attempts before I got it. I was asleep by 9:00.