At least that’s what Rudi that banana pancake master used to say in West End here on Roatan. These days the only day that’s truly laid back any more is indeed Sunday…even though the Sun usually shines everyday.Today was no exception…it’s a family day here. I visited with friends and bumping down the island roads for an hour to visit my Uncle Chic, Auntie Andrea and their grandkids Trevor and Audrey was worth every pothole. You drive through the back barrios to get there, where the road is pretty much just an alley because everyone gets to their houses by water…which is the real road here. Past lines of girls in white dresses walking to church with their round cheeks, big smiles and café con leche skin. So, I’ve rattled past the AIDS clinic, past some rock heads, past numerous powerless houses on stilts over the water and squatters shacks to the end of the road to Chic’s house on the side of hill on Fiddler’s Bight…just in time to see and hear 13 year old Audrey her Hannah Montana impression and a darn respectable job on a couple of Taylor Swift tunes. Turns older brother Trev’s got a Les Paul in the closet and manages well with a couple of Clapton riffs…hey, you never know what you’ll find at the end of these roads. For me, its family and I’m thankful for another Sunday afternoon with them.
Up steep hills and hairpin curves the road flashes serpentine green. Muted sunlight from dense cloud cover filters through a verdant rainbow of leaves from Mango, Cecropia, tropical Oak and the living fences of Gumbalimba. I carefully dodge a nursing Brahma calf in the middle of the road as I pass a paintless shack selling gallons of gasoline from plastic jugs. I no longer even register the walking men with machetes…they’re simply going to work clearing back the jungle in places where they had cleared just a few months before. Without machetes there would be no views, no roads, no thatch roofs and no coconut lunch. Business finished, my return trip bounces me from one collectivo ride to a corner where I buy a bag of mandarines for about a dollar from George Hamilton…and yes, he was very tan. Another collectivo hailed and further east I go with a sidetrip through the iguana farm to land at the improbably named “Roymart”, a kwikeemart owned by popular ex-presidente Roy Maduro. I enjoyed his daughter’s wedding. Welcomed with affectionate licks from a spotted dog name Capitan, I walk the last half mile up and over hills, past numerous other barkers and the neurotic Rocky, who gets in bloody fights when he’s nervous…with his own tail. Having dispensed the dozen mandarines to various children along the way, I pocket the empty bag as I pass three different houses all containing residents named Wendy. Peter Pan-land on a Saturday afternoon to arrive home to a PB and J on bread from the Jewish bakery that doubles as an Italian Bistro on Thursday nights, but only to those who know and only if they like you.
Re-entry to Island life
Arrived safely the easy way this year thanks to TACA airlines. My first day here was full of typical adjustments…learning to walk slower, chill a bit. Accept a beer anytime its offered. Left the house my first morning her with a typical list of 10 things to do in hopes of getting half accomplished and ended up creating more. So…example…stopped for lunch and while watching hummingbirds over the top of my sandwich I met a guy from Glasgow swimming with a 3 year old in the pool next to the counter who could unlock my Iphone, re-chip it with local service and reconfigure it to get email w/ local service…and then my salad came. It’s a Roatan thing; you wouldn’t understand. Buying an iced coffee for the woman who worked the rentacar counter saved me $75 on a 3 day rental. Being nice works here.
Alaska