Sanitation Solution -- Dive Deeper

Sanitation was a problem in West End. Plumbing though present was a recent arrival to the neighborhood or so it seemed. The entire strip smelled like sewage and nobody ever mentioned it. It was accepted and embraced. Every other week or so, one of the more popular outdoor eateries and bars would put on a curry feed. It was always the same yellow curry with potatoes, rice and carrots. Nothing gourmet, but it was all you can eat and every island transplant would come for the best deal around. Unfortunately, the bar was located where the human waste smells were most pungent. You'd get your plate of food, eat while speed walking down the beach, mouth on fire and not enough hands to carry your drink. The dirtiest travelers would just hang around the bar, ignoring the foul air, but most would split as quick as possible.

Compared with the opposite side of the island, where flushing toilets simply didn’t exist, we didn't have it so bad. In place of an actual john, docks stretched fifteen to thirty feet out above the surf with a shack at the end. Once inside the shack, you needed to be careful not to fall through the circular hole cut into the floor. I imagine potty training was a real treat for overprotective mothers on Roatan.

Anyhow, Justus had the bright idea to take a few divers to explore a coral wall on the North side. One client, didn’t feel like diving and instead went snorkeling. Head down, feet kicking she swam all around the abundant shallow corral reef. Tons of fish, small rays and tiny jelleyfish were abundant in this area. But, so were the outhouses.

Kicking along in bliss, barely covered in a yellow and white bikini, she swam right into a liquid pile of poop and toilet paper clumps. At least the water was warm.

The dive group, however, had a great time. A beautiful nurse shark swam within a few feet of us, the coral was very healthy and the current allowed us to relax and just enjoy the magic. About half way through the dive, I had a little scare. My weight belt came undone and slipped off. Without good judgment I dove down and caught it as it slipped. With my velocity carrying me further down and the little air in my BCD compressing as I went deeper, I began slowly accelerating. By the time I rolled back into my weight belt, I was way too deep. I didn’t have a dive computer at the time and now my charted dive would be off. I darted back up to our original sixty feet. I was fine, but had used poor judgment and it bothered me. Oh well, the dive could have been full of crap... After all, I could have been snorkeling.

Foreshadowing

Before heading to Honduras (the third time), I had a nice little job at a dot com advertising company as a manager of a small team. I had become tired of myself in my management role; I wanted more freedom, so when the opportunity arose to take a layoff, I jumped. I was headed south. Andrea and I were on to a new adventure. We were returning to Honduras with the naïve intention of staying for at least one full year and potentially a lifetime. However, first were the numerous parties and social obligations one feels indebted to entertain when working for a dying company.

I couldn’t simply leave, I had to drink heavily with my colleagues first. Every Thursday evening, engineers, some management and I would work late into the night, sometimes staying in the office until one or two am. It was a required part of the job, however, to make it more enticing a culture of heavy drinking and free pizza had been propagated by company big wigs. It’s hard to say when it went from a casual beer to everyone bringing in bottles of Oban scotch, but I do remember that I was slightly uncomfortable with this evolution. It was my job to sign off on the end product of the night. One Thursday, I remember there was a major technical problem. Basically our product simply didn’t work. I was drunk, my boss was drunk and so were the engineers. We were actually going to have to work, but we were in no shape to pull it together and I was the bull’s eye the hated bearer of bad news. I told Ruth and she filled up my glass, I declined and she pouted. She said something to the effect that if I wasn’t a team player then I should find another team. I drank. We weren’t able to fix the problem until around five am the next morning. My wife was upset, I was exhausted and cranky and Ruth didn’t even make it in the next day.

That’s when I did the unthinkable. I carefully composed a well thought e-mail to the CEO of the company, explaining in detail how an unsustainable culture of imbibing had developed amongst the Thursday night crew, and was threatening the quality of our product. I guess I hadn’t learned that grade school rule of not tattling on your peers. The CEO promptly told my boss, who in turn promptly called me into her office and poured two shots on the table. It was Monday morning around ten o’clock with a full week of harassment staring me down. Ruth, then tugged on her right earlobe and said “do you know what that means?” I didn’t say anything. “It means drink you little fucker!” I smiled, I had been trumped. I downed the shot of sweet syrupy liquor that I found cheap and distasteful. After I put the glass down, she smiled and then tugged her right ear lobe a second time. Obediently, I complied with her request and downed the other shot. Never again would I tattle.

That next Tuesday my wife proposed that we fast in order to clean out our digestive tracts. I casually agreed not really considering the consequences and by Thursday I was starving. I just had to make it through the night without eating anything. So, I just drank more. I don’t really remember much of the drunken stupor of the evening, but the next morning after a large breakfast of cereal, coffee and fruit, I had a very satisfying bowel movement. When I stood up to finish the process and flush the toilet, I saw a curiousity that I needed to investigate, a giant udon noodle wrapped around my discolored turd. At first I wasn’t sure what it was, so I went to the kitchen and grabbed a pair of ornamental chop sticks. I returned to the bathroom and lowered the chopsticks to the toilet rim as if it was a plate of yaki soba. I tugged on the end of the noodle, suspending the turd above water for a brief second before the noodle slipped and back into the toilet everything splashed. How in the world did a noodle remain undigested and whole all the way through my stomach, upper and lower intestine?

Then the realization hit. It wasn’t a noodle, it was a worm. I had worms. I pulled up my shirt and stared at my belly button expecting a worm to poke through the skin surface any second. I screamed, I danced and then I frantically called my father who at the time worked as an office manager of a small town medical clinic. Hearing my story in frantic half sentences, he called down the hall to a Pakistani endocrinologist. The doctor laughed and said that why shouldn’t white Americans get worms, everyone in Pakistan gets them. He then instructed me – my father diligently repeating his words over the phone - to put the worm in Tupperware and take it immediately to the doctor’s office.

I grabbed a plastic sandwich container from under the sink and returned to finish the task. After retrieving the worm, I called the doctor and scheduled an appointment for that afternoon. I then headed to work with not one Tupperware container, but two, one for my peanut butter and jelly, the other for my very special pet worm. At work, I managed to show at least twenty of my peers in the first half hour. Some were disgusted, others intrigued, everyone was interested in the fast and many started fasting that day to clear their digestive tracts of any visitors like mine.

Two o’clock came and worm in hand I went to the doctor’s office. The doctor, a young guy fresh from a sabbatical in South America, asked me if I had been traveling, eyeing the worm. I answered yes, mentioning my honeymoon in Roatan Honduras. He left the room to consult with a colleague returning a little while later. Well, this variety of parasite isn’t in the states, so you probably picked it up on your trip south. He prescribed a single pill, explaining that it would shock the colony members’ nervous systems. My own system was in for a shock as I had no idea there could be a colony living in me. After being excused, the prescription safely in my pocket, I went to the bathroom, cupped a handful of water and splashed my face before returning to the office waiting room. Next morning with my daily B.M. out came the colony. My stool looked like a tan candy cane, stripped with white swirls of Honduran parasites. Maybe I shouldn’t have put my name on that list after all, but it was too late. Two weeks later, we were on a plane to San Pedro Sula, Roatan. We then traveled by bus from San Pedro to La Ceiba, boarding the ferry for Roatan the next morning. All of our belongings were in boxes in my in-laws’ basement.

Perspective Shift on being a DD

In Honduras, right and wrong take on new meaning. For instance, it's not necessarily wrong to show up an hour late to work and pretend you're on time. It's not necessarily wrong to start drinking green beer for breakfast either. Nor is it wrong to drive after drinking large quantities of green beer

Alex was a really good driver intoxicated or otherwise. I know, since I use to often ride with him into the main port town. He would be drunk at eight in the morning; Andrea and I would arrive at the shop at seven or seven thirty, get a list of supplies needed if any and Andrea would hang around the shop chatting or reading while Alex and I would take off in his little red pickup. I just went with the flow. Years earlier, I had been in Tegucigalpa, the capital, and went to the hippest bar in town, a parking lot where kids would sell liters of rum and cheap vodka to drivers. Not only was it legal, there were M-16 toting police in the lot guarding the patrons from potential carjackers.

Anyhow, I would buy Alex’ gas with my boss, Justus’ money and we would fill up at a little roadside shack. There wasn’t a gas station on the west end side of the island, but rather an entrepreneur selling gallons from milk jugs. Each milk jug had a slightly different color. My unproven hypothesis is that the roadside salesman peed a little in each one to make it go further. Alex and I would cruise to town at ridiculous speeds picking up every hitch hiking island laborer along the way. By the time we made it to town, fifteen to twenty large men would be riding in the back and sometimes in the front with me. They would pay Alex what they could and jump out without any communication at various stops. It was the Island’s short bus for the crazy kids and I always enjoyed the ride. We never did wreck but had many close calls. What a thrill.

I'm not blaming this experience on my most recent run in with the US policia, but it sure didn't help me survive in our strict .08 drunk driving world. Back in Colorado, one night living the bachelor life, i.e., Andrea being in Seattle and myself staying behind in Eldo, I had a nice little nightcap at the local burger joint before heading on home five miles down the road. It was a Wednesday night and I had been out climbing with friends. I hadn't had a bite to eat in six plus hours, and with the kitchen closed at the Southern Sun, had decided that one calorie is as good as another and opted for a pint glass of Perl Street Porter. Then another and finally one more on the house, by a smiley bartender offering love, happiness and free beer.

I was in my car with flashing lights behind me before I realized that this might be a problem. Needless to say, I failed my intoxication test by blowing a .19 and headed to the police station on the North side of Boulder in the back of the car. I had the option of repeating the blowing exercise or a nice pin prick for a blood test and went with the latter. With my blood drawn, my photo taken and my finger stained with ink, I had nothing to do but sit shoeless in a plastic chair watching info-mercials for the rest of the morning. The cop was nice enough to not tow my truck and at 5:30 I was released. The police called me a cab who delivered me safely to the point where this whole fiasco started and I drove the remaining three miles into Eldo.

Ok, a needed perspective shift, I get it. Learned my lesson well, no more drinking and driving when outside of Honduras. However, this is where it gets confusing. Two months later, at a friend's house party in Denver, I had another run in. A female police officer came to the door and let us all know that the party was over. We needed to go home immediately. This seemed strange to me as it was only 10pm and the party was only beginning to liven up. Nevertheless, everyone was exiting the house and I followed suit. Andrea and I walked around the block and returned via the backyard. In the backyard stood a huge police officer with a big fast food belly and a booming voice. "You!" he yelled across the yard, pointing in my direction. "You, need to get in your car and go home!" Well, I'd had it. What was it, was I supposed to drive drunk or not?

Confused, I took the most logical option. I didn't drive, and I didn't leave. Instead, I brilliantly yelled back, "**** you, I'm drunk, I'm not going anywhere!" I then had that awesome cataclysmic feeling of complete weightlessness, the kind you get when you're rapidly leaving solid ground and falling into the abyss. The cop, prepared for such a chess move, had put me in check mate and before I knew it, my hands were behind my back and his sour breath on my neck. I remember my friend's voice pleading with the police man in her sweet southern manner, "awe, he didn't mean it. He's silly like that, says **** all the time."

The police man, ignored her pleas, pushed me to the ground and warned everyone else, that they too could take a ride in his Chevy. Everyone cowered, and I sat there in the wet grass carrying on about how unjust this whole thing was. How I was being arrested for not driving drunk. I kept asking if everyone was seeing this, as if not watching a train wreck is an option for anyone with a pulse. Thinking back, I guess that was a dumb question, but at the time, seemed very appropriate. Anyhow, we took a nice ride down to the detox center, all the way arguing like teenagers. I informed him, that he failed to read me my rights. He agreed, countering with "I'm not arresting you." Man, this threw me for a loop. I asked him to let me go, but he ignored me. I then told him that he was endangering me, as he hadn't fastened my seat-belt and in fact he was causing me to break the law. In fact he was an accomplice to my lawless act and could be prosecuted. He ignored that one as well. I carried on and on, thinking about how I could go on Democracy Now, write a book and speak at nation wide rallies. You see, I was drunk and all this made perfect sense.

Finally, we got to the detox center, where I was processed and once again got to watch some info-mercials. My number came up, I blew in a little machine, that confirmed yes, I was inebriated, but and this is the best part. I was just .001% over the legal limit to drive. So, I was released immediately, hailed a cab and met my friends at a local bar.

Dealing with the Unwanted Visitor

Staph is common in the ocean waters surrounding Roatan. This is a short story about my exposure to this unwanted visitor, that affects roughly 10 out of 10 dive masters and instructors living on the island.

I too felt the wrath of staph one sunny optimistic morning. I ignored the first few blisters. Hoping they would just go away, I told myself nothing was wrong and my world was the same as the day before, green beer would be served, Bob Marley would sing and bubbles would be blown. After few became many, spreading from my armpits to my nether region, I realized that I was up against a serious test of manhood. I couldn’t ignore this enemy and I faced it head on.

I had heard that urine would cure the infections, so I diligently popped each little pimple, reaching between my legs with dirty fingernails and squeezing as best as one man can. I wanted to be sure and thus grabbed a keychain flashlight in one hand and popped with the other. I couldn’t really see too well, so I proceeded to get on my back arching my head up between my legs for better lighting. I was alone in the communal bathroom at the time, but as luck would have it hadn’t locked the door. With my head inches from my pimply bottom, my left hand holding a little flashlight and my right hand nervously close to my sorest area, my beautiful calm wife opened the door. I had been caught in humiliating acts before, bringing shame and embarrassment to both my wife and I, but this took it to a whole new level. The expression on Andrea’s face was horrifying and I knew that without quick words our marriage was on shaky ground. I thought fast and hard and with confidence explained my plan, "no, you see baby; I need you to pee on me." She replied, "and, I need you to put your pants on and never ever do this again." She left me on my back, door slightly ajar with my shorts around my ankles.

I pulled up my pants and ran out the door chasing her down and explained that I really did need her help. I showed her my blisters forcing her to watch the train wreck of me bending at the waste and spreading my naked bottom. "Here right here," I exclaimed pointing to my most humiliating body part. Only after my desperate pleading did she agree. We returned to the bathroom and stripped out of our clothing, I assumed the position curling up at the bottom of the shower and she peed. A day later the blisters were worse. Urine was not the answer.

For my next attempt, I went to the West End pharmacy. An old white man with a Caribbean accent set at the counter, his shirt completely unbuttoned, a plump belly covered in gray hair folded over his khaki pants. He ignored me as I browsed the dust covered medicine on the sparse shelves next to green plantains and individually wrapped rolls of toilet paper. Medical labels are for doctors and nurses, it’s a language spoken only after eight years of medical school and two years of residency. Now put a Spanish twist into the mix and you’ve got a whole bunch of incomprehensible potions and spells straight out of an alchemist’s lab. I went with the tried and true approach of common sense. I figured like medicines are stored in like places. Thus around penicillin, the only name which I recognized, would be the antibiotics. Furthermore, I figured that a lotion would be for topical purposes like for instance a skin condition, perhaps even a staph infection. Finally, I went with the most logical of all common sense rationality. You get what you pay for. So, I picked the most expensive topical ointment in the general vicinity of the penicillin.

At the counter the old man seemed pleased with my decision. I took his approval as a sign that he knew what ailed me and agreed; this magical ointment would indeed cure me of my puss filled blisters. I happily left the pharmacy with my bowlegged labored shuffle knowing that my suffering was nearly over. After applying the expensive ointment to my armpits and unmentionables three times daily for a week’s time, the blisters remained defiant. All was lost, I would never get better.

That’s when I made my third and final mistake. I went to my boss Justus. First, I told him I had the curse. He looked back with glazed eyes, he had no idea what I was talking about. I told him about the blisters on my "you know" and a wave of knowing came upon him. "Oh, of course you have blisters, you wear a wet suit!" he said, following with "everyone gets them -- no big deal, they go away." Clearly his hadn’t at least since we had been on the island. I showed him the nearly empty tube of expensive ointment that I had applied religiously. "This is junk -- won’t work," he chastised.

"Why not?"

"It’s for your eyes."

"No, really?"

"Yeah, it’s for pink eye; who told you to buy this?"

I had been taken. The reason that old man had been so pleased with my choice at the pharmacy was because my purchase clearly paid for a rather nice dinner that night. He hadn’t been concerned with my discomfort at all. Everyone on the island suffered. Why should I be any different? Justus tossed me a bottle of penicillin and told me to stay out of the water for a week.

Out Cocking the Cocky College Kids

One bad call during a dive, could have had fatal consequences. This story is about a time I got lucky.

I took a group of college buddies down for a quick afternoon dive just South off of West-End. A resort beach was within an hour’s stroll down the strip. This was one of the few beach accessed dives around Roatan and we used it to practice our backwards duck-walks. A weekly cruise ship would drop their passengers off for a couple hours of baking in the sun. White skin would turn bright crimson, speckled with sand fly bites for effect. I really enjoyed timing these beach entries for when tourist density was highest. We always received stares of Kentucky twins and curious country moms would stop us with questions on the various functions of our dive equipment.

Like a proud patriarch, I would let the clients answer the questions and have their five minutes of fame. I naturally beamed when they aggressively pushed my entertainment services with the candor of any LA drug dealer. One section of the beach usually had a couple of topless bathers and it was fun to watch the reactions of the American clients; the Europeans of course, had seen many a beach nipple and preferred to continue with haste. As if the sunburns and bites on the beach goers didn’t give away their cruise boat caste, they were encouraged to wear plastic yellow hospital bracelets, supposedly yielding special privileges for the owner. The tacky plastic jewelry however, served a more important purpose. Used as a round up device in the event that some young rebel thought of breaking free and joining the vagabond traveler circuit, they were not envied by my dive clients. The lack of a bracelet set us apart even more than our unique beach wear. We were the top dogs, we belonged on this beach, and the cruise ship patrons were just visiting. Our confident backwards duck-walks emphasized this point. Everyone who was anyone on Roatan walked backwards, stumbling and tripping over oversized rubber flippers, plastic masks in hand or around one’s neck. It was the coolest way to show your status and I led my posse into the cool blue water.

Only the Italians broke free of their cruise ship caste. They could literally sit and drink coffee seven hours straight and remain cooler than any in my dive clique. I remember taking a romantic morning stroll with Andrea to the resort beach one Monday and came upon thirty grandmothers, aunts, daughters and cousins along with their male counterparts, waste deep in the surf punching right, then left; confidently kicking forwards then spinning clockwise in time to the deep sexy sound of Fabio’s voice. It was the morning class of Italian bizarro water aerobics. I simply wasn’t cool enough to even watch and our backwards duck walking was no match for such an attention grabber. Andrea and I gawked briefly until we realized what every Italian on the beach already knew. This was their beach. They belonged and we were just visiting. They were not about to gawk back.

This time was different though as I had a group of six college studs following my every move. I was the alpha. We entered successfully where the water caressed the sand and after our safety checks began blowing bubbles. We had a nice half hour of casually swimming with Sgt. Peppers and Parrot fish. Curios snorkeling teenagers dove down holding their breath in lungs with some reserve stored in fat cheeks. They wanted to be us or at least pretend. At thirty feet, we were below their range and would look up at them with condescending dry eyes. This was the pinnacle of diving, the pride of having a tank on your back and moving beyond the limitations of human ability. We could breathe under water.

My fearless college studs were big, muscular and quite the site under the ocean plane. They ran along the sand, playing pantomime football. They formed a classic pyramid throwing the smallest on top and I captured their moment with a disposable waterproof camera. They took their regulators out of their mouths and called each names. They gesticulated, and pretended to hump one another. Why this brings a laugh, I have no idea. They lay in the sand and tried to make sand angles. We tipped sleeping fish and watched as they squirmed with the realization of human contact. Ultimately, however we forgot we were diving, we forgot that as humans we weren’t supposed to be under water. We forgot to look at our air gages.

Our precarious state dawned on me and a couple of others at the same time, the moment the biggest breather ran out of air. With eyes open wide, he swam over to me his breathing apparatus hanging by his knee and motioned the out of air signal, a hand moving perpendicularly back across the neck. I had been trained for this and quickly gave my spare regulator. With one attempted breath and time running desperately short, he shot to the surface.

Our entire group followed seconds later as no safety stop was needed when diving so shallow. I maintained my composure, even though I was shaken and worried for my client. I asked why he had surfaced instead of breathing from my tank, and he could hardly respond. He was a bit upset. His cool and fun party boy exterior had been cracked by the cold reality of death by drowning. He replied with a few deserved cuss words and asked me to breath off of my own ****ing spare. I attempted and to my horror nothing came out. It was broken. I let my client down. His trusted dive master, when needed, had failed. At the dive shop we inspected the faulty equipment and realized that the plastic internal membrane was cracked, causing the device to lock up and disallow any air to pass. Later that afternoon, I checked the rest of the spares and over half failed to work. I could have killed a man, simply by not performing my requisite equipment checks.

Luckily my studs had been through the fraternity system, and a little near death experience was a pretty common occurrence. We were drinking green beer and laughing about the whole drama, reliving the underwater football game by five o’clock. My near dead client’s friends were unusually harsh if he overemphasized his close call with death. This seemed to bring smiles all around the bar and I was relieved that I wasn’t going to be sued. It was really silly for me to think that I would be sued. After all, we were in Honduras and I wasn’t even officially working. It’s the cheapest place in the Caribbean to dive, if you want safety and functioning equipment, head to Hawaii, or better yet a pool in the middle of Colorado.

The Stress Test

After eight weeks of working for free, studying and cleaning shop, Andrea and I took our final exam four our dive master certification, a series of stress tests. Our instructor directly below Justus was a blond excited Australian guy named Sean, who had been traveling and diving all over the world for the last six years. He never used protection and the girls loved him. Needless to say, there were more than a few little ‘Seans’ running around in various countries. But, to his credit, he was full of love and always kept his smile on. He told story after story and I imagine that ten to thirty percent was truth, the rest, total junk.

For our test, Sean had us gear up and dive down to thirty feet. We then dropped one of our tanks, so that we shared a single oxygen tank, buddy breathing and swimming in a large circle. We then had to switch all of our gear. We started with our weight belts and then moved on to the BCD. A BCD, buoyancy control device, controls the vertical movement of a diver in water. It is a vest attached to a diver’s air tank most often having a button for inflation and a string to pull for deflation. Inflating, causes a diver to become more buoyant i.e., rise as air is lighter than water. Likewise deflation causes a diver to sink. The BCD transfer was successful; however the buddy breathing was taking its toll on me. I didn’t feel like I was getting enough oxygen. I was starting to hyperventilate and several times I pulled the breathing apparatus out of my own wife’s mouth. She started laughing as I guess I looked terrified. Laughing under water is difficult at best. I thought she was crying because I was stealing her air, but I needed that air. I soon realized we weren’t going to pass the test, and so grabbed her octopus, the technical term for the backup breathing apparatus or regulator and we swam to the surface. Once at the surface, I promptly blamed her for not keeping it together and being a cry baby, but deep down, I knew that the real failure was mine. Both Sean and Andrea knew it was my failure as well, making me the jerk in the equation. Sean was nice enough though to let us try again with a different stress test.

The next day we went out to a shelf about a quarter mile off shore. We didn’t know what Sean had planned but were a little nervous with anticipation. Sean took our dive tanks and threw them overboard. The tanks floated to the bottom forty to fifty feet down. He then did the same with our dive belts, handed us our masks and flippers. He then instructed us to go get them. At twenty feet down one could easily return to the surface after descending without air. At fifty feet, I doubt I would be able to come back up. Visibility was great and the tanks were in clear view, but there was a lot of water, airless water, in between myself and the tanks. Sean began counting and on three both Andrea and I dove in head first. We both promptly made the mistake of not equalizing. At about fifteen feet the pressure on our ears became too painful to continue. Andrea rose first and I thought she wasn’t going to continue. But she equalized before reaching the surface and returned downward. Andrea was now descending with ease and I was on my way to blowing yet another stress test. I didn’t think I would get another chance. I came up two to three feet, blew as hard as I could, equalizing and continuing down in one swoop. Andrea had reached her gear at least two seconds before me and I was almost out of air. Once again I was facing the self defeating monster of panic. This time however, it could be deadly. With what felt like my last bit of air, I was able to reach my regulator and get a breath.

Air tastes so good, however, you only recognize that when you when you don’t have any. The whole ordeal probably lasted twenty seconds. Under water you can easily hold your breath for forty five seconds. I had panicked again. Even if I passed this stress test in Sean and Andrea’s eyes I had failed in my own.

Utopia's Evil Cousin

This is the story of going to a dance party on a neighboring key with Alex, a rough Garifuna boat captain from Roatan.

Alex had as many dread locks as missing teeth. He fancied middle aged obese white women and owned a rickety sixteen foot handmade sailboat, with which he earned his plate, conning tourists into sailboat rides

The Garifuna population on Roatan remained poor and isolated with Alex serving as an unofficial ambassador to the rest of the Island. They were descendents of African slaves shipwrecked on their way from Nigeria to Latin America on the island of St. Vincent in the year 1635. Shipped nearly two centuries later by a conquering British army to the island of Roatan in 1797, the Garifuna settlement on Roatan is still present today. Furthermore, the Diaspora of these proud people has populated areas from Belize to Nicaragua, with the largest group believed to be greater than 100,000 soles inhabiting the Bronx. Alex to me, was Garifuna, the essence of these peaceful yet desperate warriors. With over 70% illiterate, the Garifuna were ostracized from the tourist economy. They lived communally, their religion and language deeply confusing to the outside eye and they remained distant from Roatan’s Latino and the black Caribbean residents.

For most of us, Alex was the only window into the Garifuna world and his survival was a mystery to me. He would borrow a couple of scuba tanks from a friend, fill up on oily air, grab his passengers sporting doubtful smiles and sail away. Two hours around the backside of the island away from the picturesque healthy coral, his passengers would gear up in leaky BCDs and old masks and lean backwards over the end of the boat. I think Alex deliberately picked the lamest part of the sea bed because he wanted all of the attention. He didn’t want the competition of a sea turtle or a resident wolf eel to steal eyes that should follow his every move. With the style of a third world pirate, dread locks flowing through the water, like a cartoon monster, he would dive sans anything but a tank and a spear, no flippers, no mask, and no weight belt. He dove with as much bravado as one could possibly stomach, surfacing with a spear full of yellow fish and at least three lobsters tied to his side. After returning to the boat, his passengers would feast on his kills, laughing and listening to their captain’s island accent. There was never enough fresh water, no bathroom, sunburns for everyone, yet Alex never ended a trip without satisfied smiles. Usually his passengers would tell five or six others about the great times to be had on Captain Alex’ boat. He could fill a trip daily if he desired, but rarely went out more than once a week. You see, Alex had a secret. He was a drunk and could only really get it together when he ran out of beer money.

One German had the bright idea of throwing a drug infused dance party, a rave, on one of the nondescript and tiny deserted islands half a day’s boat ride from Roatan. Hand-written fliers went out and anticipation amongst the travelers ran high. Everyone made their arrangements to travel to the first international world rave. We hired Alex to sail us there and back, encouraging him to drink and party with us. Funny, though, he didn’t have a drop during the sail. One Australian and his young girlfriend had loads of pills; two British girls brought glow-sticks and party tops; one single girl from the bay area brought her bikini and a stray dog from the mainland. Nobody brought provisions as it was assumed that Alex would fish for us. Four hours out, on Alex’ rickety boat we spotted land, a series of small islands, on the horizon. Getting closer, we saw hundreds of young people out in the water, drinking, making out and having a good time.

We anchored about a quarter mile off shore and proceeded to swim and walk to shore. Before the sun went down we set up a hammock in a group of palm trees away from the masses. We weren’t planning on sleeping that night, but wanted to have our own space later in the evening. There was little food, no plumbing or outhouses and everyone was sandy and wet; it was best to enjoy the party and save the conveniences for later. The music started changing, incorporating a deep synthetic drum and base rhythm. More people began dancing, the stars came out and gangs of local men began arriving by small boatloads. What was once a peaceful Eurocentric care free party quickly changed into an overly aggressive and defensive third-world club scene. Single girls were being manhandled in the sandy dance area, some drugged on XTC or acid didn’t seem to mind as much, but the majority were not enjoying themselves. Seeking isolation and rest, several in our group returned to the boat. Andrea I followed shortly.

On the boat, the pill popping Australian offered me an anti-seizure drug, mentioning that I would be able to sleep through the party that evening. He offered me two little pink pills and without water I swallowed quickly. We decided to give the party another try and returned to the dark shallow water. There were very few lights and the music was even louder now as if that would scare off the locals. After reaching land, we danced casually, not really enjoying ourselves when one group of young locals surrounded Andrea, pushing me away in the process. I attempted to casually laugh and pushed one of the aggressors away from my wife. A typical stare down ensued with a line of angry youths taunting me. I smiled trying to diffuse the situation and Andrea and I quickly left for our hammock in the trees. We tried to sleep but we were both scared.

I began to get sleepy. I was trying to keep my eyes open when a female, came near, dropped her pants maybe three feet from our heads and began to pee. She was probably drunk and didn’t know we were there. We didn’t say anything. Then an aggressive local stopped by her and tried to touch her. She told him to go away, but that didn’t sway his behavior and he grabbed her. She started to yell at him, but he covered her mouth. I had lost a lot of control of my motor skills at this point, but managed to yell as if in a dream. Luckily for us all, the local quickly left. The girl, traumatized, began crying. She thanked us and then scurried away. I had no choice but to fall back asleep worried for Andrea but unable to maintain consciousness.

Then the inevitable happened and Andrea had to urinate. While I slept, she went behind the nearest tree and dropped her drawers for a quick pee. A hand grabbed her right shoulder and accented English broke the night air, “You **** me now!” Andrea was startled into panicked action and swung her right arm violently towards her attacker. Facing him directly, she gave him a shove. He turned quickly away not expecting resistance and decided to pursue more intoxicated prey. Her attacker must have been five feet tall, one hundred ten pounds. She had easily dominated the cowardly local, but even at such small stature he would probably rape later that evening. Many like me had taken some synthetic cocktail either for kicks or for escape and would yield under such advances.

The next morning we realized numerous girls had been raped and a couple travelers beat up pretty badly. Everyone who kept their stuff on the island had been robbed and nobody was emotionally ok. The night had been terrifying. When I awoke at daybreak, my stomach was in knots and my mouth felt intensely dry. I was sunburned and uncomfortable. My arm was asleep under Andrea’s shoulder. Still asleep, I tried to remove myself from the hammock ending in a painless two feet fall to the sand. I tried to stand and immediately fell flat. I tried to crawl as I realized that I was going to shit myself. After a desperate crawl to the ocean, I stumbled over some sharp coral ripping holes in my hands and knees. I could sort of feel the pain and I was bleeding in the surf. I lay down on the coral, pulled my shorts down as far as I could and shat. I couldn’t really clean myself up and lay back on the coral. I had no idea if I was clean or dirty. After lying in the surf on the sharp coral for a few moments Andrea helped me out of the surf. She went and found the British girls in order to help me return to the boat where I promptly returned to my unconscious state. My head lay in a dirty puddle of water; my shorts probably covered in human waste; my hair wet and sandy; bloody knees and hands. Everyone gave me space except the dog. That stray, cuddled up with me and kept me warm. For once someone smelled worse than it.

Alex was worried that I might not be alright and decided that I needed some food and water, so instead of making the long sail back to our island, we changed plans and sailed to Utila, a more run down sister island. I don’t remember how long we were at sea before coming ashore, but once on Utila, I was dragged through the main street, unable to walk on my own. We went to a friend of Alex’ house and ate some gruel and stinky fish. I drank some sort of Guarafuna health tonic and then we returned to the boat for the long ride home. Once on Roatan, I recovered some two days later under Andrea’s watch. Moral of the story, don’t take two. Two weeks later a young Honduran man tried to board a plane with over three hundred stolen cameras. I’m positive a number of those cameras came from our little world rave.