amapala

Chaotic crazy cacophony of a city one day, idyllic illusory intoxicatingly ideal island the next . Seems as if I’m in an alliterations-esque mood at the moment. I’ll stop.

I had only been in Tegus for a week, but when someone dangles a little Honduran fishing village in the middle of the Pacific in front of my face, I have to take the bait (Get it. Fish. Bait. Puns!).

A wild Friday night of salsa turned into a too early Saturday morning, but after Jordan banged on my door a couple times, I managed to pull myself together enough to throw a bathing suit and some lempiras in a backpack, and off we went. We were quite the duo, Jordan and I, the blind leading the blind, really. Only six full days into the country, my directional bearings were still being fine-tuned and I didn’t know west from Nicaragua and had no idea how to get where we were going, but from what I knew from Central America, there surely wouldn’t be a direct bus. Jordan had never been either, but had written instructions scribbled on a piece of paper. Ok, one instruction, the question to ask our Choluteca-bound bus, “¿Cuándo es la parada del autobús a Coyolito?”

As Tegus lacks a central bus station, the taxi simply dropped us off in front of a rather nice-looking bus surrounded by vendors and luggage. “Aqui, aqui esta el bus.” Honduran-style door to door service. Seats were found, vendors boarded selling everything from bags of sliced yellow mangos and plastic squirt guns, and I was reminded ever so fondly of Central American bus time schedules-hourly departures be damned, you leave when the bus is full.

I sought sleep during that three-hour ride, but it evaded me time and time again, distracted by the roadside show out my window, the green Honduran countryside painted in broad strokes before me, lazily yawning and stretching it legs in the morning light, wrinkled men napping in the shade, street children hiding behind small wooden shops popping out to throw rocks at the bus, goats meandering, the unfortunate deluge of litter, coke bottles and chip bags obscuring the scene.

Just when I was dozing off, the lady next to us nudged me and pointed out the window. We were at a nondescript fork in the road in the middle of a blank landscape, marked only by a gas station (which, by the way, had a designed rest area with hammocks!) and collection of tiny ramshackle huts and benches, apparently the turn-off for Coyolito. The wave of hot air felt like I had walked into an oven. Not like Tegus is cold by any means, but the heat here was thick, oppressive, unforgiving. Beads of sweat formed immediately, forming little rivulets down the small of my back. Get me to the beach, ahorita!

Hitching was the plan, but the bus came before any viable options passed. A 1979-era U.S. school bus, filled to the brim with locals. We climbed in through the emergency exit in the back, trying to awkwardly find space to stand while balancing our backpacks and the beers we decided to buy while waiting. I found myself face to face with a grinning gold-toothed Honduran. Personal space? Foreign concept. The heat and the bumpy ride was starting to get to me, so I fashioned myself a surprisingly comfortable makeshift seat between gasoline cans and rucksacks of rice next to the open window. Breeze is a beautiful thing. The scenery changed, from the countryside to the tropics, and then, my long lost lover, the Pacific Ocean, was finally in view.

The smell of the ocean was intoxicating, salty and sweet and nostalgic. Small motorboats lined the dock, bound for Isla del Tigre. Tumbling out of the bus, again through the emergency exit, armed with seafood suggestions, beach recommendations and an invite to the beach party that night by our new friends, we climbed into one of the boats heading to Playa Burro and puttered off toward the island.

There was one place to stay on the beach, a restaurant meets bar meets hotel, but as it was Valentine’s Day weekend, there were no rooms at the inn. However, in true Honduran fashion, the dueña knew a friend who had an uncle who worked with Jose who had a sister who’s mother had a guesthouse. Turned out to be this tiny little freestanding room, a humble abode, in the back of a family’s home. We literally had to walk through the backyard, passing the daughters scrubbing laundry and dodging the chickens and roosters wandering freely. The shower was more like a leaky faucet, we had a stubborn wasp for a roommate, and there was no knob on the bathroom door so if you wanted to get out you had to knock, but it was near the beach and did the trick.

The island is a gem, an diamond in the rough, nearly complete devoid of tourists except for the Honduran variety. A quiet fishing village, a few niche beaches, tuk-tuks whizzing you around the inactive volcano. Restaurants don’t have menus, men haul their days bounty from a rickety lancha, an hour later a whole fish is on your plate, eyes tail fin bone, an freshly fried adventure to eat, pick and prod. My cevichetarian ways came back full-force, but I was out of practice. It takes skill to successfully maneuver your way through whole fish. Put it in front of a local and all that will be left is a perfectly intact skeleton. Me, I pathetically needed help from a little beach kitty in the end.

The beaches themselves were small, little inlets of beautiful relaxation. I love when the dense canopy of forest and palms press right up onto the beach. It makes it feel wild, undiscovered, tropical. Playa Grande was first, groups of kids playing soccer on the sand, hilarious Honduran tourist in speedos, round belly’s hung over, wading their way into the surf, sunset beers in plastic chairs at the thatched-hut bar, the ever-present reggaeton as background music. In the ocean we befriended a little boy, Carlito, who instantly became our sidekick. Jordan chucked him across the water, he stole my camera and took pictures of himself in my sunglasses, we all watched the sunset spread a brilliant orange sheen across the sky, suspended between twin volcanoes in the distance.

The rest of the weekend passed by with breezy ease, sun, cervezas, an all-night beach karaoke party that the entire island showed up for, ceviche and coconut shrimp, so far from pollution and cars and horns and hisses and internet and hot water showers. If I was just traveling, I could see myself staying for a week, two, a month. For now, it was just a weekend, but I will be back, Amapala. I can promise you that.