My Wandering Mind: Isla Roatan, Honduras

The following is a journal entry written at some point during my travels.  I offer it to you in hopes of inspiring you to consider the world we live in during your own travels.  It is one thing to be a visitor in a foreign land and another to be mindful and conscious of the people and culture you find yourself a part of, even if only temporarily.

At first glance, Roatan is an island paradise.  Dense jungles cover the rolling landscape as far as you can see and brilliantly colored buildings greet you as you arrive in port.  In the distance, mainland Honduras peaks over the horizon.  It is an idyllic setting, one which you might imagine as you dream of the perfect island location; white sands, palm trees and a peaceful demeanor.

This is only a tiny fraction of Isla Roatan and in my quest for a more meaningful experience I didn’t need to travel very far from the gated and guarded tourist area.  As we left the port in our rental car, local people lined the sides of the road, trying to sell us tours and trips around the island.  Considering as how this had been common practice in every place we had visited so far, we weren’t surprised.

After getting through the crowds, we began our road trip around the island’s single highway. The colorful and pristine atmosphere of the port disappeared the very instant we left the port.  In fact, we found ourselves in the middle of a country that seemed to be struggling to exist.

As we made our way through a small town at the end of the island, dodging potholes in the dirt road, a young girl, maybe five years old, was walking across the street balancing a container of water on her head.  She flashed us a smile as we drove by.  When we arrived at a beach that had been recommended by a local, we were disappointed to find it packed with American tourists.   Still, it was a beautiful beach so we found a spot further down the shore, away from all of the people.

Erin and I played around in the water for a few minutes, chasing fish and splashing water at each other.  It didn’t take long for our small strip of beach to become the preferred location for a group of tourists who decided to stand directly in front of us while they chattered away about their worldly travels.  We decided to continue our journey around the island before it was time for us to board our cruise ship.  Looking at the map, we chose a random stretch of coastline that looked like it might have a beach and we began our drive to the other side of the island.

It is difficult to describe the living conditions of the island.  The houses were little more than shacks.  Garbage was piled between them and along the ditches.  It felt like I was driving through a third world country, a far cry from the beauty of the colorful port.  The beaches were no longer strips of pristine white sands.  Instead, the water was murky brown against a rocky coast, clearly polluted by the nearby city.

I am not so much affected by the way people live as I am by the way the world attempts to ignore it or hide it.  After driving around the island and having the opportunity to see how people live on the island, I was disgusted by the ”perfection” of the port.  That the majority of people who visit Roatan will never leave the port and will have fond memories of frozen drinks, palm trees, and waiters who spoke with “that cute Mexican accent” is disheartening.

This is what tourists want.  They want to watch reality TV but don’t have a clue about what the reality is.  They want to travel the world, even if it means gates and armed guards “protecting” them from the local people.  It seems ludicrous to me that a country allows fences to be built to keep local people out and away from the tourists.  This is their country and they have more right to be here than anyone else.

I know the world has no intention of changing.  What fun would it be for tourists to have to interact with the local people outside of having them blend their cocktails?  That is just not the experience tourists want.  They are not searching for reality.  They want a key chain made in China from shops owned by American corporations.  They want pretty photos of them standing in the blue waters of the beautiful Caribbean.  It wouldn’t be fun for them to learn what life is actually like for the people in the places they are visiting.  It is good enough for them to wear the shirts they bought in the Port of Call to show their friends how worldly they are becoming.

Before disembarking, I spent a while on the tourist beach next to the cruise boat to try to figure it out.  Being there only intensified my frustration and disgust.  The contrast between the reality of the island and what I now found myself surrounded by was bold.

I stopped to talk with a security guard who was writing something in a notebook between checking tourist’s IDs.  I asked her if she was a writer and she laughed.  I asked her what there was to do on the island and she laughed again, telling me that there was nothing.  I smiled, knowing exactly what she meant.  Of course, try to tell that to one of the thousands of people who have no idea what is beyond the gates and they might think you were crazy, I mean, “Come on!  Look at this place!”