One afternoon I swam up to Driftwood Cafe with little cash, and what there was was wet. I asked for something tasty and cheap, with a beer. An older guy (older than me, that is) down the bar sat in a neatly pressed shirt sampling ceviche: two hours later we were still talking. I would have mistaken Ernest for a Florida retiree if he hadn’t spoken; second generation La Ceiba lobsterman he was, speaking some variant of English that reminded me of Gullah recordings from linguisitics seminar. I don’t recall how many rounds he bought, but suffice it to say that a man who spends 8 months a year at sea acquires enough stories to tell in that time. I returned the favor the following night, when Phil and I ran into Ernest at the Driftwood again; I ‘ran into’ him in the literal sense, being without eyeglasses.
Having broken my glasses on the first day of the trip, I tried an experiment to get along without them. Turns out that the 2-foot drop-off into the largely open sewer (under construction) is easier to see during the day than at night. Likewise, speed bumps in shade are harder to make out than those in sun. And the purge button on a regulator is much easier to see on the surface than underwater where it’s dark.
With impaired vision, I was a little more dependent on storekeepers and servicepeople. Some island services that I really enjoyed:
- Thompson’s Bakery: since I couldn’t really see the menu it took a few days of ordering before I found the breakfast that everybody was talking about: cinnamon rolls, corn cake and super baleadas; the other baked goods are okay, but you have to go at 10am when the cinnamon rolls come out of the oven. A sign at Thompson’s: “No confunda la amistad con el negocio. No Fio.” …which I think means, roughy, “Don’t mix business with pleasure. No credit.”
- Jimmy’s Water: given the number of plastic bottles that wash up on the north shore, you want to do whatever you can to avoid bringing new plastic to the island: Jimmy’s refills your water bottles at a deep discount, and the woman who works there has really piercing grey eyes
- Reef Cinema: sit up front! (if you’re visually impaired like I was) and take in the cartoon roll before the feature. The other vision connection is that I was biking back from an afternoon excursion when I found a woman sprawled underneath her scooter in the middle of the road. I helped her up and out from under, dusted her off and sent her on her way. A few evenings later she recognized me at the theater as she took our tickets. Only when she showed me her cuts and bruises did I understand that it was the samperson: I’m accustomed perhaps to recognizing more people than recognize me; so this was ten days of trading places.
- Taller Roney Bike rental on West end of Main street: after working out that I didn’t have a driver’s license, the proprietor indicated he would have to ‘tomar su[mi] palabra’ for the bike, which he gave to me for a week without holding anything in return. I suppose an American tourist on an island 2 miles wide isn’t statistically very likely to steal a bicycle, but it still made me feel good to be trusted. Not sure what that has to do with not seeing well, but not being able to read signs made me rely just a little bit more on verbal communication and goodwill.
Communication and goodwill are helped along by a few drinks, right? Well, it turns out that context is everything. As Phil and I settled into our then-daily contest of wills at Tranquilla Bar’s foosball table one evening, some rowdy drinkers approached us with boasts of being the best foosballers on the island, baiting us to take a game. Since we had become accustomed to playing on opposite teams, we begged off, promising to yield the table as soon as we had settled our grudge. As we played, they got rowdier (as did the rest of the bar), and soon I was taking solo challenges–contrary to our promise to the team that approached us originally. After a particularly bad thrashing, things had gotten ugly enough that we had to go. Leaving, I wasn’t too proud of the ’scorched earth’ I left behind, or of the way Phil took the heat for my being a hotshot at the table.
Robert was the second of three active members of the drug trade I had conversations with on Utila. One guy, I have to say he was the first unsavory Canadian I’ve met since 1988, justified the actions of a friend who had killed a police officer by saying, ‘the officer was being a dick’. Which is to say, life is cheap wherever drugs are not. Our entrepreneurial Canadian turned out to be pretty generous with his knowledge of Central American tourist destinations (not to mention rounds of beers) even while he seemed vaguely predatory and definitely irresponsible. I guess that when you’re 23 (?) and 6′4″ and white, some things just seem like they ought to be yours.
Mixed in with this same group somehow were two Swedes who happened to hook up when they went for the same cab in San Pedro Sula. Separated by a decade or so, they seemed to be hitting it off. And the language barrier was just enough for them to perhaps miss the slightly disrespectful or predatory tone of our companion from north of the border. This is how I met Freddie: he came into the Driftwood (okay, so–yes–the Driftwood is my favorite hangout on Utila and–yes–village life revolves around alcohol) and bought a round for everyone. Two hours later he was doing monkeyballs (whatever they are) and singing my favorite Swedish drinking song (’Helan går!’) with me. I learned later that he had returned to get his water bottle after having thrown a party at the bar for his friends. So, at the point when I met him, he was just returning for a little ‘I forgot my water bottle’-round of drinks and celebration for the people who were not his friends yet but who had been in the bar while he was entertaining his friends. Freddie has a reputation for ringing up a monstrous tab and then negotiating it at the end of the night so that he never leaves the bar with any cash. Ingrid (the fourth California resident I met, but also from Sweden) was a delightful and constant companion–they appeared to have been together for years: the only time I’ve seen a couple get along as well on vacation was when he was gay and she just thought he was ‘brilliantly entertaining’. But who knows. And who cares? I hope they’ll come visit.
