Dazzling white beaches, colorful reefs, cool people, rainforest backdrop. West End was the tropical paradise I was looking for. A small village on the southwest coast of Isla de Roatan, the settlement of West End catered for local fishermen, subsistence farmers and a handful of adventurous travellers. West End boasted a modest tienda, playing field, church, a small number of tidy wood-framed houses and a few rustic accommodations. And miles and miles of deserted beaches to the south, culminating in the dreamscape West Bay Beach.
It wasn’t easy to get to West End. The only public transport was a rickety bus that ran twice a week. A few of the locals owned beat-up old trucks. The unpaved road north from Coxen Hole runs over the forested central ridge. Rough gravel, steep in places. But fast, only a few kms to Sandy Bay on the north shore. I could see the waves breaking over the off-shore reef, perfect for lobster.
At the beach, by the coconut grove, the road turns left towards the ultra-exclusive dive center, St Anthony’s Key Resort, about three kms. After that the road ends and the track begins. Loose sand and rutted, the single lane winds along the coast, past Gibson Bight and Half Moon Bay. After a few small fords the track ends at West End’s soccer field. It’s foot or on horseback from here. Or bicycle. West End is well and truly the end of the road.
Maybe 250 or so people live in the immediate area, descendants of buccaneers and ranging in skin tone from pale white to dark mahogany. Everyone spoke the King’s English with a sing-song lilt and used colorful terms such as ‘cutlass’ for their machetes or ‘dread’ for mean, as in mean dog. The local guys I met, in their late teens and early 20s, worked the family land or fished. They wore gold earrings, bandanas and dreadlocks. They could have been pirates.
But totally cool. West End is a serene place. Food is plentiful, the weather idyllic (except for the odd hurricane). Most everyone was ‘landed’, ie they lived on the extended family holding and there was still plenty of room for growing families. But it wasn’t a backwater. There’s money in the family. Many of the young men had worked on fishing boats or cruise ships and knew their way around the Caribbean. They were worldly, switched on and totally stoned. The West Enders knew what they had and were proudly independent. Never saw any sign of authority.
I had left most of my spare gear stashed behind the jukebox at Maude’s Hotel and headed off to West End for the week. Across the island, up over the main ridge down to Sandy Bay. Along the beach, past St Anthony’s Key. The added weight of my camping gear makes pedalling in the loose sand real tough. I’m forced to walk a bit. Then back through the bush, over some ups and downs, into West End.
I would be staying in a modest beach-side palapa with a simple sleeping platform, bench and tin roof. Palm fronds for walls and a fire pit for cooking. Very private, it was the last dwelling in West End. Only beach and jungle to the south. The family who owned the land lived in a house further up the beach, closer to the village.
As I was settling in, Dorado, the owner, came by and we shot the shit for a while. Turns out he knows Lauderdale pretty well. He invited me out fishing the next day. Walked down by West Bay, a beautiful white sandy beach lined with coconuts. Copped a bit of a suntan.
Moseyed on back and looked around a bit. Gathered some firewood, went to the store for a few potatoes and onions and started supper. Built me a little fire and whipped up some stew. Um, um good. Cruised around a bit more then crashed out to the sounds of El Mar Caribe.
The week flew by. Sometimes I’d go fishing with Dorado in his small dory. We’d load a few lines on board and paddle towards West Bay, passing over the reef into the blue. Threw out the lines, but no luck. Nice floating along, though. Water was real still and clear and we could see the reef perfectly. Paddled back to shore, hard work. Didn’t get a bite until the very last day, but it was a good one: a meter-long barracuda.
Every morning I’d wander over to the tienda and buy the day’s groceries. Eggs, cheese, beans, onions, fruit and savoury platino bread, baked in the wood oven behind the shop. I learned the hard way to secure my food at the campsite. The first day I came back from a walk and looked for my cheese. All I could find was an empty wrapper and lots of crab tracks. Live and learn.
In the afternoon I’d head to the beach, explore along the coast and into the bush or hang out with the local dudes. We’d play soccer in front of the church, sip refrescos at the tienda or sit around a fire at night and smoke their home-grown. My friends all grew up in West End and came from the local families. They’d fish and farm and go off-shore to earn money.
Just before dark I’d cook up a tasty rice or bean stew over the fire and then check out the scene around town. No place to buy beer, but I’d usually run into someone to relax with. A few other tourists in town, always fun to catch up and compare journeys.
Because English was the local dialect I could just shoot the shit with local guys and talk about the island, girls, dope and living in West End. They said a few surveyors had been around. In general they didn’t mind the few tourists but found most of them ‘stuck up’. I got the impression that the gringos kept to themselves. And, of course, I had a bunch of stories to tell.
The locals were all well-shod, no open-toed sandals, with boots and long pants tied around the ankle. Ticks were endemic in the bush and it was the only way to avoid them. I’d been lucky so far.
My last full day in West End turned out to be the best one yet. Dorado had invited me to a farewell dinner that evening at the family home. Up before dawn, we paddled along the reef to the north for about an hour. “Maybe better luck out here,” Dorado hoped.
The reef dropped off into the blue, we could see down at least 100 feet along the steep underwater coral cliff face. Colorful fan corals waved in the current, it was like floating in air. Dorado dropped his hand line, baited hook and wire leader over the side, maybe 50 ft down, and jiggled it around right next to the reef edge.
As the sun rose higher into the sky, a meter-long barracuda swam up from the deep, looking for a breakfast morsel. The big fish floated lazily back and forth, attracted to the bait waving in the current. We could see the whole drama play out, the water was that clear. Then pow! A lightning thrust from the tail and the powerful jaws snapped shut around the baited hook.
The line jerked hard, but Dorado was ready. He let the line go slack for a second or two then snapped it taut, embedding the hook deep into the ‘cudas mouth. The wire leader withstood the razor-sharp teeth as the prey twisted this way and that. Slowly Dorado pulled up the line, foot by foot, until the now tiring fish was alongside. He handed me the spool, “Don’t drop it, mon,” and picked up the old baseball bat from the bottom of the dory. A quick knock to the head stunned the cuda and we both grabbed a fin and flipped him on board. Dorado delivered the coup de gras with a practiced blow. “Mistress Jewell will be happy tonight!”
The paddle back went much quicker, we were pulled along by the current and pushed by the wind. Plus we had freshly caught barracuda for supper.
Back at camp I straightened up my gear a bit, wiped down the bike…I hadn’t used it much, walked everywhere. Decided to spend my last afternoon at West Bay, the deserted beach to the south. It was about a half-hour along an overgrown path through the jungle. Hardly anyone went there. Packed dive gear, water and weed into my bag and set out along the beach to where the path to West Bay cut into the jungle.
Just before I turned into the bush another tourist walked up to me. She was a vision of vitality. Blonde curly locks, athletic tanned body. Flashing white teeth. “Do you know where the path to West Bay is?” she asked.
“I’m headed there right now. I’ll show you the way,” “OK,” she said hesitantly. I suspected she was a bit cautious about being alone with a stranger in the jungle.
Her name was Sally, she had just arrived in West End and was out exploring the surrounds for the afternoon. I gave her a quick rundown on the path and West Bay beach and she decided that I was safe enough. I’m always polite and respectful towards women.
By the time we burst onto the dazzling white beach a half-hour later Sally was much more relaxed. I’d told her of my adventures and she shared her travels with me. She had just arrived by bus in West End after a week around Coxen Hole and wanted to spend her last few days in Roatan at the beach. She was staying with friends at Robert’s Hill Hotel, the only accommodation in the village, but was travelling alone. She would be flying to Costa Rica next week.
Deserted beach, tropical sun, attractive company, the perfect setting. The reef is just off-shore. I shared my mask and snorkel with Sally and we took turns floating over the amazing coral: brain, staghorn, fan, you name it.
We spent the afternoon diving over the reef, hanging out on the beach, smoking dynamite pot and just talking. Sally had been travelling on her own for about a month.
“I get so tired of always fending off guys” she confided. “Doesn’t make any difference what guys, they’re all the same. Local dudes, other travellers, young or old. I like the freedom of travelling by myself, but I always have to keep my guard up.”
She told me how much she appreciated the fact that I hadn’t hit on her and could feel relaxed around me. So comfortable, in fact, that she didn’t mind getting naked as the afternoon wore on. As did I.
It took all my self-control to keep my lust contained, but I managed to remain a gentleman. I didn’t want to be ‘just another guy’. So I just laid back and enjoyed the view.
After an idyllic afternoon on a perfect beach with the perfect companion we leisurely walked back through the jungle, listening to the birds and surf in the distance. At the edge of the forest we parted ways. Sally wanted to check back with her friends and I was going to Dorado’s for a going-away supper. Said adios. And that was it. The whole afternoon seemed a dream.
By then it was almost time for supper at Dorado’s. He and his family lived in a two-storey wood-frame house surrounded by gardens, tropical fruits – including a Key Lime tree -, a few goats and chickens. He and Mistress Jewell had four kids, the eldest, Junior, had fixed up my shack. Mistress Jewell had the reputation of being an amazing cook so I was looking forward to a feast.
It was a formal affair…I felt like the guest of honor. Baked Barracuda, fried platinos, spiced rice, pickled beets, still-warm coconut bread and iced lemonade. All from the farm, all perfectly prepared. But the piece de resistance was dessert: freshly-baked home-grown Key Lime Pie with a platino/coconut crust. Smooth texture, the perfect balance between sweet and tart and the softest key lime shade of green. Puts Mac’s in Marathon to shame.
But all good things come to an end. I was running short of cash, needed to sell my bike and had to figure out how to get to Panama. So the next day I packed the bike, said adios to Dorado and his family and set out back to Coxen Hole along the sandy path.
Around the Caribbean by Bike, Thumb and Sail 