I slipped into my bathing suit, wrapped a towel around my waist and walked down to the beach, without even bothering with sunscreen or a hat. I’d be right back.
Then I met this guy. All muscles and tan. Rico Suave. We went for a walk along the beach. A long walk. A bloody long walk. In the midday Honduran sun. Without sunscreen.
We finally reached a deserted stretch where buddy turned from friendly to slimy and it dawned on me to head back. But it was already too late. I had missed my bus and got second-degree burns on my chest and shoulders. Say hello to lady crispy.
I went back to my room, took a lukewarm shower with the roaches and tried to get some sleep. But I couldn’t stand any sort of contact on my burned skin, not even my own weight on the bed sheets while lying down. My butt had been just about the only part of me that had been spared, so I tried a V-position, resting my feet up on the wall and propping my head up with pillows. I mean, only an Olympic gymnast could hold this more than 30 seconds. So I had to put up with the pain and bear lying on my back. Then I think I passed out for an hour or so.
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I woke up with the chills, my face pulsing. I had overwhelming fever. Fever means trouble. In the tropics, fever often means BIG trouble. I panicked and turned delirious. I was alone and nobody in the world knew I was in Honduras. That’s it, I was gonna die in this hole, rot and get eaten up by roaches. If I got lucky maybe they’d bury me down in the pirate cemetery. Maybe next to the legendary William Walker whose tombstone read “fusilado” (shot by a firing squad). Maybe my tombstone would read “Gringa desconocida- comida por las cucarachas” (unknown gringa, eaten up by roaches).
I passed out again.
When I regained consciousness, my fever was just as bad. It was 9 o’clock at night and still 30 degrees. Like everyday between 6pm and 6am, the power was out, therefore my ceiling fan was nothing but tantalizing. I was determined to bring down this fever. I knew the owner of the hotel had a freezer, so with the little lucidity I had left I figured I could buy some ice off him. I painfully got a T-shirt on and went down to see him.
With my face redder than red, I was a walking devil. Fortunately, it was dark and the power was out, so the owner couldn’t see much. I asked him for ice. He said he didn’t have any. I said this couldn’t be because I knew he had a freezer. He insisted he didn’t have any ice. I said I’d pay for it. He said that wasn’t the point, that he just didn’t have any. I got bold and demanded he show me the freezer.
Little impressed or offended by my hysteria, he grabbed his flashlight and led me to the freezer, letting me take a look for myself. I opened the freezer and…he was right. There was no ice.
BUT….
There was a frozen fish. An old, frosted over, dubious-looking frozen fish.
I said I’d buy the fish. Confused, shocked and embarrassed all at once, he told me apologetically: “No, no, señorita, it’s no good. It’s been here forever, I didn’t even know we had it, really it’s no good, you can’t do anything with it.”
“I-AM-BUYING-THIS-FROZEN-FISH!” I roared with one nasty possessed look on my pulsing crimson face.
The poor guy knew my Spanish was too fluent for this to be a misunderstanding. He raised his eyebrows in amused disbelief, and took a long hard look at me to see whether I was trying to pull some kind of sick joke on him. He shook his head, shrugged his shoulders and finally told me to just take it and “Go with God” (Vaya con Dios). (Truly, these people’s patience will never cease to amaze me.)
Back to my room with my frozen fish. I resumed my V-position and placed the fish over my forehead, its divine coldness momentarily relieving my overheating skull. I passed out once more.
When I woke up the next morning, an overbearing stench filled the room. The roaches must have had quite a fiesta that night. My right eye had been glued-shut by the overnight stream of melting fish “juice”. But the fever was gone. I was saved.
I sat up in my bed and peeled the gooey fish off my forehead. Went to the bathroom to wash my face and disinfect my eye. Vision of horror. My back, shoulders and chest were covered with water blisters. And I mean BLISTERS, some of them half and inch high. I’d turned into a red toad.
But I was determined not to feel sorry for myself and get the hell out of that town pronto. I got dressed with pants and a long-sleeve shirt, took a deep breath, and threw my pack on my back. All my blisters burst, instantly drenching my shirt. The joys of travelling…
I pulled the tacky straw hat I had bought at the Chichicastenango market out of the bottom of my pack, put on my sunglasses and proceeded to the bus station. The straps of my backpack were rubbing my raw shoulders’ skin off with every step. I walked by the pirate’s cemetery and took one last look at William Walker’s grave.
So I never saw the Bay islands. But I got a tan all right.