Our resort was lovely. Picturesque. Serene. It was secluded and any trips into town or other parts of the island were organized by the resort staff. They would schedule activities and have a driver pick us up and take us to whatever touristy destination we desired. We were told the island had beautiful mangroves (if you’re picturing hairy-chested men growing on long stems in the rainforest, you are mistaken, but not alone #buzzkill) that you could take boats through. Pirates used to hide in the tunnels of the roots and ambush cargo ships. Did you say pirates? We’re in.
Our driver arrived and took us to the other, more “native,” end of the island. By which I mean, no toilets, no AC, and no way to find our bodies. Cool. Cool, cool. After a remarkable tour of the non-human mangroves (no sarcasm intended), our driver (who had negotiated himself onto the tiny
boat canoe with us) suggested a little “restaurant” in the next town over. We realized shortly after arriving at the “restaurant” that the driver would also be joining us for lunch #triodate #heystranger #yeahwecanpay. We tried to order plantains but the woman running the joint told us she’d have to go get some from the store first. ‘Oh, well, I wouldn’t want to put you out or anything. I guess we’ll take the fajitas.”
Then our native driver ordered fried chicken fingers and fries. Rob and I both found this especially amusing as all the tourists are always in search of “authentic cuisine”. You know
what’s “authentic” in Roatan? Bojangles and Pepsi. Have I used up my quota on quotations yet? Just let me know.
Anyway, we were led over to a little fenced in table on the dock. After examining the volatile/enormous/dangerous crabs and walking to the end of the pier our driver explained that our table was fenced in, just in case the friendly neighborhood croc came by to partake of some of them Ore Ida french fries. Cool, cool. I then
casually backed away gingerly tip-toed openly wept and sprinted from the edge of the pier and returned to my seat.
Our fajitas came and went (interpret that as you will) whilst our driver enjoyed his microwaved chicken fingers and crinkle-cuts with a side salad (lettuce, carrots, and ketchup. so much ketchup. sorry if you just puked a little). After exiting the safety of the table we made our way back to the car. That’s when I saw it. A large plastic bucket. On top of what looked to be an out-house of sorts? Oh hell. Is that? It couldn’t be. Surely…no. Meat. Raw meat. No! Our fajitas! Dropping to my knees I cried out. Okay, not really. But mentally, I dropped to my knees and prayed to the Gods that be that those were not our fajitas. I quickly inventoried my brain for a reasonable explanation. How do you cure meat? How do you make jerky? Is there ANY REASON under this unforgiving jungle sun for meat to be marinating on top of an out-house? Sweet mercy. Tell my kids I love them.
And then we both died of a terrible parasitic infection. Incidentally, we were then successfully revived by one of the parasites who had grown and taken on the shape and mass of a human.