The late afternoon sun glittered and bounced as it slid along the warm blue water of the Bay of Honduras. I was delighted to be shaded by a dozen leafy aging palm trees but appalled by the litterer. Bottles, cups, tires, soiled newspapers; rags and chunks of moldy driftwood hemmed me in on this otherwise lovely beach.
Chugging small cups of Honduran rum made me feel content. The ancient pockmarked boulders of the remains of the Fortress de Santa Barbara towered behind me in protective silence.
My mind had just shuttled me back hundreds of years to the history of this small bay side town known as Trujillo when I noticed the tourists. Far down the beach they strolled leisurely. The man apparently collecting shells walked several yards ahead of a woman. The woman snapped photographs of the approaching sun set.
Two Garfuna men, dreadlocks flapping wildly as they raced from their hiding place behind a large rock, charged the dallying female. Each swung long shiny machetes in fierce revolutions around their oversized heads. When they roughly tore the camera bag from the woman’s shoulder I knew this was not a game.
I stood up and walked briskly toward the woman contemplating how I would combat the terrifying machetes. No answer surfaced in my brain.
The Garfuna s had reached the man, shoved him to the ground as he handed over his wallet, and ran into thick underbrush which I knew from the map was near a Garfuna village located just west of Trujillo. The tourists hurried back up the beach toward their sea side hotel.
Once again peacefully alone, I found a nice spot and finished drinking my rum