What I would give for a good night’s sleep…

My trip to Utila has worn me out. A quick three-day, two-night jaunt over to The Other Island turned into a completely mental six-day whirlwind of scuba diving, Sambuca, fried pork, urinated bunk beds, beautiful women, and very, very late nights. But more on that in a later update.

Still exhausted from the previous wild week, I decide to call it an early night. I try to finish my Utila trip report for the website, but the words aren’t coming. My battered brain and droopy eyelids prevent me from writing anything remotely coherent. (Not that much was coherent about the trip). My sophisticated, intelligent descriptions of my immature, depraved misadventures will have to wait.

Rum and toothpaste is a bad idea. I spit the foul concoction in the sink, strip naked, and climb into bed. I gradually drift in and out of sleep as Pixar’s WALL-E quietly plays on my laptop. Rest, it seems, will finally come.

I am jarred awake by a clatter far too loud to come from the feral cats that frequently fight and fornicate around my house. I lay quietly in the humid stillness of the jungle air, slow my breathing, and stare at the ceiling fan, listening. The sound of footsteps falling on my wooden patio. I call out but receive no response. Is it my imagination?

Rattling at my front door.

I spin out of bed, grab a butcher knife from the kitchen counter, flick it back along my forearm, and spin towards a dark figure outside my screen door. Vacant red eyes stare at me from puffy dark sockets buried in her brown face. Her untamed hair protrudes from her skull like a black gorgonian dangling above the ocean abyss. Bathed in the yellow glow of my porch light, she looks like a smacked-out Honduran cherub.

I recognize her. It’s one of the crazy twins. Two poor girls irreparably wrecked by years of sexual abuse, pregnancy and severe hard drug abuse. Their perpetually vapid expressions convey their disintegrated minds. Their pouting lips are the only remnant of their formerly beautiful selves; what lies beneath is a turbulence of primitive emotions and unimaginable demons—demons that manifest in violent and bizarre outbursts. It’s a tragic story hecho en Honduras.

As she continues to vigorously shake my front door, the tragedy of her plight is lost on me. “What are you doing here?”

“Please… help… help me…”

“What do you need?”

“Don’t call the police.”

“I’m not calling the police. What are you doing here?”

She leans her head against the door and it slides open. I hold the door shut against her weight. “Help me… help…”

“How can I help you?”

She stares vacantly. “Cigarette.”

“Cigarette? Are you kidding me? No! Why are you on my porch at freakin’ midnight?”

“Mi hermana… hermana… sister… understand?”

“Your sister.” Ah yes, the other nutter. Where is she? “Donde esta su hermana?”

She mumbles something unintelligible.

“Where do you live?”

“…Colonial…”

“You live in La Colonial? That’s four miles away. Why are you in Gibson Bight?”

She’s quiet. Her eyes are fixed in a downward trance. Then I realize she’s staring at my penis.

I slam the heavy door shut, stop, and catch my breath to assess the situation. Right, what are the facts? There’s a local crazy on my porch. It’s midnight. I’m naked and holding a butcher knife. Aside from her mumbling outside, the valley is completely silent. Damn my life is weird. I throw on some boxers and swing the door open. She’s still there.

“Okay, you need to tell me what you want or you need to get off my porch.”

“Mi hermana… five babies. Five babies. Comprendes?”

“You sister has five babies.” Maybe she wants money. Not that I have any.

“Five… ten babies. Ten.”

“Ten babies?”

“Ten babies. I give you….” and she points at me.

Crap, I’d heard of this before. A couple weeks ago, I heard that one of the girls was wandering around town trying to hand out a malnourished infant they ‘found in a creek.’ I had thought it was rumor. God, I prayed it was a rumor.

“Babies. I give you. Comprendes?”

Apparently not.

“No. No babies. Please leave.”

“Help… fifteen babies… twenty babies.”

Apparently she can do her five times tables.

“Thirty babies.”

Apparently not.

“Mi hermana, thirty babies.”

“Your sister has thirty babies.”

She drifts off again. She stares at me with wide, empty eyes that have seen several lifetimes of horrors. Only an empty shell remains. She points her finger at me again. “Cigarette… cigarette… help…”

“No.” I put the knife down. I’m not going to hurt her. But she is going to leave. “Now get off my property.”

She moans like a blue whale and slams her head against my door. Her fingernails rake down the screen. She shakes the door violently and bangs her head again. “Noooooooo…”

I force the door open against her weight. She barely reacts. I tower a foot above her. “Stop this. Get out. Now.”

She snarls and grumbles at me, not budging from position against my door. Then her spit smacks my bare chest.

“OUT! NOW!” My throat tears with the volume of my scream. “GET OFF MY PORCH! NOW!”

My shouts arouse the dogs in the valley. As their collective howls crescendo, she becomes alarmed. “Drive me home,” she stammers, pointing towards my scooter.

“NO! GET OUT OF HERE!” The dogs howl louder.

She glares at me.

“GET THE HELL OFF MY PROPERTY!”

The valley is alive with the cries of canines. She stumbles out my gate and down the driveway towards the main road. Finally.

I slide back inside my house, covered in sweat and shaking a bit. My adrenaline is still firing. No way I can sleep right now. I gotta talk to someone.

I lock the house and walk over to a neighbor’s apartment, thankful to find her awake. For ten frantic minutes I agitatedly recount my rude awakening. As I lament how this whole island has gone insane, my heart rate finally lowers. A cup of water later, I am ready to head back to bed.

As I walk towards my front porch, the door to the apartment above me slams open. “Get out of my house!” my neighbor shouts. I watch as he tosses the figure of the same crazy girl out his front door and down the stairs.

She stands, stares, and holds out her hand towards me. “Cigarettes?”

“What are you doing here? I told you to leave!”

She wails, charges towards my front door, and begins violently pulling on the frame. Great, so there’s a crazy lady blocking the entrance to my apartment. Just another night on Roatan. “GET OUT OF HERE!”

She loses her balance and tumbles backward. Cat food flies everywhere. “Mi hermano… kill you! Kill you!” she screams and spits. “Quemo su casa!”

Well, that’s it. Death threats have this funny way of pissing me off. Break into my house? Okay, whatever. Threaten to burn it to the ground? That’s too much.

“GET OUT!! GET THE $#&* OUT NOW!!!”

It takes her mere seconds to hightail it down the driveway again, accompanied by the 7.1 earthquake of my furious voice. I stagger back into my house, double-lock the doors, and slide into the comfort of my bed, my butcher knife resting at arms-reach on my bedside table.

Needless to say, I’m still sleep-deprived.

EPILOGUE

I would like to remind everyone that crazy people are everywhere in this world. Roatan is just a safe haven for a handful of nutters, many of them no more insane than the guy driving the car next to you during rush hour. So please, don’t let this weird story deter you from visiting the Bay Islands.

I would also like to remind everyone that crazy people are like cats: they hate water. I forgot this lesson and it could have been disastrous, for crazies have no fear of knife or nudity and I have excessive fear of Honduran prison. Tonight, I’m sleeping with a gallon of water by my bedside.