roatan, honduras: where my camera lens fogged and my sanity followed

lowercase start, always. the plane touched down and the air just… hit. not hot, not warm. thick. like someone wringing out a damp towel directly onto your face. i just checked and it's 28.02°c but the humidity's chewing at 89%, so the 'feels like' is a lazy 33.64°c that just sits on you. perfect for film, terrible for everything else.

landed in roatán, Honduras. the numbers 1685117 and 1608252596? yeah, those are the coordinates. 16.85117, -82.52596. my new church. as a freelance photographer, you chase light. here, the light is liquid gold at 4pm and a hazy, forgiving blanket by noon. i’m shooting everything from the concrete bunker ruins in coxen hole to a kid gutting a fish on a pier in french harbour. gritty. real.

some lady at the mango stand on the west bay road told me, "if you get bored, utila's just a ferry hop." she wasn't wrong. but who gets bored when the sea changes colour every 20 minutes? i’m telling you, the turquoise here has a greenish bruise in the centre. it’s unnerving and beautiful.

*salted mango from a cart, 50 lempiras. the guy slices it with a knife that’s seen three decades. he won't look at my camera. i get it.

my gear list is a mess right now:
- one camera body with a fungus spot on the sensor (character)
- two lenses: one prime, one zoom that clicks when you pan
- microfiber cloth permanently damp
- a roll of hp5 pushed one stop, because why not
- various ziplocks for sudden downpours
- dehydration salts that taste like betrayal

overheard gossip section 1:

i was at the dive shop fetching a regulator and this old crusty medic from coral view said, "don't go to the blue channel on a full moon. the current's not a current, it's a thing. pulled a belgian's mask clean off his face last april. his eyes… just wide."

i wrote it down. may go. may not. that’s the point.

rumour two, from a barista at a place called "the loft" in west end (yelp review says "coffee is weak but the view is 10/10" - she rolled her eyes so hard i saw brain):

all those pretty instagram influencers coming for the 'secret' beach? the one past the rock wall? they leave makeup wipes in the sand. the iguanas try to eat them. last week one had a glitter wipe dangling from its mouth like a party trophy. made me want to cry and laugh at the same time.

i linked her to the tripadvisor page for the beach cleanup crew. she said thanks, then asked if i wanted a flat white that would taste like real coffee or the "tourist version." i took the tourist version. it wasBasically milk. it's fine.

the pressure's stable at 1011 hpa, sea level. ground level's 997, whatever that means for my knees. i feel it in my joints. local weather blog called it "comfortably sweaty."

last thing. the coral. i found a patch near the据介绍 Overheard rumors say... wait.

this kid, maybe 12, selling coconut water on the beach in punta gorda, said: "my uncle says the coral is sick because the cruise ships from the big port dance on it with their anchors. but the mayor says it's just natural. who you gonna believe?" he gave me an extra straw for free after i took his photo.

i bought three coconuts. didn't even want them.

the light's fading now into that purple-grey hammock they swing between the trees. got some shots. one's a blur of a frigatebird against a polluted sunset (the dump's on the far side). it's my favourite. find it on my flickr, if you care. probably linked from the roatán tourism board site somewhere, buried under "family activities."

the air still feels like wet wool. i’m not complaining. it’s honest.

just remembered: someone told me to try the baleadas* at the place next to the laundromat that smells like diesel. it’s a yellow building. no sign. you’ll know it by the line of taxi drivers eating there at 10am. the woman inside will ignore you for five minutes. it’s part of the flavour.

the humidity’s finally dropping. or i’m just numb. time to develop film in a bucket of rainwater (they say don’t use tap water here, the minerals… i don’t know). anyway. roatán. it’s a place. my camera’s dirty. my soul’s… cleaner? nah. messier. perfect.

related: read my disaster in comayagua (no photos, just a hospital story) | the only dive guide that didn't lie to me | roatán tourism board's unofficial complaints forum

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