Coxwain’s Hole is the name of the capital on Roatan Island, Honduras. This is one of the poorest countries in central America. the borders are home to murderers, traffickers and the disaffected. the atmosphere is dark and desperate and it spreads to the Caribbean. In the west of the island, there are diving schools owned by North Americans. these places have clean sheets, three course meals, sport fishing and diving for all on the tropical reefs. In Coxwain’s Hole, the houses are made of plywood, the roads are thick with mud. There is no electricity. The population are African, four hundred year descendents from the slave trade. I can feel the atmosphere of this place as clear as the Caribbean sky. It is restless, displaced and angry. I wander down to the docks to find a boat that will take me to the mainland. I have managed to travel for three months without spending any money, Somehow, I have made it this far, and this is as far as I will get. My journey south will finish here. There will be no Colombia, Peru or Argentina.. at least not for now.
The dock is calm but there is a boat there and a bar on the street, It is hard to remember the bar or who was inside, but I will try to paint a picture as best I can. The bar had sailors and I believe the captain was there. He was leaving in the morning. There was a black fela in there with a guitar and he sold it to me. So I had spent some money…. The deal was that I would collect the guitar later or some ganja. I can’t remember too clearly, but I think it was the guitar.
Night fell and the Hole was dark, people wandered the muddy streets in the warm Caribbean air. It’s hard to describe what happened next, but I was in the center of the shanty town, Men stood on corners lolling in the dark with machetes in their hands. It was 4am, the stillest time of the night, when the soul is at its most open. On every corner men wandered with machetes in their hands. All black. What was I doing there? We reached the house where the guitar was and I saw it through a window propped against a wall. Then I took the guitar and hung in the street with the guy who sold it to me. Everything was cool, I was there looking for ganja I think, but tourists do not go to Coxwain’s Hole. It just doesn’t happen. I was out of place.
A dwarf about five feet high moved towards me, he was with two hookers dressed in shiny dresses, one silver and one red. They were also dwarf. Flids, twisted limbs, stunted growth as a result of am impoverishing disease I guess. The dwarf is high on crack cocaine and swinging his machete disturbingly. He fixes his eyes on me and engages. Some words are exchanged. The atmosphere is hostile, I am calm. He sees a silver ring on my finger, one that my ex girlfriend had crafted for me in Liverpool. I had found a piece of amber on a tree in the Rift Valley, Tanzania on acid and taken it home. It was this amber that formed the center jewel of the ring. “Where did you get that ring” the dwarf asks aggressively “Africa” I reply naturally. He gets agitated as if he does not know how to react. I am very concerned. He has a machete, I am unarmed. He moves away for a minute and I shift up the track as fast as I can.
It was the weirdest night I can ever remember. Being so close to such darkness and suffering and coming away unscathed left me feeling like I was very lucky to be alive. I don’t now how to explain it. Go to Roatan Island Honduras and walk into the shanty town in the witching hour and maybe you will get my gist.
