Tales of a Public Well and Environs: Part 2 of 3 (The CoastWatcher: Caribbean West)
News from the Honduras Bay Islands and North Coast
06 April 2001
By Pierre Renaldo, The Coastwatcher©

You may recall last week's exciting episode ended with a startling discovery for our heroine. She did not have a new pair of Birkenstock sandals after all. And soon after my first encounter with a maiden of the local society, I made a sad but not too surprising discovery. My new landlord, ( Mr. D.) having been most anxious to rent his new (vacant) house to me, made some statements and claims that were preposterous on their face. They are the kind of lies that you would like to be truth.

I will quote him nearly verbatim. " To tell you the truth", he exclaimed, as though truth was something of a novelty in his life or a missing fiber in the fabric of his character, (which it is) "we just don't have a mosquito problem here. Why, I walk around here all day in just a pair of swim trunks and never get a bite." Strangely, at that very instant, a female senior citizen strolled up to Mr. D. and asked a good question. "When are you going to do something about these mosquitoes? They are eating me alive!"

Well, that cast a different light on what he had told me before I gave him first and last month's rent, plus a healthy security deposit.

"Hrumpf," stated Mr. D. while trying to conceal his displeasure, and at the same time talking over the statement just made by the elderly lady, who turned out to be his mother. "Good morning, Mum. This is your new neighbor, Pierre. I'm just showing him around the place. We were about to drop in on you to say hello. Well now, where was I? Oh, yes. You can use the boat dock anytime you like and we have drinks and food for sale up at the main house. Feel free to stop over any time."

As they walked away I could hear 'Mum' continuing her tirade by complaining about the no-see-ums too. I was wondering how this one little slice of paradise could be exempt from the islands two worst pests. Just a figure of speech no doubt.

The last obvious lie led me to wonder about some of the other statements he had made, particularly those to do with the 'Disco' that was "quite a long way down the beach from us, actually." Then he uttered the next whopper. "We rarely ever hear them except sometimes on the weekends." I was soon to discover that this was a double boldfaced lie, considering that said 'entertainment' establishment was no more that a hundred yards in a straight line from my front porch. In fact, the building that I could see nearest to me on the beach was the backside of (in Mr. D.'s words) "the almost silent Disco."

I was soon to have my first encounter with the "dance hall girls" and the loud, boring, screeching music that they seemed to thrive on. All that was about to change, as you will see as you read on.

There was one redeeming feature about our new habitat. It was our good neighbor Fred and his charming wife Danielle. Fred clued me in about the music played every night at the disco. I took his word as to the "no talent" band that played at the "center for entertainment and socializing in Sandy Bay west."

"First, you will realize almost immediately that these guys have a very limited repertoire of music", he said. "In fact I haven't heard them play a new tune in the three years I have been living on the island. Not one!"

I had heard Fred tickle the ivories a few times and knew him to be a very accomplished piano player. I soon learned that he was right on target about the band at the disco. And as luck would have it, that night being the first day of the Easter holiday week, we were to be treated to an evening and early morning music fest, by the island's band of renown. They kept on going and going and going, just like the bunny rabbit that advertises those batteries.

After the third night of entertainment, I was growing weary, unable to sleep because of the high volume to which the speakers of the sound system at the Disco were set. Just about the time I began to doze off, the band would come back from a break and resume the same tunes they had played just before the break. To make matters worse, while they were at rest, one of the 'happy feet' dance hall girls would often play a recorded version of the same music we were supposed to be getting relief from.

Then during a lull in the music, while I was fading into the oblivion of sleep, I heard a tap, tap, tapping, rap, rap, rapping, on my chamber door. I glanced at the clock. 2 A.M.! Who could be tapping on my door at 2 A.M.?

Then I heard the whimpered call. It was not from a raven if that's who you were expecting, but from one of two drunks, each attempting to hold the other vertical, squinting in the light of my automatic security lights, wobbling, on my back porch.

"Mary! Mary!" the guy hoarsely whispered.

"What in the @#%$*!#@!! are you doing here at two A.M.?" This is a private residence. There is no one here named Mary."

"Well, she used to live here" he retorted. "I remember that because I was one of her regular customers. Come on doc. Tell her we want to talk to her."

My shotgun convinced them that Mary did not live here and that they would have better chances of finding a 'Mary' down at the disco. "I think one of the dance hall girls is named Mary. Why don't you go down and see her?" The barrel of my shotgun nudging his nose convinced him, even in his drunken stupor, that he was hearing good advice.

The music started up again just then, so I decided to watch TV with my headphones on. 'I certainly was not going to get any sleep around this place' I grunted to myself. But now I was mad, and I began thinking of ways to counter that horrible twanging that was keeping the entire neighborhood awake. It was then that I had a brainstorm. I would fix that noisy place good.

The next night was Saturday, the biggie at the disco. I learned that you could tell how important the day of the week was by watching the dance hall girls "freshing up." They did this at the public well in the early evening before the festivities began. All four of them were gathered there, each with a bucket or jug. They were washing their hair, and their bodies, while wearing their clothing, flimsy as it was. Each helping the other, each dipping and rinsing their troop mates, guiding them to a high level of cleanliness. The longer the wash session lasted, the more important the night.

Unhindered by any kind of modesty, they all washed diligently, not forgetting anything of consequence, and uninhibited in their pursuit of those unmentionable 'hard to get at' places, without the slightest hesitation or embarrassment. It was a sight unlike anything I had ever observed and one that would soon become commonplace. It was totally hilarious.

We did not have a camcorder at that time so what we witnessed was to be left to our ability to describe the wash-up activities to interested listeners, (in good taste of course); the most amusing antics of these regular visitors to the public well. To be continued.

Stay tuned for the next week's thrilling conclusion.

Don't forget to check out the booksite for informative reading-up before you begin your building project or your move to a tropical paradise. Just click:
http://www.eroatan.com/pierre/books.html

There is interesting reading for you in the April issue of Roatan Insights.

I'm always happy to answer your questions with honest and timely answers. Just drop me a line at: elouis@globalnet.hn.

Ciao, Pierre

By Pierre Renaldo, Mountain Coastal S.A,. General Contractors, Construction Management and Construction Consultants.