Latin Temperament
The pale arrived in fancy cars with air-conditioning and thumping speakers, and the dark in overcrowded, barely converted yellow US school buses. A hundred drivers, upon reaching the sea, had decided to ditch their buses by the side of the road and take a refreshing dip with the rest of Honduras.
Despite being barely afternoon, the nightclubs were open and overflowing, throbbing with meringue. Black Garifuna women sold dry cakes on the sand.
The pallid elite made sure their children were well greased in sun-block so that they could be more easily distinguished from the swarthy locals they were berated for playing with.
A young Honduran working at the tourist information shack called me over. He thought I was from Argentina.
"Oh, Inglaterra, huh? This morning I saw such a beautiful English girl, man. Great titties. I was, how do you say?, on the brink, of jumping over my desk and running after her. She would have been worth it. Big titties, little round ass. Oh, yeah, man."
I noticed a young girl behind his counter.
"Habla Ingles?" I asked her, "sabe que el dice?" She shook her head.
"Man," the guy added, "she don't understand a fucking word I'm saying. You know, I try to teach her, but she can't speak shit. Nice titties though."
"Oh. Uh, hey," I interjected, "you're tourist information? Could you suggest anything to see round here?"
"Man, ain't shit to see round here except for her and those titties."
"Well," I said, looking over and smiling politely, "Gracias y adios." And I turned around and rode back to the lodge.
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