To my immense surprise, I stepped out of Hot Chillies' and spotted Ken walking down the street. Roatán is hardly a big, bustling place, but I was still stunned to encounter someone I (barely) knew, especially one lodging in a fancier part of the island. Perhaps the two Asian people on Roatán are naturally inclined to find each other. He was headed back to West Bay, so I figured it would be a good opportunity to see a different crowd of fish while simultaneously researching a possible beach wedding locale for some friends back home.

The water taxi is a lovely way to travel—for 40 lemps we breezed along the less backpackery spots on the west side of the island. The taxi pulled up in West Bay at the shallowest point it could, and from there we waded onto the beach. It's probably not a good option for those wanting a nice night out in West Bay's restaurants.

I wasn't sure what I expected from West Bay, but I had gotten the distinct impression it was a more "couple-y" beach, meaning...well, romantic. It wasn't. It looked far more like a resort than West End did, with larger, taller hotels abutting all the way down the sand. The beach was prettier than Half Moon Bay's, but the larger crowd and hotels detracted from its beauty.


Underwater, it was marginally better than Half Moon Bay. I saw a turtle, which made my heart flip. I also found the coral more colorful, and the water—perhaps just 8 inches deeper—gave me a bit more swimming space.

Once I'd snorkeled to my heart's content, Ken greeted me with a big grin and a beer. We'd discovered on our initial taxi ride from Coxen Hole that we both considered Syria one of our favorite countries—finding another traveler who'd even been there was rare, to say the least. I relish these travel conversations, when everything sounds inspiring. If only there were more time to visit all the remote and untouristed places in the world: we discussed the beauty of Central Asia, debated the touristic appeal of Pakistan, and dreamed of returning to Syria. We chatted happily through sunset.

I was in no rush to get back to West End (despite really wishing I'd brought a dry change of clothes) so we headed to Bite on the Beach. The seafood was a bit more thoughtfully prepared than what I'd seen on West End menus, but it was only good, not great. Some sautéed fish, tostones and a couple beers really shouldn't cost $25. I had to remind myself this was the Caribbean, not truly Central America.

Our conversation lasted until closing time, so while I was wondering how to find a taxi back to West End, our waiter Rupert offered me a ride. We stuck around through clean-up, and made loose plans to meet at Sundowner's Bar the next day. As I jumped into a truck crammed with 10 staffers heading to Coxen Hole, I remembered that in Honduras—even on the Bay Islands—a jalón is never far behind.

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