Where the hell is Roatan?

Cruise passengers (the white people) are greeted by Roatan dancers who aren't all that amused.

The cruise ship docks just a short pier off the tiny island of Roatan, much to the delight of locals who view the cruise  ship industry as an economic opportunity where economic opportunities are rare.

I've been back from two weeks in the Caribbean for one week and it seems like I never went anywhere! Before "be here now" takes over entirely, I have a few words and images.

Roatan. Ever heard of it?  Neither had I until the cruise ship stopped there disgorging about 2,000 passengers onto this small—37 miles long, five miles wide—and hilly Honduran island. 
PK and I opted for a day at the beach. At $35 each, it was the least expensive of about a dozen excursions offered that day. (We were still clueless about independent excursions. More on that later, if I ever get to "what I learned about cruising.")
Here's what we got: a van ride over hill and vale thru tropical jungle to the beach: a huge buffet cruise-style barbecue lunch (all cruise food comes in huge); a park-like entrance to the beach; lounge chairs lined up like this with cruisers in various states of, uhhhh, ecstacy? Are we having fun yet?

A line is drawn in the sand and inches outside are locals, toes on the boundary,  trying to make a buck off us cruisers. PK and I strolled outside of the sanitized area and were immediately accosted by the woman in the green and black striped blouse. She was selling massages performed by her daughter, Larissa, that younger woman on the left. I bit. A half hour massage for $15.

Most importantly, according to the cruise-line sales pitch, this beach had been sanitized of sand fleas, which are apparently a plague upon tourists and locals alike and probably the universe. At any rate, something toxic was sprayed upon the white sands and within the confines of the private beach, we were not bitten.

And here is Larissa, ready to  knead the white pasty flesh of some old woman from god-knows-where.

Larissa claimed to be 15 but seemed older. Although we occupied an unsanitized area of Roatan, I didn't suffer any flea bites. Only sound bites of Larissa's life. I asked if she and others were able to buy food at the opulent cruise barbecue buffet, which was wafting tantalizing aromas from maybe 100 feet behind us.  She scoffed, "No. They'd rather throw food away than give it us, or even sell it to us. They treat us like dogs," she said. She pressed her thumbs especially hard into my shoulder muscles. Ummm.
She slathered me with baby oil. No pricey scented oils here. No massage table. No licensed massage therapist. Just Larissa, a teenager who told me she's still hoping that a former  cruise customer from Syracuse will make good on a promise to house her in the  U.S.A. and help her with college. Larissa went on at length about this woman, who Larissa believed, would deliver her from the poverty that plagues Honduras. The massage went past 45 minutes. Maybe I knew this woman? Larissa said she had the woman's phone number and had called her many times. But the woman hadn't called back.Why hadn't she called back?
Silence. What could I say about the temporary goodwill extended by tourists?

A local beer and the groomed entrance to the private cruise-ship beach just beyond.

Larissa said the food sure smelled good. "You want some?" I asked. "Would you?" she replied. I went through the buffet line and piled barbecued chicken, coleslaw, beans and rice, and wonderful tropical fruit onto a paper plate. I covered it with another plate and sped to the "line in the sand" where Larissa whisked it away, followed by two others. I saw them under some palms savoring the feast. She glanced over at me and nodded her thanks. Believe me Larissa, it was nothing.