Lunch in Miami, one of the tiniest traditionally
Garifuna communities sprinkled along the Atlantic coast of Honduras, was a profoundly satisfying moment, when all the contradictions of the world came together. The village lies at the end of a sand barrier, straddling the narrow ribbon of land that seals
Los Micos Lagoon off from the Caribbean Sea, west of the small town of Tela. It is just inside the
Jeannette Kawas National Park, one of Honduras's largest, a magical mix of cloud forest, estuaries, mangroves, and beaches. Walking through the village felt almost like trespassing; there are no streets, only paths between the small houses, all built of thatch and reeds. The sand sparkles, and there are little decorative gardens around some of the houses. There's no electricity or running water. The
cayucos, boats carved from tree trunks, were pulled up on the shore of the lagoon, but if it's early enough in the day and you ask around, someone will take you out fishing or touring the enchanting lagoon. There was a breeze off the ocean, and we sat down at Nany's Place, along benches and picnic tables. I got a green coconut with the top cut off so I could drink its cool water and scrape the jelly out with a spoon. We lingered under the palapa, with the beach on one side and a view of the lagoon on the other, drinking beer and chatting with whoever came by to hang out.
