The last days in San Pedro, in which I defend my mojito with my life, save a frog, and reject a marriage proposal

The local dining option: Waraguma
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3 weeks in San Pedro, a dusty little town with more dogs than people.  This town is sometimes the Wild West, sometimes the Colonial Period - proper Brits mixing with drunk Canadians, swaggering Americans that can't take the time to wait; Belizeans, Hondurans and Guatemalans blending on the beaches and building sand castles of dreams for foreign investors.  Homes here are still ad-hoc affairs: new homes pop up as quickly as hurricanes pull them apart; confused and crowded jumbles of scavenged plywood, corrugated metal, clothes lines and mesh.

Another fast-food joint
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We were driving across town on our golf cart a few days ago, and we picked up a person loaded down with gear: chainsaw, pipe wrench, a bag dusty from project sites.  He flagged us down, a toothless grin and breathless "thank you!" as he hopped on the cart.  I was driving, but my mom was on board so it's really more like chaufering - and she decided we need to stop at the grocery store.  Somewhat awkwardly, I waited with the cart - you never know when your toothless breathy friend might become the next golf-cart bandit.  So we pulled up at the side of the dirt road, and as my mom disappeared into the air conditioned splendor of San Ignacio Gourmet, my golf cart guest turned his attention on me.

There are times of pure bliss.

Water, sun, water, sun......
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Fernando, as I learned his name to be, quickly informed me that he has a good job, and his wife passed away a few years ago, and his kids - "so successful!" - are male and female, 32 and 34, and live in Vancouver and Miami - respectively.  And "Don't you need a husband?  You don't have a ring.  I would make you very happy!  Do you have kids?  We can make children." (Have I mentioned I am actively trying not to shudder at this point?)  Fernando reaches over the back of the golf cart seat, trying to massage my shoulder with his 4-fingered hand.  "You would be very happy with me," he says, grinning his toothless grin. I calmly regard this man, toothless, balding, looking so much like a prune drying up in the tropical sun, and commend his cojones, to even go that route.  This is the second or third marriage offer this trip already - one day I will rest on my deathbed, contemplating all of the "could haves" of my life, and I wondered, briefly, dusty on my golf cart, waiting for my mom doing the shopping in Belize, if I would ever recall Fernando the Toothless Wonder in my dotage.  For truly, a mouth so gaping, so devoid of teeth, effectively asking your hand in marriage (sans ring of course), is a sight to behold.  Alas, no photos of gaping maw (that would be rude, even for me), so I present you this fine image of a frog, stuck in my sink.  He is one of 4 who have taken up residence in my bathroom: 2 in the overflow drain, one in the shower drain, and this guy, stuck in the drain itself.  After waiting 2 days for him to leave, it suddenly occurred to me that he was probably jammed in there, and none too happily at that.  I splashed water on him; he panicked.  I tried to take the drain insert out - I was afraid I was squishing his little froggy legs.  I couldn't pull the insert out, and I couldn't twist it, and I couldnt' just let this poor frog die in my drain - so I got my stepdad to help.  His pragmatic first question? "You want it to live?  Or can I just put it out of its misery?" I was a little taken aback - "um, live, please" - and mildly horrified as I noticed he had a big wrench in one hand and pliers in the other.  I decided to let him tackle the event on his own - I did not want to see frog blood - and was surprised when he came back upstairs after a few minutes. "Did you get it out?" "Yeah - just popped the plier down one end and nudged him out - he clung to the wrench, and I dropped him into the bushes outside." Problem is, the cats like the bushes outside...... *******************************************************************

GrillingIsPopularAndWeLikeEating
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The new government held a street party last Saturday night: fireworks and punta music, $2 beer in the square and so many people celebrating.  "Thank you for Saving Belize!" shout the billboards; red UDP bandannas on everyone's head; red  banners and flags and standards flutter, insistent and festive, sparkled with stars.

In the midst of this, I went to the new Cuban cafe on the main square.  It was 9:30; the party had been going for hours and showed no end of stopping, and 2 fine (drunk) hosts from the Midwest proclaimed our genius for stepping inside, simply because we had entered the domain of the "best mojitos on the planet."  Who could ignore this kind of statement?  I tell you one thing - not I.

mmmm...... chicken feet
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My partner this evening is a guy who normally lives in Alaska - he was on a boat in the Bering Sea last week, chipping ice away by hand, when he had one of those transcendent moments of clarity.  "what am I doing here?" he thought to himself - and promptly packed some shorts and came for some sun and rum.  Therefore: mojitos are part of his order of business - and he too could not deny.

So we ordered said mojitos.  Our waiter, frazzled and frayed after 18 hours of working and political enthusiasm, looked like he was about to pass out; his glassy eyes clicked on the addition of 2 mojitos to his list, then slid off us, onto the plaza beyond, as he scurried into the kitchen.  So we waited.  15 minutes passed - our enthusiastic, drunk hosts were also waiting, so we thought this must be part of the mystique.  So we waited some more.  And more.

The frog trapped in my sink. This is not a happy frog face.
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After a good 45 minutes, we were getting mildly parched and antsy, but..... suddenly our waiter, who had since brought food to other tables and had been flitting around manically, finally emerged from the kitchen with 2 limes.  Limes!  Promising!  We watched, rabid, as he carefully crushed half a lime per glass.  4 glasses!  4 of us!  Good sign!  These are for we!  In goes the lime!  in goes the mint!  Some sugar, careful careful!  The rum!  The muddle!  Some ice and some soda!  Oh my goodness I can taste them... but not yet.  A very aggressive woman comes to the end of the bar - "We've been waiting for 15 minutes!"  She's irate, I can't fathom why.  The waiter looks at her, shrugs, serves two drinks - to our right.  2 more... on the counter..... She's yelling at the waiter "I want my mojito!  I want my rum and coke!  If I don't get it now we're leaving!"  He shrugs, ambles to the kitchen, I guess to get the rum for her drink.  At which point, this woman, muttering under her breath, bringing the angst of a Wisconsin February into my sphere of Belizean heaven, reaches for MY DRINK.

I leaped into action.  "Hey!  Hands off!"

"But I've been waiting for 15 minutes!"

On my left, Alaska says "We've been waiting for 45"  and Chicago to my right says "Yeah lady.  We've been waiting for an HOUR AND A HALF.  And it's worth it!"  The last line delivered with a crowing smile, taunting her.  But not too soon - Alaska was saving our parched throats, taking back our cocktails from this Wisconsin banshee.

She, in turn, puffed - "WELL  I think that's RIDICULOUS.  WE are LEAVING."  Then she found the waiter - who, it turns out, is the owner and the cook and the busboy too - and said the same to him: "WE are LEAVING."

He was standing near the bar, just about the pour her Coke, looked at her and shrugged.  Away she stomped, dragging her beleaguered husband in tow.

Nursing our saved mojitos, Alaska and I sat at the porch railing, watching the crowd throng past.  A barge was loaded up with fireworks, sending off plumes of choking smoke as the firecrackers went off; kids were dancing on the main stage, recently vacated of the band.  He was clearly still considering the exchange.  "Where do you think it was, that she was going ins a rush?" he asked me.  "What else is there?"

What else, indeed.

***********************************************

All good things must come to an end, and after 21 days of beachfront delight, I'm going to pack a backpack and set off into the jungle.  The start of a journey is a momentous thing.  It takes a certain amount of strategy, some patience and risk and courage, and sometimes just a swift kick in the pants - there are worse things I can imagine, than sitting on a dock on a Monday at 3, drinking my pina colada and finding new words for the color of the sea - crystaline blue, cerulean, sublime.....  I've spent a few nights wrapped in a hammock, enjoying the breeze on my skin; a few days salt crusted and wind blown, hair a tangle, balancing precariously at the prow of a fishing boat or a water taxi, casting my hand, waiting for the water to turn me over, swallow me whole, consume me so I become a part of this reef, this place, this air.

There are times of pure bliss.

However, I have determined to meet friends across the continent, small as it is, and I have determined to take the overland route to get there - and so I must go.  Tomorrow morning I leave for Punta Gorda, in southern Belize - 7 or 8 hours by bus, depending on who's driving and what the prevailing winds are, I suppose.  Perhaps there will be a crocodile in the road; perhaps a brood of chickens will hold up traffic - one knows not, in this country.  But it will be an adventure: according to one traveler, Punta Gorda has perhaps "the best fried chicken in the entire country" - and I am a seasoned fried chicken connoisseur.  Rest assured, those who hunger, those who crave: I will let you know.