There was a guy at the next breakfast table. He had an iPad. Now I wonder: does everyone with an iPad look like a self-satisfied cunt when they are using one?*
The hotel staff have put a bird table hanging from a tree near the dining area, and chucked a few papayas on there. It was lovely to watch toucans eating their breakfast while I had mine.
To the Saturday market in San Ignacio. I know it’s some kind of heresy, but I really can’t get excited about markets. People seem to love them, but for me it just seems like a place where one can walk at a snail’s pace, weaving your way past people stood around fondling fruit, merchants yelling, and filled with a constant awareness that pickpockets could be around. And, if you have no intention of buying food to cook, then all you are left with is the option to spend money on skanky-looking sneakers, bootleg Miley Cyrus t-shirts, and Dallas Cowboys backpacks. There was, though, some joy to be had at this market. The Christians preaching in Spanish through a guitar practise amp, for example. And Mennonites selling vegetables. I find Mennonites endlessly fascinating. The chinstrap beards, plain clothing, and the occasional pretty lass who I can’t help but fantasize is a raging slut waiting to be set free and given a Brazilian and a vibrator. There were also puppies for sale, Michael Jackson stickers (showing him at all ages), and “American daipers!”
We had a coffee in a place that was above a Chinese restaurant, spent some time watching people go by, then headed off to find an art park in a town called Benque Viejo del Carmen near the border with Guatemala. As tourist attractions go, it was pretty shy. Two and a half km along a gravel track outside the town; a dirty, mossy sign that was barely readable. Inside, the woman seemed hesistant about the price of entry. “Ten dollars…….. U.S.” (American money is acceptable currency here and prices are often listed as Belizean or American dollars. Two local dollars equals one U.S. dollar. But one gets the feeling that tourists are quoted a U.S. dollar price regardless of the Belizean price if there’s no explicit signage.) But, whatevs, we were there, at the Poustinia Land Art Park. And, well, the art wasn’t my cup of tea on the whole. Lots of reclaimed stuff assembled to mean something, usually something about the environment in some way or other. Don’t wanna be too cruel, but it was kinda sixth form art. But the walk through the jungle was great. Jungle, as I may have written before, seems to me to be, on the whole, a sweaty forest, but I do enjoy the density of it. Jungle feels like high speed film of nature happening around you, even though you don’t see the high speedness. You do, though, know that if you return in a week and no-one has gone through the paths with a machete, it will have changed.
Back at the hotel, having a beer in the bar near the pool. A table of six teenage girls all chatting and giggling. Conversations go along and they will, without any signal, just pause the conversation to all join in with the choruses of Rhianna, Lady Gaga, or Black Eyed Peas songs on the radio. Just as I’d grabbed a towel to go to the pool, the teenagers relocated there. I felt paranoid about the sleaziness of going in the pool at the same time, so read my book until they’d gone. By that time, though, the sun was behind clouds and it was a wee bit cold in the pool. So I just got drunk instead.
* I am an owner of an iPad, and I guess I’m the same.