Every now and again you get a reminder of how the memory is not a factual document. We drove past the softball field that mentioned yesterday. I said it was poorly maintained. That was what I thought, that is what my mind saw. But driving past it again, it wasn’t poorly maintained at all. The grass was short just there was no dirt infield. Does make me wonder how much of stories about my past include bullshit. And when you see talking heads interviewed on documentaries, too. How much of that is shite? Anyway…
After discovering a battalion of insect bites on my legs this morning, I lacquered up in bug spray before we hit the road, going not too far away to see some of Kraig and Barbara’s Oregonian pals. They moved down here last year, driving down in an old school bus. It took them twelve days. They’ve built a wee house on seven acres, right next to a river. Most of the land is still jungle. They warned of snakes and widowmakers. Which was obviously thrilling to learn.
We had a drive around, through a bit of Mennonite country where farmland is a lot neater, and there are sexy ladies in headscarves and full length skirts that really get the blood racin’.
Stopping off at a store, I asked the checkout woman which of the five newspapers she would recommend. Slightly ignoring the question she told me that the Bible was the best thing I could read. In the end she indicated two were less politically biased than the others. I bought one of those, The Reporter, (“Independently Serving Belize Since 1967”). The lead story included an exclamation mark in the second paragraph. Not a good sign. And this is that paragraph, exactly as it appears:
Senior Magistrate Sharon Frazer said she had no choice but to acquitted them because she found the evidence given by police officer Lincoln Hemsley no credible!
Spent the afternoon in the pool. Reading, drinking strawberry daiquiris. And staring at the tiny square tiles on the floor of the pool. Three shades of blue. Watching my feet swirl the water; my left leg clockwise, my right leg anti-clockwise. Until the blues all swishes together and I could no longer see the individual tiles. It took six seconds—six Mississippis anyway—for the water to get back to its normal state of rippling squished back-and-forth tiles. Aaaah, holidays…
Later, we took a trip all of a hundred metres to Cahal Pech, the nearby Mayan ruins. The Mayan empire would probably still be around if they made proper buildings instead of crappy “ruins.” Who would wanna live there? Did those fuckers not think to install elevators? Idiots.