Wednesday, April 23, 2008
  From Chicken Heads to Betting on Chickens
(and I have no idea what theat means with the kids on the streets...)

April 23
6:41 a.m. - I'm on the dock in Corozal, waiting for the boat to San Pedro. I was told it was a "ferry." It looks like a converted drug smuggling boat. Hey, whatever gets you true. (sorry Paddy)

Yesterday was "Lazy American Tuesday." I woke up late, walked around, took a nap, and ended up watching bad television before going to bed. Perhaps the entire week's events, perhaps the night before, I dunno, but I was wiped. So myself, Matt, and his Peace Corps buddy Kyle (more about him later) watched two bad movies - the one with Robin Williams running for President, then one with Jim Carrey hunting a serial killer. Robin Williams trying to be funny=funny. Robin Williams trying to do drama=drama. Jim Carrey trying to do drama=horseshit. But overall, I'm excited to head to the cayes - it should be fun. Just saw the first mullet of the trip on board the board. Business in front, party in the back.

9:51 a.m - All settled in the Cayes. Suffice to say, it's a little more my speed. More tropical, less barrio. My hotel is right on the water, but I decided to take a stroll and found some brilliant lounge chairs by the water. Call it "beach hopping," but it's time for me to sit by the water and soak in some rays. And decompress. Or, at the very least, stay until some security guard asks me to leave. It's that nice.

It's a week - today - until I depart for America. I believe the goal of every vacation is to get to the point where you're ready to go home. I was at that point two days ago. I've pressed the pause button now. With that in mind, I've tried to decide how this trip has been.

Cancun was fun, but a tourist trap. Tulum was fun, but it was equal parts breathtaking and heartbreaking. Corozal has been a place to drop the bags, but I have yet to find a comfort zone there other than the apt. I've dropped my bags, but not my guard - that's no fun.

Outside of the resort or tourist areas, this trip has been very Third World. I knew this going in, but until you see it, experience it, and live among it, it's a very difficult transition. It takes just a second to recognize, but quite a bit longer to deal.

So, for the next 4-5 days, it's island living. No cares.

10:43 a.m. - Just under an hour at my stolen beach point. Still not tired of this. Slightly annoyed at the beggars and vendors, but overall - nope - not sick of this at all.

1:19 p.m - Still not growing tired of this. Took a nice walk and then headed back to the hotel for a refreshing shower and nap. It's almost lunchtime.

1:37 p.m. - Lunch. Beef, rice, beans, cheap, delicious.

5:07 p.m - After a second trip to the sun, took a second refreshing shower, and a second refreshing nap. It's about time to grab a happy hour drink and then find dinner. Stopped for the first one at the Crazy Canuck. I'm sorry, but a place with a name like that, its a necessity for the first round. Didn't see any outragious Ontarioians, not kooky Calgary folks, or any goofy people from Guelph. A few ex-Pats and a dude trying to sell me incense.

(seriously, I'm done with the vendors)

Having had a few Belikans on Monday night - and thinking they sucked - I ordered a drink called the Blue Hole. An invention of the Crazy Canuck himself, it consisted of coconut rum, one barrel rum, vodka, tequila, pineapple, lime, and a shot of blue curacao - in a root beer float (mmmm) sized glass. Elva was nice enough to put a little ice in it, for posterity sake. There would not be a second one of those tonight, as that would eliminate a tonight altogether.

I'm getting mocked for my lime green highlighter colored drink by the locals. And perhaps for writing in my notebook. But the fact that two women came up and ordered the same thing didn't help my cause. Hey, it could have been worse - I could have ordered a panty ripper (run, pineapple).

Now, in addition to all the usual sexually-themed drinks at a bar - the blowjob, sex on a beach, slippery nipple, etc. - Crazy Canucks has a few I've never seen before. The Creole Coochie Fire (tequila and habenero sauce). Quite frankly, after my experience with habenero, I think that's a legit BDSM drink.

Kudos to the Cunning Linguist (creme de banana, amaretto, vodka) and the Ramforest Love Rash (irish creme, melon liqueur, vodka). Elva informed me that there is an off-the-menu item - Sex with the Bartender. It requires diamonds, money, sports cars, and an apartment. I thought that was particularly drole.

Kudos also goes to XM Radio for playing INXS' New Sensation on the radio while I was there.

5:30 p.m. - This is, I think, San Pedro's "Cheers." I've made friends with Norm, Cliff et al thanks to some self-depricating humor about my lime green drink. They described Caulker - the place I'm supposed to be headed tomorrow - as "the longest week they've spent in a day." That might not be a bad thing.

5:58 p.m - The consensus from everyone there is that Wednesday night is the best time for Jamaican. In between that and late night is the "Chicken Drop," where bar patrons bet on where a chicken will shit. Welcome to the Third World.

6:52 p.m. - At the Jamaican place. Good food. Good band. BUT... Like every other Caucasian with a liberal arts degree, I own Bob Marley's "Legend." I also own several other reggae CD's, but live...I've noticed that songs last 15 minutes and don't change all that much. To paraphrase Rod Strickland: marijuana is a hell of a drug (I guess).

7 p.m - Delicious. I ate fast. Time to watch the Celtics, watch chickens shit, and drink chicken shit beer.

7:21 p.m. - I'm not sure what's better arena for competition. The folks who are betting on the chicken, or the dudes in the bar hitting on the three lesbians that just walked in. One did well - one not so well, but bought a drink - and the third failed miserably with Slim Shady's illegitimate sister.

The two women in front of me in line for the chicken shit lottery were two of the most annoying I've encountered on the trip. You know the kind - where every 3rd or 4th word(s) have to be "my husband." Look honey, I don't care if you're married. Seriously, I don't. But if you don't want to have guys ogle at you, cover up your chest with a shirt perhaps. Or don't dress like a Sunset Blvd. whore. That way, you won't have to say "my husband" over and over. Mmm'kay? Susan B. Anthony marches and got a misshaped dollar coin so you could vote and be like equal and shit. So lay off defining yourself by your husband. Besides, if you have to keep dropping his name like Bobby Gonzalez drops Pitino, Gillen, and Boeheim at an NABC keynote, he probably ain't worth shit.

7:36 p.m - Sorry Mike Bibby, us Celtics bandwagon guys - and the team - are kicking your ass. Get another tattoo.

8:10 p.m - The C's are unstoppable. I just met a couple from South Dakota. A wee bit unbalanced. The husband: "You should come to S.D. - they all look like this." The wife: "I'm your third, remember." I'll be skipping Bismarck, thanks.

8:30 p.m - The chicken hits the square. It's a Rhode Island Red. I'm confident that he'll look out for one of his homeboys.

8:40 p.m - No such luck. Chicken shat in a different square. Still the best two bucks I've spent.

Now the question is: continue the night, or my latest issue of The Economist???
-----
more later

IIWII,
 
Comments:
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