A bar story.

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Livingston, nighttime.
The old wooden table is covered with plates, the remnants of the moots of fish Abuelita has cooked for us is all that is left from a really GREAT meal.
Since Abuelita cooked for free only charging us a small fee for our room, me and James agreed to buy a bunch of 1 litro botellas de El Gallo from a nearby shop.
We're in the charming company of several young local village ladies, apart from Maria and her two nieces, Veronica and Amber, there is Pearl whose curly afro hair stands out like an untamable bush around her head and her 1 year younger sister Jackeline who is the shy one of the whole bunch.
We've serious intentions to take these young ladies to a bar where they wanna introduce us to an old fella we could hire a cayuto from, some sort of cannoe.
First things first though, first we have to free poor James from Abuelita's massive arms that she has clasped around his neck from behind pressing her huge boobs into his skinny back wispering in his ears in her musical belizean english how happy she is he enjoyed her food.

In the bar,
I watch in silent amusement how James is doing the cayuto negociations with the grey haired old negro. I guess the bloke to be in his early 80s, droopy eyes that give his wrinkled old face a melangolic look, the white of his eyes an unhealthy yellow that makes me suspect he has got a serious liver problem.
Small flecks of white/green saliva drop from the corner of his mouth into the grey of his three day old beard, his few remaining teeth are black stumps.
His singlet is probably as old as the man himself and has most likely never seen the inside of a washing-machine, his corduroy trousers have once been green but that was in the time of Eve and Adam I suspect.
He wears no shoes or flip-plops so I can clearly see how dirty his feet are with black infected toe nails, just as black as the few black stumps of teeth in his mouth.
The rest of this bar is just as "colorful" as this old drunk fuck. Ugly women in worn-out dresses sit on chairs in front of doors in the back of the bar waiting for clientele, the tables around us occupied by local black men of various ages, the strong fishy smell that invades my nostrils betraying me their profession, fishermen.
Jamaican music coming out of an ancient looking jukebox and vomit being absorbed by the saw dust on the floor.
A noisy generator in the garden of the bar supplying the necesary energy for the bare light bulbs that hang from greas electricity cables over the tables.
Maria has placed herself on top of my lap whispering all sorts of slutty things in my ear while Amber watchs us with unabashed interest, Veronica is busy trying to get James' attention, Pearl is doing her best to chat up the rowdy young boy at the next table and Jackeline is secretly watching how the ugly whores in worn-out dresses disappear with the ocassional drunk and horny fisherman in the small rooms in the back.
Everything here in Livingston is REALLY super-relaxed, even this shadowy bar that obiously doubles as a whorehouse and when all of a sudden the generator dies down and complete darkness rules, I can feel a hot and probing tongue trying to enter my mouth, my hand being guided down to something hot and moist.
At least James managed to hire our cayuto for tommorow excusion up the Rìo Dulce where we hope we will see these reclusive manatees, sea-cows.

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