Today we cycled back into the heart of San Pedro to a craft bazaar where local artisans sell their own handmade goods from wooden stands. Our mission — to find a matching bracelet at the request of the Lake Artist — was a success when a craftsman said he would make a matching bracelet, then and there. Thirty minutes later, bracelet in hand, we rolled back out of town.
It was a hot day, with clouds of dust rising from the road as trucks and golf carts rattled past. Suddenly, as if in answer to a thirsty prayer, a tiny, brightly colored grocery stand appeared on the side of the road. After ducking inside, Kish emerged triumphant, an ice-cold grape Faygo in hand. She loves grape Faygo. What are the odds?
Of course, I hate grape Faygo, but I couldn’t help but marvel at our good fortune as Kish mounted her bike and pedaled away, quaffing the soda as she went.
My doctor has long been after me to eat less meat and more fish. It’s easy to rationalize ignoring his heartfelt advice — which is what most of us do with doctorly advice, when you think about it — in Columbus, Ohio, which is more than 100 miles from any substantial body of water. It’s not exactly the fish capital of the world.
In Belize, though, there is no viable excuse or rationalization. So, I’ve been eating seafood until it’s coming out of my ears. Ceviche. Grouper. The whole red snapper shown above, complete with head, eyes, and little bones that you pick out of your mouth. And lots of shrimp.
It’s all fine, I guess, and I suppose I’ve added a few minutes to my lifespan by adhering to doctor’s orders. But to my mind the highlights of my Belizean culinary experience so far were the stewed chicken I attacked on Tuesday and a flavorful jerk chicken sandwich yesterday.