Roadspill

END OF THE WORLD AND DR. LOVE

Is this what the end of the world is like? Not the end as in "its over," but the end as in this is the place where the next step means falling off the edge of the planet.

I sit in the Lazy Lizard, a local watering hole on a bakery hot (and fresh) Thursday afternoon. It is an open bar, surrounded on three sides by water. There are bits of logic scribbled all over the ceiling and support pillars. Wisdom like "No one knew I was a drinker until I came to work sober." And, my personal favourite and new mantra: "Responsibility stops here."

And so it does.

SPLASH! Someone jumps from the bar directly into the water. I can smell the flesh on the back of my legs burning. And this is despite SPF30 sundope.

The bartender looks like a younger and attractive version of Joni Mitchell. Ok, so she looks nothing like Joni Mitchell. But she's wearing nice colourful wrap stuff.

Hours later the sun is getting ready to slide into beneath the horizon. As it turns to a brilliant red, a group of Americans arrive, fresh from over-priced, over-safe, overly boring day trips. I am heartened to know that they are paying Gringo prices. That more than makes up for the fact that their complaning and drunkeness completely ruins what should be an outstanding drunken moment of my own. The crowds come and go, always seeming the same. Perhaps it is a little like the Matrix, where all this is just manufactured for my benefit. To hide the fact that I work for a living and all this is just payoff. Perhaps I need another drink.

Magic hour continues and I notice that Joni Mitchell has mixed herself a rather generous rum and fruit juice concoction. She must have freepoured at least 6 ounces. Put up a parking lot!! Suddenly, the drink is gone. I am encourged by her consumption and order another, hoping she will put the same freepouring effort into my drink. Nope. I get a Gringo sized shot.

An American zips off the legs of his Eddie Bauer pants. There but by the grace of God go I. Presently, one of them is complaining about having "foreign" currency. And the fact that the cost of the cab from the airport to the water taxi has gone up $2. Which is US$1. Imagine!!!

Maybe I shouldn't be so judgemental. I'm as touristy as the rest of them. And like them, I'm here to relax and enjoy life. And I don't mind foreign currency one bit.

Still: how can a culture that is so educated and advanced produce complete nincompoops that travel the world acting like morons? I suppose that being the biggest and strongest nation means that you can wank around the world in search of the happiness that only a Walmart can bring. C'est la vie.

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There is fire in my mouth. I am now enjoying dinner at a beachside joint called Rasta Pasta. I have landed here, having watched the sun set and Joni stumble off in a fog. When the barkeep wanders off hammered, you know its time to go. Not wanting the disappointment of the "curry" at the China resteraunt from the previous evening, I was looking for something more... well, good.

The American women from yesterday are no where to be seen. But they had mentioned the Happy Lobster and Rasta Pasta as being good places to eat. Reluctantly, I decided to follow their advice.

Crowded with a primarily white crowd (and by white, I mean the colour of whole milk) and a redheaded waitress, it seemed to be a good place to hang out. The menu was huge -- and carted from table to table like a large sofa. The prices seemed pricey, but in reality they weren't. A "huge burrito" was US$7. Or was that the entertainment, Hugh Burrito (and his jazz cats)? Anywy, I ordered a beer and some chicken pasta. Then I saw that a huge burrito was just that: huge. Good thing I didn't order one of those.

I alternately looked at the ceiling -- made of wind battered Bob Marley & Peter tosh flags and the floor, made of sand. I occasionally peer at my Pete McCarthy book. This is definitely not Ireland.

A quick trip to the loo brings back memories of Ukranian border crossing loos. Not as dirty, but definitely as smelly. I think I may have found Saddam's chemical weapon storage bunker. It is labelled "Men," which must be Iraqi for death.

Back at the table, I have three empty seats. In short order they are filled with people. Eva, Toni, and Janet. Janet is an American who is heading home after 4 months on Caulker. Tony is an Ameican who runs a B&B. And Eva is a native Belizian! Eva spills the story of her life: 35 years old, runs the art gallery here, and has had two lovers.

Ok.

Then she spills the big news: for many years she was on the radio -- as Dr. Love! She dispensed advice to the love lorn of Central America in English, Creole and Spanish. She tells stories of people chasing her around asking her questions. She pulled the pin on being in the media when she starred in an anti-domestic violence PSA as a battered woman. For years people asked her if she was really beaten in the commercial. It was too much for her.

We continue babbling until late (11pm). It is time for bed. We say our goodbyes and head off on our seperate ways.

Another day in paradise. With Dr. Love!