Selections from a Guatemalan Journal, 1998. Livingston

George started walking with me as I passed through town.  I had told him I had something I wanted to ask about so now he wanted to help me out.  "What is this thing you are curious about here in Livingston?  What is your research about?"

"Do you know about the Hotel Flamingo?"

He didn't know much, having only lived in Livingston for three years.  He talked smooth Belizean English.  We walked along the beach.  He showed me his art; "La Buga" carved into coconut shells, hanging by a length of twine.

I stopped at my favorite bar which happened to be within sight of the Hotel Flamingo.  Enrique was there, that friendly heavy eyed man who runs the Hotel Garifuna.  We shook hands, happy to see each other.  He was sitting with Patrick, the skinny Frenchman (a functioning crack addict according to C.); a jewelry maker; an old white man, tanned with a gold necklace; and an ancient black man who I didn't recognize, whiskey on all their breaths.  Enrique bought me a beer.  We talked and Patrick shared a skinny home rolled with his skinny wife who I was sitting next to.

The afternoon was spectacular.  A big woman was dancing punta.  The old men were playing dominoes.

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