Well, so much for the daily entry. I tried, believe me, I tried. But I ran into some technical dificulties that set me back a few days, then I just didn't feel like it. Besides, at the moment, I don't feel I have anything terribly interesting to report. Daily activities: feeding the cat, eating mangoes, going to the beach, figuring out what to eat for dinner, wahing the dishes, and so on and so forth, not necessarily ad nauseum, but ad infinitum, at least. At least to infinty? There's an odd statement.
One of the locals and I have been chatting a lot recently. I'll call him M. M tells me stories of local history and asks questions about the ol' US of A. We have good talks. We also trade mangoes for starfruit, yogurt recipes for limes & oranges, etc. I'm not sure what to offer up for his wife's chiles rellenos recipe. They probably don't need the cool shells I found at the beach today. Hm. Well, I'll keep those anyhow. One of them looks like a butterfly. The other could be put on a necklace.
Yesterday, M asked me about my tattoos, specifically about the little house I used to live in, which is sketched onto my inner thigh, just above my knee. I told him it's something of a tribute for a friend who passed away. He was sad to hear about it, but today I told him that the day before, I hadn't realized that that very day was the one-year anniversary of my friend's passing. M got a a kick out of this. He said that my friend was making sure that I remembered him on that day. As he said this he smiled and pointed to the heavens above. I laughed and told him he was probably right. I love how so many Mexicans Catholics appear far more strict in their beliefs than, say, the North American Catholics I know, yet they have a much more jovial approach to death. Perhaps this last example isn't the best illustration, but I can sense an underlying wave here, one that ripples out, year-round from the great fiesta-splash of the Day & Night of the Dead celebrations. It seems to say, "death ain't so bad, if you've lived a good life." As far as I'm concerned, the Chosen One lived a great life, with great friends, as tragically short as that life may have been.
There is still, of course, plenty to be written about my friend. Suffice it to say, that now, one year later, I still miss him, but the initial gutwrench has subsided a bit, and I can begin to recall my memories of him, to put them into words, without feeling like complete shit.
Though the hole still burns, may the ember always glow.
***AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT***
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I suppose a recent newsworthy adventure was an afternoon spent spearfishing. I had never been spearfishing until this past Saturday. I don't even fish with a fishing pole at a fishing hole back home, and I live next to a river and lake! The locals and I agree this is strange, and I couldn't quite put my finger on the reason I don't fish, but then today it struck me. I remembered that the waterways around my home are heavily polluted. That's why.
So anyway, I went to the beach expecting to play futbol, but instead was invited to go fishing. A friend lent me a mask & snorkel, he grabbed his three pronged spear, his hawaiana, we waded through some waves, then swam out to meet his friends. They were already busy fishing out by the coral and the purple rocks that jut out of the water and give the adjacent beach its name: playa mora.
When we got to our rendezvous point, the other two boys said they had two fish already speared down below in the coral. When I looked under, I could see their spears, about 6 feet long, each leading into a small crevice. They had trapped the fish in there and were now trying to pull them out. They dove down about 12 feet and stabbed a few times to make sure they had their targets, then went down a few more times with hooks on fishing line to pull them out. The boys asked my friend to give it a shot and he went down a few times to try and grab the fish out but it wasn't happening. He's a hefty dude, but surprisingly graceful underwater. Like a whale. He's also a good goalie...like a wall?
Anyway, the boys finally grabbed the fish out the holes and brought them up. They were called botas, I think, and can fit comfortably in both hands. I didn't actually spear any fish myself, but I held the bag o' fish for a while so I got to check them out. These fish were pretty dark, but there were others that were quite colorful. Just think 'tropical' and see what pops into your head. There were blowfish, trumpetfish (like old-school-medieval-hear-ye-hear-ye-style trumpets, i.e. long, not compact like armstrong's or davis's), rockfish (yes they look like local rocks, & coral), fish that looked like larger tetras, and flat dark blue fish with light blue highlights. We ran into a school of silvery-white fish that I can't name. Also, as we went along, we picked up caracoles, the conch shells, which have all manner of crusty and slippery business growing on them. I guess you can boil these to get the meat out. When we got back, the boys set the conch aside and got to slicing up the bounty they had wrested from the bosom of the Pacific that afternoon. It was a bloody, smelly affair. Very interesting to see because, as mentioned before, I never fish. Not that I wouldn't like to start at some point soon.
It's my fishing pole
my fishing pole
I don't know
My fishing hole
my fishing hole
I don't know
-WTD
(rip, rrs, 189)
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My first experience spearfishing was on the island of Morea near Tahiti. While we were fishing, some local boys built fires on a small coconut island and cooked breadfruit. When we arrived the breadfruit was done. They piled coral on the coals and cooked the fish on that like a grill. We heated some cans of hash and ate like kings on big leaves. Your story brought me back to this wonderful memory. I hope the food was as good as mine.
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