Rio Dulce : A ramshackle boat swept me across the Rio Dulce and up an inlet of water deep into mosquito infested jungle. There are other bugs here, the size of wasps who find Irish blood to their liking. The jungle squeezed the river and spurted out at Casa Perico. I was tired after a long days travel from Flores and the humid heat took its toll. I was greeted by an ample man called Rudy. He was a Swiss banker of some belly girth. He grabbed my bag and led me to my room for recuperation. Later that evening I met him at the bar, drinking some fine red wine. He spoke and I listened, he did not like interruptions. He told me of his mystical 3 months in the Alps finding himself. I asked if he did. His belly swelled in laughter and he announced, Rudys a big man and he still has lots to discover. He topped up my Cuba Libre and we got drunk to Ave Maria.
Livingston : The thing about journeys here is this, they always stop to refuel ten minutes after departure. So the boat pulled up alongside an Esso garage on the river and I was off to Livingston, a home to the Garifuna culture, only accessable by boat. It is hot as hell here, and this is where I organised a makeshift Paddys Day celebration in Casa de Iguana. All green balloons and green Cuba Libres. With the help of Christy and Alison at the hostel we got food colouring which turned our mouths green and made the sick festive. There is not much to do, except lay on your hole drinking and ranting about everything. I´ve been called a professor by crazed locals because of my beard and an ësponge (the Guatemalan term for Irish people). Use your imagination.
Its so hot the hot springs are a bit pointless, no refreshing swim. I bid adios now and head to Honduras tomorrow with nice guy Dave.
Up Ireland, cricket? The fuck?
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