When we arrived in this Central American former colony,
it seemed odd that everyone spoke English.
But perhaps more odd, they spoke it better than most of us do.
The late day ride in the large single engine plane
from the main aiport to the little island airport
was short and enjoyable,
and over just as nightfall set in.
Manuel met us in his mini-van just as we had planned.
However, the inclimate weather was not in our plans.
We made our way to our beach hideaway bouncing and dodging
on a primitive road that more resembled a lunar landscape,
stopping only at the last small store to buy a few things.
We spent 5 minutes in the small quaint store, buying cereal and milk,
and a little cheese and some drinks.
Everything was five dollars.
In 35 minutes, we managed to cover the 3.5 miles to the house.
Francis, our housekeeper, was friendly and bright.
We asked Manuel to take us to dinner after a little time to freshen up.
We bumped and jostled for another 20 minutes to get back
to the edge of town.
We walked into the beach side resort restaurant,
to find a 60 year old in a red dress,
sitting next to a bright christmas tree.
She perched on her little stool and in her short gray hair,
she resembled some mildly endangered exotic species.
She stared intently at the pages before her,
And her fingers dutifully played the processed results
on the plastic keyboard of her lower line Casio.
No, I couldn't call it playing,
it was more like transcribing.
I think the song was Desperado.
For a moment,
it seemed like we had been sucked into the first act
of a Stephen King movie.
The streets were empty.
Our safety was totally in the hands of a cabby.
Our home and belongings were deep in the jungle.
The rain continued to pour.
And, the night seemed to just grow darker,
as did the lakes in the giant pot holes on the road.
That night we would sleep in our lovely beach house
with our bedroom door locked,
And our magic candles ablaze.
We had come to find the Blue Hole,
And we were almost there.