A young girl splashes out of the sea, shiny brown and tiny. Up onto the stones she strides with her sandals held in one hand, dress in the other. She smiles little white pearls at me. From the rocks her father throws a fishing line out into the receding water, yells something back to her. She obediently hurries down the beach.
The father catches a fish, a large Dorado that breaks free before he lands it. I jump into the water to help him drag it to shore. He can’t speak English and I can’t speak Spanish but we manage to communicate that he is inviting me to his home, where he guts and then cooks the fish on an open fire in his courtyard of dust and rusted appliances. The little girl smiles at me, brings each of her toys to me one by one. The whole family sits around me, his wife, a grandmother, a cousin, and a son. We speak in gestures; only the fourteen year old boy knows English but he rarely offers a translation. The fish flakes white on the fork, cooked with butter, lime, Cayenne pepper, with some salsa on the side; chopped tomatoes and onions and papaya and avocado. After dinner I follow the son to a corner liquor store, where I bring back Dos Equis and we drink around the coals of the fire that cooked the Dorado. Before sunset I say my thank you’s and catch a cab back to the hotel.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment