I unzipped myself and arched my back, letting out a long hot stream of yellow liquid that cascaded onto the filthy porcelain. I stood as far away as possible, attempting to hold my breath, which was impossible. The toilet was a brown splattered porcelain tray. I entered the stinking bathroom, the smell was enough to make you wretch, but after the journey here I needed to relieve myself. They were gone as quickly as they had appeared, a splash of colour leaving nothing behind, an exotic touch amidst the desolation.
Dressed in exotic colours their mini-skirts were so short as to barely cover them, there legs appeared longer with so much skin exposed. I could picture the heads of the men sitting inside, turning instinctively to follow the women, devouring their bodies. Two women in their twenties cut across the street at the end of the ally. I followed the sign indicating the bathroom and exited through a back door out into the searing heat. Only the boy seemed possessed with enough force to move and gather the tamarind. “Over there.”Īs if every word, every gesture or movement required an enormous expense of energy, practically nothing was said, nothing moved. He shifted his head to the left, it was the least possible movement necessary to indicate to the boy where to look. The globule of body fluid teetered precariously, then dropped, only to be caught on the edge of one bushy eyebrow before falling off and splattering a dirty droplet onto the discoloured newspaper he had on the counter in front of him. I watched, my view fixed on a tiny bead of sweat that was about to fall as he leaned forward on the counter. The same black wiry hair curled around his chest disappearing behind his shirt.
He wore a dirty white shirt, half open, the top buttons were missing, the lower half was stretched taught around his ample stomach. He had wiry black hair, a thin moustache and small beady eyes that darted about. “What do you want?” The fat man stared from behind the counter. He wore faded red shorts, a washed out T-shirt and blue plastic sandals, he had a scab on one knee, the left. The child was called Jabez, the native Mayan name means grief, but they all said his name was John.Īnother boy with long straight black hair opened the cooler across from the counter and lifted a can, quickly re-closing the lid as a mist of coolness evaporated without leaving a trace. Beneath the meagre shade sat a young boy selling candy, or some local fruit. I stared out through the grey window at a parasol with writing that once proclaimed some brand of soft drink. They looked lifeless, like ghosts merging into the faded sepia tone that enveloped everything inside. A half starved dog crept slowly past the doorway, stopping to lift its head and smell the stale odour emanating from inside, before moving on uninterested.Ī handful of people were gathered inside, most sitting on the dirty wooden plank that served as a seat next to the entrance. I turned, watching him leave, blinking my eyes against the sunlight. He scratched his belly, then scratched his balls, mumbled something unintelligible to the guy behind the counter, then walked out. A large man of about fifty, with white hair and yellow teeth, stood just inside the entrance. The door to the building was open, I could have sworn that the place had been abandoned for ten years, the facade was way beyond worn and faded.
The dirt and heat are inescapable, it keeps you in a permanent state of fatigue. The landscape is barren, haze and dust, when you leave the truck the dust and sweat accompanies you into the bathroom. The number of the long awaited truck or at least the hazy silhouette, “Land Fall 49,” it was difficult to think, the infernal heat pressed down on me.Īramberri was deserted, a desolate spot, vile and corrupt. I was about to disappear in the shadow of the building, my back was hard against the wall while I was staring at the washed out colours on the bill board opposite.