Weekend rocked balls. Left Friday afternoon for a beach one hour out of town.
Stayed at a little restaurant with a pair of cabins run by these two or three midlife Italian guys who sit around shirtless all day. One plays with his mulatto daughter, the other works on fine tuning his latest acid jazz album, both watching over the cook's shoulder to make sure he keeps the pasta and pizza up to snuff. The only words I can understand from their conversations are foods, but they keep jumping. Stayed in a simple one room cabin with mosquito netted bed.
The beach was perfect: warm water, gigantic palms, fishermen returning to the sand every morning around 8 or 9. Their sails made out of knitted rice bags, their nets dragged in behind them by what looked to be shifts of a family at a time.
You'd swim out into the surf, and every wave that washed toward you brought another two or three little local kids body-boarding in on wooden planks.
A few boat drinks, the discovery of a Tom Wolfe book I'd always wanted to read on the cabin's bookshelf, my first run in my brand new South African sneakers, a boat drink here and there, and stumbling on a two-hour tribal drum/dance routine: the kind of times I was hoping I'd find out here.
Holy crap it was a good weekend. Shit soon into fan, no doubt.
