A Postcard from Bastimentos.


Everyone shouts here.  Not in English, not in Spanish, not in French.  They shout in a language I do not understand.  As I wander the streets with my darling’s hand in mine, I look at the people, the people of Bastimentos.  I look at their babies plump creased wrists, shiny resplendent eyes, and curly dark hair.  I look at the young mothers, the rundown general stores; I smell the ocean, salty and damp.  There is only one street, it loops around the entire island.  There are no wrong turns here, no dead-ends, only forward.  A lone mutt hobbles by, he lets me pet him. A part of his fur is matted in dry blood and oil.  Most of the dogs here are like that, not beautiful but free.  They wander up and down the island, into the grocery, out of the pub.  I try to see everything, to remember everything, what I see, hear, taste, feel.  We keep walking.

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