Canada to Patagonia at a Worrying Age

So lovely of 6 of the chaps to invite me to a little place they know on the container vessel side of Manzanillo harbour in Mexico. I had been in bed about ten minutes (it was 1am) when the captain knocked on my door to ask if I was going out with the lads. Five minutes later I was picking up my crew pass from the chief officer and heading by port taxi (pick up truck) to the security gates.

Just outside the gates of the port is a cultural establishment founded in the hope of letting nation speak unto nation through various non-verbal entertainments and past-times. Eschewing stuffy names redolent of a bygone age (the title of ‘Seafarers’ Rest’ was considered) the founders had chosen to call this establishment ‘Caribbean Cool’ in an effort to reflect the modernity of its aims. A discreet brass plaque had been considered by the committee, but three foot neon lettering found favour in a close fought vote on how to ensure people knew how to find it.

On the night I visited, there was a sort of disco on, with most of the tunes provided by our North American cousins. The ladies, I imagine, were having to be coaxed to dance on account of their natural shyness. I say this because they would only dance one at a time on the rather badly designed dance floor. The damned fool who had constructed the club had put the thing 3 feet in the air! This only exacerbated the shyness of the girls who found themselves clinging to a support pole. They seemed to having trouble attracting a chap to dance with them and their frenzied jigging about meant they started to remove their clothes on account of the heat. One poor lass was left with nothing at all on! She was so embarrassed she… oh I forget now.

Anyway, once they had failed to gain the attention of a chap in that manner, they very forwardly came and sat with whichever fellow had caught their eye while up on the dance floor. One buxom wench chose me – imagine that! Mind you considering a bucket of Sol was $10, I felt that her one drink costing exactly the same was rather on the expensive side. (Although I understand completely her needing to quench her thirst after her exertions.)

Not speaking the same language was no barrier to this young lady who further expressed her wish to get to know me better in a manner I certainly never encountered at the Our Lady of Mount Carmel middle school disco…

At this point, I felt the cultural exchange could be progressed no further and used the excuse of needing to make an urgent business call to my stockbroker in Blighty. As far as I’m aware, no pictures of the encounter exist for prosperity. Shame.

Tags: Travel

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