(CBC was renamed by humpT, it is now Crap Bike Club. I like it 🚴)
For a moment I thought about writing a story of old crusty Pendergraft. I used to sell pirate lottery tickets from the counter of a shady bodega that was run by a lawless Chinese family in Belize City, and Pendergraft always bought the exact same number at 5pm. His number never won. Bitterly he would mutter in Creole:
Wanti wanti no gati, gati gati no wanti
Jesus. It is beginning to sound absurd already, so I am now opting against illustrating the outrageousness of this lovable Creole curmudgeon. I’m just going to tell you that, Pendergraft owned a rusty Mary Poppins bicycle and he used it as his transportation even when his destination was only a block away. The front basket would carry anything and he would never lose balance. Lord knows what was in the basket, the burden du jour always looked quite hefty and pointless. Yet off he went due north daily without doubting a single aspect of his life. His pedaling was absolutely steady and fabulously slow, it was almost stationary.
He never trusted me, for I did not speak Creole, and he felt compelled to keep a watchful eye on me to ensure that I would not corrupt hormonal teenagers. Every afternoon I walked home for a short siesta, and he accompanied me on his Mary Poppins. The dusty gravel road met us with tropical flowers and I’d stop and smell them, which irritated Pendergraft. “Chinagal, you’re dumber than my dog, all day smellin, sniffin” “What dog? You don’t have a dog.” Pendergraft said his friend did.
Our stroll was so slow that every step felt like a still life picture. Once an iguana crossed in front of us, standing upright using his hind legs. I didn’t know iguanas walked like that. The air was as dense as jello and even mosquito swarms seemed languishing. Children played aimlessly without hope. Carcasses of fish and emaciated animals floated quietly in the black odorous water of the river below us. Belize City was always filled with the scent of death back then. I developed courage to face harshness of life by breathing the moist, fetid air of this tiny nation that suffered from neocolonialism.
The river this morning on the trail was green and odorous. I bicycled through the air that was ripe with the scent of birth and decay. Turtles are laying eggs this week. I came across one, her shell was covered in algae, she walked along my crap bike for a few feet, prompting me to think about the odd friendship I had with Pendergraft, who was too proud to admit that all he wanted to do was to shield me from hollow catcalls of idle men drowned in Belikin stout and hopelessness.
