Dead air,,,

Sorry for the delay. Our internet connection has been, shall we say, non existent since last Saturday. I’m told lightning struck the tower and fried some important piece of the equation.(?) And they must have had to send to Greenland for the replacement!

Then it seems we just fell thru the cracks for a few days also.

During all this dead air, we have been to Belmopan, Dangriga, and Placencia. And I can say the road north of here is much worse than going south.



Speaking of the road, some folks have dropped off some chicken feet they believe were owed to Scurvy. Something about start dates for the road work coming and going, and coming and going?
If everybody who stated a start date in the past dropped him some feet, I would need a bigger freezer.
And what of all those amputee chickens? The ones on the little wheeled carts, using their wing tips to scoot themselves along. A little cup hanging by a string from their scrawny necks, begging for morsels, tidbits, or shillings. What of all them?
Hey, a bets a bet. Scurvy needs to eat too!













Back to Belmopan. We needed to register our property with the Lands dept. That has taken 3 trips and it ain’t done yet! Seems no one has ever registered our lots since Blackbeard was a mere glint in Blackbeard senior’s eye.
After some initial fumbling around with paperwork, we were sent to ‘Ye Old Map Room’ to find our lots on something resembling an official plan. Deep, deep back in the nether regions of the second floor, we found the “Keeper o de Maps”. An old scruffy guy with a gimp and a scowl.
“Arr, ye be lookin fer a map eh”.
We gave him the info we had, he scratched his scruffy chin and turned to clear the cobwebs away from the doorway which lead into the deepest area of the room. The guy returned awhile later with an old dusty, hand drawn map. Rats had been nibbling on the edges and there was evidence of a fire, but after he blew an inch of dirt from it and unrolled it out on the counter, we could still make out our property boundaries.
Right off shore was a drawing of some sort of sea serpent cruising the waters by False Caye.
The old scruffy Map Keeper took out a piece of charcoal and made an ‘X’ on each of our lots. Then he melted a blob of wax near the bottom and pressed his seal into it. Then he made some sort of sign with his hands, and told us to take it back to the Lands Office to continue our quest.
“But, ye best take heed of the old Skank near the parking lot. She be vexed.”
Good advice,, didn’t need it. We saw that old bag of guts already and knew to give her a wide berth.
Back downstairs with the computers and cell phones, we actually made progress. Maybe only one more trip, maybe.










Bar stools are like prostitutes. And if you think one belongs just to you, you’re setting yourself up for a lifetime of heartbreak