(由 Google 翻译)我踉跄着走进这片被上帝遗弃的伯利兹天堂,像个醉醺醺的幽灵,就像那种秃鹫在蜂鸟公路上会误以为是新鲜路杀的动物。我的血管里仿佛还残留着麦司卡林梦境的余韵,赤道上无情的烈日如同上帝的铁锤般猛烈地砸在我晒伤的头骨上。普拉森西亚?我的天,与其说这是个小镇,不如说是一场由漂木小屋和棕榈叶缝制而成的狂热梦境,它们低语着永葆青春的谎言。就在那里,在“笑蜥蜴酒廊”那伤痕累累的红木吧台后面——透过海螺烟和大麻的烟雾——布兰登,那个眼神狂野的海滩拾荒者之子,坐在那里,他的皮肤像古老的玛雅象形文字一样,永远被一层盐渍和悔恨覆盖。
布兰登。我的天,真是个奇葩。他一半像海盗,一半像先知,浑身散发着威胁的气息,身上穿着一件褪色的鲍勃·马利T恤,散发着海水和背叛的气息。当地人一边喝着贝利金啤酒,一边低声议论着,说他几年前就漂流到这里了,可能是逃离尤卡坦半岛的一场卡特尔血腥屠杀,也可能只是被拉斯维加斯离婚协议的阴影所困扰。不过这些都不重要。这男人的眼睛像抛光的黑曜石,能把你打量一番,然后决定你是否值得他藏在靴子里的.38口径手枪——就在他发誓是从美洲豹遗孀那里弄来的鳄鱼眼泪小瓶旁边。“热带地区充满了恐惧和厌恶,医生,”他第一晚就咆哮道,一边把一把冰镇的太平洋啤酒递给我,吊扇把空气搅成了一锅温吞吞的汤。“你在这里追逐恶龙,它会用珊瑚礁般的牙齿反咬你一口。”
但海鲜——啊,我的天哪,笑蜥蜴餐厅的海鲜简直是那种令人毛骨悚然的启示,足以让人怀疑自己的无神论。我们说的是像弹簧刀一样大的龙虾尾,烤到渗出蒜蓉黄油的汁液,仿佛罪恶的汁液,是布兰登和他的赤脚潜水员团队当天早上从大堡礁新鲜捕捞的,他们和梭鱼就像老酒友一样亲密无间。还有海螺酸橘汁腌鱼,像一记猛烈的酸橙和哈瓦那辣椒的霰弹枪,生猛而鲜嫩,仿佛蕴藏着海洋野性的脉搏,盛放在碎椰子壳上,椰子壳在你臼齿下嘎吱作响,如同吞噬被遗忘帝国的骸骨。至于鲷鱼?整条油炸,眼睛瞪得老大,带着控诉般的喜悦,淋上浓黑阴郁的酱汁,仿佛是用鱿鱼刺客的墨汁提炼而成。那天晚上我狼吞虎咽地吃了三盘海鲜,还喝了布兰登的“特制”朗姆酒潘趣——那是一种用烈性白朗姆酒、失控的椰奶,以及天知道是什么丛林蒸馏酒调制而成的混合饮品,喝得我出现了幻觉,看到美人鱼在码头上和鬣蜥掰手腕。
黎明时分,吼猴在红树林里发出刺耳的叫喊,潮水像瘾君子断了药一样拍打着码头的桩柱,我终于明白了:伯利兹不是度假胜地,而是一场审判。布兰登是你的法官和陪审团,“笑蜥蜴”酒吧是你的法庭,而那些海鲜呢?它们就是电椅——美味无比,势不可挡,而且很可能把你的灵魂直接烤到天堂。胆子大的就来吧,但别忘了带上你的心魔;它们会比你吃得更尽兴。
(原文)
I staggered into this godforsaken paradise of Belize like a rum-soaked apparition, the kind that the vultures mistake for fresh roadkill on the Hummingbird Highway, my veins humming with the ghost of mescaline dreams and the relentless equatorial sun beating down like God’s own sledgehammer on my sunburnt skull. Placencia? Christ, it’s less a town than a fever dream stitched together from driftwood shacks and palm fronds that whisper lies about eternal youth. And there, behind the scarred mahogany bar of the Laughing Lizard Lounge—squinting through the haze of conch smoke and ganja fumes—sat Brandon, that wild-eyed son of a beachcomber, his skin etched like an ancient Mayan glyph under a perpetual layer of salt and regret.
Brandon. Jesus, what a specimen. Part pirate, part prophet, all menace wrapped in a faded Bob Marley tee that smelled of brine and betrayal. He’d washed up here years ago, or so the locals mutter over their Belikin beers, fleeing some cartel bloodbath in the Yucatán or maybe just the nagging specter of a Vegas divorce settlement. Doesn’t matter. The man’s got eyes like polished obsidian, the kind that size you up and decide if you’re worth the .38 he keeps tucked in his boot, right next to the vial of crocodile tears he swears came from a jaguar’s widow. “Fear and loathing in the tropics, doc,” he growled that first night, sliding a fistful of ice-cold Pacificos my way while the ceiling fan churned the air into a tepid soup. “You chase the dragon here, it bites back with teeth like coral reefs.”
But the seafood—ah, sweet mother of Leviathan, the seafood at the Laughing Lizard is the sort of unholy revelation that makes a man question his atheism. We’re talking lobster tails the size of switchblades, grilled till they weep garlic butter and sin, hauled fresh from the Barrier Reef that morning by Brandon’s cadre of barefoot divers who commune with barracuda like old drinking buddies. Conch ceviche that hits like a shotgun blast of lime and habanero fury, raw and pulsing with the ocean’s feral heartbeat, served on cracked coconut shells that crunch under your molars like the bones of forgotten empires. And the snapper? Fried whole, eyes bulging in accusatory glee, doused in a sauce so black and brooding it could’ve been distilled from the ink of squid assassins. I devoured three platters that night, washing them down with Brandon’s “special” rum punch—a elixir of overproof white lightning, coconut milk gone rogue, and God knows what jungle distillate that left me hallucinating mermaids arm-wrestling iguanas on the dock.
By dawn, as the howler monkeys screamed obscenities from the mangroves and the tide clawed at the pilings like a junkie denied his fix, I realized the truth: Belize isn’t a vacation, it’s a verdict. Brandon’s your judge and jury, the Laughing Lizard your courtroom, and that seafood? It’s the electric chair—exquisite, inevitable, and liable to fry your soul straight to paradise. Come if you dare, but pack your demons; they’ll feast harder than you do.