I was always asking people to hold up their fish. Hold up that fish.I'd say. And they would. In fact you'd be hard pressed to find someone with a fish who won't hold it up for you.The fish market in Grenada could be located by following the gutter and stench out of port. The open granite channels ran with with rats and blood. Old men spit at you. Women sneer and smear their aprons at you. I engaged the voluptuously rude Elutha. I know not where I mustered the nerve from. I really wanted to photograph her and that really big specimen. By way of recompense I have to promise to name a child after her. She cackles as though she cares. The girl next door is looking at me over a large blunt machete. She isn't taken with me.
In a year or two I seek Elutha out. Fish wives now herded into a cheap tiled building on the wharf reminiscant of an Ulster Bus waiting room. I hand her a sheaf of photos, pleased with myself. She stares at me languidly and turns away.
Margarita Island, Venezuela
In return for a shot of his pretty pink fish, I promised we would buy a parade of Margaritas. We set to the task straight away. Last seen limbo dancing.