Dreadlocks & Voodoo (1 of 4)

The Devil

The sun had set, lessening the humid tropical heat. City lights were being turned on. We crossed the Haulover Creek bridge and parked – nose to the curb – near Mom’s Café. Turning off the ignition key, I sighed, allowing myself to slump down in the seat and relax. Suddenly, Donna let out a squawk like a frightened chicken fleeing the talons of a hungry hawk. At the same time she levitated from the passenger seat to a position firmly against my right side. Looking at her to see what was wrong, my hackles rose. Goosebumps spread across my forearms. My genitals sucked up hard against my groin. Glaring through Donna’s open window, less than three feet from me, was the most frightening human face I had ever encountered.

The face was black. Not brown, not light chocolate, but black – the color of freshly mined coal. It revealed a leering smile and the gaping absence of four upper front teeth. Sprouting from the man’s head, hanging down in wild disarray, was spindly brown-black hair resembling a mop recently used to swab a dirty barroom floor.

We had been warned about the dangers of Belize. Particularly, we had been warned about Belize City. Unfortunately, it took less than ten seconds after parking for those warnings to make sense. We were accosted by the Devil himself. A fierce black Devil.

Stretching his full lips into a wider more intimidating smile (or was it a sneer?), his gaping mouth was displayed to its greatest advantage.

“Hey, mon, where you from?” asked the Devil.
“California.”
“Ah, California. It is beautiful. You from L.A.?”
“No, a place called 29 Palms.”
“Hey, mon, you want to buy an O.Z.?”
In overdrive, my mind tried to figure out what this freak was talking about.
“It’s good stuff, mon. Only forty dollars Belizean (US$20).”

Geez! I realized he was trying to sell us an ounce of grass. And I wondered if buying an ounce of illegal weed was not preferable to getting on the wrong side of the Belizean drug mafia after being in their main city less than five minutes. As we looked at each other in the rapidly fading twilight it dawned on me that Mr. Mophead projected more friendliness than immediate danger.

Getting out of our jeep (an FJ-40 Toyota Landcruiser), I met him behind the vehicle and explained that we had been on the road for several days, and we were tired, hungry, dirty, and needed sleep. And we did not want any marijuana at the moment. But being an effective salesman, The Mop pursued his quest until I agreed to meet him in the morning.

“What time, mon?”
“Nine o’clock?”
“Okay, that’s a good time. Where?”

Looking around, my sight rested on the Haulover Creek bridge we had just driven across.

“Right there by the bridge?”
“Okay, mon, I’ll see you in the morning. Be careful with your jeep, mon, many bad people are about here after dark.”
“Okay, thank you.”

We shook hands, and the black mop-headed Devil disappeared down an unlit side street.
After locking the jeep and preparing to cross the street to Mom’s Café, we looked at the nearby neon lights and painted signs. They were all in English – which was quite a contrast after driving more than 2,500 miles across México (Mexicali to Chetumal). Because not everyone is familiar with the roots of English in Belize, I will take a moment and explain.

Read Part 2, Part 3 and Part 4 of Dreadlocks and Voodoo.

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