Independence
In the 1600′s, and probably as early as the late 1500′s, English privateers (a polite word for government authorized pirates) used Caribbean coastal coves as refuges while waiting to prey on Spanish ships. By the mid-1600′s, a few Englishmen began cutting logwood in what is now Belize.
The wood was shipped to Europe for the dye extracted from it, which was used for dying woolens. In the 1700′s, England introduced black slavery to cut logwood, hence a black population came into existence. In 1862, after armed skirmishes with the Spanish, England claimed the small strip of coastal Central America as a British colony. They assigned it the name of British Honduras. One hundred and nineteen years later, on 21 September 1981, the colony was granted independence. It became the sovereign nation of Belize, with English as its official language.
Another Man
Finishing our quick look at the various neon signs, my wife of-less-than-a-week and I crossed the street and entered Mom’s Café. Seating ourselves at one of the various wooden tables we began studying the menu. As we vacillated about what to order a black man approached and, without an invitation, pulled up a chair, seated himself, and said hello. Oh boy, here we go again, I thought to myself.
I should mention that about half of Belize’s population is black. Whites constitute only about four percent. Mestizo (Hispanic & Native American mixture) and Maya Indians make up most of the rest. So if you are one of those narrow-minded people allergic to humans with skin coloration other than white, I suggest that you travel to somewhere other than this small, intriguing country.
After our uninvited guest was comfortably seated, he introduced himself. And in a soft voice, he began asking questions. Pertinent questions. Where were we going? Where were we staying? How long would we be in town?
I did not consider him a cop – which he wasn’t. But I quickly wondered if he was one of the bad guys we had been warned about? Consequently, my answers were short and ambiguous.
After Donna and I finished supper, and our guest finished the cup of coffee we had bought for him, he insisted on leading us to a hotel. Reluctantly we followed him down a side street and around a dark corner, the whole time awaiting an attack by the man’s unseen predatory accomplices. But he led us to the Bliss Hotel, introduced us to the white owner, helped us locate our second-story room, and even opened the door for us. As we entered, he asked if he could speak to me privately in the hallway?
Here comes the touch, I thought. What should I give him? Five dollars, American?
“Hey mon,” he said, politely, “you want to buy an O.Z.?”
Looking at him, I raised my eyebrows.
“It’s good stuff,” said he, digging a plastic baggie from his pocket, “and it’s only twenty dollars American money.”
Don’t Go There!
The next morning, our missing-teeth dreadlocked friend (aka the Devil) was waiting for me at the bridge. I had hoped he wouldn’t show up, but at the same time I did not try to avoid the meeting. After resolving the situation, Donna and I walked around town. We noticed the buildings because they were, on the whole, unique for Central America. Constructed of wood, the houses were built on stilts about four or five or six feet off the ground. Wooden business establishments were elevated a foot or two from ground level.
Locating a bookstore, we bought a couple books and a topographical map on Belize. All the store personnel were extraordinarily friendly and smiling and laid-back. We felt very comfortable. And except for the few whites, the people spoke in the melodious lisping black-English of the Caribbean.
When asked where we were going, we replied, “Punta Gorda.”
“Oh, don’t go down there, mon. Them black people down there bad,” we were repeatedly told by the black people of Belize City.
“You go PG (Punta Gorda), mon? It dangerous down there. It wild country. Lots of tigers (jaguars). I wouldn’t go there. No, mon, I never go there,” advised one black man.
|
|
|
Caribbean Coast
|
Before leaving California, we had decided to go to Punta Gorda as part of our honeymoon trip. Why? Because it was at the end of the road, as far south as we could drive. Off by itself. An individual. On the shore of the Caribbean Sea.
After being advised by so many people of Belize City to not go down there our pulses beat faster, and our appetites for adventure were sharpened. We could hardly wait to get on the road and see for ourselves the bad people and the tigers.
Prior to our departure, the owner of the Bliss Hotel introduced us to Charlie, a casually-dressed medium-sized black man of about thirty-five years. Charlie was widely known and well respected. His home was in PG, and he was returning there in a day or so. We promised to look him up when we got there.
