Episode 5: The Caribbean Chateau

Demonstrating better judgment in hotels than Morley had, Sumei chose the Caribbean Chateau for our initial session. With the sea as a backdrop and painted in various shades of pink and gray, it was a remarkably beautiful colonial-era hotel, meticulously restored and maintained. Its huge wraparound veranda was all but obscured by lush tropical plants. Relaxing in one of its impressive-looking lounge chairs, drink in hand, should have been the order of the day. Regretfully, I was there on business. The fulfillment of a hastily made commitment. A commitment I now regretted but could do little about.

To make matters worse, Sumei arrived at the Caribbean Chateau looking fresh, eager, and far more attractive than she had waiting tables at Shen’s. I arrived somewhat disheveled and slightly hungover. And, I’d failed to give much thought to the problem I faced—helping Sumei with her English. Furthermore, pre-occupied by Sumei’s appearance, I now had a problem of a different sort. A Jimmy Carter-type problem. Having not indulged in any meaningful sexual activity since Boston, I was seriously distracted. But unlike Jimmy, lust wasn’t confined to my heart.

Despite the fantasies Sumei provoked, I was determined to forge ahead with the business at hand and leave alone—for the present—the less admirable, but no less formidable, desires diverting my attention. That’s when the second problem reared its ugly head. I lacked the patience and language skills required to be a successful teacher. And if that weren’t bad enough, Sumei expressed her intention to become fluent. Taken aback, I nevertheless chose not to dampen her spirits on day one, suggesting we take it a day at a time and try to keep our expectations within reason. She agreed, but I wasn’t at all sure we were on the same page, let alone reading the same book.

Most embarrassed by her accent, Sumei wanted to start with pronunciation. I concurred. After all, what was the point of adding vocabulary if she was going to mispronounce everything? Fortunately, she was a quick study despite her unfamiliarity with some of the necessary phonemes. Although Sumei’s English was rough, my Chinese was nonexistent. This left us with just one language in which to work. And while over the next several months her pronunciation did become quite good, no one was ever going to mistake English for her native tongue.

Expanding Sumei’s vocabulary proved harder than correcting her pronunciation. Identifying objects was easy enough, but explaining concepts was more difficult. Then came an unsuccessful attempt at basic grammar. Verbs and verb tenses. The proper placement of subjects and predicates. The use of adjectives, adverbs, and pronouns. I was limited to teaching by example because I didn’t know the rules anymore—if I ever did. I was frustrated and I could tell Sumei was also, although she never said so. But hell, I hadn’t promised Berlitz. Nevertheless, we pressed ahead. After our initial session at the Caribbean Chateau, we set a schedule. Three to four days a week. Mainly afternoons, some evenings. At my insistence, the lessons were to be conducted not only at the Chateau, but also as we toured the city. Sumei raised no objection, and again insisted on paying for my services. I told her I didn’t want her money, but if it would make her feel better she could adjust my tab at Shen’s whenever feasible.

Although eager to continue my tour of Belize, I put future travel plans on hold while I settled into my new routine. Corozal had been rough and I needed time to better explore my transportation options. I was also beginning to relax for the first time since arriving. It wasn’t something I did often or easily, and I wanted to enjoy the feeling. Surprisingly, I even managed to stop badgering myself about why I’d come or where I was headed. Instead, I breakfasted at Mom’s, took pictures whenever I could, taught Sumei the best I knew how, hung out with some of her older friends, usually ate dinner at Shen’s, and occasionally stopped by the Fort George to have a drink with Raoul. Easy stuff. All accomplished without a great deal of effort.

As each day rolled into the next, the weeks began to fly by. I reached the two-month mark of my sojourn almost before I knew it. I was enjoying myself and perfectly happy to suspend concern about the future. Especially since Sumei and I were experiencing an ever-increasing pleasure in each other’s company and a growing mutual attraction. Sumei was smart, warm, and spirited. There was a lot to like about her, and when a little physical intimacy crept into the relationship, neither of us were surprised. And despite daily warnings from my better judgment that this was probably not a good idea, I successfully persuaded myself it had been unavoidable. Flattered by Sumei’s interest in someone twenty years her senior, I’d been easy prey. Besides, I’d always been especially attracted to women who found me attractive since I didn’t see myself that way.

Late afternoon meetings at the Caribbean Chateau quickly became something of a ritual. Sumei seemed to know most of the hotel’s local patrons, a side benefit of life as a waitress. She also proved astute at identifying nearby conversations that might have eavesdropping value. As a result, I had more fun as a voyeur at the Chateau than at Mom’s. Listening one afternoon to an especially loud and obnoxious American business consultant discuss the fate of Ambergris Caye with several high-level Belizean officials, I was sorely tempted to join the discussion. Texans, in typical Lone Star style, were rapidly buying up much of the available land on the island. The American’s advice—sounding more like a directive—was to take as much of the land as possible off the market and reserve it for local Belizean interests. America, he insisted, had begun to see Belize as its best potential ally in Central America and now was the moment to leverage that opportunity. At the same time, creating an environment conducive to investing by both local and foreign interests should be a priority. Bureaucratic red tape and the Belizean government’s financial demands had already killed a recent proposal by the Coca-Cola company to purchase substantial acreage to grow oranges. Controlled development, our arrogant consultant believed, was essential to avoid Belize becoming a bubblegum culture, a nation of bartenders and chambermaids. Considering the volume at which he spoke, I assumed he knew I could hear everything. He also kept glancing over at our table. I think Sumei had caught his interest. On the verge of joining the conversation, I held back at Sumei’s request. With the specter of Shen always hovering, calling unnecessary attention to us worried her.

What worried me was that Sumei had begun to see our relationship as a budding romance. A fantasy I didn’t share, and one I worked overtime to extinguish. While I genuinely liked Sumei, I already knew my time in Belize would be limited. Our involvement was a pleasant interlude for me. Nothing more. Nonetheless, she was eager to consummate it. I wasn’t. Not from any lack of desire, but rather from a sincere concern for Sumei and an abject fear of getting her pregnant. A risk so out of proportion to the reward that even someone as foolhardy as I wasn’t about to chance it. Besides, I’m just an old-fashioned guy at heart. I felt her first time should be with someone with whom a future, even a limited one, was a possibility. Although pretty sure most other guys in my situation would have already fathered three kids by her, that wasn’t my style. I was strictly old-school, masquerading as a hipster. Despite all the other sexual activities in which we engaged, intercourse—the last frontier—was the place I chose to draw the line. To have taken advantage of Sumei’s infatuation would have felt cold, even a little cruel.

And again, there was Shen to be considered—Sumei’s father, and my junior by several years. I was sure if he learned I was parading around Belize City with his daughter he would not be pleased. But who was I kidding, he probably already knew and if he didn’t he likely soon would. Besides, according to Raoul, Shen was a crook, and a well-connected one at that. He ran a unique establishment, and it wasn’t just about the food. Transactions of all kinds were permitted with Shen’s knowledge, approval, and, of course, a generous percentage of the proceeds. To ensure these activities weren’t interrupted, Shen made it financially advantageous for the police to eat their (complimentary) meals quietly and not disturb the other patrons. Had Shen wanted to make trouble for me, the contest would have been one-sided. Over time, I began to dine less often at the Pagoda.

Saying no to Sumei was becoming increasingly difficult since nothing benefits one’s perspective so much as a little passionate sex. I did, however, eventually agree—after much cajoling—to an overnight excursion with her and some of her friends to Caye Caulker, the poor man’s Ambergris Caye. I hadn’t wanted to go fearing my resolve would be sorely tested, but it seemed to mean a lot to Sumei so I acquiesced. The group included two Belizean women, Rosita and Dawn, also waitresses at Shen’s, both in their mid-twenties, and their sometime boyfriends, Neil and Jack, British soldiers on leave from their base in Punta Gorda. All four were smart, engaging people and they helped take the edge off Sumei’s neediness. Undoubtedly to impress her friends, Sumei acted like my girlfriend, which I didn’t like because it wasn’t true, but I let it pass. It did, however, serve as a harsh reminder that I was hanging out with a twenty-year-old.

The trip to Caye Caulker took less than an hour. The tiny motorboat was neither designed for seven people nor for the speed it was traveling. The captain appeared unfazed. I didn’t share his lack of concern. Although a good swimmer, I wasn’t that good. Once on dry land, though, the day unfolded in unspectacular fashion save for several raucous late-afternoon rounds of Scruples, a card game based on guessing how others would handle ethical dilemmas. Unfortunately, the evening would present a real ethical dilemma. Sumei was unrelenting. Although I took immense pleasure in the intimate activities we did enjoy, I didn’t appreciate being pressured for more. Besides, after the copious amount of alcohol consumed at dinner, my judgment was suspect. Sharing a room and a bed made abstinence difficult, although not impossible.

Back in Belize City, I took stock of my situation. Even if I had the best of intentions most of the time, perception was everything in this highly provincial town. There wasn’t a lot to do in Belize City or a lot of people to do it, so idle gossip was ubiquitous. I knew it was only a matter of time before word reached Shen, if it hadn’t already. It was clear that a time-out was advisable. The next morning, I hastily rented a Jeep from Smyth’s Autos and headed west for the fifty-mile drive to Belmopan, Belize’s capital city. After Hurricane Hattie destroyed seventy-five percent of the homes and businesses in coastal Belize City in 1961, the authorities decided to create the city of Belmopan and in 1970 moved the capital inland. By Belizean standards, the Western Highway was decent—or so I’d been told. I’d been in the country now for over two months and felt cocky enough that I could handle the trip by myself. I was mistaken.

Once outside the city limits, the road became desolate and foreboding. Traveling alone began to seem less like a smart idea and more like a dumb one. Maybe the trip did, in fact, call for a Gordan or a reasonable facsimile. Although nervous, I remained committed. But what if I encountered trouble? How easy would it be to extricate myself without help? I was no late-model Indiana Jones, and this wasn’t the movies. When both the gas gauge and the speedometer failed within minutes of each other, I pulled to the side of the road and began to plot my return to Belize City. I didn’t bother to look under the hood since I knew practically nothing about cars. It might have been a morale boost—doing something rather than nothing—but since it wouldn’t have produced any results, I didn’t see the point. I was also quite high and my ability to assess the situation was at least partially impaired. I didn’t like trouble and I didn’t excel at dealing with it. I turned around and headed back.

The manager at Smyth’s wasn’t happy to see me. He thought I’d been foolish not to have continued. The gas gauge and speedometer were, after all, working when I’d rented the vehicle. I wondered for a moment if he was trying to blame me. I couldn’t be sure, but he was adamant that I knew there was a full tank of gas. Plenty to drive the hundred-mile round trip to Belmopan. As for the speedometer, who needs it? The roads, he insisted, dictate the acceptable speed. Posted limits merely a recommendation. Really? Who was this guy kidding? I felt a refund was in order. He didn’t. After an occasionally heated discussion, we reached a most unsatisfactory agreement. I would leave the premises promptly and he would keep my signed credit card slip.

I left the showroom disgruntled and sat on a nearby bench. It was a bus stop, but you would never have known it. There was no sign or any other corroborating evidence. I wanted to smoke another joint to rejuvenate the good mood with which I’d started the day, but there were other people around. Instead, I quietly berated myself for thinking it okay to make the trip to Belmopan alone when it clearly hadn’t been. Already in a funk, I started hassling myself about other questionable judgments I’d made since arriving in Belize. It was a short trip from there to an unavoidable recounting of my Boston miscalculations. Fertile territory to be sure. In just over a ten-year period, I’d committed a wide variety of mistakes including, but not limited to, poor choices, wishful thinking, and unwarranted expectations.

Far and away, though, my biggest Boston blunder—and also my last—was impulsively accepting an offer to produce a live, two-hour afternoon talk/variety show at WNEV, WRKO’s successor station. Since my prior incarnation as a cameraman at WRKO, the station had managed to have its license to broadcast revoked by the Federal Communications Commission. A rare feat, accomplished by no other station in the history of broadcasting. The cause of its demise was filing false financial reports, engaging in fraudulent billing practices, and committing other assorted improprieties in its dealings with the FCC. The license was subsequently awarded to WNEV, but nothing good was to come of it.

Well-connected politically, the new owners of WNEV had triumphed over other more deserving investor groups. No surprise there. But the savvy they showed in securing the license was absent when attempting to operate the station. Knowing little about television programming, they nonetheless decided to showcase their arrival by launching an overly ambitious project; a show that would have required a gargantuan effort from even the most experienced production team. But they hadn’t hired the most experienced team. Instead, they’d chosen two local has-beens as executive producers. Industry insiders who’d been shuffling through the Boston broadcast scene for over a decade, compiling impressive resumes but demonstrating little talent. Their management style was aggressive and reckless. Pushing people beyond all reasonable expectations to extract the most from them was a bedrock belief. Simply put, they were bad people. Worse than bad, they were incompetent.

And they wasted little time proving it. Attempting to impress the new owners, they irresponsibly agreed to staff the show, design the production, and launch the program in an impossibly short period of time. Undeterred by this initial error in judgment, they quickly followed it with another. Although the hosts would need to carry the show, they foolishly hired two good-looking but inexperienced individuals, one male, one female, entirely lacking in charisma. It would be an understatement to say there was no chemistry between them, and almost from the start their disdain for each other was evident. Although possessed of little talent, they were not stupid. After only a few short months of preparation and several weeks of live shows, they could feel the program was headed for the trash heap. That their opportunity for fame and fortune would shortly come to an end made them bitter. It also made them angry. But it didn’t make them any better.

Friends and colleagues had warned me not to get involved and although initially hesitant to do so, I went ahead anyway, foolishly choosing to ignore the reputations of the executive producers. Perhaps the opportunity to work creatively again after a long absence was too enticing. Or maybe I was just a glutton for punishment. Probably a little of both. I do know I was flattered by the offer of a prestigious position. It also paid well, and, as usual, I needed the work. Besides, I was just arrogant enough to believe I could manage the situation. And I tried. Perhaps too hard, as the show slowly began to suck the lifeblood out of me. I eventually became little more than an expensive stage manager, whose job was to get the program on the air daily. I wound up miles away from anything creative. In a heroic effort to get the show ready for its debut, twelve-hour days became fourteen-hour days, became sixteen-hour days. Surprisingly, though, it worked. The show launched on schedule, although the initial ratings were abysmal. Senior management resolutely clung to the hope the program was salvageable. I didn’t.

I’d never given up in the middle of an assignment, and I was reluctant to do so now. I was, however, searching for an honorable way to disengage. First, I needed to keep my head above water a little longer. So, for the third time in less than a month, I requested additional staff. The first two requests had been denied without a hearing. This time the executive producers’ response was chilling. If I wanted help, I would need to make the case for it. They requested a detailed proposal outlining what was required and why. I was stunned. What I needed was less work, not more. Unable to even contemplate the time necessary to complete such a task, I did what any reasonable person would do. I went home and got drunk. A temporary solution to be sure, but effective in the short term.

The next morning I sat at my kitchen table long past the time I should have showered, dressed, and headed to the station. I was still sitting there several hours later when my girlfriend arrived to find me staring off into space, doing nothing. She asked if I was all right. I was surprised she needed to ask. I had simply run out of gas. The tank was empty. Operating on fumes for far too long, I could no longer muster the energy to do anything. It wasn’t as if I didn’t want to—I just couldn’t. It was the closest I ever came to having a nervous breakdown, unless, of course, I was having a nervous breakdown. I did manage, however, to call the station and let them know they would have to cover for me.

It would be several days before I resurfaced, and then only to hand in my resignation. I had willingly worked ridiculous hours, boosted morale whenever possible, sought a degree of civility between the hosts, and did whatever was necessary to help the venture succeed. I had tried. All to no avail. And when I did resign—leaving them in the lurch—I knew full well the likelihood of their finding a replacement willing to absorb the degree of abuse I had was slim. I didn’t care. It had been an ugly mistake. One almost utterly without redeeming value. And one that left me an easy mark for Morley.

*****

A bus arrived amid a cloud of dust. There’d been no rain in weeks and most streets save those in the heart of town were either dirt or gravel. I climbed aboard, happy to leave thoughts of Boston behind. Stopping often, the bus took forever to reach the center of the city. Plenty of time to devise a new plan. Still very much in need of a break, I considered the possibility of traveling to Ambergris Caye. I immediately liked the idea. Since I’d started the day before seven, there was still time to catch the late-morning flight. There was a small airfield on the north side of the city with twice daily trips to the island. To save time, I exchanged the bus for a taxi at the Swing Bridge stop. I knew the plane ticket wouldn’t be cheap, but I didn’t care. After more than two months of idle wandering, teaching Sumei, taking pictures, hanging out at Mom’s, and generally being self-indulgent, I needed to move forward. There was a lot more of Belize to see—a country so poor that import duties constituted a third of its GDP—and I wasn’t sure how much longer I’d be staying. After my aborted trip to Belmopan, a trip to Ambergris Caye seemed a perfect way to resurrect the day.

Unlike the international airport at Ladyville, there wasn’t even a semblance of a terminal at the airfield. Just some benches under an awning and a kiosk for Tropic Air, a domestic carrier. Only two other intrepid souls, Jim and Ramona, were waiting to board. The route was obviously not a heavily travelled one, so it was no wonder the tickets were expensive. I must have appeared confused, because Jim walked over to offer advice. Buy a ticket at the kiosk, and don’t be concerned that the plane’s departure time has passed. The flight is never on time.

From his accent, Jim was easily recognizable as an American. A Midwesterner, I guessed. Upper Michigan to be precise. He was in Belize on a tour of duty for the Peace Corps, although he more closely resembled a muscle-bound body builder than an aid worker. Still, he was smart and easygoing. Ramona, his Belizean girlfriend, was beautiful, self-assured, and talkative, and despite the noise generated by the small, single-engine aircraft, we managed an entertaining conversation on the twenty-minute flight. Although I shared a nationality with Jim, I felt more of a connection with Ramona. Clearly the more sophisticated of the two, she could have slipped into any American city with no effort.

They were in Ambergris Caye on business. Ramona owned a dress shop in Belize City and was about to open another on the island to capture the high-end trade. While she went about her business, Jim rented a dune buggy and gave me a first-class tour of the island. He knew the place well. The main town of San Pedro was a funky beach community, with sandy, unpaved streets and no cars. Relaxed. Undisturbed. Beautiful on a sunny day. Morley should have been hawking San Pedro, not Belize City. The private resorts were very much off limits, but the town did have more than its share of eating establishments, luxury boutiques, and every imaginable watercraft available for rental. Jim went out of his way to introduce me to Ponti and Clive, pleasure boat owners who, for a price (and not a small one), took tourists fishing, snorkeling, and diving. Afterwards, he treated me to a late afternoon lunch and all the Belikans I cared to drink while we waited for Ramona. Jim’s unnecessary generosity gave me the feeling I was being set up.

With his Peace Corps posting ending in six months, Jim faced a quandary. He’d met Ramona in Belize City, but she had no intention of moving to the States, unlike Sumei, who went on about it endlessly, despite its improbability. It was a dilemma about which he knew I could offer only a sympathetic ear. There was, however, a way in which I might be helpful. Due to fly back to Michigan the next day for a two-week visit, he was looking for someone to stay at his apartment—gratis, of course. Although some distance from the center of town, his neighborhood, he claimed, was safe, but he hated to leave his place unoccupied for that long. Was I interested? I’d be doing him a big favor. Besides, living in a five-room apartment had to beat staying at the Golden Dragon. I didn’t necessarily agree, and I wasn’t thrilled with having to get acclimated to another part of town. On the other hand, it would give me a different perspective on life in Belize City and would save me a whole bunch of money. Nevertheless, I remained non-committal.

By the time Ramona joined us, I still hadn’t accepted Jim’s offer. Her capacity to persuade, however, was impressive. She could have talked me into almost anything. No wonder her business was flourishing. Although reluctant to say yes, I had trouble saying no. I was perfectly content at the Golden Dragon, save for the boisterous, all-night mahjong games on the hotel’s patio that were a nightly occurrence and that bore no resemblance whatsoever to my mother’s suburban version. While I pondered Jim’s offer, we took another quick spin around the island. Although the exclusive resorts were tucked away out of view, it was still clear this was a rich man’s getaway only marginally disguised as a sleepy beach town. As the time for our return flight neared, Jim worked overtime on his sales pitch. It was obvious I wasn’t entirely enthralled by the prospect. In the end, however, needing to appear the good guy, I acceded to his request despite some apprehension. As it turned out, I had good reason to be concerned.