Episode 6: Punta Gorda

Far from the center of the city, Jim’s neighborhood was functional but run-down. Clearly not a slum, but certainly not the high rent district. The apartment itself was large, but messy and not particularly comfortable. Fine perhaps for a Peace Corps worker, less so for someone accustomed to the convenience of the Golden Dragon—especially since the hotel, surprisingly, provided maid service. During daylight hours, the neighborhood felt reasonably safe. Nighttime was more of a crap shoot. And unlike my former neighborhood, I was the only white face on the street. The people were pleasant enough, but standoffish. My neighbors regarded me more as an oddity than an intruder. I felt isolated and out of place. The comforting diversity of the center of the city had given way to a strictly Mestizo community. I’d helped Jim out, but I hadn’t done myself any favors.

Almost immediately I missed the Dragon’s proximity to town. Walking to my favorite places was no longer an option. I was reduced to relying on a bus or a taxi. And despite the cost, taxis prevailed. The bus, often overcrowded, made stops every few feet and required half the day or night to get anywhere. I became reacquainted with Carlos, the taxi driver from my initial trip from the airport. Most nights I even sought him out at the taxi stand in the central square to drive me home. And his disfiguring facial scar and missing hand? Working the sugar cane fields hadn’t played a part. Falsely accused, he would have me believe, of cheating at cards, his punishment seemed to have been unnecessarily harsh.

The mosquito netting over Jim’s bed was an unhappy surprise. He had either conveniently failed to mention it or assumed I would know it was a necessity at his place. Either way, sleeping under it made me uncomfortable. Malaria, however, was a real concern. Before leaving the States, I had been warned to take precautions. A doctor had prescribed two separate medicines. One preventative and one for emergencies. The weekly dose of chloroquine I took was the preventative. It always made me feel lousy, but I hung around Mom’s all day and moped, so that was okay. The doctor’s instructions for the “emergency” medicine, however, were disconcerting. If I actually fell prey to a serious malarial fever and immediate access to medical care was unavailable, I should take several tablets. While they might kill me, if I didn’t take them, my chances of survival were minimal. I never left home without them.

The netting may have kept the mosquitos at bay, but nothing forestalled my burgeoning paranoia. I began to wonder if Sumei harbored an ulterior motive for having chosen me as her teacher. Was I being set up as a convenient means of transport out of the country and to a brighter future in the United States? If so, that wasn’t happening and I needed to make sure Sumei understood that wasn’t happening. It was no secret she was eager to get away from her father, and the States were as good a place as any. I knew that once she had saved enough money and felt her English good enough, saying goodbye to Belize would be easy. She was eager to hit the road, but I certainly wasn’t going along for the ride. Since our trip to Caye Caulker, I’d begun seeing less of her. Besides, I’d already done all I could for her English.

Moving to Jim’s had clearly been a mistake and the commute into town a daily annoyance, but I’d committed to staying and I did—for a while. Besides, I wasn’t quite ready to get back on the road.  I think I already knew that once I’d seen Belmopan, Dangriga, and Punta Gorda, I’d be done with Belize. In the interim, however, I saw no reason not to befriend Ramona. Jim was in the States, so I figured she could use some company. Platonic company, but good company nonetheless. I bought her dinner one night shortly after I moved. She wanted to introduce me to Bradford Stafford, a businessman and jack-of-all-trades who needed an assistant. I knew Bradford by reputation. He was an intrepid entrepreneur, but there was something a little shady about him. Perhaps Ramona didn’t see it. I suspect she was only trying to encourage me to stay in Belize, but I wasn’t interested—in staying, that is. Ramona was another matter. She was easy-going, surprisingly cosmopolitan, and hip. Traits not found in Shen’s twenty-year-old daughter. Sumei had a lot of admirable qualities, but there was an increasingly beleaguered seriousness about her that, at times, was hard to take. I suppose with Shen as a father—a stern, unrelenting disciplinarian—it would be difficult to be easygoing. As for Sumei’s mom, one look could turn you to ice. Two unhappy people, her parents, with one unhappy daughter trying to shake off a difficult upbringing.

Over bacon, eggs, and grits at Mom’s a little more than a week later, it finally occurred to me that my time had, indeed, expired. Finish Belize and be on my way. Nothing was going to happen with Ramona; of that I was certain. And Sumei, unfortunately, was beginning to get on my nerves. The more it became apparent I wasn’t staying, the needier she became. Not in an obnoxious way, but rather as someone who saw part of her support system slipping away. And when we did spend time together, her collection of oddball acquaintances often tagged along. Gregarious by nature, Sumei had indeed introduced me to a lot of interesting people, but she had a bad habit of picking up strays—she was a virtual magnet for eccentrics. Her collection included Henry, a rather sad-looking army corporal recently released from the brig, offense unknown; David, who sold magic tricks for a living and stayed at Han’s guest house for five dollars a night; Frank, a half-blind photographer in Belize on assignment for a fashion magazine; and, of course, Phillip, a significantly fringe character who nonetheless seemed to know something about everything and appeared to live nowhere. Indeed, an odd array of misfits. I preferred to keep my distance lest I start feeling like I belonged.

Moreover, my gentlemanly veneer was wearing thin. I started to tell myself I was owed something. Sumei’s English had improved dramatically in just over two months and I had been the catalyst. Where was my reward? She wanted to make a present of herself. Why not just accept it, and stop being so upstanding? But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Besides, it was still a risk I wouldn’t chance. Raoul joked there were plenty of attractive prostitutes at Shen’s if I needed, but that just wasn’t my thing. Some guys don’t need real emotion to get excited. I’m not one of them. Time to be on my way. I resolved to visit Gordan at the bus station. First would be another try at Belmopan, followed by Dangriga. Punta Gorda would be the finale. After that, a quick flight back to Miami and a train—no more car trips with mom—to Boynton. Not having a home, Leisureville was the only place I could think to go on short notice where I wouldn’t be in someone’s way—except, perhaps, my own.

Much to my regret, Gordan wasn’t available to be my driver this time. Although happy to see me, he quickly ushered me away from the station. Curled up and passed out near a broken-down bus was Simeon. Gordan winced a bit when he pointed him out. Personally, I didn’t care. Simeon was trouble, and in his current condition he could do no harm. Gordan apologized for being unable to help. A prior commitment was too financially rewarding to pass up. But he did have a suggestion. Kendrick Smith, another second cousin in Gordan’s very eclectic extended family, was planning a trip to Punta Gorda. Perhaps if I offered to pay him, he might be willing to take me along. While not exactly the opportunity of a lifetime, I didn’t have a wide range of choices.

As beat-up as Kendrick’s ’69 VW van was, it seemed to function fine. Including, fortunately, the cigarette lighter. Both Kendrick and I wanted to get high and neither of us had matches. Kendrick wasn’t much of a talker, but the smoke seemed to loosen him up. After a bit of prodding, I managed to get an abbreviated life story. His parents had moved to Chicago when he was six. He grew up in a tough neighborhood and had a choice between being bullied or joining a gang. For Kendrick the choice had been easy. He claimed to be a former member of the Latin Kings, emphasizing “former.” I didn’t really care. I was already on the road with him. Besides, he certainly had enough tattoos and scars on his arms and neck to make his story believable. Maybe he was telling the truth. But if he wanted to be a former gang member from Chicago, that was fine by me. When I asked him, though, about his subsequent return to Belize, he said he’d done so for personal reasons. I had to wonder if his personal reasons matched Raoul’s.

Amused that I’d somehow chosen a supposed gang member from Chicago for a driver and traveling companion, I pushed the passenger seat back, put my feet on the dash to get comfortable, and took another drag on the joint. As I stared out the window at the deepening jungle on both sides of the road, Kendrick grew quiet again. Although a bit edgy, he’d been friendly enough when Gordan introduced us in Belize City. He’d appeared both smart and capable. I’d liked the guy immediately, although he drove a hard bargain. I could go wherever I wanted and stop whenever I wanted, as long as I paid all expenses. Despite the cost, it was a more agreeable arrangement than taking the bus. Even if I wasn’t sure I trusted this former Latin King, I was nonetheless intrigued by the possibility of hearing stories about gang life on the streets of Chicago.

My insistence that we travel to Belmopan before heading south troubled Kendrick. He had business in Punta Gorda and didn’t want to take forever to get there. I got that. Fortunately, he acquiesced and honored our agreement. I was, after all, footing the bill for the entire trip. Besides, the Belmopan excursion would be brief. I just needed to see the place in order to cross it off my list. I had already been warned not to expect much, and Belmopan easily lived up to its reputation as the ugliest capital city in the Western Hemisphere. Not so much a planned community as a cinderblock one. Almost every building. Mindboggling. Some gray. Some beige. Some large. Some small. All sterile, ugly, and depressing. Our tour was a short one. A few hours were more than enough to get the flavor of the place. 

Although Belize had failed miserably to live up to the story Morley had peddled, I had nonetheless managed to enjoy my stay in a country that time seemed to have forgotten. I remember thinking, after only a few hours on the ground, it might be best to turn around and return to the States, no matter how embarrassing that might be. But as soon as I abandoned Morley’s misguided advice, I found the experience of living in Belize—if ever so briefly—not without merit. It had been an excellent escape from problems that I often found difficult to elude. Now that I was on my way out of town, though, I realized how hard my leaving would be on Sumei. But there really wasn’t any good reason to stay. Early on—very early on—I’d harbored a brief fantasy about Sumei. Put down some roots, take what was being offered, and enjoy myself. That fantasy, however, quickly outlived its usefulness, replaced immediately by a more sensible appraisal of the situation.

Having backtracked from Belmopan to the coast, our route south to Dangriga took us inland. The seacoast was too swampy to support anything resembling a highway. Not that the road we took was any gem. Rutted and narrow, like most of the roads outside Belize City, it crossed several rivers with the aid of questionable-looking single-lane wooden bridges. One especially precarious structure seemed to carry a silent warning. Don’t be a fool. Let Kendrick drive the van, then follow on foot. So I did. Once the van was safely on the other side, I walked across and re-entered the vehicle. Kendrick was quick to comment, the ex-Latin King less than impressed by my lack of fortitude. I didn’t care. My plan was to return to the States in a matter of days. If the price of being able to do so was looking like a wimp, so be it. It wouldn’t be the first time. Had the van not made it, however, I would still be alive, albeit stranded on a lightly traveled road in the Belizean jungle.  

After a few additional disparaging remarks, Kendrick once again withdrew into silence, his lack of conversational skills irritating. To fill the void, a sentiment I’d previously discarded suddenly requested reconsideration. My decision to head back to the States was firm, yet I began to speculate about the unlikely possibility of having actually adapted to Belize—and to Sumei. Perhaps I’d been too quick to render a verdict. She did, after all, have some exceptional qualities. She was extremely warm and engaging, disconcertingly honest, and not at all judgmental. Intimacy came easily for her, and I could use all I could get. Although eager to escape Belize, she was nonetheless centered and focused and peaceful. All the things I wasn’t. Maybe not as much fun or as easygoing as Ramona, but then neither was I. And while Sumei fancied herself in love with me, she understood the reverse not to be true. Still, I had been good for her in ways others apparently had not. Ways that went well beyond helping improve her English. I appreciated her. I was accepting and understanding and supportive.

Although Sumei’s neediness had slowly begun to affect her demeanor, she still radiated an air of calm. A calm that didn’t slow her down or make her indecisive. A calm that allowed her to see things clearly—clearly enough to know I wouldn’t stay, no matter how badly she may have wanted me to. But it didn’t plague her. It didn’t weigh her down. I envied this calm. It was a state of mind I rarely experienced. Sumei was able to enjoy what she had while she had it. I wasn’t so lucky. I often didn’t appreciate things until they were long gone.

Kendrick and I had agreed Dangriga would be a one-night stop. That might have been sufficient for this town of less than six thousand had Kendrick not elected to disappear for the evening. Dangriga, home to the Garifuna, had managed to keep many of its ancestral roots, including a strong African musical and religious tradition. Nonetheless, it went on to play a central role in the history of the Catholic Church in Belize, and, at the opposite end of the spectrum, was the birthplace of Punta rock. Having attended a Punta concert in Belize City with one of Sumei’s offbeat friends, I was familiar with Punta rock, an onstage dancing exploration of the most intimate moments of carnal behavior. It was not something you were likely to see on the Ed Sullivan Show or Dick Clark’s American Bandstand.

Although Kendrick had given me an insider’s tour of Dangriga, which I appreciated, he was obviously distracted. I would have liked to have seen more—especially after dark. But Kendrick had places to go and people to see and I wasn’t invited. He figured the less I knew of his business the better, although it wasn’t hard to guess his line of work. Shortly after dusk he dumped me with the seventy-year-old owner of our guest house, insisting it wasn’t safe for me to be on the street alone—a white guy in a sea of black faces. I wound up watching the final game of the Celtics semifinal playoff series with Jorge. I wasn’t happy about it. I hadn’t come to Belize to watch NBA basketball. Besides, the Celtics lost.

The following morning—my time in Dangriga having been something of a bust—I informed Kendrick of my expectations for Punta Gorda. I didn’t want a repeat of last night’s disappearing act. Kendrick, surprisingly, managed an apology, assuring me things would go differently in PG. And, true to his word, they did. Upon arrival, after a very long drive, he quickly concluded his business while I waited in the van. The lack of a tourist trade, however, made finding accommodations difficult. Fortunately, our standards weren’t high, but we were forced to share a room—a single, no less. We were lucky to get even that. And it wasn’t that I still didn’t trust Kendrick—although I didn’t—but sleeping in the same room with a total stranger wasn’t my idea of a good time. Kendrick did offer to sleep in his van but I wouldn’t let him, although I liked the idea. He had a sleeping bag, so the floor suited him fine. As we unpacked our gear, Kendrick paused to nonchalantly remove a dead scorpion from the premises. I quickly surveyed the corner our uninvited guest had previously occupied. It may well have been dead when Kendrick found it, but it must have been alive when it gained access to our room—without a key, no less.

The next day Kendrick provided an extensive four-hour tour of the town. With a population of less than twenty-five hundred, four hours was more than sufficient. Especially since there were far more lowlights than highlights. Afterwards, I treated him to an expensive (by Belizean standards) meal at Punta Gorda’s only upscale restaurant in return for the promise of a tour of the town’s nightlife. Little did I know there really wasn’t any. A few seedy bars, one club with unexceptional live music, and a private gambling parlor in the back of a decrepit beauty salon. Kendrick apparently had a standing invitation. Far from an experienced gambler, I managed to lose a considerable sum before Kendrick stopped me from losing more. Grateful, I bought us a round of drinks—several rounds, actually—at a variety of uninspiring nightspots. Although packed with British soldiers from the nearby RAF base, they were a poor substitute for the joints the Brits preferred in Belize City, but they were a whole lot closer. While not the most exciting evening I’d ever spent, it was entertaining, and certainly a far cry from the nightlife in Boston’s Back Bay. In the end, however, the town hadn’t merited more than a day. I was glad, though, I’d made the trip. It represented closure of a sort for the journey Morley had instigated. But if I’d been expecting some sort of miracle from my Belize experience, it hadn’t yet materialized. And as I headed back to Belize City, time for it do so was running short.