Episode 4: Corozal

Although the Fort George was indeed past its prime, the Golden Dragon had never had one. But moving was a necessity. Even if the thought of bankruptcy wasn’t foremost in my mind, there was no reason to hasten its arrival. I needed to conserve funds. Life at the Dragon would help. Besides, I wasn’t planning on spending much time in my room. Traveling light, I unpacked quickly and was back on the street in less than hour, adjusting to my new neighborhood and trying to locate the best route to Mom’s. And while it would only be my second time at the Triangle Inn, I already knew I was destined to become a regular. A creature of habit, I craved routine—especially in so foreign an environment. Mom’s was a hangout and I liked hangouts. I felt comfortable in them, safe for the moment from personal demons that seemed always ready to descend. Relaxation wasn’t easy for me. I took it where I could find it.

Fortunately, I enjoyed the food and considered myself lucky to have gotten to know Mom (the only name she ever used). An older single woman, probably around sixty, she was quite tall, with long gray hair and an elegant, aristocratic manner. She seemed out of place running a greasy spoon, but from where I sat she ran it well. A straight shooter, she expected the same. Mom was warm, considerate, and wise. Although she offered advice sparingly, when she did it was worth your time to consider it. I developed a real affection for her, and I’d like to think the feeling was mutual. Every Tuesday I spent the day at Mom’s recovering from the effects of the chloroquine I took weekly to ward off malaria. She never minded. She understood it was easier for me to be at the Triangle Inn than obsessing in an ugly hotel room. When I did eventually pull up stakes and head back to the States, Mom would be one of the few people I sought out for a parting farewell.

The Triangle Inn was a favored spot for many of the ex-pats in Belize City. Morley got that right. It also served as an unofficial, if unlikely, meeting place for those intent on bettering their lot, one way or the other. Listening to developers, investors, and quasi-government officials discuss the untapped potential of the country reminded me of Carlos’s harangue about life in Belize. Among the torrent of advice he’d hurled at me as he maniacally sped into the city that first day, he’d been especially keen on Mom’s. Pay attention to the indiscriminate conversation of strangers, he’d said. It’s an ideal place to pick up stray information. Of what value it might be, he didn’t say. But when I dined alone, eavesdropping became an entertaining diversion.

Sitting at an adjacent table, I remember overhearing a Black couple from Los Angeles arguing one evening. She was a computer programmer and he was an investment advisor of sorts, although his business card read “apartment rentals, photographer, insurance agent.” They’d been on vacation in Cancun, and he’d persuaded his fiancée that the trek south from Cancun to see the sights of Belize City would be worth it. After less than a day in the city, she intensely disagreed. Upset and angry, she wanted out by the morning. He was doing his best to placate her, but she was having none of it. In her book, a mistake was a mistake and this had been a big one. And apparently not his first.

When she surprised me by leaning over and asking my opinion, I had to agree. Belize City probably wasn’t worth the journey. Her next question, however, was trickier. What the hell was I doing in Belize?  After stumbling through a pathetically inarticulate answer, I changed the subject by inviting them to join me for a drink at the Fort George, thinking that the always amusing Raoul would at least provide some comic relief. Although not particularly gregarious by nature, I could rise to the occasion when necessary. (I had, in fact, become friendly with far more people in Belize than I would have originally imagined.) Mr. LA was definitely up for it. Happy to do anything to salvage the day. Ms. LA only wanted to get some sleep and forget their foolish excursion from sunny Cancun’s little plastic bubble. The impending marriage, should it survive the engagement, seemed unlikely to last.

Thoughts of Raoul reminded me of his previous evening’s advice. It was time to jump-start my exploration of Belize. I needed to see as much of the country as quickly as possible, in case nothing happened in the interim to encourage a more permanent stay. And although staying was an unlikely prospect, it wasn’t entirely out of the question. The problem was deciding where to begin my travels. But I knew that once I got started, I would have a sense of purpose and that was just what I needed—a goal. Any goal.

As my first stop I arbitrarily chose Corozal, the northernmost city in Belize. Situated close to the Mexican border, several outstanding Mayan ruins lay nearby. Not yet comfortable renting a vehicle and driving myself, I was headed to the bus station when I heard my name. Simeon. I knew I hadn’t seen the last of him. The kid was everywhere. And, unfortunately, the only way to deal with him was to acknowledge his presence. Ignoring him only revved his engine. He insisted on knowing where I was headed. When I mentioned Corozal, he, of course, knew a better way than the bus. Gordan, his second cousin’s husband, worked for the bus company, but like almost everyone I would meet in Belize, he had a side hustle as well. For a negotiated price, Gordan drove tourists and foreign businessmen around the country in his beat-up ten-year-old Chevy Impala. Was I interested? Not really. Any relative of Simeon’s, no matter how far removed, was tainted by association. I continued to the ticket window. But at Simeon’s urging, Gordan strolled up and introduced himself. Simeon, a Garifuna, and Gordan, a Creole, shared a hometown, Dangriga. But that was where the similarity ended. 

Tall, thin, and clean-cut with no obviously distinguishing features like a nasty scar or a missing hand, Gordan looked to be in his early thirties. More importantly, he was mellow, friendly, and willing to do business on my terms. He also seemed somewhat capable of controlling Simeon, who surprisingly remained on the sidelines while Gordan and I discussed the particulars. Gordan was smart and well-spoken, so traveling to Corozal with him was an inviting prospect. Far preferable than the bus, as I would be able to stop and take pictures whenever I liked. The bus Gordan drove was temporarily out of service—not an unusual occurrence in Belize—so he was available. And his price was reasonable. The only problem: Gordan couldn’t ditch his second cousin. Finder’s fee. Simeone would insist on coming with us whether we wanted his company or not. I was hesitant, but Gordan said it’d be okay.

No sooner had I agreed than I began to have second thoughts. Thoughts unambiguously validated later in the trip when two policemen boarded our bus—Gordan’s car having failed to start after lunch in Corozal—and forcibly removed Simeon who had become enough of a dangerous nuisance to warrant his arrest. Sadly, the early signs of trouble were painfully obvious, had either Gordan or I been paying attention. When Gordan stopped outside Brodie’s market to gas up for the trip, Simeon and I entered the store to stock up on provisions. Although I’d repeatedly asked him to remain in the car, he acted as if he hadn’t heard. I neither needed nor wanted his help, but I acquiesced. I found myself doing that a lot during my stay in Belize. Although an easy way to avoid conflict, it was a bad habit that almost guaranteed unnecessary problems. Inside the store, I grabbed cigarettes, rolling papers, and several six-packs of beer. Simeon put a bottle of whiskey on the counter. I handed it back to him. He smiled his idiotic smile and put it back in front of the cashier. No booze, no trip, he said. I looked at him. Already high, I wasn’t in the mood to argue. An aging hippie couple, as out of place in this local bodega as Simeon and I, witnessed our interaction at the register and shook their heads, as if to say, good luck with that. Their reaction only served to further a growing sense of foreboding.

Nervous, I climbed back into Gordan’s Chevy for the trek north, telling myself everything would be fine. Several miles past Ladyville and the international airport, parked trucks lined both sides of the road for a half mile or more. Their cargo beds overflowed with six-foot long stalks of sugar cane. I asked Gordan to pull over. I’d never seen a sugar cane harvest. Men using machetes aggressively hacked at the cane. Machines nowhere to be seen. Hard manual labor. Long hours for little money, no doubt. It all appeared quite primitive. And the frenetic pace at which they worked reminded me of Carlos’s missing hand. This one-time white-collar worker had difficulty relating, but that didn’t stop me from taking pictures. The workers seemed oblivious. Their attention advisedly elsewhere. After more of the crop was harvested—the cane tossed on already full trucks—the remaining debris was burned. Small fires dotted the fields. I spent well over an hour taking pictures before signaling I was finished. I thanked Gordan for his patience, even though that had been the deal. In return for agreeing to his price, he would stop as often as I requested. He wasn’t in any hurry. And having originally resigned myself to taking the bus, this was by far the better option. Except, of course, for the kid in the back seat.

As we continued our trek to Corozal, Gordan’s story slowly unfolded at my request. Born dirt poor, abandoned by his father and mistreated by his older brothers, he had somehow managed to survive and acquire an education. Quite the feat, he asserted, obviously proud of what he’d accomplished. Smart enough to realize there was nothing for him in Dangriga, he’d moved to Belize City. A friend got him his job at the bus company and between that gig and his side hustle, he made decent money. It didn’t hurt that his wife also earned a respectable salary as an administrative assistant for the government. They had a good life, he said. And, on the surface at least, he seemed happy. Something I wasn’t entirely sure I’d ever really been.

To avoid the swampy and impassable northern coast of Belize, the road out of the city initially headed northwest. At Orange Walk, though, it changed to a more easterly direction—towards Corozal and the sea. But Orange Walk’s location—only a few miles from the Mexican border—made it a distinctly Mexican town. Tired of fighting Belize’s back roads, Gordan suggested a brief stop. Passing slower vehicles, mainly trucks, on a highway not designed for that purpose was taxing. We stopped at Fuego’s Bar and Grill to use the facilities. Heads turned as Gordan and I entered. We made an odd pair. A Black guy and a white guy in decidedly Mexican territory. Although “On Broadway” by the Drifters was blasting from the jukebox, I didn’t exactly feel at home. Simeon, fortunately, hadn’t joined us. While Gordan and I had indulged in a beer or two on the way, Simeon had been drinking whiskey non-stop. Passed out in the back seat, he would, for once, not be a problem.

Fuego’s served its purpose, but little more. Thanks to a distinctly unfriendly vibe and the sight of underage girls lined up suggestively against a far wall, we took care of business and left, passing the jukebox in a metal cage, intended, no doubt, to protect it from rowdy customers. And the outhouse-looking structures out back? Private quarters for the girls’ transactions. Food could wait till Corozal. I realized that driving around Belize, as I was doing, was unusual. People stayed where they lived unless they had money, which very few did. Gordan hadn’t even been up this way in a while. He asked if we might stop and pick up an old friend. He hadn’t seen Basil for several months and still felt indebted to him for having helped secure his bus company gig. It proved a prudent move. Basil drove an oil tanker for Esso, knew the country intimately, and provided a fast, efficient, and amusing tour of Corozal.

Originally a private estate before becoming a town in the 1840s, Corozal was settled by Mestizos, Belizeans of both Spanish and Mayan descent. Much of it had been built over an ancient Mayan city, most likely the ancient pre-Columbian town of Chactemal, which extended from present-day Corozal to Chetumal, Mexico. Although badly damaged by a hurricane in 1955, Corozal retained much of its character, and the surrounding countryside was picture-postcard perfect. On the other hand, the food at Restoran Chino, where we stopped for lunch, was considerably south of gourmet. The real problem, however, waited for us out front.

Gordan’s car failed to start. The timing chain was broken. Until fixed, we weren’t going anywhere. And finding a mechanic in rural Belize on a Saturday wasn’t just difficult, it was impossible. The Mayan ruins were now, unfortunately, on hold. Gordan and I and an offensively inebriated Simeon headed to the bus station. Basil decided to find his own way home. I bought tickets for Simeon and myself. As an employee of the bus company, Gordan rode for free. But even before we got on the bus, Simeon became unmanageable. Verbally assaulting anyone who annoyed him and crudely coming on to women, he was a major embarrassment. He even loudly offered Gordan and me some coke. We could get high in the bus station’s bathroom, he insisted. Not bothering to respond, we went inside to get away from him. Not surprisingly, he followed us. The kid was trouble personified.

As we boarded the bus Gordan and I placed Simeon in the back, fearing he might be sick. Meanwhile, we made ourselves comfortable up front, hoping for the best. Our prayers, however, went unanswered. Not ten minutes into our journey, trouble erupted. An altercation broke out. Punches were thrown. Simeon knocked someone to the floor. Cries asking that he be taken off the bus could be heard. And a very short time later, he was. Police stopped the bus, boarded quickly, and aggressively moved down the aisle. Simeon was taken into custody. With the quantity and variety of drugs he must have had on his person, I could only assume it would be a long time before we saw him again. Which was fine by me, but Gordan seemed concerned.

With Simeon gone, the remainder of the trip was uneventful. Despite the bus driver’s addiction to speed—a disease shared by many in the Belizean transportation industry—he appeared capable of avoiding the guard rails. When Gordan fell asleep I tried to kill time by observing the scenery outside the bus, but filthy windows made it difficult. With no one to talk to and nothing to see, my mind was free to wander, and rehashing the past was a personal favorite. Simeon’s suggestion of snorting coke, outrageous as it was, had reminded me of my days as the general manager at Premier Video, a troubled post-production company in Boston. Coke made lengthy editing sessions easier to endure and clients had come to expect it. Euphemistically added to cost estimates as “refreshments,” its use was ubiquitous throughout the industry. The problems that afflicted Premier Video, however, were of a very different nature.  

The GM job—like so many others—had simply showed up. I hadn’t been looking, but I was certainly in need. Offered a position as a sales rep—a job for which I had no experience—I accepted without hesitation. The newly hired sales manager, a former colleague and friend, seemed to believe that being personable and well-spoken were sufficient qualifications for the position. I agreed. We were both wrong. Although I fully understood the business, having edited there intermittently, I was not a “closer,” a pre-requisite for any self-respecting salesperson. I also lacked the patience to coddle unsophisticated or arrogant clients. To make matters worse, Premier Video was in disarray. It was extremely difficult to successfully usher clients through a dysfunctional operation. Someone needed to right the ship.

While not excited about cleaning up someone else’s mess, I thought the challenge might be invigorating. Besides, I was qualified for this job. Operations manager soon morphed into general manager. The task, however, proved more difficult than expected. The owners were useless. Through a deadly combination of ignorance, conceit, and neglect they had allowed the company to become rudderless, a dangerous situation in a highly competitive industry. The staff had to take it upon themselves to make the facility viable—and they did. Clients might have been few and far between had it not been for this exceptional group of employees. They were mostly hip, talented kids somewhere between a decade and a generation younger than I. Managing and partying with them was a kick. But a fish rots from the head, and eventually the owners’ fiscal mismanagement created problems no one could easily solve. While I often acted as a counterweight to incompetent senior management, this time my intervention came too late.

After a difficult and gut-wrenching meeting it was decided that the staff would need to be significantly reduced. The cuts were targeted to eliminate mostly non-essential personnel, although almost everyone played a role in making the place special. However, financial equilibrium had to be restored to afford the capital outlays required to stay competitive. Without that, nobody would have a job. I had a private meeting with every employee to be terminated, as I wanted to be absolutely sure the situation was addressed honestly. I fired twelve people in one long afternoon. But as I left the building that day, I was unexpectedly invited to join many of the terminated employees and most of the remaining staff for a drink at the bar across the street. There was no ill will in the room. I was overwhelmed by the concern and consideration they expressed for what I had had to do and how I had done it. It would remain the single most unusual experience of my working life until many years later when I was unfortunate enough to witness—with great displeasure—a well-known media mogul verbally annihilate an executive in front of the entire senior staff for what appeared to be the sheer pleasure of it. 

Only a few months later my tenure at Premier Video ended. The problem wasn’t the job, although it had clearly run its course. No, the problem was me. My interest simply waned after the task of organizing the company was complete. Although I’d enjoyed the camaraderie of my colleagues, the work produced—mostly commercial or corporate work—left me cold. Hard to continue to knock yourself out for something you don’t love. I’d accepted a challenge, done my job. Time to move on. Like most of my jobs, it had simply been a place holder, not a step in a carefully constructed plan. A reality with which I was all too familiar.

*****

I was relieved when the bus pulled into the station in Belize City. The ride had been long and uncomfortable, but I was glad that the episode with Simeon had occurred early, as the memory was already beginning to fade. I thanked Gordan for his help and his company, and said I was sorry about his car. He was gracious. It obviously wasn’t my fault. It was bound to happen at some point. He was just sorry I’d missed the Mayan ruins. Still, I paid him what I owed him, plus an enormous tip, which he didn’t want to accept but did. I knew fixing the car would be expensive. I also tried to convince him to let me buy him a drink at Shen’s, but he said he needed to get home.

Alone with my thoughts, I ordered a Belikan. But before I could take my first sip I had unwanted company. Ominous-looking characters sporting theatrical smiles. Pay attention, they seemed to be saying. Carlos had warned me to be careful in Shen’s. Watch your back. Without much evidence, my gut said drug dealers. Neither friendly nor unfriendly, they seemed only to be on a reconnaissance mission. In a stilted, posturing conversation they tried to determine if I was competition, DEA, or just your average American recreational user. Apparently satisfied with my answers, they were uninterested in my company. After motioning to the bartender that my next Belikan was on them, they moved to the far end of the bar. While our brief interaction hadn’t been particularly threatening, I wasn’t really in the mood for a second beer. Out of a desire not to offend, however, I finished it quickly and got up to leave.

I had gone to Shen’s in part hoping to run into Sumei and renege on our English lesson for the next day. While not an impossible assignment—she did have a rudimentary understanding of the language—it was a task for which I was unsuited. Unfortunately, she wasn’t on duty, so I paid my tab and went on my way. Not yet ready for the Golden Dragon or desirous of Raoul’s witty if unrelenting cynicism, I stopped by several other late-night establishments before calling it a night. I eventually went home to the Dragon, collapsed into bed, and wondered how I would go about teaching Shen’s daughter English. Before the answer arrived, I passed out.