Episode 3: The Golden Dragon

Shen’s Pagoda was the place to have had a nightcap, crowded as it was with people looking to party. But I was eager to leave; the weight of a commitment I wasn’t sure I should have made pushing me out the door. Instead, I settled for the bar at the Fort George. Empty, save for one young well-dressed couple waiting, no doubt, for their morning flight to Belize’s Ambergris Caye. The longest barrier reef in the Western Hemisphere and the second longest in the world lay a half mile off the caye’s windward side. A diver’s paradise, the island boasted the only luxury accommodations in Belize. If I got there, it would most likely be a day trip. And, despite being a Pisces, no diving would be involved.

With the honeymoon couple content to remain a twosome, I struck up a conversation with the bartender, a middle-aged Hispanic man with no neck and a shaved head. At first Raoul was aloof, but once he’d decided I might be worth his time he opened up. Grateful, I suspect, to have a customer to break up the monotony. Part of his job, he joked, was helping newly arrived Americans reconcile their expectations with the reality of Central America’s only English-speaking country. For over an hour, I listened to his take on Belize. It wasn’t pretty. Curious, I inquired if he’d met Morley Safer, the 60 Minutes reporter. He hadn’t even heard of him. Too bad. An interview with Raoul (or Carlos, for that matter) might have provided a much-needed counterpoint to Morley’s overly romantic version of the place. Over time, Raoul would become a friend. When I did eventually get around to leaving the country, he was one of only a handful of people I knew I would miss.

Although Belizean by birth, Raoul had spent much of his adult life in Miami. No wonder his English was good. He was unhappy about having returned to his home country. I asked him why. He grimaced slightly, shook his head, and said it hadn’t been his call. The American authorities had insisted. Although intrigued, I knew it wouldn’t be a short story and I was just too tired. Raoul looked genuinely disappointed. With several hours to go before closing, he realized he’d most likely be spending them alone. Eschewing a last-minute offer of a Belikan on the house, I paid my tab, left a generous tip, and headed to my room.

Sleep, however, proved elusive. Too much on my mind, including precisely what Raoul had meant by “the authorities had insisted.” I should have stayed longer, but I just didn’t have it in me. Instead, I tossed and turned, fading in and out of dreams that seemed always to cast me as an unwitting victim in someone else’s fiasco. Eventually I gave up, got out of bed, and turned on the shower. Lukewarm at best. I suppose I should have been grateful. It could have been cold. As dawn began to break over Belize City, I dressed quickly, grabbed my camera, and made my way to the street. It was to be my first full day in the city and I was determined to have a good time, tired or not.

I’d always enjoyed taking pictures. It was a good activity for me. Kept me in the moment and safely away from the constant scrutiny of an overactive psyche. Besides, I wasn’t a half bad photographer. I had a good eye, a reasonable understanding of composition, and a decent feel for what was worth documenting. I probably should have pursued it professionally, but, as with most things that interested me, I’d failed to devote the time and energy necessary to excel. So, I was a “not bad” photographer, which is better than most, but still just “not bad.”

Although only a little before seven, the sun was already higher in the sky than I preferred for early morning picture-taking. But no matter. I was excited to be somewhere I’d never been before. Somewhere I’d never expected to be. And three thousand miles from Boston. Then Simeon strolled up. A kid, eighteen at most, aggressively offering to be my guide. Although I wasted no time turning him down, he continued selling himself, seemingly unwilling to take no for an answer. I asked why he felt I needed a guide. All newly arrived Americans need a guide, he said. And how, precisely, did he know I was newly arrived and an American? People talk. News travels fast in a small town. Anonymity an impossibility. All probably true, but one look at him told me he smelled money and wanted to be first in line.

Simeon proved difficult to shake. I resumed taking pictures, hoping he would drop by the wayside. Instead, he upped the ante. Did I need some weed? I did, but probably not from Simeon, although I remained noncommittal. I had wisely chosen not to enter the country with contraband, assuming I would have an opportunity to acquire some after I arrived. As Simeon continued his non-stop sales pitch, we encountered a representative of the Belize Tourist Bureau. Anthony, a prim, neatly dressed man in his early thirties, politely asked me a few questions about my trip and then offered some suggestions about accommodations post-Fort George. He also discretely suggested I lose my annoying friend. Easier said than done, especially since I didn’t want to piss Simeon off. Needlessly inviting ill will served no purpose, so I humored my would-be guide when I should have listened to Anthony.

Hungry, I asked Simeon for directions to Mom’s Triangle Inn. He fumbled for a minute, then insisted on taking me there. Said it would just be easier. He also invited himself to breakfast. Reluctantly, I agreed, provided he disappear afterwards. He was quick to accept the deal, but there was little sincerity in his voice. He seemed unable to stop talking. Simeon, a Garifuna from the town of Dangriga in the south, launched into a long harangue about his people. He claimed they were a cultural and ethnic group descended from shipwrecked slaves and native Caribs. I wasn’t sure I believed him initially, but his information proved correct. He said he wasn’t crazy about Belize City, but he’d brought his love of drugs with him from Dangriga and made it clear he favored a good smoke before breakfast. Was I absolutely sure I didn’t want to make a purchase? He insisted the price was good and the quality excellent. I began to reconsider. After all, I was in need, and this seemed as easy a way as any. Besides, oddly, I trusted Simeon not to get me into trouble. I was worth more to him as a continuing source of revenue than a one-time rip-off. He might have been annoying, but he wasn’t stupid. Mom’s would have to wait.

Buying drugs in a foreign country is always a dicey proposition. The first time I’d risked it had been in Switzerland. I was on assignment for Interactive Training Programs, a Boston-based start-up tech firm and the brainchild of two Harvard professors. The company specialized in custom, high-tech corporate training and had recently been hired by McDonnell Douglas to develop instructional programs for pilots on the MD-80 aircraft. Although the project had been in development for months, little attention had paid been to the video requirements. With a scheduled shoot at a Swiss Air training facility only weeks away, the ITP project manager had a serious problem.

Since my RKO opportunity had gone south, I had been slogging along for well over a year with various uninspired freelance editing assignments. When a former colleague, a friend of ITP’s project manager called, I had reason to listen. Initially reticent to take on a difficult project so far behind schedule, I eventually agreed, but only after receiving assurances that the necessary resources would be provided, and that ITP would consent to my day rate—a rate they regarded as excessive and I regarded as insufficient. Although not excited by the nature of the project or the need to work the graveyard shift (the only time Swiss Air’s flight simulator would be available), I looked forward to travelling to Zurich. It would be my first time in Europe.

During the flight, I did my best to ingratiate myself to the project’s technical advisor, a former Air Florida pilot. Fred, I was sure, would be crucial to the success of the project and I needed his support. An ex-Navy captain from Alabama with a heavy southern accent, Fred had been an employee of Air Florida at the time of the infamous 1982 crash of one of its jets into the Potomac River. The aircraft had been carrying seventy-four passengers and five crew members when it plunged into the icy river after first striking the 14th Street Bridge. Only five people survived and four motorists on the bridge were killed. An obvious case of pilot error, the NTSB determined that the flight crew had failed to switch on the engines’ internal ice protection system, used reverse thrust in a snowstorm prior to takeoff, and failed to abandon the takeoff after detecting a power problem while taxiing. It wasn’t the only case of pilot error during Air Florida’s brief existence, only the most glaring. During post-production I suggested opening the training program with the pilot error story, insisting it was the perfect set-up. While Fred agreed, neither ITP management nor McDonnell Douglas concurred. An early clue that I was once again in the wrong place.

Filming at Swiss Air was long and difficult. Working nights was hard, and the rules of engagement at the facility were rigid. No one was allowed to go anywhere without being accompanied by Swiss Air security personnel—even the bathroom. Constantly running behind schedule, breaks were few and far between. And to make matters worse, the food in the cafeteria was awful. Daytime trips to downtown Zurich did little to rejuvenate the crew, but the illicit drugs purchased from the bartender in the hotel lounge proved indispensable. By the time the production wrapped, everyone was exhausted.

The results, however, were impressive. But after Zurich, Boston was a letdown. Despite the intensity of working overnight hours in Swiss Air’s high-tech environment, there had been a sense of adventure about the project. The same couldn’t be said for working at ITP’s sterile and uninviting corporate headquarters. Fortunately, the need to supervise post-production allowed me the luxury of avoiding the place much of the time, although the editing proved far more tedious than I expected. Still, the MD-80 program was delivered on schedule and on budget, and McDonnell Douglas was pleased. ITP management offered me a high-salaried staff position with significant perks, including a large number of stock options, but the unappealing nature of the projects was too much of an obstacle to surmount. Although I continued working for ITP as an independent contractor for an additional twelve months while trying to secure more satisfying employment, I eventually walked away from the second-best paying job I would ever hold. And the stock options I turned down? They might have eventually made me wealthy, but I didn’t know that then. And I’m not sure I would have cared, but I don’t know that either.

***** 

Following Simeon into one of Belize City’s shantytowns—a part of the city where I clearly didn’t belong—required leaving my better judgment behind. Otherwise, I would have immediately turned around and headed to the Triangle Inn. But the allure of eggs, grits, and crisp bacon proved insufficient to make me change course. Fully aware that the choice of Simeon as a guide was not a prudent one, I forged ahead nevertheless, eager to see something I’d never seen before.

Initially, the risk seemed worth it. Especially for someone unfamiliar with third-world poverty. No longer were the buildings simply rundown or the streets dirty and clogged. Shacks had become hovels constructed from discarded rotten wood, dented corrugated tin, and heavy-duty cardboard. Streets ceased to exist, replaced by makeshift pathways. Garbage was strewn about and running water was non-existent. And nothing we saw looked likely to survive the next storm. As we plunged deeper into no man’s land, my curiosity turned to genuine concern. A tour of the worst slums I had ever seen hadn’t been intended as a spectator sport for visiting foreigners.

But before I had a chance to reverse course, Simeon seated himself on an old milk crate outside one of the larger dwellings and indicated I should sit as well. After a minute or so, we were ushered inside where the smell of marijuana was so intense breathing made you high. Along the back wall, half a dozen young men sat watching WWE wrestling on a small black and white TV, electricity courtesy of an illegal tap that ran up the hill from some faraway location. Although the television’s reception was poor, the men were glued to the set, cheering non-stop for their favorite as his opponent was tossed out of the ring, only to return with a baseball bat. Nudged, I turned, was passed a joint, and told to keep it. As the buyer, I was expected to sample the merchandise. Nervous, but trying hard not to show it, I took a few tokes before almost collapsing. Simeon had been right. The stuff was excellent. But when I looked around to acknowledge my approval, Simeon was missing in action.

Panic arrived in no time. Too high for my own good, I was now in the company of total strangers. And not just any group of total strangers. Strangers that neither looked nor sounded like me and who were also quite high and watching professional wrestling at ten in the morning. Even if this same scene had been playing out in, say, Akron, Ohio, I would have felt like an alien. But this wasn’t Akron, and I was an alien. And my new friends treated me as such, keeping interactions to a minimum. They appeared no more desirous of my company than I was of theirs. Heightened, no doubt, by the drugs in my system, the vibe was clear. Buy your weed and be on your way. As paranoia began to swallow me whole, Simeon returned. It would be the first time—and the last—that I would be happy to see him. I gave him money to pay and we left. Tour over.

Still quite high, Simeon and I continued to the Triangle Inn. With the time for breakfast long past, we settled for an early lunch. I was pleased to find Mom’s exactly as billed. Belize City’s own greasy spoon. Small formica tables, cheap aluminum chairs with red vinyl backs and seats, black metal napkin holders, and heavy glass salt, pepper, and sugar containers all neatly arranged on every table. Having eaten over half the breakfasts of my adult life in similar places in the States, I immediately felt at home—until Simeon slipped into the chair across from me. I reminded him of our arrangement. Eat your food and get out of my life. Not surprisingly, he nodded in agreement and then immediately began one last appeal to be my man in Belize City. I didn’t bother to respond, but I had to admire the kid’s chutzpah. When we parted company I hoped I’d seen the last of him, but I doubted it. Simeon felt like a tropical disease. Once infected, it just lingered.

As I left Mom’s, the need to procure new lodging began to weigh on me. This would be my last night at the Fort George. Time to choose my next bed. After some difficulty, I located, and quickly rejected, the first two places Anthony had suggested. I wasn’t looking for luxury, but thought clean and safe would be nice. Initially surprised he’d even recommended them, I quickly began to suspect a kickback. With Anthony’s judgment now questionable, I trudged over to the Golden Dragon, his final suggestion. Located on Iguana Street, it was an easy walk from the center of town and only a few blocks from Mom’s. Two big plusses. A small two-story building, it was set back from the street at the far end of a vacant lot overrun by weeds. Inviting it wasn’t. Had the word “Hotel” not been painted near the top of the building, no one would have known. I crossed the lot, not expecting much. That’s what I got.

A tacky Chinese restaurant lacking even the seedy charm of Shen’s occupied most of the hotel’s ground floor. Inside, I found the proprietor, Mei Ling, a diminutive woman with an accent so thick I understood little of what she said. The reverse no doubt also true. Mei showed me a room (the hotel only had six) on the second floor. It had a private entrance at the top of a flight of stairs on the street side of the building. Another definite plus. The room was large, but spartan. A bed, a dresser, a desk. The bathroom, although tiny, appeared adequate. I checked for hot water. Strangely, the air conditioner was positioned a mere six inches from the ceiling. How was one to operate it, I asked. In response, Mei pointed to the desk chair and smiled. She was missing half her teeth. But at a third the price of my current accommodations, it was hard to pass up. And although the Fort George was well past its prime, there was no denying I was trading even further down.

Towards the end of a lonely and depressing afternoon, I headed to the Fort George, hoping a drink with Raoul might raise my spirits. Busy taking pictures as I went, I hadn’t noticed Dolores standing quietly in the doorway of a dilapidated building. As soon as I spotted her, however, she turned away. Trying not to frighten her, I inquired casually about the nature of the building. She said it was an active convent, but that she was a teacher, not a nun. Speaking in a barely audible voice and not looking directly at me, her tone was undeniably morose. Even my downbeat mood was no match for hers. Unmistakably American, she was extremely short, pale, and appeared anorexic. Wearing no make-up, with stringy, unwashed hair and an extraordinarily plain face, she was unattractive in the extreme. After a significant effort on my part to put her at ease, I eventually felt confident enough to ask how she had found her way to Belize. It was a question I often posed to other Americans who looked as out of place in the city as I did. She explained that until a year ago, she had lived as an up-and-coming spinster in a small town just outside Dallas. It was there that she had unexpectedly met and subsequently married an older Belizean man. His interest had surprised her, but he seemed genuine. The only catch? His visa was expiring. He needed to return to Belize. Sadly, a mere four months after they’d settled into a comfortable life in Belize City, using her money, he left her for another woman. Faced with an uncertain future, Dolores had decided to return to the States when her teaching contract ended in June. To do what, she didn’t know. Having little interest in further pursuing her personal story for fear of developing a friendship I neither needed nor wanted, I offered a few parting pleasantries and wished her well.

Wiping an already clean bar, Raoul was alone again. I asked if the lack of customers bothered him. He shrugged, said it wasn’t always this quiet, but seemed not to care. Wanted to know if I’d come back for his Miami story. Not really. I’d actually just come back for some company. Having endured Dolores’s story of a dream gone awry, I needed a large dose of his caustic humor. I’d actually almost forgotten about Miami, but I nevertheless smiled and nodded. I’ll give you the short version, he said, and laughed. After three tough years in Florida he’d been unable to find anything other than menial jobs. The Cubans, he maintained, had a lock on all the well-paying work. To bring his family to the United States, he needed to do better. Dealing was his solution. Not much. Not often. But enough. Enough to finally get his family to Miami. But the money was too good, the work too easy, the risk too low—or so he thought. So why stop? But after ten comfortable years in the States, he got greedy—and then careless. Caught, he was quickly deported. The DEA and INS insisted. Now, he was back in Belize and his family was in the States.

I felt bad for Raoul. Life often deals hands that aren’t easy to play. I wanted to say something, but nothing came to mind. I briefly considered swapping South Florida drug stories, but decided against it. Instead, I settled for a genuine “I’m sorry.” In response, he offered his usual shrug and opened another Belikan for me. And how about you, he asked. Why are you here? Looking for work? I don’t think so. Adventure? You don’t seem the type. Romance? Maybe, but why here? Hiding out, perhaps? He raised his eyebrows, flashed a knowing grin, and turned his palms towards me, indicating he wasn’t looking for a response. Just do yourself a favor, my friend. See the country. Hell, you’re already here. Then go home.