Episode 2: Shen’s Pagoda

Ten miles north of the city, the terminal at Belize’s International Airport at Ladyville was an unimposing structure. No JFK, it consisted of one lone cinderblock building. No frills. No amenities. An open-air operation. And despite a striking overabundance of official-looking personnel, a noticeable lack of travelers created an eerie sense of desolation. I watched as a ragtag ground crew unloaded baggage from the plane, hoping mine would join me in the terminal and not continue on alone to Honduras. Although I had nothing to hide, I worried about customs. Especially after watching agents aggressively inspect the luggage, and the documents, of the gentleman in front of me. A Belizean citizen, I suspected, returning from abroad. Fortunately, my papers received only a cursory glance, my bags a quick once-over, and after answering a few perfunctory questions I was free to move along. An American, hopefully with money to spend.

And spend it I did, quickly splurging on one of the vintage taxis waiting curbside. The bus would have been infinitely cheaper, but Belize’s version of mass transit was suspect at best. A fleet of seriously outdated vehicles—leftovers, no doubt, from colonial days—failed to inspire much confidence. Besides, the Fort George Hotel was located downtown, and the bus ride would have been long and mostly likely uncomfortable. A taxi was the easiest and quickest way to arrive in a modicum of style. The driver, already out of his vehicle, shook my hand and introduced himself. Tossing my bags in the trunk, Carlos slid back behind the wheel and drove away from the airport at a speed usually reserved for superhighways. Only this was no superhighway. It was a narrow, rutted, two-lane road which I assumed would quickly merge with a major thoroughfare. It did not.

Gregarious and friendly and a bit disheveled, Carlos looked to be in his late fifties. A disconcertingly ugly scar covered the better part of the left side of his face. Intensely curious, I was tempted to ask about its origin but held back. None of my business, really. Besides, Carlos had already launched into a monologue about life in one of Britain’s long-neglected former colonies. His assessment—substantially at odds with Morley’s—offered an unflattering picture of Belize. Distracted as I was by Carlos’s apparent love affair with speed, I only half listened. Believing the immediate future held little chance of a more relaxed pace, I tried to focus my attention elsewhere. Dense, tropical vegetation lined one side of the road, the muddy and uninviting Belize River ran alongside the other. Several miles past the airport, the land on both sides of the road turned to scrub, and unpainted wood dwellings with half caved-in roofs and porches ready to collapse proliferated. Women milled about tending chickens and scrawny-looking goats while half-dressed children ran along the roadside, shouting at the speeding taxi. A third-world stereotype come to life. To hear people talk today, Belize is a very different place. All the rage. The latest hotspot. The offshore cayes, the barrier reef, the exclusive resorts, and the winter weather all magnets for the rich and famous and those who aspire to be. But back then—the late eighties—things were quite different.

Keeping his foot firmly planted on the accelerator, Carlos seemed eager to deliver his passenger to the Fort George and collect what I suspected would be an inflated fare. Growing increasingly anxious about our speed, I leaned over the seat to check the speedometer. Sixty, with no letup in sight. More concerning, however, Carlos appeared to be driving with just one hand, his right. Troubled, I felt compelled to inquire. By way of an answer, he held up his left arm. Although the arm looked fine, there was no hand at the end of it. Startled, I did my best to take it in stride. It wasn’t easy. And, despite several nagging questions, I sat back, lit a cigarette, and said nothing.

As the taxi roared through the outskirts of Belize City, I expected an intact metropolis to replace the crumbling structures that had dotted the countryside. Once again, I was wrong. It wasn’t until we’d almost reached the hotel that the city assumed a more reputable appearance, and then only by comparison. On Morley’s advice I had reserved a two-night stay at the Fort George Hotel, presumably among the better accommodations in Belize City. After tipping Carlos generously I stepped out into a world of disappointment. I’d been expecting a beautiful colonial restoration. The reality proved quite different. Outside, the Fort George badly needed a fresh coat of paint and some remedial landscaping. Inside, the lobby was furnished with tacky, overstuffed sofas upholstered in faded floral designs, mismatched chairs on uneven legs, and old dusty chandeliers. Threadbare carpeting completed the well-worn look. I would soon discover the Fort George was far from the best hotel in town; it had just made the best backdrop for Morley’s stand-up.

My room was adequate, little more. The bellhop, Eddie, seventeen at best, put down my duffle bags, explained the air conditioner and mini-bar, but neglected to mention the scarcity of genuinely hot water. I would make that discovery on my own. At my request, he suggested several popular dining spots around town. Shen’s Pagoda and Mom’s Triangle Inn topped the list, with a less than wholehearted nod to the porterhouse steak at the hotel’s restaurant. Again, I tipped well, as I would throughout my time in Belize. As a stranger in a strange place, I wasn’t averse to buying whatever goodwill I could. Once Eddie was gone, I slid my camera bag under the bed, turned the air on high, and opened a Belikan. I momentarily put aside my concerns with the accommodations and with the intense heat bubbling up outside and stopped to congratulate myself—for a change—on having arrived. Even if I still hadn’t much of a clue as to why I’d come.

As I stretched out on the bed trying to unwind from the trip, I drank several more Belikans in a futile effort to shut down my brain. Failing to do so, I began an unnecessarily grim review of my ill-fated opening act in Boston. Initially, the opportunity at WRKO-TV had appeared promising. A close friend had gotten me a position as summer relief for the unionized news photographers and editors. I would have to work a different schedule every week, but if things panned out I might be offered full-time employment in the fall. The weekend before I was to start, I received a cram course in the rudiments of the job and the operation of the camera equipment. Fortunately, I was already an experienced editor, as editing wasn’t something you could learn overnight. But then neither was videography. Although nervous, I was excited. I assumed working news would provide a front row seat to events to which I might not otherwise be privy.

And my long-term plan was simple, albeit overly optimistic. Pay my dues on the local level, get noticed by the networks, graduate to a career as a news cameraman covering major events throughout the world. Unfortunately, on my very first day my expectations took a hit. A long-time cameraman in the news department and the union steward, explained the “rules” to me. Not the official rules, not the overtime regulations, not the call-back provisions, not the shift assignments, but rather the unofficial ones. The “no hustle” rule the most concerning. One story in the morning, one in the afternoon, no exceptions. Hotshots like my friend created problems and nobody liked problems. I was surprised that was how it worked. It certainly wasn’t how I worked. And although I understood the union was an important defense against an often out-of-touch management, I also understood management’s concerns. Amid quite a few all-star cameramen whose piss-poor attitudes and questionable work ethics kept them from more exciting positions at the network, deadwood abounded. The union held sway in most personnel matters. The message was clear. Don’t rock the boat, kid.

Although troubled by the “no hustle” rule, I could abide it. I didn’t have to like it. The job still seemed appealing—until the story assignments were meted out. Having zero seniority, I got the dregs. The boring State House news conferences, the rambling briefings at Police Headquarters, and, of course, the endlessly forgettable “feature” stories. The groundbreakings, the pet rescues, the weight-loss success stories. The banality broken only by the occasional armed robbery, fire, or deadly car crash—mine to cover by default if I was closest to the scene. It didn’t take long to become disenchanted. And although I counseled myself to have patience, two back-to-back assignments the following month took a heavy toll.

The Sonesta Hotel fire was first up. When I arrived, the upper floors were already engulfed in flames. I watched as competing camera crews, seemingly unable to resist the adrenaline rush of imminent danger, raced into the lobby behind the arriving firefighters. I, on the other hand, was content to set up outside. Not so my partner. Operating sound that day, he had seniority, and lots of it. Pushed through the entranceway and down a smoke-filled corridor, I had trouble seeing through the camera’s viewfinder. And with people all around us, I could barely move, let alone hold the camera steady. With the sound of water cascading down the stairwell, the appeal of the job plummeted exponentially. Then I got lucky. The building was cleared of all non-firefighting personnel. Happy to be back on the street, I took stock of my situation. Although I liked fires as much as the next guy, the thrills I sought didn’t include risking my life to provide local news viewers with content. For some people that was an exciting prospect. For me it was unrewarding peril. I was, after all, covering a fire, not a war, where documentary footage might actually have possessed some value.

The next day brought the Darryl Stingley assignment. The former all-pro wide receiver for the New England Patriots was returning to Boston for the first time since his career-ending injury two years earlier. A blind-side tackle in a pre-season game had left him a quadriplegic. He was in town to see a specialist at Mass General and the paparazzi were out in force. I had no idea what to expect, but like everyone else I fought for position at Gate 12. When Stingley’s wheelchair exited the jetway, he appeared unprepared for the circus atmosphere that engulfed him. Agitated and angry, he had his assistant quickly push him through the crowd. I set my camera down and watched as he disappeared into the terminal. Did Stingley’s celebrity status cancel his right to privacy? Perhaps, but I sure hadn’t enjoyed being a party to it. No more than I did sticking my camera in the face of accident victims as they were assisted into an ambulance. The job obviously required a sensibility I didn’t possess.

Consequently, when the summer drew to a close, so did my stint as a photographer in the newsroom. Their decision, not mine. But I didn’t argue. Working news might have been a golden opportunity for some, but not for me. I found it surprisingly unsatisfying. I was in the wrong place and it felt that way. So much for my long-term plan. But I still needed to eat, so when I was offered a position as a producer in WRKO’s production department, I took it. A decision I quickly regretted. Poorly managed, the department produced mediocre work. Superficial profiles of area celebrities and thinly disguised promotional pieces for regional institutions dominated the schedule. Designed solely to meet FCC broadcast requirements for local station affiliates, these programs aired late at night or on weekends. Few viewers bore witness to our meager offerings. Unhappy, and nursing a bruised ego, I lasted less than a year. Despite having no immediate prospects for employment, I was glad to be done with the place.

*****

Intensely absorbed in the review of my early WRKO days, I’d failed to notice that the air conditioner had quit. The room was now considerably hotter and more humid than when I’d begun my journey down memory lane. I grabbed another Belikan and picked up the house phone. Eddie was in my room in a flash. An overloaded circuit, he said. He’d have it fixed in no time. Seeing no need to hang around, I decided to explore the town while I could still muster the energy. I had, after all, started the day in Boynton Beach, Florida.

As I left the hotel, my reflection registered in the door’s mirrored panes. Despite Eddie’s suggestion to dress inconspicuously, I still had that fresh off the boat look. My skin was pale, as yet untouched by the sun, and my clothes still fresh, showing no sign of the humidity rampant outside. According to Eddie, arriving Americans—despite their best efforts—were easily identifiable. It made them easy marks. He was right, of course, and it wasn’t because of the color of their skin. While Hispanics and Blacks significantly outnumbered Caucasians, the white population in the city was considerable. There was even a fairly large Chinese contingent. Diversity wasn’t Belize City’s problem. Money was.

The poverty I’d witnessed on the drive into the city was reason for concern. It appeared all too pervasive to make a newcomer feel especially welcome. Fortunately, the area immediately around the Fort George was respectable, even a touch quaint. I headed east toward the water, hoping to find some Caribbean charm. And, indeed, the houses were larger, generally in good repair, and painted an array of pastel colors. Most sported large porches, often partially hidden by lush tropical landscaping. The presidential compound, well maintained and well-guarded, neatly abutted the sea wall. Interestingly, the compound was located in Belize City and not the capital, Belmopan. Several months later, when my exploration of Belize reached Belmopan, the reason quickly became apparent. And situated only a short distance further up the shoreline was the Caribbean Chateau, offering a superior lodging experience to the Fort George. I made a mental note to send Morley a postcard.  

However, as I turned away from the shoreline and headed west, conditions rapidly deteriorated. The breeze off the water had kept the neighborhood nearest the water tolerable, but only a few blocks inland the heat and humidity were oppressive. No fan of hot weather, I knew my ability to adapt would be sorely tested should I find a reason to stay in Belize. A proposition I was already beginning to find dubious—and I had only just arrived.

Most of the residential structures I passed were wood, while the commercial buildings were made of reinforced concrete. All uniformly in need of repair. The streets were dusty and often smelled terrible. Open sewers were not unusual. Rickety trucks, bicycles, and pushcarts clogged the main thoroughfares. Traffic signals were nonexistent. Old dilapidated wooden docks at the mouth of the Belize River serviced equally rundown boats. The heavily corroded Swing Bridge, the only river crossing for a mile or more, occupied a prize piece of real estate near the center of town. Manually operated by four men turning hand cranks, it was scheduled to open twice a day to allow travel upriver, although it often malfunctioned. It was so noisy and unsteady in operation, I was surprised it worked at all.

Both sides of the river were jammed with activity. Fisherman and dock workers jockeyed with street vendors for an insufficient amount of available space. Tourists, on the other hand, were in short supply. Possibly even outnumbered by drug dealers and prostitutes, not to mention members of a nearby Mennonite colony. Uniformed police and British soldiers were a comforting presence. Although Belize had gained its independence from Great Britain in 1981, the RAF still maintained a large base near Punta Gorda in the south. For off-duty enlisted men, Belize City hosted the only compelling entertainment other than that in Ambergris Caye, which was both offshore and expensive.

I stopped walking momentarily to lean against a vacant pier and observe the port’s activity. Despite how backward and undeveloped it may have appeared, it was, in fact, Belize’s main port. As I watched the people go about their business I felt very much the foreigner, even more than the clearly out of place Mennonites. Not my world. Not my people. In less than a week, I had managed to leave provincial Boston behind for a totally unfamiliar culture. The miracle of modern travel. All well and good to have arrived in one piece, but now what? Fortunately, I wasn’t expecting an epiphany on my first day in town. Later, maybe. Now I was just hungry.

On both Carlos’s and Eddie’s top ten list, Shen’s Pagoda was located above an oddball dry goods store that appeared to sell one of everything. I had to climb a long, narrow set of stairs to reach the second floor. Although the place was already crowded, I managed to find a small table with a view of Queen Street and the Swing Bridge. But it was the restaurant’s clientele—an eclectic mix—that proved far more compelling, especially as families finishing their meals were replaced by a different breed of diner. Obviously too new to town to know who they were or what they were about, I could still tell a raunchier set was settling in. The hostess, a stern looking, middle-aged Chinese woman, coldly handed me a menu without saying a word. I placed it on the table and continued to peruse the crowd. When the waitress, also Chinese, came for my order, I hadn’t even looked at the menu. Young and friendly, with an engaging smile, she did her best to respond to my request for a recommendation. Between my often unconscious use of slang and her limited English skills, we good-naturedly struggled to communicate.

After several minutes of amusing if not fully comprehensible banter, Sumei introduced herself. Short and a little stocky, she had jet-black hair that framed a pale, smooth face highlighted by intense, deep-set eyes. Not conventionally pretty but not unattractive, Sumei carried herself with an assurance that belied her youthfulness. With what I hoped was a reasonable facsimile of my order in hand, she had to fight her way to the kitchen through a sizable crowd at the bar. On her way, she was stopped by the cashier, a gaunt, middle-aged Chinese man. Their conversation—in Chinese—appeared not to be entirely friendly, but I couldn’t be sure. It didn’t last long, though, and after stopping briefly at another table she pushed on through the kitchen’s swinging doors.

When Sumei returned with my food, she seemed ill at ease. I wondered if something the cashier had said made her wary of engaging with a stranger. But after an awkward moment, she asked if I might be open to a favor. Not sure I understood her, I apparently took too long to respond and she excused herself to attend to another table. I felt bad. I’d just been caught off guard. I couldn’t imagine what sort of favor someone I’d just met might need. It wasn’t long, though, before she returned, intent on completing her mission. She wanted help with her English. She would, of course, insist on paying. But before I could answer, the cashier began shouting at her. An animated discussion in Chinese ensued. As their conversation grew more heated, Sumei withdrew to the kitchen. The argument struck me as unusual in tone for co-workers. In due time, however, I would learn that the gentleman at the register was not just the cashier but Shen himself, owner of Shen’s Pagoda—and Sumei’s father. And apparently I wasn’t the first American she had asked for English lessons.

As I waited for the check, I considered Sumei’s request. After all, I had to say something. But after less than a day in Belize, helping a total stranger improve her English wasn’t remotely on my agenda. Besides, I was tired and wanted nothing more than to return to the Fort George and get some sleep. To avoid disappointing her, I considered lying. I would tell her I’d think about it, without having the least intention of doing so. But when she returned I quickly caved. Disappointing people had always been difficult for me. And how hard could it be, anyway? Sumei appeared smart, and there was something intriguing about her. I probably should have politely declined, but I didn’t. Although not particularly concerned, I left Shen’s unsure of what I might have gotten myself into. It would only be a few days before I found out.