You can feel the seasons change in Belize. An energy surges in the wind that sweeps through, smelling of sweet rain and awakening senses within that were previously hidden from the heat. For a moment, as I stand on the balcony of my home, I hear only the breeze rushing past my face and lifting my hair. Then Devil Dog begins her incessant bark.
Devil Dog is one of the many dogs on my block. She is the oddest looking dog I’ve ever seen, and the mother of what is most likely hundreds of strange looking offspring. Short and stubby, her legs move furiously underneath her podgy body as she explores her territory. For a while, whenever I road my bike past her house she would trail behind me, barking and snapping at my heels, wheezing from her longish snout. I would curse and lift my legs from the bike peddles and glide into my driveway, safely entering my own territory. Devil Dog would stand in the road looking quizzically, and rather evilly, in my direction, give one final bark and trot away. For Devil Dog and I, this became somewhat of an annoying game.
One determined day I went to the fridge and retrieved a piece of salami, walked outside and threw it in Devil Dogs direction. She leaped upon the meat, devoured it and looked back wanting more. I raised my hands and walked away. After that, Devil Dog never barked at me again. My salami peace offering must have ironed out the kinks in our relationship. This won’t change the fact that Devil Dog likes to stir shit up in the neighborhood, but at least we have our reckoning. Now, I can only shake my head as I watch Devil Dog race several times past other dogs locked behind fences, parading her freedom and sending them mad with frustration.
I have almost become used to the barking in Belize. Dylan and Anna barely recognize it anymore. It reminds me of how normal ambulance and police sirens became when I lived in Chicago. They are those things that become home, become oddly comforting. But, just as the normality of a siren wail in Chicago speaks for a larger problem, so does the bark of a Belizean dog.
There are just too many dogs here. They wander through the streets, stick thin and sickly. They become warped souls desperately looking for their next meal, so engrossed in salvaging that they seem unaware of the speeding cars that come devastatingly close. I once saw a brick of a dog bounce of the side of a car with a TUNK yelp and run away.
Most have recognized these dogs as a problem. They have visions in their heads of dogcatchers, taking all the strays away straight to a pound.
But, when they have voiced their concerns, their complaints fall upon frustrated ears.
“Dogs?!?” They say. “Dogs? You want us do to something about the dogs when we are still working on getting potable water to each citizen? Dogs! When we get more complaints ABOUT our Ombudsman than TO him? When our roads are broken and our government is corrupt. When our girls are pregnant at 15 and our boys in gangs. Dogs… when our constitution needs reworking, our people need more jobs, and we cringe at the thought of natural disaster – knowing it will rip at our economy is several ways? and you want to talk about dogs…”
That’s when a stiff finger points you toward the door.
The truth is raw. There are just too many other things to be done. Too much else to worry about, too much else to fix. So, the barking becomes ordinary and life ekes on.
When I flip open a Belizean newspaper, there is no question to the depth and girth of the country’s problems. The papers, written rather like American editorial pieces, are blunt. In the media there are two sides to each issue, which goes by the support of either the People’s United Party (PUP) or United Democratic Party (UDP). Depending on which party the paper supports, the content stories will full out bastardize their opposition. Currently the news stories are especially seething, as Said Musa, leader of PUP and current Prime Minister, gears up for elections and Dean Barrow, leader of the opposition UDP, struggles under the weight of the ugly history of his party and tries to gain steam.
While debates rage some are soothed by a Christmas ham or housing, others stand behind the hope of new fresh minds in power pulling the economy out of a rut and others wonder what difference it will make because both are corrupt.
It’s hard to organize priorities. Where do we start? I think about the puppy, dead on the road that I’ve passed several times this week. Swelling and rotting in the rain, guts halfway out and deteriorating into the road with each passing car. The overwhelming complexity of problems can swell up inside of you until you are ready to burst. You can feel them pushing up like a scream. And perhaps most frustrating is that at the point of bursting, they disperse - filling you up and then suddenly leaving you empty.
But then you can choose. You can choose to walk hollowed out and vacant or you can begin to fill the holes with determination. A favorite music artist of mine, Brother Ali, talks about facing hardships and sings about the advice someone once gave to him.
“She didn’t tell me to take it, she told me to use it”.
So, if frustrations fuel determination, I know there are many tenacious Belizeans out there.
When I was out one day I was about four blocks from the street I live on. To my left I heard the uproar of barking and howling. As I glanced at the crazed dogs jumping against a fence I caught the cause of commotion out of the corner of my eye. Devil Dog. Ears flopping and crossing the street in a zig-zag celebration dance. There she was, determined to claim her domain as far as her stub legs could manage. In a way I admire Devil Dog. Though she at the root of my barking annoyances, she is always out there with a cause of her own.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Friday, November 2, 2007
Connections and Memories
Every Friday Rosita comes to clean the house. She begins with the dishes, and takes pride in putting things in the “correct” spot. When we return, our beds are changed and made and everything is gently put into place – at times, if you are observant, down to the finest details. Last time she was here, I returned to my room to find a missing sock placed nicely on my dresser drawer. How she knew it was mine eludes me. But, there is more to this weekly cleaning, a deeper story. Dylan and Anna are precisely the people who would NOT have a maid to look after them, so of course, there has to be an explanation. That explanation is Kail Alamilla.
Kail is a child who spent just a short amount of time in this world. He spent 4 years changing lives of those who knew him, and even those who knew of him. Kail was the energetic, smiling son of Lisel. He was said to have a light about him, even in his weakest moments. Sadly, Kail was fated. A tumor was discovered in his brain when he was only 2, and after multiple surgeries and expensive flights to the States, the positive results were only temporary. As life mysteriously chooses, Kail wasn’t given much of a chance. To everyone’s dismay, Kail’s tumor returned. Burying itself deep in a place no doctor could cure.
Even with this evil gripping onto his tiny brain, Kail lived each day with what seemed to be extreme gratefulness. He threw his small brown body into every activity he could manage. Like children with severe illnesses often do, he accepted his sickness as normality. Kail was known to bounce off beds onto hard tiled floors laughing the whole way down, and scaring the living daylights out of his mom. With tubes attached and glasses on, Kail was still the cutest kid around. It was that light, that bright light that he exuded.
Everyone that knew him recognized this difference. He wasn’t a normal kid from the beginning. He leaked happiness into those around him, more so than any wide eyed child could.
Dylan said there was a game he used to play called Monster. He had a phase where he greeted friends with a rumbling growl. Hands up in claw position, face scrunched for maximum scariness. When Kail was approaching his final days in Chicago, Dylan walked into the room filled with the heavy scent of despair. Dylan saw the small boy, looking frail, asleep in the bed hooked up to a complicated system of wires and tubes. Kail slowly woke in the room where he would take his last breaths. Though the tumor had taken and damaged some precious tissues of his little brain, his eyes lit at the sight of his friend. Mustering all the strength he possibly could, he raised his hands in claw position and gave a pitiful, but satisfactory growl. Kail died soon after.
The light had left, and Lisel lived for a while in darkness, trying to see in a now dim world. Slowly she came back, with the support of family and friends and endless love - the strength of her family bonds unbreakable and sturdy. I think that she slowly discovered that Kail’s light wasn’t completely gone, just hidden. Of course his old clothes, stickers and drawings are still around (divided up and given to close friends and family), but he also continues on through stories and memories. His presence is strong and persistent. Since I’ve been here, I’ve heard innumerable stories and been taken on numerous memory trips. I felt that light, the warmness that Kail gave to so many. His story touched me. I can only look at pictures of a mocha child, with a toothy smile and bright eyes. He is caught forever in a laughing pose and you can almost hear the child-like giggle rise up from the colourful paper. It’s no wonder that his favorite color was red, a warm passionate color. It was the color that splashed his funeral, which was not a funeral at all, but instead a Celebration of Life.
Rosita, she was there, by Kail’s side through it all. She helped Lisel when he was at his sickest moments. When Kail passed, she not only lost that little light, but a job too. Now, you see, Belize has this web, this system. It is a system of people who know people who know people. It is an intricate pattern that most don’t even understand. This elaborate web also does something else amazing. It catches you if you fall, embracing you in its surprising stickiness. When Rosita, who has four children of her own, began to slip, this web caught her quickly. Soon, everyone around who was affected by Kail and beyond offered her jobs. Jobs like cleaning the house, which isn’t necessary, but helpful. This Belizean web, if you’re lucky to sew in your own strings, will not fail you.
So Rosita comes each Friday and methodically begins her work. Life continues on and the web increases in its complexity. I can only hope to find and build my own design in this web during my stay. I’ve already tugged on the red colored strings that brought Kail’s story to me, and I can’t help but feel connections at the tips of my fingers.
I went to lunch with Lisel the other day. She just announced that she would be married to her new found soul mate, Rob. He is kind, understanding, able to take her crazy headstrong ways, and can cook! As she gushed in her pre-wed glow (her happiness is so strong its contagious!) the date of her wedding sunk in deep. She chose the second anniversary of Kail’s death, January 1st. She explained that nothing can stop this day from being a celebration – a celebration of the life of the beautiful boy as well as the celebration of the light that brought Rob and her together. The wedding will be at sunrise. As the attendants watch the sun rise over the sea minds will be in several places. The drum music will play and the warm red of the sun will soak and saturate the guests. And Kail will continue to live in memories.
In memory of Kail Alamilla (2002-2006)
Kail is a child who spent just a short amount of time in this world. He spent 4 years changing lives of those who knew him, and even those who knew of him. Kail was the energetic, smiling son of Lisel. He was said to have a light about him, even in his weakest moments. Sadly, Kail was fated. A tumor was discovered in his brain when he was only 2, and after multiple surgeries and expensive flights to the States, the positive results were only temporary. As life mysteriously chooses, Kail wasn’t given much of a chance. To everyone’s dismay, Kail’s tumor returned. Burying itself deep in a place no doctor could cure.
Even with this evil gripping onto his tiny brain, Kail lived each day with what seemed to be extreme gratefulness. He threw his small brown body into every activity he could manage. Like children with severe illnesses often do, he accepted his sickness as normality. Kail was known to bounce off beds onto hard tiled floors laughing the whole way down, and scaring the living daylights out of his mom. With tubes attached and glasses on, Kail was still the cutest kid around. It was that light, that bright light that he exuded.
Everyone that knew him recognized this difference. He wasn’t a normal kid from the beginning. He leaked happiness into those around him, more so than any wide eyed child could.
Dylan said there was a game he used to play called Monster. He had a phase where he greeted friends with a rumbling growl. Hands up in claw position, face scrunched for maximum scariness. When Kail was approaching his final days in Chicago, Dylan walked into the room filled with the heavy scent of despair. Dylan saw the small boy, looking frail, asleep in the bed hooked up to a complicated system of wires and tubes. Kail slowly woke in the room where he would take his last breaths. Though the tumor had taken and damaged some precious tissues of his little brain, his eyes lit at the sight of his friend. Mustering all the strength he possibly could, he raised his hands in claw position and gave a pitiful, but satisfactory growl. Kail died soon after.
The light had left, and Lisel lived for a while in darkness, trying to see in a now dim world. Slowly she came back, with the support of family and friends and endless love - the strength of her family bonds unbreakable and sturdy. I think that she slowly discovered that Kail’s light wasn’t completely gone, just hidden. Of course his old clothes, stickers and drawings are still around (divided up and given to close friends and family), but he also continues on through stories and memories. His presence is strong and persistent. Since I’ve been here, I’ve heard innumerable stories and been taken on numerous memory trips. I felt that light, the warmness that Kail gave to so many. His story touched me. I can only look at pictures of a mocha child, with a toothy smile and bright eyes. He is caught forever in a laughing pose and you can almost hear the child-like giggle rise up from the colourful paper. It’s no wonder that his favorite color was red, a warm passionate color. It was the color that splashed his funeral, which was not a funeral at all, but instead a Celebration of Life.
Rosita, she was there, by Kail’s side through it all. She helped Lisel when he was at his sickest moments. When Kail passed, she not only lost that little light, but a job too. Now, you see, Belize has this web, this system. It is a system of people who know people who know people. It is an intricate pattern that most don’t even understand. This elaborate web also does something else amazing. It catches you if you fall, embracing you in its surprising stickiness. When Rosita, who has four children of her own, began to slip, this web caught her quickly. Soon, everyone around who was affected by Kail and beyond offered her jobs. Jobs like cleaning the house, which isn’t necessary, but helpful. This Belizean web, if you’re lucky to sew in your own strings, will not fail you.
So Rosita comes each Friday and methodically begins her work. Life continues on and the web increases in its complexity. I can only hope to find and build my own design in this web during my stay. I’ve already tugged on the red colored strings that brought Kail’s story to me, and I can’t help but feel connections at the tips of my fingers.
I went to lunch with Lisel the other day. She just announced that she would be married to her new found soul mate, Rob. He is kind, understanding, able to take her crazy headstrong ways, and can cook! As she gushed in her pre-wed glow (her happiness is so strong its contagious!) the date of her wedding sunk in deep. She chose the second anniversary of Kail’s death, January 1st. She explained that nothing can stop this day from being a celebration – a celebration of the life of the beautiful boy as well as the celebration of the light that brought Rob and her together. The wedding will be at sunrise. As the attendants watch the sun rise over the sea minds will be in several places. The drum music will play and the warm red of the sun will soak and saturate the guests. And Kail will continue to live in memories.
In memory of Kail Alamilla (2002-2006)
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Faces and Names
There is a man in Belize who wears a gravel sack for pants everyday. If there’s a chill in the air he may put on a shirt, a gravel sack shirt of course. He sits with his wheelbarrow by the side of the road and waits. He waits for his customers, who buy his gravel. He collects his gravel from the ground, puts it in his bags and sells it to people who will use it for gardens and other random purposes. This is how he lives.
Gravel man, whom I’ve so gracefully nicknamed, is silent. I pass by him and say hello, or give him a nod, and he just looks straight ahead into his own little world. His eyes set and focused with a curly beard framing his face, he survives in this quiet, but legendary existence. He is probably oblivious to the fact that Belizeans claim him as their own quirky character. I can only guess people are intrigued and astonished at his meager existence. Not many people would live a life as raw as this man.
Though gravel man seems to ignore me (for now), other Belizeans are beginning to recognize me. I’m finding it difficult to take a ride or go to work without someone noticing me along the way. The problem is that the amount of people I’ve met does not keep up with my brain’s capacity at remembering names. I also have the unfair factor of being the new one among a humongous group of acquaintances. And the ‘I’ve-seen-you-twice-so-now-we’re-friends’ deal doesn’t help much either.
Among the factors against me, Belizeans’ car windows are tinted to what has to be illegal shades and doesn’t make recognition easier. When a car passes and honks I glance to the side to see a black screen where windows should be, I can only hope the driver realizes I can’t make out their face in the shadowy darkness.
It is nice to be accepted into the daily flow. I feel like I belong as I ride by a person who calls out my name. It’s also nice that most people around here assume I’m Belizean until I open my mouth. I kept up the charade with Anita, the lady who sells bananas at the road by my house, for some time. She started by speaking to me in Spanish, which in the beginning was Spanish I could keep up with. “Cuantos bananas?” and “Hola, cómo estas? Ningunos bananas hoy?” and “Dónde está su bicicleta hoy?” were all things to which I could respond. But, one day when I stopped to buy bananas and she began to rapidly talk to me about my job, I struggled to find some words and she caught me. It was “fun” explaining to her why I was in Belize in Spanish. I’m 50 percent sure she is very confused about my stay. She kept saying something about my skin color – which once again threw someone for a loop.
I’m hoping the Spanish class I’m taking at the Mexican Embassy will help me eventually clear things up for Anita. Three nights a week for an hour I sit with my Spanish-challenged friends to try and improve our non-eloquent childlike babble. Our teacher is a spunky woman with what seems like too big a personality for her small crumpled body. She is older, wrinkled and mostly immobile, but is quick as a whip and more flirtatious with the men than Paris Hilton. The students in the class range from 20 – 60 and are all in the same place. We come together to laugh at each others mistakes and have debates intermingled with long pauses and multiple “ummmm’s”.
This class is where I met some of my Peace Corps friends. We gather before and after chatting about our week’s adventures. They are slowly preparing me to be accepted into the Peace Corps family, telling me the secrets of the club. My impending Peace Corps position comes closer every day. April 2008 I’ll be off again to a new place in Africa. Most of the volunteers found out only 4 months before they left, so my country placement remains question marked. I do know I’ll be teaching ESL and doing youth development.
I’m lucky, because in Belize connections are inevitable. I found a woman, Dylan and Anna’s friend Deb, who teaches ESL in Belize. She is letting me in on the ways of successful ESL courses. I am welcomed into her classes so I can see her in action, and she has all the resources I could ever dream of. Everything I come across seems to make Peace Corps more real to me. But for now, I’m La Vie Bohème Belize.
It’s a wonderful feeling to become familiar with a new place. I have got my daily grind down and my weekly schedule set. I’ve learned to roll my pants when I bike to interning to keep the grease off the right pant-leg and to carry a plastic bag to put over my seat when I lock it up in case of rain. I’ve also found that it isn’t that hard to ride a bike in heels (I love pant/heel intern clothes combo and a bike isn’t gonna stop me). If I walk, then I have to pack flip flops in my bag for a more comfortable stroll – walking home in heels on a gravely road isn’t desirable.
As I was walking home the other day I heard a honk. I turned expecting a dark window or another face I couldn’t place a name to. But, it wasn’t. It was the beautiful shining face of my cousin Kaya. Her hair set in braids, bright smile and athletic build; she called my name out from a car blaring with bumping beats.
“Need a ride?” she asked.
I ran across the street and hopped into the car with her friends.
Gravel man, whom I’ve so gracefully nicknamed, is silent. I pass by him and say hello, or give him a nod, and he just looks straight ahead into his own little world. His eyes set and focused with a curly beard framing his face, he survives in this quiet, but legendary existence. He is probably oblivious to the fact that Belizeans claim him as their own quirky character. I can only guess people are intrigued and astonished at his meager existence. Not many people would live a life as raw as this man.
Though gravel man seems to ignore me (for now), other Belizeans are beginning to recognize me. I’m finding it difficult to take a ride or go to work without someone noticing me along the way. The problem is that the amount of people I’ve met does not keep up with my brain’s capacity at remembering names. I also have the unfair factor of being the new one among a humongous group of acquaintances. And the ‘I’ve-seen-you-twice-so-now-we’re-friends’ deal doesn’t help much either.
Among the factors against me, Belizeans’ car windows are tinted to what has to be illegal shades and doesn’t make recognition easier. When a car passes and honks I glance to the side to see a black screen where windows should be, I can only hope the driver realizes I can’t make out their face in the shadowy darkness.
It is nice to be accepted into the daily flow. I feel like I belong as I ride by a person who calls out my name. It’s also nice that most people around here assume I’m Belizean until I open my mouth. I kept up the charade with Anita, the lady who sells bananas at the road by my house, for some time. She started by speaking to me in Spanish, which in the beginning was Spanish I could keep up with. “Cuantos bananas?” and “Hola, cómo estas? Ningunos bananas hoy?” and “Dónde está su bicicleta hoy?” were all things to which I could respond. But, one day when I stopped to buy bananas and she began to rapidly talk to me about my job, I struggled to find some words and she caught me. It was “fun” explaining to her why I was in Belize in Spanish. I’m 50 percent sure she is very confused about my stay. She kept saying something about my skin color – which once again threw someone for a loop.
I’m hoping the Spanish class I’m taking at the Mexican Embassy will help me eventually clear things up for Anita. Three nights a week for an hour I sit with my Spanish-challenged friends to try and improve our non-eloquent childlike babble. Our teacher is a spunky woman with what seems like too big a personality for her small crumpled body. She is older, wrinkled and mostly immobile, but is quick as a whip and more flirtatious with the men than Paris Hilton. The students in the class range from 20 – 60 and are all in the same place. We come together to laugh at each others mistakes and have debates intermingled with long pauses and multiple “ummmm’s”.
This class is where I met some of my Peace Corps friends. We gather before and after chatting about our week’s adventures. They are slowly preparing me to be accepted into the Peace Corps family, telling me the secrets of the club. My impending Peace Corps position comes closer every day. April 2008 I’ll be off again to a new place in Africa. Most of the volunteers found out only 4 months before they left, so my country placement remains question marked. I do know I’ll be teaching ESL and doing youth development.
I’m lucky, because in Belize connections are inevitable. I found a woman, Dylan and Anna’s friend Deb, who teaches ESL in Belize. She is letting me in on the ways of successful ESL courses. I am welcomed into her classes so I can see her in action, and she has all the resources I could ever dream of. Everything I come across seems to make Peace Corps more real to me. But for now, I’m La Vie Bohème Belize.
It’s a wonderful feeling to become familiar with a new place. I have got my daily grind down and my weekly schedule set. I’ve learned to roll my pants when I bike to interning to keep the grease off the right pant-leg and to carry a plastic bag to put over my seat when I lock it up in case of rain. I’ve also found that it isn’t that hard to ride a bike in heels (I love pant/heel intern clothes combo and a bike isn’t gonna stop me). If I walk, then I have to pack flip flops in my bag for a more comfortable stroll – walking home in heels on a gravely road isn’t desirable.
As I was walking home the other day I heard a honk. I turned expecting a dark window or another face I couldn’t place a name to. But, it wasn’t. It was the beautiful shining face of my cousin Kaya. Her hair set in braids, bright smile and athletic build; she called my name out from a car blaring with bumping beats.
“Need a ride?” she asked.
I ran across the street and hopped into the car with her friends.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Potholes
October 7, 2007
Belize City was built on a swamp. It gurgles and spits under the heat while frogs flourish and band together to create the night’s raucous symphony. Yet, it doesn’t sink into the muck. Sophisticated systems of boards and moats and standing pools of water surround the streets and curbs. Tadpoles and small fish dart about the murky water and children play with sticks in the side-street ponds. The city somehow remains wet and dry simultaneously. Streets are quick to deteriorate under such circumstances, and these gravel roads welcome erosion.
“You betah watch out for dem craters!” a Belizean woman once said laughing as she shook her head, “deh no potholes honey, deh craters!”
The roads are not the only things deteriorating in this swampy city. I recently went out on the streets with some of the UNICEF staff to talk to children about how safe they felt living in Belize. Their feelings of safety were just like the roads, broken and unstable. I felt the lump in my throat swell with each interview.
Their bright smiles and embarrassed beginnings faded into serious and persistent answers as we questioned them. These kids, from 6 to 18, are overly-mature and startlingly aware of the state of their country. They don’t feel safe in Belize. They don’t feel safe because of the rising crime rate, the large number of teenage pregnancies, the reality of HIV/AIDS, the potholed streets and the lack of job opportunities, to name a few.
“What about living in Belize makes you feel unsafe?” My colleague asked a young girl no older than 10.
“The Crime. My poppa just got shot last week.” She said.
Now, these streets are not constantly zinging with bullets. But there are areas that are not safe at night. Gangs are increasing in size and power. The newspapers bring stories of drive by’s on bikes and bullet ridden bodies rushed to hospitals. When we asked these kids why they thought the crime was so bad, they would sigh and shrug and say that there was ‘Not Enough’. They said there were not enough activities after school, not enough parent involvement, not enough decent police men and women. And there was also ‘Too Much’. Too much peer pressure leading to unsafe sex, too much drug use, too much fighting at schools when teachers stepped out into the hallway.
They know. Their minds are ticking and churning. They reek of potential. They just have to be pointed in the right direction so they can use it. And that’s just the problem. How DO we do that?
That’s when you start to feel small and overwhelmed. It seems impossible to directly help these kids. The work we did that day will be packaged into a tight presentation and delivered to a room of people that have all the problems of the Caribbean grinding on minds. No matter how desperate and desolate the situation, it’s a matter of proving one problem more deplorable than the other.
Sometimes these problems are given attention and they have a moment where the spotlight is shone on them. For the potholed roads, this moment comes before elections. With the elections around the corner the roads will be smoother. People United Party and United Democrat Party will go on a spree of improving the city to improve the number of votes they get. While everyone is grateful, they know that the paved holes in the roads are only temporary. They are fixed quickly and unprofessionally, soon to fall victim to another rainstorm and open up even more gaping then before.
A program can be launched in the name of the children, looking new and hopeful, gleaming with possibilities. But, with lack of funding and human resources, these programs fall through and kids see another failed attempt at making their lives more livable.
“Too Much” and “Not Enough” are frustrating. They usually go hand in hand and continually add to each other’s lists. It’s a slap in the face to see the realness of things, but instead of giving into problems and disappointments, you have to try again. I am humbled by the amount of organizations in Belize trying to make a difference, and I hope that they are successful. One step after another, slow and steady. The video of kid’s speaking their minds will flow into an audience during the presentation and hopefully, flick a switch in someone’s head. Everything matters in the end.
Belize City was built on a swamp. It gurgles and spits under the heat while frogs flourish and band together to create the night’s raucous symphony. Yet, it doesn’t sink into the muck. Sophisticated systems of boards and moats and standing pools of water surround the streets and curbs. Tadpoles and small fish dart about the murky water and children play with sticks in the side-street ponds. The city somehow remains wet and dry simultaneously. Streets are quick to deteriorate under such circumstances, and these gravel roads welcome erosion.
“You betah watch out for dem craters!” a Belizean woman once said laughing as she shook her head, “deh no potholes honey, deh craters!”
The roads are not the only things deteriorating in this swampy city. I recently went out on the streets with some of the UNICEF staff to talk to children about how safe they felt living in Belize. Their feelings of safety were just like the roads, broken and unstable. I felt the lump in my throat swell with each interview.
Their bright smiles and embarrassed beginnings faded into serious and persistent answers as we questioned them. These kids, from 6 to 18, are overly-mature and startlingly aware of the state of their country. They don’t feel safe in Belize. They don’t feel safe because of the rising crime rate, the large number of teenage pregnancies, the reality of HIV/AIDS, the potholed streets and the lack of job opportunities, to name a few.
“What about living in Belize makes you feel unsafe?” My colleague asked a young girl no older than 10.
“The Crime. My poppa just got shot last week.” She said.
Now, these streets are not constantly zinging with bullets. But there are areas that are not safe at night. Gangs are increasing in size and power. The newspapers bring stories of drive by’s on bikes and bullet ridden bodies rushed to hospitals. When we asked these kids why they thought the crime was so bad, they would sigh and shrug and say that there was ‘Not Enough’. They said there were not enough activities after school, not enough parent involvement, not enough decent police men and women. And there was also ‘Too Much’. Too much peer pressure leading to unsafe sex, too much drug use, too much fighting at schools when teachers stepped out into the hallway.
They know. Their minds are ticking and churning. They reek of potential. They just have to be pointed in the right direction so they can use it. And that’s just the problem. How DO we do that?
That’s when you start to feel small and overwhelmed. It seems impossible to directly help these kids. The work we did that day will be packaged into a tight presentation and delivered to a room of people that have all the problems of the Caribbean grinding on minds. No matter how desperate and desolate the situation, it’s a matter of proving one problem more deplorable than the other.
Sometimes these problems are given attention and they have a moment where the spotlight is shone on them. For the potholed roads, this moment comes before elections. With the elections around the corner the roads will be smoother. People United Party and United Democrat Party will go on a spree of improving the city to improve the number of votes they get. While everyone is grateful, they know that the paved holes in the roads are only temporary. They are fixed quickly and unprofessionally, soon to fall victim to another rainstorm and open up even more gaping then before.
A program can be launched in the name of the children, looking new and hopeful, gleaming with possibilities. But, with lack of funding and human resources, these programs fall through and kids see another failed attempt at making their lives more livable.
“Too Much” and “Not Enough” are frustrating. They usually go hand in hand and continually add to each other’s lists. It’s a slap in the face to see the realness of things, but instead of giving into problems and disappointments, you have to try again. I am humbled by the amount of organizations in Belize trying to make a difference, and I hope that they are successful. One step after another, slow and steady. The video of kid’s speaking their minds will flow into an audience during the presentation and hopefully, flick a switch in someone’s head. Everything matters in the end.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Me and My Bike
September 23, 2007
I begin in the house, lifted off the swampy ground with concrete stilts. It is mid day as the sun shines through the shuttered windows and I welcome the slight breeze the blows between the slats. I finish my meal of mashed black beans and salsa on a crispy tortilla and am ready to go. The checklist is in my head; Bike, map, water, keys. Blissful simplicity. As I leave I close the shutters in case of a squall – short, hard rain – and lock up.
The roads, paved graveled potholed, make for a bumpy and sharp maneuvered ride. I know I’ll feel it later. As I peddle through the salty air I pass the things I’m beginning to become familiar with. The woman selling bananas day and night by the side of the road, the half built houses with innards exposed next to the brightly colored homes with rows of clothes drying on lines, and Annie’s street side café. A dog races out of a gate and I feel my heat quicken as the dog viciously barks. Those dogs can really scare the hell out of you – but it’s advised to keep riding on, so I do. A block later, after successfully riding straight through a puddle, I manage to lose the dog, and get a new design of mud splatter on my shirt.
As I round the path I see the UNICEF building where I will be interning. It looks oddly new in such a sun and time worn place. Built just this year it will be the setting of what I hope to be a great learning experience. The meeting I had with the director, was earlier this week. I managed to make a complete fool out of myself when the buzz-in door decided to malfunction and the staff watched from behind the glass as they kept buzzing and I still could not get in. He finally opened the door manually (here I curse technology) and we all had a good laugh. I learned I will be working with everyone on various projects, mostly projects dealing with improving health and education for children. The people in the office speak Creole, Spanish or a combination of both. This means for the first month I’m guaranteed to make myself even more foolish by following up conversations with “What? Can you say that again?” But, everyone is encouraging, and they probably find entertainment in my confusion.
As I ride past men on the road, some greet me with a common snakelike hiss. This hiss replaces what is most likely a vulgar comment or whistle and is something best ignored. On these roads attention is necessary anyway, as cars can come breathtakingly close. My bike riding skills seem inferior to those I pass. Belizeans can juggle bags, pull other bikes beside them, weave through the smallest places, and have multiple friends and children attached to the handlebars. Dual bike-riding is one skill I hope to master.
I speed past the Princess Hotel, which contains a movie theater and dance club. The club, Club Next, is where my Aunt Karen works on weekends. She works 12-5 a.m. three days a week managing promotional duties. When she isn’t busy, she dances. I danced at her side one night till 4 a.m. and was amazed at her nonchalant energy. Her short dreads swing and her body bumps to the rhythm she knows so well. She doesn’t think too hard about her second job, which switches her schedule from 5 a.m. bedtime to 5 a.m. wake up.
I ride through the streets, which are always bustling with people going about their days. Just a few days before these streets were rumbling with music and swelling with food and drink. It was Belize’s 26th year of independence, and celebration was mandatory. Speaker boxes were stacked 10 feet tall and the music was so loud it vibrated deep in my chest. I saw young and old move the beats; feet flying, hips swaying, and heads nodding everywhere I looked. It amazed me to see a child bounced to sleep on his dancing mother’s breast, steps away from the blaring reggae.
After practically slamming into a parked car avoiding a screaming group of kids, I regain balance and continue onto the main road. I pass the road which is the street where my grandparents, Larry and Crystal, live. I will always have an open opportunity to lunch there. Crystal, who is small, strong and sharp, always seems to have an endless amount of food. It is common for people to pop by and sit down for a quick lunch – which Belizeans go home to eat mid day. Sandwich and microwave are not in the vocabulary. These lunches always have rice and beans, sometimes have eggplant, occasionally have pig’s feet.
Crys has a way of bringing everything into perspective. I sat with her on the couch of her alley-entrance house and listen to her speak of the children’s Independence parade. As she watched the endless lines of jumping, squealing children, she said, “where… where are these kids going to get jobs when they grow?”
I continue to ride and find myself on a road stretching the length of the glassy sea. Now things become wonderfully unfamiliar. Sweat is now dripping as the hot sun bores into my skin. I pass coconut stands, darkened shops, bustling schools and people walking by in business suits making their way back to work. I realize I now have no clue where I am, and decide to pull into a seaside park. I rest on the edge of the sea watching a slow funeral procession pass in the street, a hundred people dressed in white solemnly following a Hurst.
Laying out my map I gaze at the place which will be my home for the next 6 months. If this first week speaks for what’s to come, I am satisfied. Though so unfamiliar, this place holds warmth in people and places. It holds answers to my questions and information I never dreamed of learning. I’m sure I will find my niche. I let the cool water lap at my feet and begin to find my location on the map spread out before me.
I begin in the house, lifted off the swampy ground with concrete stilts. It is mid day as the sun shines through the shuttered windows and I welcome the slight breeze the blows between the slats. I finish my meal of mashed black beans and salsa on a crispy tortilla and am ready to go. The checklist is in my head; Bike, map, water, keys. Blissful simplicity. As I leave I close the shutters in case of a squall – short, hard rain – and lock up.
The roads, paved graveled potholed, make for a bumpy and sharp maneuvered ride. I know I’ll feel it later. As I peddle through the salty air I pass the things I’m beginning to become familiar with. The woman selling bananas day and night by the side of the road, the half built houses with innards exposed next to the brightly colored homes with rows of clothes drying on lines, and Annie’s street side café. A dog races out of a gate and I feel my heat quicken as the dog viciously barks. Those dogs can really scare the hell out of you – but it’s advised to keep riding on, so I do. A block later, after successfully riding straight through a puddle, I manage to lose the dog, and get a new design of mud splatter on my shirt.
As I round the path I see the UNICEF building where I will be interning. It looks oddly new in such a sun and time worn place. Built just this year it will be the setting of what I hope to be a great learning experience. The meeting I had with the director, was earlier this week. I managed to make a complete fool out of myself when the buzz-in door decided to malfunction and the staff watched from behind the glass as they kept buzzing and I still could not get in. He finally opened the door manually (here I curse technology) and we all had a good laugh. I learned I will be working with everyone on various projects, mostly projects dealing with improving health and education for children. The people in the office speak Creole, Spanish or a combination of both. This means for the first month I’m guaranteed to make myself even more foolish by following up conversations with “What? Can you say that again?” But, everyone is encouraging, and they probably find entertainment in my confusion.
As I ride past men on the road, some greet me with a common snakelike hiss. This hiss replaces what is most likely a vulgar comment or whistle and is something best ignored. On these roads attention is necessary anyway, as cars can come breathtakingly close. My bike riding skills seem inferior to those I pass. Belizeans can juggle bags, pull other bikes beside them, weave through the smallest places, and have multiple friends and children attached to the handlebars. Dual bike-riding is one skill I hope to master.
I speed past the Princess Hotel, which contains a movie theater and dance club. The club, Club Next, is where my Aunt Karen works on weekends. She works 12-5 a.m. three days a week managing promotional duties. When she isn’t busy, she dances. I danced at her side one night till 4 a.m. and was amazed at her nonchalant energy. Her short dreads swing and her body bumps to the rhythm she knows so well. She doesn’t think too hard about her second job, which switches her schedule from 5 a.m. bedtime to 5 a.m. wake up.
I ride through the streets, which are always bustling with people going about their days. Just a few days before these streets were rumbling with music and swelling with food and drink. It was Belize’s 26th year of independence, and celebration was mandatory. Speaker boxes were stacked 10 feet tall and the music was so loud it vibrated deep in my chest. I saw young and old move the beats; feet flying, hips swaying, and heads nodding everywhere I looked. It amazed me to see a child bounced to sleep on his dancing mother’s breast, steps away from the blaring reggae.
After practically slamming into a parked car avoiding a screaming group of kids, I regain balance and continue onto the main road. I pass the road which is the street where my grandparents, Larry and Crystal, live. I will always have an open opportunity to lunch there. Crystal, who is small, strong and sharp, always seems to have an endless amount of food. It is common for people to pop by and sit down for a quick lunch – which Belizeans go home to eat mid day. Sandwich and microwave are not in the vocabulary. These lunches always have rice and beans, sometimes have eggplant, occasionally have pig’s feet.
Crys has a way of bringing everything into perspective. I sat with her on the couch of her alley-entrance house and listen to her speak of the children’s Independence parade. As she watched the endless lines of jumping, squealing children, she said, “where… where are these kids going to get jobs when they grow?”
I continue to ride and find myself on a road stretching the length of the glassy sea. Now things become wonderfully unfamiliar. Sweat is now dripping as the hot sun bores into my skin. I pass coconut stands, darkened shops, bustling schools and people walking by in business suits making their way back to work. I realize I now have no clue where I am, and decide to pull into a seaside park. I rest on the edge of the sea watching a slow funeral procession pass in the street, a hundred people dressed in white solemnly following a Hurst.
Laying out my map I gaze at the place which will be my home for the next 6 months. If this first week speaks for what’s to come, I am satisfied. Though so unfamiliar, this place holds warmth in people and places. It holds answers to my questions and information I never dreamed of learning. I’m sure I will find my niche. I let the cool water lap at my feet and begin to find my location on the map spread out before me.
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