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.