The National Syllabus booklet dropped on the desk in front of me, sending up puffs of dust from my desk into the air. I thumb through the photocopied paper bound with a plastic spiral. Inside those pages are the building blocks to my future success as an English Teacher in Mauritania. I stretch my neck around and take in the classroom. Basic. There is a chalkboard, broken and chipped on the wall with lesson plans of the past scrawled in French and Arabic. There are rows of desks in bench style crammed against each other, time and weather worn. The walls, ceiling and floor are all cement, the windows are sparse and the paint is thin. In these schools the learning environment must come directly from the person standing in front of the room. Most things, actually, must come from directly from the teacher. In the majority of the schools there are no books, rather, you create the book as you teach. Each word written on that blackboard will be published on the spot, written as law inside the notebooks of students. The education system in Mauritania is anything but desirable. A rough history of reforms and disagreements split minds on what and how things should be taught. These discussions push classroom supplies, management and upkeep into the background. Surprising? Not at all. Frustrating? Infinitely.
To start, it’s important to note is that Mauritania is divided in many ways, like so many of its African sisters. Colonized by France, Mauritania became independent in 1961. This was long enough for traditions of French school systems, government and politics to saturate the culture. Before the 1999 reform schools were taught patchwork quilt style. Each region and school adapted to a different style of education and language depended on geographical location. After 1999 schools developed a language-specific education style. Science type classes (math, biology and chemistry) are taught in French while Humanities type (theology, history, religion) classes are taught in Arabic. English education is a requirement and begins halfway through College (equivalent to American middle school) and continues through Lycee (equivalent to American high-school). I spent a good amount of time and wasted a good amount of paper figuring out and internalizing the system.
In comparison to the American school system there is one thing that stands out in my mind. Teaching to tests is very prevalent. And it’s getting worse. The requirements to graduate Lycee (taking the Brevet) are getting more rigorous and graduating College (taking the Bach) is next to impossible. There are many brick walls for Mauritanian youth as they make their way through an already perplexing system. A student is extremely lucky to make it to University (American College) and if they do get there, they better have the resources to travel out of country to get to a good facility. One can only begin to imagine the mental damage such a frustrating system can cause on the psyche.
On top of all this, the shinning façade of the Millennium Development Goals comes into play. MDGs, in short, are 8 sector specific guidelines to achieve preconceived goals determined by the United Nations meant to directly improve a developing country’s status and economy by 2015. Though, something along the way of achieving these goals is beginning to sour – a case of good intentions gone wrong. Take Mauritania’s approach to the education MDG into consideration. The goal is to achieve universal primary education – an objective that is great, solid and measurable. The Ministry of Education in Mauritania is starting to achieved this goal but at a grave cost. The push to get more kids in school has worked, but now, there aren’t enough crumbly schools for all those kids and many are being taught by poorly educated/trained teachers. Too many kids and not enough teachers is the name of the game. This is why when I finally land my spot in the classroom, 90+ sets of eyes will be staring back at me. I’ll have the usual mix of jaded burnt out pre-teens, over-achievers and some that just don’t care. Yet these students will be jammed into a hot classroom, fighting for desk space and wondering why the hell I’m teaching in their village. Sounds fun right? But alas, I’m up for the challenge.
For many students, the burning question bubbles from the sulfurous surface “what can an education do for me anyway”. I respond – if nothing else, an education gives you self worth. No matter what you’re learning or who you are, when you learn you discover; you discover more about yourself and others. When it comes down to it, I’m teaching English to these kids so they can pass the test and head toward higher learning, not so they can have conversations with other people in the street. Most will not continue, many will fail and the few lucky ones will struggle. I’m going to try my hardest to teach them to my greatest ability, and try to develop side projects to get the creative juices flowing. I’m going to run into walls with my kids, and I’m going to get lost in the maze – but it’s good to know education is a universal struggle, that I have solidarity over seas. Plus, as a bonus, I just picked up a box of colored chalk at the market and it comes with the color green.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Saturday, July 12, 2008
boom snap clap
As the daylight faded and the heat began to sizzle out of the Mauritanian air, I sat on the ground with my new friend Abdughai. He tends to come around our courtyard at dinner time to eat with us – and to make us laugh. At 13-years-old he has an explosive personality. He always has something to say, and though our conversations are stunted by our broken French, we have no problem finding something to giggle about. This particular night I was showing Abdughai a hand clap called “Boom, Snap, Clap” (shout out to OTR summer day-camp pre-teen girls for instilling those skillz). I would show him a section and have him repeat it; smack the chest, snap the fingers, clap the hands in a rhythmic beat. He sat facing me with determination in his eyes, stretching out a dirty yellow polo three sizes to big over his knees. “Un, deux, trois…” Again and again we beat out the rhythm, laughing at his mistakes and cheering at success. My host mom was stretched out beside us, lazily lying on her side observing my crazy antics once again. She laughed at our game and would occasionally call my name, trying to imitate the hand clap, but failing miserably. Eventually Abdughai succeeded and we celebrated with a victory dance (above all Abdughai loves to dance) and washed our hands to eat.
I still can’t figure out the complex structures of support here, but I have discovered a whole village does indeed raise a child. There always seem to be children here and there, brothers and sisters in and out, and visitors that end up staying for days. My host mom Hadij takes it all in stride, accepting visitors with ease – Bismillah means welcome, and in Mauritania it is the unquestionable way of life. This type of acceptance and sharing splits off into a rather odd direction, a behavior which I encounter every day. That is, the complexities surrounding “donne-moi”. Give me. Give me this and that and – oh – that too. It is something I know I will have to get used to here, as it slightly grinds my pride and extends just beyond my realm of cultural normalcy. It happens as I walk down the street and a woman shouts “give me your skirt!”, or in my home when Hadij sees my crazy American things “I loooooooove this! Give it to me!”. It’s everywhere. Even my language facilitator Jiddou, who teaches me French 6 hours a day isn’t withheld from asking me and my classmates for medicine for his awful toothache. The persistent “donne-moi” makes one feel slightly objectified. Yet – this begging doesn’t come without reason. My mirror, shoes and Peace Corps issued medical kit are mesmerizing to someone who lives in a society where everyone has the same things. Variety isn’t really a common word around here. The local market sells one laundry soap, one bucket (for bathing, laundry and kitchen use), one type of tea class… etc. The colors may vary, but the items are lackluster. This combined with a lifestyle that seems to draw from socialism creates a pardon when it comes to asking for others property. Looking closely, I see that this doesn’t solely apply to me, but to everyone in their culture. I heard Hadij ask a visitor of ours once for money. She later debriefed me that he had “beaucoup de l’argent” and could probably spare some.
This asking doesn’t go without giving. I sat with my host mom one afternoon as we ate her delicious fried fish, rice and veggie plate called Chebugen and talked about families. After a long, slightly hilarious conversation where I explained where Missouri was and why I had family in Belize, she told me about her family that live in the capital, Nouakchott. She explained to me that she had an older sister and brother and a mother. Her dad passed away in 2005 and because she has no children as her siblings do, her income goes straight to her mother, who is unemployed. Her Peace Corps issued money falls into many hands. This combined with the many visitors and children that make their way into our courtyard doesn’t make living easy. After many conversations about money and the complexities of the American dream, Hadij still believes she can become an exquisite chef in the USA, but has slightly eased up on asking me for my things. She shook her stirring spoon at Abdughai the other night when he asked me for 200 UM (equivalent to 90 cents) telling him to stop because I have no money. Hearing her yell at Abdughai was a great moment, not only because it sent Abdughai into a ‘you-can’t-catch-me-with-that-spoon’ dance, but also because I think we are beginning to understand eachother.
Last night I lay underneath the stars as Saalem made his rounds of tea and the whirring background of Hassaniya filled my head. I wrote in my journal and shooed the family goat away from my paper. Hadij asked what I was doing and I explained to her the best I could that it was for writing stories and letters. She took my journal from my and gazed at my scribbled English. With a click of her tongue she disapproved of my language preference and asked to write in my journal the “right way”. I laughed and passed over my book, opening to a fresh page. Hadij proceeded to write me a letter in Arabic showing me each word and explaining what it meant. Basically, it was a blessing on my name. The journal page then turned into an Arabic lesson as she drew different animals found in Mauritania and had me write the French name next to the Hassaniya name. We laughed, our heads crowded over the journal, when she tried to sketch a lizard, which turned into more of a snake.
My host mom and I are coming to a balance. Like every situation we have our good and bad days, but most bad days indicate a lack of cultural understanding between us. Each day, a small step, I begin to delve into the complexities – and when things do get rough, you should know that Mauritania has some really delicious mangos.
I still can’t figure out the complex structures of support here, but I have discovered a whole village does indeed raise a child. There always seem to be children here and there, brothers and sisters in and out, and visitors that end up staying for days. My host mom Hadij takes it all in stride, accepting visitors with ease – Bismillah means welcome, and in Mauritania it is the unquestionable way of life. This type of acceptance and sharing splits off into a rather odd direction, a behavior which I encounter every day. That is, the complexities surrounding “donne-moi”. Give me. Give me this and that and – oh – that too. It is something I know I will have to get used to here, as it slightly grinds my pride and extends just beyond my realm of cultural normalcy. It happens as I walk down the street and a woman shouts “give me your skirt!”, or in my home when Hadij sees my crazy American things “I loooooooove this! Give it to me!”. It’s everywhere. Even my language facilitator Jiddou, who teaches me French 6 hours a day isn’t withheld from asking me and my classmates for medicine for his awful toothache. The persistent “donne-moi” makes one feel slightly objectified. Yet – this begging doesn’t come without reason. My mirror, shoes and Peace Corps issued medical kit are mesmerizing to someone who lives in a society where everyone has the same things. Variety isn’t really a common word around here. The local market sells one laundry soap, one bucket (for bathing, laundry and kitchen use), one type of tea class… etc. The colors may vary, but the items are lackluster. This combined with a lifestyle that seems to draw from socialism creates a pardon when it comes to asking for others property. Looking closely, I see that this doesn’t solely apply to me, but to everyone in their culture. I heard Hadij ask a visitor of ours once for money. She later debriefed me that he had “beaucoup de l’argent” and could probably spare some.
This asking doesn’t go without giving. I sat with my host mom one afternoon as we ate her delicious fried fish, rice and veggie plate called Chebugen and talked about families. After a long, slightly hilarious conversation where I explained where Missouri was and why I had family in Belize, she told me about her family that live in the capital, Nouakchott. She explained to me that she had an older sister and brother and a mother. Her dad passed away in 2005 and because she has no children as her siblings do, her income goes straight to her mother, who is unemployed. Her Peace Corps issued money falls into many hands. This combined with the many visitors and children that make their way into our courtyard doesn’t make living easy. After many conversations about money and the complexities of the American dream, Hadij still believes she can become an exquisite chef in the USA, but has slightly eased up on asking me for my things. She shook her stirring spoon at Abdughai the other night when he asked me for 200 UM (equivalent to 90 cents) telling him to stop because I have no money. Hearing her yell at Abdughai was a great moment, not only because it sent Abdughai into a ‘you-can’t-catch-me-with-that-spoon’ dance, but also because I think we are beginning to understand eachother.
Last night I lay underneath the stars as Saalem made his rounds of tea and the whirring background of Hassaniya filled my head. I wrote in my journal and shooed the family goat away from my paper. Hadij asked what I was doing and I explained to her the best I could that it was for writing stories and letters. She took my journal from my and gazed at my scribbled English. With a click of her tongue she disapproved of my language preference and asked to write in my journal the “right way”. I laughed and passed over my book, opening to a fresh page. Hadij proceeded to write me a letter in Arabic showing me each word and explaining what it meant. Basically, it was a blessing on my name. The journal page then turned into an Arabic lesson as she drew different animals found in Mauritania and had me write the French name next to the Hassaniya name. We laughed, our heads crowded over the journal, when she tried to sketch a lizard, which turned into more of a snake.
My host mom and I are coming to a balance. Like every situation we have our good and bad days, but most bad days indicate a lack of cultural understanding between us. Each day, a small step, I begin to delve into the complexities – and when things do get rough, you should know that Mauritania has some really delicious mangos.
Friday, July 4, 2008
The more things seem to change, the more they stay the same
In Africa, people still laugh when you trip over yourself. I found this to be true during a Mauritanian dust/rainstorm the other night as my host family frantically ran around the rooms of my house. They quickly put buckets under the leaks, closed up the broken, splinter-wooden windows and pulled the blankets off the laundry line in the courtyard. While my host mom – Hadij – and her friend folded up the dirty carpet in one of the rooms I tried to jump over some buckets into the wet room and slid across the muddy floor, lanky arms flailing, and caught my balance before I tumbled onto the ground. I looked over at Hadij with wide eyes fixing my long skirt and adjusting my head wrap. The thunder of the storm couldn’t compete with the thunderous laughter that came from those two ladies. For a while the rain that clanged and poured through the tin roof onto the muddy concrete floor was forgotten as repeated impressions of my stumble ensued. I came to the conclusion long ago that when I trip in a new country, it’s a good sign. And good sign indeed. Mauritania is growing on me.
Mauritania isn’t a place that awes and amazes an onlooker – rather it’s a place that can very easily shock and disgust. But you have to look past the dusty, garbage covered ground and beyond the dilapidated concrete houses. You must understand that burping and spitting are expected and eating with your hands is necessary. You have to expect that the kid in the torn t-shirt dragging the goat by the leg across the street is probably on a dinner mission. (probably). When glanced at, it’s hard at first to see that tires and cassette tape guts are great toys, and difficult to tell the difference from a designated garbage dump site and someone’s courtyard. I’m slowly figuring things out.
My name in Mauritania is Noura. Noura Fall. My host mom Hadij promptly assigned it to me within the first two minutes of meeting me. When I first arrived the moment was almost overwhelming. I pulled up in a car to what seemed to be a house on a dusty road and my car was immediately surrounded by a large group of children. “Bonjour Madame! Ca va, ca va ca va?” The screamed as they fought to shake my hand. After a sternly barked order from a woman who was obviously the authority, the children scattered like ants and I was escorted out of the car. I was then pushed into a room where I encountered smiling faces of some plump looking women wearing thin cloths that covered their hair and extended to wrap around their body like a dress (called a Mulaffa). They chattered to each other and laughed at the sight of the new Toubabs (American’s or foreigners). I was handed over to my mother who, short, stout and smiling with melted chocolate skin and mischievous eyes, named me Noura.
Hadij grabbed my bag and we walked along the dirt-sand road through a maze of a neighborhood, stopping periodically to chat with neighbors; when I say ‘chat with neighbors’ I mostly mean to show me off - her Toubab and the latest fashion accessory. We arrived at my new house and stepped over a large pile of sand and pushed open a rusty door – held closed by a stretched string of rubber attached to the ground. I was greeted by my new friends – a fat goat, a scruffy dog and a mangy cat. I soon met my nephew Jacob, who is 15 and a soccer playing feign, and my cousin Salem, a tea-making expert. They showed me to my room, which is a extreme sun-faded yellow, has four walls, two windows, lots of ants and a foam mat on the floor. I stood in my room and smiled as the afternoon sun shone a dusty strip in the air. Having my own place in this large foreign place was comforting.
I’ve been stripped off most of my American ‘comforts’ and I have already gone through extreme change. The lack of: toilet paper, English language, showers and air conditioning are just the beginning. I live among stark poverty. I see people stricken with Malaria and children with tomato cans beg for money and food. I see goats lay down to sleep with people and small girls with babies tied to their backs. There are so many things different from what I was used to. But, there are also card games and tea, family meals and morning coffee (instant Nescafe still counts!). There are jokes and laughter, there’s complaining and praising and dancing to music and drums. There are friendships and family ties. I look forward to figuring out more as I become a part of my community and share culture with culture. So many things different, and so many things the same. I think I tripped into the right place.
Mauritania isn’t a place that awes and amazes an onlooker – rather it’s a place that can very easily shock and disgust. But you have to look past the dusty, garbage covered ground and beyond the dilapidated concrete houses. You must understand that burping and spitting are expected and eating with your hands is necessary. You have to expect that the kid in the torn t-shirt dragging the goat by the leg across the street is probably on a dinner mission. (probably). When glanced at, it’s hard at first to see that tires and cassette tape guts are great toys, and difficult to tell the difference from a designated garbage dump site and someone’s courtyard. I’m slowly figuring things out.
My name in Mauritania is Noura. Noura Fall. My host mom Hadij promptly assigned it to me within the first two minutes of meeting me. When I first arrived the moment was almost overwhelming. I pulled up in a car to what seemed to be a house on a dusty road and my car was immediately surrounded by a large group of children. “Bonjour Madame! Ca va, ca va ca va?” The screamed as they fought to shake my hand. After a sternly barked order from a woman who was obviously the authority, the children scattered like ants and I was escorted out of the car. I was then pushed into a room where I encountered smiling faces of some plump looking women wearing thin cloths that covered their hair and extended to wrap around their body like a dress (called a Mulaffa). They chattered to each other and laughed at the sight of the new Toubabs (American’s or foreigners). I was handed over to my mother who, short, stout and smiling with melted chocolate skin and mischievous eyes, named me Noura.
Hadij grabbed my bag and we walked along the dirt-sand road through a maze of a neighborhood, stopping periodically to chat with neighbors; when I say ‘chat with neighbors’ I mostly mean to show me off - her Toubab and the latest fashion accessory. We arrived at my new house and stepped over a large pile of sand and pushed open a rusty door – held closed by a stretched string of rubber attached to the ground. I was greeted by my new friends – a fat goat, a scruffy dog and a mangy cat. I soon met my nephew Jacob, who is 15 and a soccer playing feign, and my cousin Salem, a tea-making expert. They showed me to my room, which is a extreme sun-faded yellow, has four walls, two windows, lots of ants and a foam mat on the floor. I stood in my room and smiled as the afternoon sun shone a dusty strip in the air. Having my own place in this large foreign place was comforting.
I’ve been stripped off most of my American ‘comforts’ and I have already gone through extreme change. The lack of: toilet paper, English language, showers and air conditioning are just the beginning. I live among stark poverty. I see people stricken with Malaria and children with tomato cans beg for money and food. I see goats lay down to sleep with people and small girls with babies tied to their backs. There are so many things different from what I was used to. But, there are also card games and tea, family meals and morning coffee (instant Nescafe still counts!). There are jokes and laughter, there’s complaining and praising and dancing to music and drums. There are friendships and family ties. I look forward to figuring out more as I become a part of my community and share culture with culture. So many things different, and so many things the same. I think I tripped into the right place.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Monday, January 21, 2008
Preservation of Culture
There is a major question many countries all over the world have tried to answer – that is “How do we preserve our culture?” Our world is continuously changing and we continue to gain closer access to other nations through our ever-improving technology. While modern ideas and developments can improve a country’s wellbeing, at times they can threaten the very things that make that country unique. This destruction of culture has fallen under many labels - one of the more familiar descriptions is McDonaldization. That is a society becoming more uniform, ration and predictable – based on American values of efficiency. The symbolism of yellow arches shine with modernization and promise of a better life, as well as the guarantee of greasy hamburgers and french fries 24 hours a day. Yet, while McDonaldization is based on improvement of society, it disrupts the very things that make a society distinctive. Yet, some people aren’t willing to hand over their cultural identity to Roland McDonald, and protests and demonstrations have surrounded attempts at integrating restaurants and ideas into a society. In Belize KFC suffered at the hands of Belizeans who preferred their chicken fried in coconut oil, and failed to thrive as a business.
Culture is a representative word that covers a great number of areas and subjects. In the book Taking Stock of Belize at 25 Years of Independence Michael Stone, in my opinion, effectively describes culture. Stone said that culture refers to an entire way of life, a people’s shared perception of what is essential to the human condition, a dynamic set of ideas expressing a common sense of place, history, and social belonging, framed in terms of language, values, norms, customs, traditions, spiritual orientation, and the like. Taking this into consideration Belize faces many things that threaten culture. Belize must not only be careful of modern, specifically American, ideas and technology, but also the lack of the means to preserve and promote culture. In a recent documentary about Belize musicians titled Three Kings of Belize, there were undertones of the difficulties of preserving culture. In the documentary producer Katia Paradis filmed the lives of Garifuna guitarist Paul Nabor, Mayan harp player Florencio Mess, and Creole accordionist Wilfred Peters. Though they still continue to express their culture passionately through music, they are not living the lives of national celebrities. This documentary may be the most solid way their lives and careers will be commemorated. You can find Florencio Mess in a dirt floor house, living off the land and carving instruments out of the wood from his backyard. Paul Nabor, who has become re-popular because of his collaborations with Andy Palacio, still makes appearances on stage at 79 – his small fragile frame clad in a sharp suit and hat. But, take a bus to Punta Gorda in Belize and you can easily find him sitting on a bench, smoking and strumming in the sun, his paranda music the background of daily routines. After living here and being immersed in the music, it’s hard to imagine such powerful expression of culture lost – but, because of the lack of documentation, outside of these borders not many know about these three kings.
Andy Palacio was one of the first Belizean musicians to gain international acclaim. He was an advocate for the preservation of Garifuna culture and produced the album Watina, which immediately became a hit in the Caribbean and is still spreading to the rest of the world. But Palacio, such a great expression of culture for Belize, recently died after suffering a massive stroke and heart attack. His death is a tragedy – passing at such a breakthrough in his career. I realized what Palacio truly meant to Belizeans one night when standing in line at a grocery store. The T.V. at the front of the store was showing local news on mute and the store bustled with people gathering things for the night’s dinner. When a story about Palacio’s condition came on the whole store stopped what they were doing and looked at the T.V. - everyone became quiet as the volume was turned up. As I glanced around at the people standing still in the store, absorbing every word of the report I could feel the collective holding of breath. Time was stopped for a second. The report, at that time, said Palacio’s condition was still critical, and when it was over the T.V. was muted and the bustle continued in slow motion as people processed the news.
The sad news of Palacio’s death brought thoughts about culture into the front of Belizean minds. I recently attended a discussion about culture held at the Image Factory, a business that produces and sells art. The focus was how to promote cultural awareness and preservation in the next 5 years. Many ideas and proposals were put forward, including an Art Fund to support new artistic talent by supplying loans and grants, as well as a project called “One child, One laptop” which will provide computers to children. The event was held next to the sea and attended by some of the most popular Belizean artists. In such a sad time, there was audible and tangible hope and perhaps a new passion to enhance and document culture.
It is promising that Belizeans realize the importance culture plays in a country. Artistic expression has historical implications and at times, reflects the true feelings and interpretation of events. For example, in Mexico, the art surrounding the Revolution played a major role in not only remembering the Revolution, but in forming ideas and opinions during the Revolution. So cultural expression not only acts as a history book, but can even be used as a tool for social mobilization.
So whether sung by Paul Nabor, written in poetry by Kalilah Enriquez, illustrated in cartoons by Charles Chavannes, painted by Michael Gordon, photographed by Noris Hall, or sculpted by Luke Palacio – Belizean culture will thrive. It stays alive through Carnival, through kite season, through bramming, through rice n’ beans and Maria Sharps hot sauce. Culture lives in the brightly colored homes, in the mahogany wood cut games, in the meat shops and in steel drums. Culture is preserved by Creole Project, which puts the Creole language in print, documenting a language that is prominently oral and given a promising future through the support of Yassar Musa and the Image Factory’s “Culture is Cool” program.
I’ve met Belize’s culture face-to-face and proud to claim roots in this small Central American country. Though there are things that threaten Belizean traditions, the pulse is strong and the vein runs deep from Belize City and through San Ignacio, Corozal, Dangriga, Orange Walk, and Punta Gorda. I look forward to keeping an eye and an ear on the developments. Watina will remain a powerful song to me – meaning “I called out”. Palacio’s passionate singing has found a place in the hearts of all Belizeans, and won’t be forgotten; therefore, because of him, the Garifuna culture has a found place in history.
Culture is a representative word that covers a great number of areas and subjects. In the book Taking Stock of Belize at 25 Years of Independence Michael Stone, in my opinion, effectively describes culture. Stone said that culture refers to an entire way of life, a people’s shared perception of what is essential to the human condition, a dynamic set of ideas expressing a common sense of place, history, and social belonging, framed in terms of language, values, norms, customs, traditions, spiritual orientation, and the like. Taking this into consideration Belize faces many things that threaten culture. Belize must not only be careful of modern, specifically American, ideas and technology, but also the lack of the means to preserve and promote culture. In a recent documentary about Belize musicians titled Three Kings of Belize, there were undertones of the difficulties of preserving culture. In the documentary producer Katia Paradis filmed the lives of Garifuna guitarist Paul Nabor, Mayan harp player Florencio Mess, and Creole accordionist Wilfred Peters. Though they still continue to express their culture passionately through music, they are not living the lives of national celebrities. This documentary may be the most solid way their lives and careers will be commemorated. You can find Florencio Mess in a dirt floor house, living off the land and carving instruments out of the wood from his backyard. Paul Nabor, who has become re-popular because of his collaborations with Andy Palacio, still makes appearances on stage at 79 – his small fragile frame clad in a sharp suit and hat. But, take a bus to Punta Gorda in Belize and you can easily find him sitting on a bench, smoking and strumming in the sun, his paranda music the background of daily routines. After living here and being immersed in the music, it’s hard to imagine such powerful expression of culture lost – but, because of the lack of documentation, outside of these borders not many know about these three kings.
Andy Palacio was one of the first Belizean musicians to gain international acclaim. He was an advocate for the preservation of Garifuna culture and produced the album Watina, which immediately became a hit in the Caribbean and is still spreading to the rest of the world. But Palacio, such a great expression of culture for Belize, recently died after suffering a massive stroke and heart attack. His death is a tragedy – passing at such a breakthrough in his career. I realized what Palacio truly meant to Belizeans one night when standing in line at a grocery store. The T.V. at the front of the store was showing local news on mute and the store bustled with people gathering things for the night’s dinner. When a story about Palacio’s condition came on the whole store stopped what they were doing and looked at the T.V. - everyone became quiet as the volume was turned up. As I glanced around at the people standing still in the store, absorbing every word of the report I could feel the collective holding of breath. Time was stopped for a second. The report, at that time, said Palacio’s condition was still critical, and when it was over the T.V. was muted and the bustle continued in slow motion as people processed the news.
The sad news of Palacio’s death brought thoughts about culture into the front of Belizean minds. I recently attended a discussion about culture held at the Image Factory, a business that produces and sells art. The focus was how to promote cultural awareness and preservation in the next 5 years. Many ideas and proposals were put forward, including an Art Fund to support new artistic talent by supplying loans and grants, as well as a project called “One child, One laptop” which will provide computers to children. The event was held next to the sea and attended by some of the most popular Belizean artists. In such a sad time, there was audible and tangible hope and perhaps a new passion to enhance and document culture.
It is promising that Belizeans realize the importance culture plays in a country. Artistic expression has historical implications and at times, reflects the true feelings and interpretation of events. For example, in Mexico, the art surrounding the Revolution played a major role in not only remembering the Revolution, but in forming ideas and opinions during the Revolution. So cultural expression not only acts as a history book, but can even be used as a tool for social mobilization.
So whether sung by Paul Nabor, written in poetry by Kalilah Enriquez, illustrated in cartoons by Charles Chavannes, painted by Michael Gordon, photographed by Noris Hall, or sculpted by Luke Palacio – Belizean culture will thrive. It stays alive through Carnival, through kite season, through bramming, through rice n’ beans and Maria Sharps hot sauce. Culture lives in the brightly colored homes, in the mahogany wood cut games, in the meat shops and in steel drums. Culture is preserved by Creole Project, which puts the Creole language in print, documenting a language that is prominently oral and given a promising future through the support of Yassar Musa and the Image Factory’s “Culture is Cool” program.
I’ve met Belize’s culture face-to-face and proud to claim roots in this small Central American country. Though there are things that threaten Belizean traditions, the pulse is strong and the vein runs deep from Belize City and through San Ignacio, Corozal, Dangriga, Orange Walk, and Punta Gorda. I look forward to keeping an eye and an ear on the developments. Watina will remain a powerful song to me – meaning “I called out”. Palacio’s passionate singing has found a place in the hearts of all Belizeans, and won’t be forgotten; therefore, because of him, the Garifuna culture has a found place in history.
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