Pology Magazine  -  Adventures in Travel and World Culture.
Travel and World Culture   
Image: Belize
  Photo: Steve Geer
Image: Belize
  Photo: Shawn O'Brien

Belize: Everything Is Fine Anyway
By Marysia Szymkowiak

“Come and take a look. Beautiful things here, sold to you by the artist.”

I turned to see a young handsome face beneath long thick dreadlocks emancipating themselves from a knitted cap. His wares gleamed underneath one of the few lights that shone on the busiest street of San Pedro (the only town given a name on Ambergris Caye, one of the many cayes that run along the coast of Belize). Intrigued by their shine, I stepped closer to see a variety of handcrafted jewelry, mother of pearl shells and coconuts delicately crafted into necklaces, bracelets, and earrings. Awed by their delicate beauty, I began to pick up individual pieces running their smooth shells underneath my fingers.

“You have some beautiful things here,” my companion said to the artist.

“All made by me, man,” he answered. “Can’t get these things back home. Where are you and your lady from?”

The conversation flowed in the usual mode of introductions and biographies. Born in Belize City, the young man, Damon, had moved to the island a few years ago. He had run the gamut of employments from serving tables to installing electrical polls along the twenty-six mile stretch that comprises the whole of Ambergris Caye.

“Now I work for myself, you know. I woke up one day a year back, and I said, ‘God, show me what to do,’” he recounted. “I began to make pieces that day. I make pieces, and then you take them home, or wherever you go and you have something special. I can’t make pieces exactly the same again. So you have something unique. And now I’ll give you a special price because its slow season, and I need to eat,” he laughed, knowing well enough that he would likely fish his dinner from the ocean as most of the locals did.

In the intermittent phases between bartering Damon revealed that his pull for making jewelry resulted from a desire to free himself of an employer, a seemingly universal plight. He had been taught since childhood to create crafts, which, as he remarked, was common for local children. And in the plea to God for self-employment, he had been reminded of these skills.

“Now I got no worries, man. I work all day making these things. Then I come out here at night and sell nice folks like you a piece of myself. But I’ve got no stress—that’s what you call it right?”

“Yeah, stress, we know a lot about that,” I thought of the whirlwind of responsibilities that managed to creep their way into my thoughts even on vacation.

“That’s no good. You’ve got to take care of your brain too—not just your body. Your brain is king,” Damon smiled. “When someone does something I don’t like, I just say ‘that’s fine, man’. Bad things will happen, but that’s fine. I get sad sometimes too, but that’s fine.”

Damon began to sing. He sang of waking up each day and greeting the day, being thankful.

“'Cause you never know about tomorrow,” the song concluded. “It’s a song we sing here in Belize, ‘cause even we sometimes forget.” He continued to hum quietly and only interrupted himself to exchange a few words in Creole English with a local ‘sista’. Belizians use an English-based as opposed to the more common French-based Creole because the country had been colonized by Britain until it formally declared its independence in 1981.

In the half-hour that we had stood talking and bartering with Damon the street had become increasingly busy with a mix of locals and tourists, despite it being closed to local bike, car, and golf cart traffic on the weekends. (The latter being the mode of choice for the more established citizens, because of its practicality on the sand-paved streets.) Tourists flocked to souvenir and craft shops while the locals ordered rice and beans or tamales from one of the shacks along the side streets.

Damon continued to beckon tourists towards his wares as we finalized our purchases. He was keenly aware that his pieces could be sold for a three hundred percent mark-up in the U.S., so despite our low budget my companion and I splurged on Damon’s artistry.

“We love having you guys here, you know. This is how we live. I hope you guys come back,” Damon smiled as he bagged our purchases. “When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow,” I responded sadly remembering the end of my week of vacation. A light wind picked up my hair swooping it up as I breathed in the salty air. Rejoicing in the light pleasure of the ocean breeze, I recounted how the winds of home would soon chill my face bitterly, how I would spend the next few months running from the car to the house in an effort to retain any of the heat that my body had managed to acquire, how I would only brave the elements when the beauty of a snowstorm inspired me to venture outside. Belize was currently experiencing its cold front: eighties during the day and low seventies at night.

“But you’ll be back,” Damon tried to cheer.

If not here then somewhere else where I’ll find reprieve in the ideas of another young mind or another community, I thought. For now I’ll enjoy the mile and a half walk along the beach back to the hotel, knowing that even the women whose multi-colored blankets I’ll refuse to purchase will smile as we pass them by.

“I’ll be back. And everything is fine anyway, right?” we exchanged laughs as I walked away.

 

Page 1 of 1

 

All contents copyright ©2005 Pology Magazine. Unauthorized use of any content is strictly prohibited.