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.
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