On the Home Front

February

I came home from work one noon to find two large cartons overflowing with fruits and vegetables on the counter. I started to tell my housekeeper, Jean, that they had been misdelivered when she handed me a note. She said she told the man that I would say that and made him put it in writing.

One of the major market vendors has a business called “Farm-to-You.” They have been supplying the Caribbean Prince for two or three seasons. This was their thank you for the business.

It was an incredible array: four kinds of lettuce, escarole, pineapple, two little containers of gorgeous blueberries from Chile, strawberries, tiny carrots, snow peas, spinach, two beautiful heads of cauliflower and some magnificent broccoli, green beans, zucchini, cucumber, eggplant, sweet corn, tiny new potatoes and beautiful regular-size ones, red cabbage, green peppers, and huge red sweet peppers. I may have forgotten something. My refrigerator is overflowing. I even had a Southern-style vegetable dinner with cornbread and no meat. Bucher would have adored it.

 

The Sholer house across the street from us on Hutson was sold. The new owners have refurbished, enlarged the front veranda, opened a restaurant upstairs and “Little Las Vegas” downstairs. I presume they have a bar and slot machines. Those are the only legal betting aside from lottery and boledo.

We nearly died the night of their opening, when they had karaoke. It was at awful volume, and the singing was excruciating. We all were horrified about future nights However, obviously that was a one-shot deal. The restaurant apparently serves one or two tables nightly.

Friends of my niece Nancy Robinson came for drinks a week ago—a nice young couple, excited about their first foreign trip. I took them across the street for dinner, believing what I had heard about its being a first-class restaurant. We were greeted by the cook’s rushing out of the kitchen and asking in horror, “Do you want to eat?” She announced that all they had was rice-and-beans and chicken. I explained to my guests that, since that was the national dish, they might want to stay and try it. The food, when it came, was excellent. The service was strange, to say the least. I don’t think they will be in business too long.

March

Carli, Tom, and I had a delightful two weeks in Puerto Rico. Before we went, friends asked us what in the world we intended to do all that time there. Certainly not much if we intended to hole up in a big U.S.-chain hotel, as so many people do. As it was, we had a glorious time exploring Old San Juan, then striking out on back roads to see as much of the island as we could in the time we had.

April

Last Sunday, Jimmy Murphy and I drove to San Ignacio to see Callie and Ford Young. They had moved into their new home there in March. It is an attractive house on a large lot on a hill looking out over a valley to far-off hills. It was eerie walking in, because it is so similar in floor plan and identical decoration to their old house in Belize City.

May

Emilie Bowen and Jill Bell asked me to join them in one of our regular lunches last Sunday. Our destination: a new resort, Jaguar Paw, off the Western Highway. We set off together in Emilie’s car because it is a high, four-wheel drive, better for the rough road in to the resort.

Two miles out of town, I began to hear a suspicious noise. By the time the origin registered, a loud familiar one told me that a rear tire had thrown its tread. Shades of my long-ago drive with Becky to Corozal, en route to Mérida. Jill, who was driving, turned the car around and inched her way back to a filling station.

By a miracle, the tire repair man was on duty and, within moments, had the car up on a jack and was removing bolts from the wheel. The last bolt was a different size. Furthermore, it was a size that defied extraction by nineteen different sizes of socket wrench. Emilie was wild. No one but Ford Central Workshop (BEC, owned by her son Barry) touches her car. She considered both the destroyed tire and the off-size bolt as personal insults by Ford Central.

After twenty useless minutes, we had the young man replace the other bolts. Jill eased the car back into traffic and drove slowly back to Emilie’s house. There, one hour after our departure, we piled into Jill’s new Ford Taurus and took off again.

 

Emilie said that the turn-off to Jaguar Paw was at Mile 47. Somewhere en route, that metamorphosed into Mile 37. We all watched for the large green sign with the jaguar on it. Nothing at Mile 37, nothing at Mile 47, nothing in between. Jill pulled up at the turn-off to Belmopan and started back. By this time, we all were in hysterics. Emilie and Jill had tried once before to visit Jaguar Paw, turned off too soon, and ended up far south in Manatee.

At Mile 37, Jill spotted the green sign—flat on the ground in deep grass, well off the roadside. We turned around again and took a long, straight gravel road heading directly toward the karst hills south of the Western Highway.

When I say gravel, I speak of immature gravel, rocks that have not yet been ground fine, fist-sized rocks that make driving a low-slung car a challenge. Emilie said it was supposed to be six miles in to the lodge. It felt like fifty and probably was ten.

On we went, and on and on and on. Finally, we saw a man swinging a machete along the verge. He wore a tee shirt with the resort’s logo. He told us that the lodge was just over the hill ahead. We got to the top, and Jill gasped, “I can’t drive down that,” in her charming mid-London accent. Jaguar Paw was ahead of us at the bottom of a short, almost vertical hill. She took an audible breath and completed our lengthy journey.

 

The lodge itself is a large, vaguely Mayan building with attractive cabanas along the edge of the jungle at one side. It is close to Cave’s Branch. The river varies from a shallow run over low rocks to deep swimming holes. At one end, it disappears into a gaping cave. Bats and stalactites hang from its roof. A wide beach of water-smoothed stones makes an easy walkway into the cave. One of the attractions of the resort is its canoe trips down Cave’s Branch and through a series of caves. Other caves are accessible by foot with a guide.

Two groups of Belizeans, some of whom we knew, had come for the day. A group of Indians was picnicking on the pebbled edge of the Branch, the smell of their cooking, an arresting aroma.

The handsomely-decorated lodge had a pleasant dining room, where we enjoyed excellent lunches. Afterwards, the friendly waitress let us inspect some of the cabanas. Delightful.

Each of the four rooms we saw was decorated differently. All were elaborate with elegant materials, imaginative use of wall hangings, beautiful bric-a-brac. Some of the bathroom walls were finished with pleated fabric. It would take hours to notice each detail in any of the rooms. In the cowboy room, an almost life-size photograph cut-out of Clint Eastwood’s head in cowboy hat with a real red kerchief fastened around his neck decorated the toilet cubicle. I am not sure how restful private moments would be under his steely gaze.

I am going to suggest to Mary and Ellis when they are here later this year that we drive up, enjoy the caves or just the water’s edge if Mary is leery of caves, and spend the night. According to the owner’s wife, a delightful young woman (American), they pride themselves on their dinners. Furthermore, the grounds and even the cave are lighted at night. I think one night would be enough.

July

We all watched Hurricane Cesar closely. Had she turned even slightly northward from her westerly course, she probably would have landed in our laps. Hurricanes strain one’s sense of honor. One hopes fervently that it doesn’t come calling, but feels guilty about the implied hope that it hits someone else.

Alex got reams of information from the internet. It originated at the University of Michigan, labeled “for official government information only.” There was far more detail covering far greater an area than I chose to interpret. Still, it was reassuring to realize that we had far better information than the Belize Meteorological Office. An additional plus was our cable station’s adding The Weather Channel temporarily.

At noon Friday, when the threat increased, Alex, María, and I began making hurricane preparation plans. We will go to the office if/when a hurricane threatens. A&M will move their clothes, computers, etc., out of their apartment and bring them upstairs to my guest room and library. María and I agreed that we would take the dogs with us. Alex left Doña and Feo locked in the house during Greta, while Bucher and I were in Atlanta. He said that the green living room rug apparently looked like grass to them. Having two howling dogs in the house would be some protection against looters, but I couldn’t bear leaving Amber and Missy terrified and alone.

Both Alex and I spent Friday afternoon making lists in our laptops. I listed so many things-to-do that I am tempted to say to hell with the whole effort. As for my food list, it is an invitation to grow two dress sizes overnight. The only actual preparation was Alex’s trip to Hofius to stock up on batteries and nails. He came back to the office in shock at the amount he had spent on copper-tops—$70+, and they didn’t even have the D-size he wanted.

We really didn’t have time for a hurricane. Saturday, Alex and Jimmy Currie were in charge of moving the marine exhibit from Government House to its new home in the remodeled old fire station at the bridge foot. I worried about them through a night of thunderstorms. However, it was reasonably bright and dry for their project. Alex worked in the new museum all day long setting up their exhibits.

 

Belize is kind to its kooks. We have had many of them strolling the streets during our years here. Recently, as I stopped the car to go open the garage doors, I noticed a slim young woman strolling down the street toward me. Her milk-chocolate color briefly disguised the fact that she was stark naked. As she passed me, she smiled brightly, nodded, and turned down alongside the sea.

When I mentioned the incident to friends later, one of them said she had seen the young woman, properly dressed, stop in front of our major store. She quietly removed every garment, draped them neatly over one arm, and walked into the store. No one hassled her, and in her own good time, she wandered back out, and went on her way.

 

One of our bridge friends, a brother of the lawyer Horace Young, died last week after a long illness. I sent a letter of sympathy to his long-time bridge partner, Charlie Hyde (Evan’s father and a good friend of mine through our duplicate games). At bridge on Thursday, Charlie thanked me for the note and commented, with an amusing degree of amazement, on my ability to write. He encouraged me to start a column in Evan’s paper, Amandala. I declined, but thanked him. Charlie himself writes a column for the paper under an assumed name. It usually is very good.

At any age, an offer like this is flattering. At my age, it is a wonderful reminder that not everyone thinks I deserve to be put out to pasture (as some of my dear friends do).

August

Last evening, I attended the opening of the new Belize Marine Museum and Terminal in what used to be the fire station at the foot of the Swing Bridge. You would be astounded at the transformation.

Money for the project came from USAID, the Belize Tourist Board (Government), and the Belize Tourism Industry Association (private). USAID produced an architect of uncommon vision. Despite his initial horror at walking into the derelict building amid trash and unconscious winos and crack addicts, he created an inviting building with paned windows inset above planters filled with large shrubs. Walls are white with trim of varnished mahogany.

Inside, the end of the building nearest the river is a large open area that utilizes the original iron framing of the double-vault roof. This is for people waiting for water taxis to the cayes. A new, wide wharf behind the building allows easy access to boats. Colorful kiosks in the waiting room will house handcraft shops. A small bar will offer beverages and snacks. Clean rest rooms and comfortable benches will make the building a pleasant oasis for tourists exploring the city afoot.

To the left of the main entrance, handsome double glass-and-mahogany doors lead to a museum of marine life. Every facet of sea and shore and their life are shown. The displays are mounted professionally, with excellent descriptions. You would not believe Belize could provide so fine a show.

Upstairs is the boat museum. Alex and Jimmy Currie, members of the Belize Maritime Trust, have worked day and night for months building, acquiring, and mounting the collection. Large models of specific or typical boats of every kind dramatize the country’s water-bound history. Photographs, drawings, and exhibits cover a wide range of Belizean shipwrights, boats, and various building processes. A cramped, life-size room shows a typical fisherman’s hut of the kind erected on the cayes. A handsome old dory with its paddles rests on the floor under a row of pictures of use of the boat. The exhibit is fascinating and will continue to grow.

The opening was the usual sequence of speeches, gratifyingly short. Comments on both museums were unfailingly positive. I think most people were surprised and impressed at what had been done with the building and the displays. The Belize City shipwrights, most of them third or fourth generation, were invited and came. I saw one of them, a tiny, weathered little man, grinning ear-to-ear, surrounded by a crowd of well-wishers.

October

Mary and Ellis’s visit was a delight to all of us. Mary and I have seen each other only sporadically and briefly since I left for New York at age 22. She was 17. For most of those years, I overpowered her (unintentionally) and she irritated me (unknowingly). Thank goodness we both have mellowed with age. All is serene now.

Just before they arrived, I had a momentary panic about how I would entertain them for two weeks. However, it all worked out beautifully. We had special excursions spaced out through their time. Some days they were happy staying at home reading or taking one of the neighborhood walks I had forbidden them (because of street muggings) while I spent a couple of hours in the office. When we where home, they liked to rest in the afternoon, so I had another little time to dash into the office and catch up.

We spent a couple of days at Chan Chich. It is my favorite jungle resort. Becky and I went there on her last visit. I arranged a day-long tour for M&E to the Mayan ruins at Lamanai. It involved a long boat trip plus some jungle. They adored it. I never have gone—too rough on my leg. Other days we visited nearby ruins.

We went to the Baboon Sanctuary and watched families of the animals (actually Black Howler Monkeys) cavorting in the treetops. We went to the Belize Zoo and had a special tour by the zoo director, who is an old friend. We had some shopping expeditions. Mary picked up some Guatemalan table cloths, etc., which pleased her enormously.

We played some bridge, with Emilie Bowen as fourth. I had not realized that Ellis played. They are involved with regular bridge and duplicate in Durango. We all had a good time playing.

November

The former Sholer house across Hutson Street now has a bar and pool hall downstairs. Apparently the new owner ripped out all the guest rooms on the ground floor, planning to have gambling. Very quickly he got the word that it was illegal. The sign in front changed from “Little Las Vegas” to “Caribbean Club.”

They advertised bingo in the big downstairs rooms. I heard the calling and a little noise a couple of times. Then that stopped. Next, the big room became a pool hall and the name changed to “El Paso.” The adjacent bar sometimes plays its juke box too loudly, but most of the time the clinking of the balls is not a problem. A recent Friday night was an exception when a hearty group continued to play—and, obviously, drink—into the wee hours. Their shouts of alternate delight and despair woke me every few minutes for several hours.

The main problem has been the Sunday karaoke sessions up on the veranda from about 3:00 pm to 9:00 pm. The worst was when Mary and Ellis were here in October. We were playing bridge with Emilie Bowen. Every window was tightly shut on that side of the house, but the noise still was so overpowering that we literally could not talk to one another.

After two weeks with volume unseemly but not shattering, the karaoke started up with a blast that almost knocked me out of the chair where I was reading.

Alex has called, I have called. Alex once called the police, I once called the police. Each complaint resulted in a slight and temporary lowering of volume. Alex’s final call a couple weeks ago solicited a growled, “Stop bothering us. We’re trying to run a business here.”

A week ago, Alex borrowed a sound meter. He recorded sound levels eight times over about a two hour period. The most interesting one was taken after dark at the corner of Cork Street in front of the For George. The sound level there, three blocks from the source, was higher than the legal limit for a residential neighborhood at night.

Alex wrote a very nice letter quoting the various readings and attached a copy of the Noise Pollution Ordinance. Neighbors signed the letter along with us. Alex showed that copies were sent to the Ministry of the Environment and the chairman of the Liquor Licensing Board. The law provides for fines and/or short imprisonment for those producing, or permitting to be produced, excess noise. A worse threat would be loss of their liquor license.

 

We received no reply to the letter. However, there was no karaoke for two weeks. Noise from the bar and poolroom keeps me awake most Friday nights, but isn’t as bad as the earlier music.

Suspicion just has proved correct. The main business of the house is prostitution. I was outraged. Alex said, “Don’t knock it, Mom. At least they’re quiet.”

December

I spent Saturday, November 30th, finishing and printing my Christmas letters. By Sunday noon, I was able to get the Christmas tree out and start putting it up. The project nearly did me in; the tree is too large for me to manage easily. I forgot how to put the stand together and fought several variations for almost an hour before settling on the simple, correct one.

Then I got confused about the lights. I thought I remembered using two strings, but found I had five new ones plus enough extra light bulbs to supply the Rockefeller Center tree. That’s what happens when I go shopping without a written list. I buy thing I think I need. Anyway, it was getting dark Sunday night; I was completely baffled by the lights and how to hook them up. I was near tears, and I never cry. I was ready to tell Alex that this was the last year I could manage a tree by myself. Instead, I decided it was time to turn my back on the problem and retire to my iced coffee and Capital Gang on TV.

Next day, María reminded me that, last year, they gave me a lovely little box into which lights are plugged. As thrilled as I was with it, I can’t imagine forgetting. The lights are turned on and off by a button activated my a toe-touch. The box is decorated with a ribbon and bow and looks like a gift left under the tree. Monday I got the little gen down from the shelf where it carefully had been stored and succeeded in arranging my tree lights easily.

Tuesday after work I added ornaments. Wednesday we had a meeting, and Thursday was duplicate bridge. The tinsel went on to finish the tree on the weekend. It was rather restful doing it in stages.

 

Christmas was pleasant but quiet—most of it. Late in the afternoon, Alex telephoned to tell me that the Boom & Chime band from Fender’s had arrived to celebrate his birthday. They were asking for me.

I already had bathed and prepared for a quiet evening alone after a happy day of opening presents then Christmas dinner in María and Alex’s apartment. However, I got up, dressed in my elaborately embroidered red Greek caftan, put on makeup again, and went down to join the group. Seven large men with their instruments, plus the leader’s wife, A&M’s friend Charlie Vernon, and Alex and María themselves were in a tight oval in A&M’s modest living room. I found a place to sit on one of the couches next to the harmonica player.

We had a banjo, guitar, small accordion, harmonica, tall drum with taller drummer, and two small drums bracketed in parallel held between the knees of a highly intoxicated drummer. Later a missing member of the group arrived with his “Fish,” a foot-long length of large bamboo, highly decorated, with two holes and a midriff scored into ridges. He rubbed it in various ways with a tapered stick making a sandpaper-like accompaniment to the music.

The band entertains most Sundays at Fender’s, the pleasant little neighborhood bar not far away. The men all were middle-aged and had been playing together since their early teens. They had been going the rounds with their impromptu playing for many hours, enjoying Christmas cheer everywhere they went.

The group played for an hour and a half, unfamiliar songs or well-known Christmas tunes in calypso rhythm. Naturally, a rousing Happy Birthday To You was prominent among their offerings. The musicians probably went through two cases of Belikin beer and a couple of bottles of Caribbean Rum during the serenade. They all were properly lubricated and slightly tongue-tied between sets. You never saw happier men, but they never missed a note when they played.

The tall drummer with the large drum wore a black T-shirt with a large white block displaying the letters POLICE. I assumed he was one of Our Finest. It was only later that I got a clear look at him and realized that the small print underneath read, Just lie on your back and do everything the nice officer asks you to do.

It was obvious from everyone’s reactions to some of the songs that, on occasion, lyrics were risqué. However, I not only could not understand the Creole words, but the amplifier blurred sound so that I barely could distinguish that they were words. I tried to mirror María and Alex’s reactions so that none of our guests would realize I was utterly adrift.

As they packed up their instruments to leave, several of the men made a point of telling me that Alex was a good friend of every member of the group. Despite their drinking, all were courtly in the charming old-fashioned way so typical of many Belizeans. It was a wonderfully old fashioned ending to Christmas.

 

Did I tell you that I am going to Europe with Muriel and Don Stauffer in February? Some time last year I complained of feeling discriminated against because I was not getting to Paris in 1996. They suggested that I go on their annual business trip with them. It will be a fast schedule in the worst possible weather, but I jumped at it. It may be my only chance to see Germany, Holland, Belgium, and Switzerland, as well as revisit my beloved Paris.