Getting Acquainted

The golden glow of a rising sun glinted off the sparkling sea and awakened us at dawn on our first morning in Belize. The process of returning to consciousness after our exhausting trip was spurred by the exhilaration of our two ecstatic children.

They raced from our bed to the balcony overlooking the Caribbean and back so that Alex could report what they had seen. Carli had walked at seven months, but by age two she had not decided there was anything she needed to say. Her grin and giggles underlined Alex’s excited discourse.

“There are five sailboats.”

“Two boys are throwing a puppy off the seawall. The puppy is swimming back. The boys are pulling him up onto the seawall. Uh-oh, they’re throwing him back in the water.”

“Someone left a big pile of rags on the seawall. Carli, look, it’s moving. Oh, it’s a man. He washed his face in the sea and now he’s walking away.”

“Here comes another sailboat. I waved at the people in it and they waved back to me.”

In the interests of limiting noise in the somnolent hotel, we quickly dressed the children and ourselves and took them out for a walk.

We strolled through the lobby, out the main entrance with its porte cochere that protected arriving and departing guests from sudden tropical squalls, and down the drive to Cork Street. The sea was perhaps a hundred yards away. We turned to the right at the seawall, and strolled past the graceful lighthouse and along the untidy Customs freight wharf where small tugs, barges, and “bumboats” were moored.

Alex pulled his hand out of Bucher’s and left us, sauntering over to speak to a tall British Honduran in a greasy T-shirt who was sitting on the steps to the wheelhouse of one of the tugs. We watched our five-year-old in surprise as the ill-assorted pair carried on what seemed to be a serious conversation.

Alex returned to remark casually, “He’s one of my new friends.”

 

Within twenty-four hours of our arrival we had been welcomed by a variety of people, many of whom became life-long friends.

We met Mike and Gene Maestre almost immediately after our arrival. The brothers owned and operated a cigarette factory, located across from Customs, a block from the hotel. They also had jalousie and woodworking factories, and were agents for Aerovías Sud Americana (ASA), an air cargo line.

Ebullient Gene welcomed our entire family as if he had been waiting for us all his life. He was friend to the world. Mike was the practical one, able to turn his hand to anything. He grew the finest fruits, vegetables, and herbs in the Colony, as if by magic, in small plots of soil too poor for landfill. Bucher soon began dropping by the cigarette factory to visit with Mike and Gene.

Meanwhile, the Maestre wives took me in hand. Liz, Mike’s diminutive wife, who became one of my closest friends, helped me meet people by including me in their daytime activities: Coffee Mornings, Tea Afternoons, and later, under duress, Bridge Afternoons. Liz held a special place in the hearts of all who knew her as someone who gave endlessly of her time and concern, made light of her own problems, and brightened whatever room she entered.

It was Gene’s beautiful wife Celma, however, who invited me to my first afternoon party, a meeting of her sewing group. There was a moderate amount of needlework in evidence, a great deal of friendly conversation, and an incredible display of Celma’s pastry-making prowess.

Smiling maids passed tray after tray with mountains of dainty sandwiches, butterscotch pie in a flaky crust topped with chilled and whipped Nestle’s tinned Thick Cream (the closest British Honduras could offer to whipped cream), feather-light chocolate éclairs and cream puffs. The hours progressed with the parade of delectables, and it was time for me to dash across the street to the Fort George to order dinner for the children. I tracked my hostess down to thank her for a happy afternoon, and found her back in her pantry spooning ice cream into crystal goblets.

 

Bucher and I marveled at the country’s eerily accurate news network via grapevine. In shops, the clerks greeted me by name and seemed to know who we were, where we had come from, and when we had arrived.

One afternoon soon after our arrival in Belize, Bucher was at the cigarette factory near closing time when Liz called to ask Mike to pick her up from a friend’s home where an afternoon of bridge was ending. Our car had just arrived, so Bucher offered to do the chauffeuring.

When Bucher returned with Liz, Mike hurried out to meet them, laughing heartily.

“It took you about six minutes to get here,” Mike said, “but that was long enough for two friends of mine to telephone to say they had seen Liz driving around town with ‘that newcomer Scott’.”

 

Our new friends explained to Bucher and me that it was customary to sign the book at Government House. This was the equivalent of a formal call on His Excellency The Governor, the top official in a British Colony.

Bucher and I duly took ourselves to Government House where the Governor and his family lived and where “H.E.” (His Excellency, in common abbreviation) had his offices. It was on the other side of the river that divides the city.

We walked up the curving, graveled driveway, and stopped at the sentry box to tell the uniformed guard that we were “going to sign the book.” He smiled, and waved us toward the porte cochere that sheltered the front entrance.

Government House was set back on a wide lawn facing the sea. It was a beautifully maintained Colonial-style building surrounded by manicured grounds with lush tropical bushes and shaded by flowering trees.

Disguising our timorousness, we climbed the broad, gray steps and entered the foyer. An oriental rug covered the floor, and just to the left was a table with a large book open on it. We carefully entered our names, home, and the date, and were relieved to escape a formality that was more imagined than real.

The ritual of signing the book at Government House was socially obligatory as soon as possible after the first day of each new year. Again, one signed when one left the Colony and when one returned. This custom dated back to the time when holidays involved months or years. The practice became a little silly in the days of air travel and short trips.