by Pauline Fisk
Shops and bars were pressing in on either side now, but Kid told himself this couldn’t possibly be the centre of Belize City – not with broken sidewalks, pot-holed roads, stinking ditches and stray dogs wandering about. The sidewalks were crowded with people, mostly black- or copper-skinned, but Kid saw the occasional white skin too, and even glimpsed some pink as well, denoting tourists in the area.
The taxi made its way over what the driver called the ‘swing-bridge’, but even when they reached the commercial district on the other side, with its hotels, banks and shops, Kid had no idea that this was the city centre. The shops were too shabby, and the sidewalks too cluttered with vendors, their merchandise spread out around them. One stick-thin man stared into space as if he didn’t know where he was. Another had a few wares around him – packets of tea, a plastic doll, a pile of silver tinsel, a sliced white loaf.
The taxi turned a corner, just past this last man, and an empty alley stretched ahead of them. Kid stiffened like a dog sensing danger. Where was the driver taking him? There were no hotels down this alley, nor were there any people. What was wrong with sticking to the main road?
At the end of the alley, the driver turned again, and Kid found himself on the waterfront, caught between a suspiciously brown-looking sea and a run-down clapboard building with wonky-looking wooden steps and iron grilles at all its windows. The road was cracked and full of weeds. This certainly didn’t look like a tourist spot. For a terrible moment, Kid thought he’d been kidnapped.
Only when the driver said, ‘Dis is it – de Oshaan Hotel,’ did it dawn on Kid that he’d reached his destination. He tumbled out of the car, trying to hide the fact that he’d been scared. The driver dragged his rucksack out of the boot. Kid paid the fare, relief washing over him. But only after the driver had gone did he realise he’d paid twice the going rate by using US dollars instead of Belizean ones.
What did money count for though, compared to arriving alive and in one piece? Kid climbed up the hotel steps and opened a creaking wooden door. The Ocean Hotel didn’t look anything like its picture on the internet. Inside, instead of potted palms and colonial charm, he found a dusty reception desk and a sleeping receptionist who only stirred himself for long enough to sign him in, check his passport, and hand him his key, but whose duties didn’t extend to showing him where to go.
Kid found his room eventually, despite the number having dropped off the door. It was on the second floor, set back behind a wide communal balcony and bathed in the sorts of smells only to be expected from an ocean that was brown. The room was basic, but Kid reckoned it had everything he needed – a bed, a chair, a fan, a cupboard and a shower room and toilet. When Kid switched on the shower, though, instead of water a couple of geckos came tumbling out. Then, when he switched on the electric fan, nothing happened and when he lay on the bed, the mattress was so soft that he almost disappeared into it. No wonder the room was cheap, Kid thought. But too tired to care, he rolled over in the bed and fell asleep. It was as if he was a light and he’d been switched off.
A couple of hours later, Kid awoke to a din outside the hotel. It was so loud that he jumped out of bed. What was going on? Hearing whistles, trumpets, drums, shouting voices and even snatches of singing, he went and leant over the balcony. A group of young people dressed in red-and-white shirts were coming along the waterfront bearing banners announcing ‘VOTE UDP’ and ‘IT’S TIME FOR CHANGE’. When they saw Kid watching them, they waved and shouted up to him and he waved back. Change was fine by him, he reckoned. It was what he’d come here for.
The procession carried on past the hotel, only to meet another one coming the other way, this time dressed in blue and white. Each procession carried banners showing different men, but their warnings about what would happen to Belize if their party didn’t get in, were remarkably similar.
Kid left them to it, shouting at each other and waving their banners. He thought about going back to sleep, but hadn’t eaten since last night so decided to look for the hotel dining room instead. This, to his disappointment, had closed down two years ago, but the local supermarket was only two blocks away according to the reception boy and anything he bought could be eaten in his room.
Out in the hot sun, and with what felt like the whole of Belize City watching him, Kid took a while to get his bearings. When he finally found the supermarket, however, he discovered an Aladdin’s cave selling everything from baked beans to massive knives with big handles, called machetes. He could have bought mangoes, guavas or fresh papaya if he’d wanted, but opted for what he knew best and bought a day’s supply of Snickers bars and a couple of Coca-Colas instead.
At the till, fumbling with a wallet full of unfamiliar notes and coins, again Kid felt as if everybody was staring at him.
‘Heah. Give it heah. Ai tek it fi you,’ the till-girl said.
Feeling small, foreign and completely helpless, Kid allowed the girl to raid his wallet, then slunk away, sure he’d been short-changed but too afraid to complain. It was a relief to return to the Ocean Hotel and get away from all those prying eyes.
Kid sat on the balcony, stuffing down Snickers bars one after another. Waves broke over the sea wall and great prehistoric-looking birds made circles in the sky above the hotel. Boys went by on bikes, dodging pot-holes and larking about. Then a group of girls went by as well, dressed in white uniforms with bright red buttons. Where were they going? Was it the end of their school day? Kid knew nothing about Belize City, for all his exploring on the internet. The reality was different to anything he’d read about.
Kid shivered with excitement. By now the Snickers bars had done the trick and he felt ready to face the unknown. Locking his room, he headed off again, passing the supermarket and all the banks, crossing the swing-bridge and making his way along a shopping street which seemed to sell everything from wedding dresses to fresh fish.
When Kid had passed the last shop on this street, he crossed the road and started down a smaller one which appeared to loop back towards the bridge. Before he’d gone very far, however, a man in a red vest approached. ‘Wha fi yu gaan down heah?’ he said. ‘Heah’s a bad street. Bad pipple live heah. Yu wan go dat weh …’
The man pointed with a bony finger, back the way Kid had come, saying that Queen Street was a nice one where he’d find fellow tourists and nice shops. Kid thanked the man and headed back, but the man came after him, his eyes on Kid’s pocket where he plainly kept his wallet, reckoning his advice was worth paying for.
Kid kept his wallet where it was. Not for nothing had he grown up on the streets of south London. When he reached Queen Street again all the shops were closed. Suddenly it was sundown. Night was falling faster than Kid had expected, and street lighting, he discovered, wasn’t one of Belize City’s better features.
As Kid hurried back towards the swing-bridge, a new companion suddenly appeared. Like a shadow, he stuck to Kid’s side – a tall, thin man with dreadlocks and a smile.
‘Ai George de Jamaican. Weh yu from, maan? England? Well, it’s good to meet yu. Let mi shake yu by de hand. Yu English, wi love yu heah. Yu like mi recite yu a poem? Yu like a song?’
Kid didn’t want either, but he got both. All the way back over the swing-bridge to the hotel, George the Jamaican sang to him, complimented him and recited poetry for which he claimed he wanted a dollar. Only a dollar, he said, but Kid refused to give him anything. All George wanted, he knew, was for Kid to get out his wallet.
Finally, as Kid had been dreading, George turned nasty. ‘Wai yu be so mean?’ he snapped. ‘Ai pay yu compliment. Ai recite poem an’ sing yu song. And what yu give me fi return? What’s a dollar to yu fockin’ English pipple? Yu bleedin’ us poor Bileezans dry.’
‘I thought you were Jamaican,’ Kid said.
This was a mistake. George the Jamaican put his hand to his chest as if he had a knife in there somewhere, and repeated his demand. Kid started walking faster, but couldn’t shake him off.
‘I didn’t ask for your co
mpliment,’ he said. ‘That was your choice. I didn’t ask for a song or a poem.’
‘Den yu shoulda tol’ mi to piss off.’
By now Kid could see the Ocean Hotel ahead. He hurried faster, telling himself he’d only got a few more steps. ‘Why should I do that?’ he said as he reached the steps and headed up them. ‘I came all this way to meet Belizean people, not tell them to piss off.’
Kid rushed through the hotel door and felt it slam behind him, praying that George wouldn’t come after him. For a moment his assailant stood outside growling like a bear. But then he turned and walked away, and it was left to the boy behind the reception desk to say – as if Kid didn’t know that now already – ‘Wha fi yu go out after dark? Bileez City isn’ a safe place.’
6
‘DA BOY LOOKIN’ FI HE DADDY’
Back in his room Kid tried to relax with a nice, long shower but there still wasn’t any water so he flung himself on to the bed instead and tried to sleep. What else was there to do? He didn’t have a telly. He didn’t know a soul. He was fresh from England, and had no proper plan. And, besides, his long day had exhausted him.
Unfortunately for Kid, however, an election meeting had just started down the street, and he could hear every word. Apparently the country was in mortal danger if there was no change in government. But was it really necessary to shout about it? And did it take quite so many different people to repeat the same things?
Kid finally fell asleep, but awoke in the early hours of the morning to find that he’d left his mosquito screen open and was covered in bites. But at least the election meeting was over, he told himself, and the worst he had to listen to now was a little breeze blowing in off the sea, and the rustling of palms along the waterfront.
Kid awoke next at dawn to find that the breeze had turned into a heady wind which sent cans rattling down the street. He lay listening to them, wondering what the new day would bring and feeling his first real twinge of serious apprehension. What exactly was he meant to do now that he was here? Kid had imagined himself wandering about Belize, acquainting himself with the country and feeling in his bones that he’d come home. Tracking down his father had always come afterwards.
But listening to Belize City awakening around him, and realising that he didn’t know a soul, suddenly all Kid wanted to do was find his father. Behind everything he’d told himself he’d come here for, this was it. It didn’t matter whether his father was rich or not, or had a family or not. Just knowing another person in this strange, lonely country would be enough.
Kid went down to the reception desk to borrow a phone book. His father could live right here in Belize City, he told himself. He could get up every day within striking distance of this hotel, and pass it every morning on his way to work. By some chance of fate he could be passing it even now.
Back in his bedroom, Kid started going through the book, only to find that it was divided up by districts, which meant it was necessary to know where a person lived before looking for their number. Not only that, but most numbers were businesses and the rest were cell-phone that didn’t come with addresses.
Kid had guessed that finding his father would be a long shot, but he hadn’t expected even the phone book to be against him. He read the whole thing from cover to cover, but found no Catos. Worse still, this wasn’t just the directory for Belize City. It covered the entire country.
Later, when Kid returned the directory to the reception desk, he found a woman in charge, not the boy. Not that she was any friendlier, glaring at the book as if Kid had stolen it. ‘I was looking for a man called Marcus Aurelius Cato,’ Kid said. ‘You don’t know him, do you?’ He guessed it wasn’t likely, but at least it was worth a try.
The woman shook her head. Even when Kid returned to his room and came back with his father’s photograph, she still shook her head. Why didn’t he take it round town? she said. Maybe someone else would recognise it.
Reckoning this was a good idea, Kid set off for the supermarket. Maybe the woman behind the till would know something, or the school kids on their bikes, or some electioneering member of either the UDP or the PUP. Maybe a taxi driver might know, or the teller in one of the banks, or even a policeman on the street.
It was a long shot, Kid knew, but in this country where he didn’t know a soul what other leads had he got?
Kid asked all morning, but with no luck. He didn’t ask some people because they looked too dodgy, but he approached anyone who looked as if they’d give him a straight answer. Not that it got him anywhere. Neither in the supermarket, nor the bank next door, nor the music shop on the corner with massive speakers stacked in the doorway, nor on the street, nor even squatting on the sidewalks with their wares around them, had anyone seen the man in the photograph or heard his name.
Kid asked all over the city centre, but with no more luck. He asked at the water terminal, where boats went in and out to the cayes, taking tourists on diving holidays. He asked at the bus station. Asked in the offices of shipping and logging companies, but always with the same answer.
Finally Kid started fanning out across the city, asking even dodgy people, not caring if they wanted a dollar for their answer. Soon he found himself lost in a network of streets that looked increasingly rundown. He stood at a crossroads, not knowing which road to take. Children circled him on battered-looking bikes, and women looked down at him from balconies as if silently questioning what he, a stranger, was doing in their midst.
Kid decided to turn back. But which way was back? Every street looked alike. Which way was the city centre? Kid was so hot and tired that he couldn’t work it out. In fact he was so hot that he could scarcely think at all. Sweat rolled down his neck, armpits and chest. It rolled down his brows into his eyes.
‘Yu wan’ a drink?’ a voice called out.
Kid looked up. On the opposite corner of the crossroad stood a house almost buried in rambling bougainvillea, a scrawny-looking Creole woman standing on its balcony, her hair in yellow curlers.
‘You bet,’ Kid said. ‘I’d give anything for a drink.’ And he meant it.
‘Then yu better come up an’ get one.’
Kid didn’t need to be told twice. He crossed the road and leapt up the woman’s steps to receive a plastic cup of crushed pineapple and ice, and a lecture on venturing out on bad streets like these, where it wasn’t safe for strangers to walk. Kid explained that he was looking for someone, and showed the woman his photograph. He didn’t need to tell her that the man in it was his father. At just one glance, the woman could see that. The world was full of children looking for their daddies, she said, and daddies trying not to be found. But the real daddy – the Lor Jeezas Krise, who was the daddy of them all – he was the one Kid should be looking for, not this man here.
Kid stared at the woman blankly.
‘Mek yu love da Lor’ Jeezas Krise?’ the woman said.
‘Do I what?’ Kid said. ‘God bring yu back to life with Jeezas Krise,’ the woman said, warming to her subject. ‘Da son a God – yu ever heah a him?’
Kid had heard of the Son of God. He’d also heard of scary sects where people grabbed you off the streets and did weird things to your brain. Draining his pineapple drink, he bid the woman a hasty farewell. No, he didn’t want to hear her witnessing tonight at the Church of the Glorious Sisterhood, he called as headed off down the street.
Belize City was a dangerous place. Even the people who seemed nice and kindly seemed to want something out of you. Kid broke into a steady trot. Gradually the streets became familiar and he realised that he was back in the city centre again. Better still, he was close to the hotel which, just at that moment, felt like the only safe place.
Why had he come here? Kid asked himself. He must have been crazy, buying a one-way ticket. What was he going to do with himself now that he was here? Was everywhere in the country as threatening and downright scary as Belize City?
The sleepy reception boy was back on duty when Kid came through the door. But he d
ragged his eyes open as Kid went past, and announced that a note had been left for him.
Kid took an envelope which had obviously been opened, which meant the boy knew what it said. Printed carefully on it, underlined twice, were the words TO DA BOY LOOKIN’ FI HE DADDY.
‘Who gave you this?’ Kid said.
The boy shrugged. ‘Nobody,’ he said. ‘I jus’ look up, an’ dere it was.’
Kid waited until he was back in his room before tearing open the envelope. Inside he found a single sheet of paper folded over several times. He smoothed it out and read:
‘EVERYTING HE TOUCH TURN TO SAND, BUT HE NOT BAD AS PIPPLE SAY. LAST TING I HEAH, HE UP CAYO WAY. BUT MIND YU DAT WAS AGES AGO. MAYBE EVEN YEAHS. I CANT MEMBER RIGHTLY. GOOD LUCK.’
7
UP CAYO WAY
Next morning, after checking out of the Ocean Hotel, Kid bought a ticket for a bus heading out west, which would pass through the town of San Ignacio, otherwise known as Cayo. His fare only cost him six Belizean dollars – one pound fifty in English money. He marvelled that a journey right across Belize almost to the Guatemalan border could be so cheap.
A battered, yellow bus turned up and Kid found a seat next to an open window. Women selling food carried baskets up and down the aisle and, guessing that the journey might take all day, Kid bought a pie for now and another one for later.
The bus edged through the narrow streets and headed out of town. Kid dug out the note and read it again. This man whose ventures always turned to sand – was he really his father? And was he still ‘up Cayo way’? How did the writer of this note know about Kid? And why hadn’t he or she left their name?