Felix
My driver, Felix, tells me he’s from Hopkins as I get into the front seat of his car. He’s just picked me up at the Sleeping Giant Lodge in Belize’s Cayo District, the lush western part of the country bordering Guatemala where one of many mountains is in fact shaped like a giant sleeping on his back. It’ll be a 90-minute drive from Sleeping Giant to Hopkins on Southern Highway, and when Felix asks me if I want to stop at a mennonite dairy farm on the way so we can get what he calls Belize’s best ice cream, I say you don’t have to ask me twice. After that we pass through miles and miles of sad looking orange groves that Felix says have fallen sick with disease. Most of the buildings visible from the road are painted blue or green. The colors of the jungle and the sea.
If you glance at a map of Belize it might look like someone drew the roads with a few errant brushstrokes, there are so few. You might assume that means there’s a lot of traffic, but the opposite is true. At one point on a long stretch of lonely highway Felix honks and yells as we finally pass another car. “That’s my buddy!” he says, less in surprise and more to excuse the sudden honking and yelling. During the drive we pass two or three public buses – old American school buses that have been painted bright cobalt. This is the main form of public transportation in Belize. The most sparsely populated country in Central America, Belize is home to under 400,000 people, most of whom are multiracial and can connect their own bloodlines to any number of the disparate groups of people who have inhabited this tiny nation over the last several thousand years, from the Mayans to the Spanish conquerors to the British colonizers to the Caribs to the Canadian Mennonites.
Hopkins
The village of Hopkins sits a few miles to the east of Southern Highway. What I know about Hopkins before I arrive is that it’s tiny, with one main dirt road and a population of about 1500. They’ve only had electricity running to the village since the 1990s (and I’ve been warned ahead of visiting that it cuts out frequently). And that Hopkins is considered the center of Garifuna culture in Belize. The Garifuna community’s history goes back to the 1600s when Spanish ships carrying Nigerians as human cargo, bound for the slave trade in the New World, ended up sinking off the coast of St. Vincent. Eventually exiled from that island, the survivors made their way into Honduras and Belize and began to mix in with the local indigenous communities, forming a new identity, language and cultural heritage. The name Hopkins lingers from the time when the country was under British rule.
As we turn off the highway the road turns dusty and we pass a group of teenagers carrying backpacks walking along the edge of the shoulderless road. Felix says their school bus must have broken down. Hopkins isn’t large enough to have its own high school so the older kids have to go all the way to Dangriga, an hour’s drive away.
The road ends at the beach, the waves visible from where we turn left at a giant beautifully painted mural that says Recibilumutibu Hopkins. I assume the unknown word means welcome in the local language, especially when I see two smaller signs nailed to a nearby telephone pole that say
SMILE YOU ON THE BEACH
and
HAPPY LIFE
I do what I’m told and I smile.
Felix continues to roll the car north slowly along Hopkins’ main drag toward Palmento Grove Garifuna EcoCultural and Fishing Institute, my home for the next three days. We turn onto a driveway and pass what looks like an abandoned school bus tilting to one side and an old TV turned on its face in the grass, and come to a stop in front of a few concrete structures on stilts painted pink. “That’s my father in law’s!!” Says Felix. Honk honk. “Hey!!”
I guess everyone knows everyone in Hopkins.
When I get out of the car I say goodbye and thank you to Felix, and the first thing I see is a stand with a wooden bulletin board painted red with yellow letters that reads –
WELCOME BOARD
And under that
RESPECT
HONESTY
TRUST
ADVENTURE
= AWESOME VACATION
Palmento Grove
Palmento Grove is a family-owned operation. I’ve been in touch with one of the owners, a woman named Uwahnie, over email, and she comes out to greet me. She is around my age, and the look on her face is welcoming but serious. I remind her who I am and why I’m here, to do some scouting for a travel booking platform for community tourism experiences. I’m ihoping I sound certain about the answers to those questions myself. Uwahnie gives me a tour of the grounds, starting with the open air main building where the kitchen and dining area are painted blue and green, and the tables have coated floral tablecloths. In front of it is another red painted post with stacked slatted boards that say
GARIFUNA SOUL FOOD
RESTAURANT!!!
Under which are a few dishes listed in the local language, like
MARUMARUTI
HARABADA (served with fish)
BUNDIGA
Several wooden huts are spread around the property, all of which sit at the edge of a lagoon. It has the vibe of a hostel. Not a European hostel that might spring to mind when you hear that word, the kind with a disco in the basement. But the kind that are designed to inspire some aspects of communal living and draw guests out from their rooms to experience their surroundings.
The huts all have Garifuna names like
UWARAGUNI
and
DARAGILU
Crammed inside mine, which is about 8’ x 10’, I find a bunk bed, another single bed, and a set of shelves on the wall. The structure is simple but sturdy. It’s made of wood and reminds me of cabins I slept in at summer camp. The sheets, towels, and curtains are clean but well loved, like something I might find in the back of my grandmother’s linen closet. There is a small plastic fan on a shelf, and an orange extension cord curled up next to it like a snake. The bathroom is about the size of one you’d find on an airplane, and nailed to the wall next to it is a list of rules on a sign, including
NO FEEDING OF CROCODILES
I ask Uwahnie if I can borrow a bicycle and then I ride it up and down the length of the main road. I need to hit the ATM we’d passed on the way into the village, which I understand is the only one in town, and then find that it’s out of order. My budget for the next few days suddenly shrinks. I stop at one of several all-purpose shops that seemed to all sell the same things – groceries, household items, liquor, locally baked loaf cakes, and plastic beach toys. I buy some cookies that look homemade from a bakery and two juice boxes with cash and hope some of the restaurants in town take credit cards.
There are small bright yellow, blue and green wooden huts with whimsical names situated along the road:
SHADE IS MAGIC PASTRY SHOP
BLOSSOMING GIFT SHOP
MISS BERTIE’S COMMUNITY LIBRARY
A flimsy looking fence with dozens of flip flops dangling from the pickets and a hand painted sign that reads
FENCE OF LOST SOLES
Garifuna
A little further to the south I park my bike when I see a path of dark red clay that leads to the beach. I’m so mesmerized by the color of the ground and the contrast to the dusty road, the green grass and the sandy beach, that I just want to walk on it and see where it leads. Halfway down to the water I stand in place and realize I’m not sure why I’m there. I’m staring at the ocean, feeling for a moment like the only person for miles, when suddenly a very small boy who couldn’t be more than six years old walks up to me. As though he came from nowhere. The small boy asks me in a small voice if I would like to buy some homemade chocolate cake. He holds up a hunk of wrapped up tin foil with both of his hands. Flustered, I give in to this temptation of all kinds of sweetness in front of me. I hand him a few dollars and after he walks away I stare at what’s left in my hands and open the foil. It’s a very delicious looking slice of cake, but I have an immediate yet vague sense that I’ve done something wrong.
Back at Palmento Grove I park the bike and say hello to Uwahnie where she’s sitting in the main building. We speak a bit about what I found in town. Embarrassed, I don’t tell her about the little boy’s cake. We go over the plan for the next day, which will be a full day of activities to learn more about Garifuna culture and history, starting with fishing and a cooking class, and then a drumming lesson. I mention the potential opportunity to partner with the travel company that connected us. She squints at me, unconvinced. She asks me about their business model and I have to admit I am unsure. I remember that I had asked Uwahnie for a discount on my stay at Palmento Grove during our back and forth over email when I booked the trip, as is customary for travel professionals. She had said no.
Queen Bean’s
The sun is setting and Uwahnie lets me know that she isn’t serving dinner that evening but that across the road a place called Queen Bean’s is having a Mother’s Day party and I can have dinner there. As I head in that direction I’m not sure if I’m crashing a party or going to a restaurant. When I arrive a few minutes later, it feels like a bit of both. I see a small house where a kitchen window has been turned into a counter.. It’s dark now, so the wide window reveals a brightly lit kitchen and a busy scene inside, where a middle aged woman I can only assume to be Queen Bean seems to be at the center of the operation. The operation being, cook a lot of food to the accompaniment of loud music and laughter. It looks fun in there. I order some food and then take a seat at one of the picnic tables that have been set up outside next to the house, one of which is covered in bottles of booze and red solo cups. I watch a group of a dozen or more 20-somethings wearing cutoff shorts and flip flops descend on the place and begin helping themselves to drinks. Heavy pours, and some shots. They are not locals. I eavesdrop and learn they’re a group of college students from a U.S. midwest university. Soon they are very drunk.
While I’m eating my plate of fish just out of the fryer a trio of young women not part of the college crew arrives and sits down at my table. They are effortlessly beautiful in that makeup-free way and I am unsurprised when I hear them speaking French to each other and then, after introducing myself, learn they are from Paris. Claudia, Agathe and Chloe. Law students celebrating graduation with a backpacking trip through Central America. They’re also staying at Palmento Grove. Eventually, after they’ve attracted and then quickly thwarted attention from the raucous Americans on the other side of the party, we walk back across the road together.
Why were they taking pictures of us? They were so drunk!
I consider apologizing for or excusing my fellow Americans, but decide not to.
***
Fishing
Breakfast on fishing day is scrambled eggs with tomatoes and peppers, green banana fritters, and fresh papaya. I can’t stomach papaya – it’s the only food I really don’t like – but I do my best to eat some anyway. After breakfast Uwahnie leads me to the back of the building to a dock at the edge of the lagoon. A wooden skiff with the word
BREEZE
painted on the side floats up to the dock, driven by a very thin man who Uwahnie introduces as Captain Breeze. I introduce myself and awkwardly ask him his name, expecting his first name, but he just says, “Captain Breeze.”
We are joined by Maurice, a heavyset man with a wide, tireless smile. The four of us – Captain Breeze, Maurice, Uwahnie and I – find our respective spots in the tiny boat. Maurice says we’re going fishing for red snapper. We float down a narrow section of the lagoon and stop. Maurice rips a little fish into pieces to throw in the water. Pre-bait. We throw our lines in and wait. After a while we’ve caught a few bites, but they’re what Maurice calls reef snappers and we throw them back.
Fishing is a slow endeavor. While we sit, Uwahnie tells me Garifuna culture is all about being one with nature. Their ancestors passed down a culture of living sustainably.
Throw back small fish. Make an effort not to create waste. Only cut trees during a full moon.
She says the government imposes strict regulations on the fishermen in Hopkins. Uhwahnie says, there is a need for indigenous people to speak up for themselves. You have fishermen from Guatemala and Honduras coming and not being regulated as much as the Garifuna. Offering fishing tours with the locals helps subsidize what used to be a steadier business for fishermen like Maurice of fishing and selling their catch.
Everything is placid until Captain Breeze makes a sound for the first time since I asked his name. A sound like strained yelp that got caught in his throat, and as I turn my attention to him I see a giant black stingray rise out of the water on his line in a wild fit. Maurice yells for a club, and the two of them wrestle to loosen it from the hook. After the stingray is back in the water they catch their breath and then calmly tell me how dangerous the stinger can be. Maurice’s nephew died about 25 years ago at age 11 when one pierced his upper thigh and groin area. This was before the roadways were better developed and it was a 2-hour drive to the closest hospital in Dangriga. Speaking of danger, Maurice says. He was out fishing one time and lightning hit the water about 100 feet away and – he grabs suddenly at the flesh in his midsection – it felt like someone had grabbed me here.
At this point I have only managed to catch one sea crab. We stop at a sandbar and get out of the boat to walk around. We pick coco plums and eat them straight from the bush. They taste like sour grapes. Maurice and Captain Breeze throw nets from the edge into shallow water and catch a few small floppy fish. Eventually we head back to Palmento Grove. I have caught nothing, but thanks to Maurice and Captain Breeze and their skills in catching a few black snappers, I’ll get to eat lunch.
After handing off the fish to Eugene, Uwahnie’s quiet father who will clean and prep it for cooking, and who seems to want to stay in the background of the whole operation at Palmento Grove, Uwahnie leads me to a rack of clothing. We are going to put on traditional Garifuna clothing for the next part of the day, a private cooking class and history lesson. I put on one of the outfits, all of which are similar – white cotton tops and skirts with some stripes or zig zag embellishments in black and yellow, the Garifuna colors. As I put on the top and skirt I am suppressing an honest thought which is that I don’t love dressing in costume. I stopped enjoying halloween as soon as I was too old for trick-or-treating. In fourth grade I dressed up as one of my forever heroes, Indiana Jones. That must have been funny to the homeowners passing out Snickers, to see a 9 year old girl wearing her older brother’s khakis and a fedora, carrying a whip and a rubber snake. I smile at the memory, trying to power through how silly – and sweltering – I feel in these heavy cotton, oversized garments. While very pretty on the hanger, the pieces puff out in all the wrong places on me, and I know I look like a marshmallow.
Cooking
Once dressed and outside again, Uwahnie asks me if I’ve ever climbed a coconut tree. No? Ok, I’ll get you a ladder. And then I am up in the tree, tugging at a coconut that finally pops from the branch. After climbing down Uwahnie leads me to an herb garden where she guides me through the different plants and tells me which ones to pluck for our meal. Back in the kitchen with the results of our foraging I realize it’s up to me to wrestle with the coconut. The process involves cracking, peeling, and then squeezing the starchy white meat of the fruit with my bare hands.
As I go about kneading the coconut, Uwahnie talks about how preserving the environment has been part of the foundation of Garifuna culture going back to the time of their ancestors. She shows me a mahogany wooden bowl that has been around for five generations. Mattresses are made out of grass from the marshlands. Cassava, a drought-resistant tuber, is the base for both a bread that can last for seven years – if set in the sun every day to keep warm and dry – and a sweet cider-like beverage.
After a while I look down and realize I’ve made coconut milk with my own hands. I’m not sure I have ever considered what a coconut has to go through. Eventually Uwahnie and I sit down to eat the dish we’ve made which is called Hudut. Flaky fried fish in a coconut milk based stew and smashed plantains. Delicious.
Drumming
After lunch I go to the Lebeha Drumming Center, just up the road, where I have an appointment for a drumming lesson with Jabbar Lambey, a famous Garifuna drummer who co-owns the center with his wife, Dorothy. The French girls Agathe, Claudia and Chloe join me. Jabbar welcomes us along with another Garifuna man who introduces himself as Mick. Jabbar sits down across from us with a drum between his knees and begins tapping it in a repetitive rhythm of 5 or so beats, and after a while we – with drums between our knees – begin to copy him.
It’s harder than it seems, and it takes a while for us to catch on. After the lesson Mick, who was standing on the side observing, asks if I’d like to stay and chat about Lebeha. When I say yes, Jabbar wheels out a wobbly bar cart with the ingredients to make screwdrivers. So I sit and drink with the two Garifuna gentlemen and ask a few questions. Jabbar started teaching drumming lessons in 1998 and that morphed from a business in his living room into a full blown drumming school and guesthouse. Lebeha means end in Garifuna, named so because we’re at the very north end of Hopkins village. Jabbar was born here in the village, he tells me. He loves drumming, he loves teaching, and he loves his culture. Jabbar turned his sense of rhythm into a career.
Jabbar is called away for another lesson and Mick and I continue our conversation. He’s lived in the States and spent time in other parts of Belize but he recently moved back to Hopkins to help perpetuate Garifuna culture. He says he’s met with Belize tourism and asked them how they’re working to promote cultural tourism in the country. The tourism board always falls back on featuring San Pedro and the two big Cayes, and the Belize Barrier Reef when it comes to advertising. He says even though Hopkins is on the mainland it feels like its own island. When he was growing up in the 1970s there were no locks on houses, no motors on the boats, no electricity. They ate what they planted and cut. They sailed or paddled to Dangriga. He wants more tourists to bring money into the local economy, but is wary of diluting the culture. Queen Bean’s, Palmento Grove, bakeries and restaurants like Trudie’s, that are all run by women entrepreneurs. Lebeha. As we talk mangoes start falling from the trees above us. Plop, plop on the ground. Mick gets up without breaking his train of thought and starts putting them into a paper bag. When we say goodbye he hands it to me, and asks me to share them with Uwahnie.
I see Uwahnie as I head toward my hut and she asks what I want for breakfast the next morning. I want to tell her to hold the papaya. She is taking me hiking in Cockscomb Basin Wildlife Sanctuary with a Garifuna naturalist and birder named Golden who runs his own tour company. I say, maybe something small before hiking, like a banana? She says,
I’m not sure about a banana that time of day but I could bring some cheeseburgers.
I think about how I was told we might see jaguars in Cockscomb. And I ask Uwahnie if we’ll go even if the weather is bad, because the weather app on my phone is forecasting drenching rains. She is lying in a hammock when we have this conversation and she looks confused, looks up at the sky, and says no it’ll be dry. I believe her.
Aurora
The next morning Golden arrives. He’s a petite man in a tan-green uniform clearly meant to blend into his surroundings when out in the forest and jungle. We ride in his car and he and Uwahnie ask me if I’d like to stop to see Aurora the Mayan healer on the way, it’s right near the entrance to the Wildlife Sanctuary. Yes, please, of course.
Aurora is one of the famous Garcia sisters, in a family of healers. When she comes out to greet us I notice she is tiny. She takes me on a walk through her herb garden and a pathway through the forest where trees and plants are marked with signs like
RUBBER TREE
HOG PLUM
JACKASS BITTERS
After our walk Aurora tells me she’ll perform a healing ceremony for me, and for Uwahnie. She says the herbs in her garden are known to heal everything from general pain to infertility to dysentery to anemia to mental health issues. As I consider what I would most like to be healed from, she moves through the steps of a ritual she has probably performed many times before, involving water, fire, smoke, soil and many types of leaves. At the end she wraps a bundle of greenery tightly in a large leaf, puts it in my hand and squeezes my hand into a fist, and then the same for Uwahnie. Aurora says Uwahnie will know what to do with them later. Before we leave I pick up some oil from the gift shop to bring home to my father for his arthritis.
Cockscomb
Once we park at the Cockscomb visitor’s center we climb out and each grab one of the inner tubes Golden brought for floating down the river on our way back. The sun is blazing and I realized I have forgotten sunscreen. It never rained, I say out loud. Uwahnie and Golden both smile at me. They tell me the locals understand the weather better than the meteorologists by looking at the sky, after fishing and farming being their way of life for generations.
Off we go, tramping through the jungle. Golden gives me a botany, birding, and nature lesson as we go. He stops us on the trail to let tiny worker ants cross. A pattern of tiny leaves curls and curves to the other side of the path. Then he says he knows there are monkeys nearby because he can smell their poop. Eventually we reach a waterfall and a place to drop our tubes into shallow water. As we go tubing down the river, Golden calls out the names of bird species he sees or hears, knowing the difference between every chirp, whistle and croak.
I lean back in my tube and stare up at the passing blue sky flanked by treetops as we float onward. This is good life!, Uwahnie shouts into the air, and Golden echoes it back to her. My shins are burning in the equatorial midday sun, but I don’t mind.
The end
When we get back to Hopkins, we say goodbye to Golden and Uwahnie leads me down the red road to the beach and then right down to the water’s edge. She has her bunch of leaves from Aurora and I’m holding mine. We turn around and on the count of three we’ll throw them into the water behind us, releasing what doesn’t serve us and making wishes for the future to keep what gives us peace. One… two… three…
THIS IS GOOD LIFE.
