Photo by Ron S. Doyle
Belize is still just a teenager. A British colony until shortly after World War II and self-governing only since 1962, Belize became officially independent in 1991. So, to be exact, it’s a fifteen year old sophomore in high school. For most Americans, the sophomore year of high school proves most influential. No longer new kids on the block-but still on the lower rungs of age, intellect, and popularity-sophomores vie for social status and experiment with new identities.
Like most adolescents, Belize remains in flux. The only English-speaking country in Central America, home to several very distinct cultural groups, and pressured by the ocean on the east and occasional Guatemalan unrest on the west, Belize remains unsure of itself and who it is. Each city seems to have a different idea of what the country should become.
The calico history of the nation offers countless opportunities for confusion; I initiate conversations in Spanish with citizens who appear mestizo or Mayan, only to discover that they speak English, only to discover that they actually speak Kriol instead:
“Do you know where I can find a cyber café?” I ask.
“Seh ahn agen noh, pleez? Da weh da werd ‘cyber’ deh meen?”
“Excuse me?” I reply.
“I said, would you repeat that, pleez? Ah noh andastan deh word ‘cyber.’ Ah tink yu meen ‘internet,’ noh?”
The full spectrum of high school cafeteria cliques reside here. Gangstas, geeks, Bible thumpers, foreigners, hicks, jocks-each has their own home.
Belize City, ubiquitously labeled by the euphemism “gritty” in guidebooks, embraces MTV’s rap ideology-the hustling gangster mentality dominates the area, especially near Battlefield Park. The entire male population seems to walk with a crotch-grabbing swagger learned from satellite television feeds and compact disc insert photos. Lanky grifters and pushers lurk about smoking joints and cradling one liter glass bottles of Old English malt liquor, despite the availability of Guinness Stout or the delicious native Belikin beer at a much lower price.
Although punta rock and reggaeton form the soundtrack, this crowded coastal town of 60,000 people mirrors the sounds and sights of American ghettos in Detroit, New Orleans, or East St. Louis. Voluptuous black women hang NBA basketball jerseys and black t-shirts adorned with Tupac Shakur out to dry on the wrought iron railings of balconies or on clotheslines between narrowly built Victorian stack homes, strips of colonial white paint slowly peeling with years of seaside weather. Street side vendors, instead of selling the usual salty and sweet inexpensive local fare, opt for heavy polished pewter chains swinging with hood ornaments from imported cars as pendants, black wool baseball caps and thick, rhinestone encrusted knockoff gold watches.
Belmopan, the Belizean capital, rests in the heart of the country far from the majority of the coastal population. A conservative air settled in the city when the government chose to move inland after Hurricane Hattie. With its sleepy suburban aura, Belmopan reminds me of pale, quiet children recently returned from church camp. Or perhaps Young Republicans, neo-cons hoping to distance themselves from liberal amorality on the coast and regain some sense of the good old days that never really were.
Concrete and plaster simulacra of Mayan temples house the national legislative assemblies near the center of town, attempting to construct the illusion of history and tradition for the adolescent sovereignty. Sprawling ranch-style homes on large lots boast the only privately owned grass I’ve seen in the country. Everywhere we walk, people seem to act much older than their age-cautious, middle-classed, and terribly bored.
Beside the two extremes of Belize City and Belmopan, other areas of Belize patch together a hodgepodge of cultural elements, refusing to choose a mature path. In Corozal, all inhabitants seem to be transplants from other places, most speak Spanish, and in a town of less than eight thousand, we happened upon no less than six Chinese food restaurants in the space of two city blocks. Here, in San Ignacio, citizens are so confused they cannot settle on a name, often referring to the city as Cayo instead, like children cycling through playful monikers in different circles of friends.
In the south, along the Hummingbird Highway to Dangriga and especially in Hopkins, the Garinagu-escaped and shipwrecked African slaves who intermarried with the indigenous people-practice old ways in a youthful sandbox setting. And German Mennonites, with their bonneted wives, wide brimmed straw hats and overalls, congregate happily throughout this third world tax shelter.
Because I’m so accustomed to the racial and social tension of the United States, I assume this diversity must come with some sense of discord. But I watch a Mennonite man help three dark shirtless boys in creased Dickies khakis crank open the Swing Bridge in Belize City. And I listen to the symphony of three or four languages happily chattering together while a group of youths set up speakers and microphones for an outdoor Christian revival in a public amphitheatre in Belmopan. Slowly, as I watch with my older eyes, I begin to gather some dim remembrance of what it is like to be a teenager: idealistic, energetic, experimental, and more often than not, colorblind.
