Belize
The Belizean people need only five things to make them happy. Health, food, shelter, family and a job. So informed the driver of our shuttle van as he pumped the brakes and crept over the numerous speed humps on the dark and winding paved road, then accelerated, seemingly in a hurry to make it to the next bump. A fit and compact Latino, he gave the air of mastery over these life tenets. I sat in the second-row seat, gazing through the window at the abyss of black, imagining the ocean just beyond the thick mangroves that lined the gravel shoulder. I pondered the order of essentials he had listed.
I was bristling at the notion that family was number four. I thought it should be second, only after health. Aging has a way of reminding me that my physical well-being is not a sure thing. I am guilty of taking food and shelter for granted. I am a citizen of privilege. Born in a developed Western country, into a third-generation Irish/German/English family who had arrived to a country full of promise and potential.
Borrowing the one-speed, heavy and thick-tired bicycles to explore the area outside our resort, we turn left on the paved sidewalk and pedal beside the deep green manicured hedge. Soon the sidewalk ends, and we cross the empty road to the path continuation on the other side. The surface now is rough and uneven. We navigate around the puddles, rusted pickup trucks with cracked windshields, and clusters of brown skinned people on the roadside. There are scrawny dogs with sad eyes and swollen teats wandering listlessly in the heat and clutter of garbage, mud and dirt. The buildings that dot either side of the road have bars or corrugated metal where glass should be and are made of greyed and rotting wood, or occasionally chipped stucco. The newer homes are on stilts, a wise forethought after evidence of hurricanes and high winds brought the ocean water to the street. Other than the odd bare lightbulb, there is little evidence of the modern conveniences expected. At a beach bar we watch a young mother give her four small children saltwater baths. They play in the waves and stand patiently when it’s their turn for her attentive hands.
As she gathers them up and slowly walks along the dirt path between the obstinate, seedy buildings, I ride by, conscious that my limited jewellery and simple shorts and t-shirt reek of a different class. Wishing to make eye contact as they avert their gaze, I smile and nod my head. I don’t know how full their stomachs are, or if their home has a floor and furniture. I do know there is a conscientious and loving mother. A thin scruffy dog, maybe a stray, maybe not, lopes beside them. It hurts me to see his ribs and backbone rippling beneath his thin layer of fur.
I decide there isn’t a hierarchical order to the list of essentials the driver shared with us. With young children, the trifecta of family, food and shelter are non-negotiable in the motherhood manual. The children’s bright toothy smiles, muscled legs and grasping hand holds are proof of her attention. The magnitude of the contrast between where they live and our beach villa only five kilometres away is stunning and typical.
As I age into elderly, I am uncomfortably aware that I have an expiry date that is light years closer than my birth date. It is easy for me to register health and family as top priorities. I would also add friends in place of a job. I am fortunate that food and shelter, a missing necessity for millions of people, is assumed and constant. Despite the compromised standard of living I witness as I weave my bike through the shanty town, I see, hear and feel the buzz of community and family. Men chatting in various dialects, women watching children kick balls and run after frenzied chickens, and laundry hung out to dry on railings and worn ropes strung between palm trees.
I leave Belize intending to return, yet knowing its untouched heritage and communities are vulnerable to development and disrespect. Like this stage of my life, there is a sense of time running out.