Belize in the dark

Fri, 03 Sep 1999 16:00:00 +0000

We can call him Al. It was the name he used in Belize City. I wouldn't presume to improve on it. He was wearing acid-washed jeans and white tennis shoes, and looked to be in his early 50s. Paunchy in his polo shirt, he appeared on the balcony of the Seaside Guest House and let himself into a tiny single room hardly larger than a public restroom stall.

The day before, the guest house had teemed with the usual motley lot of backpackers and day trippers: a dreadlocked Austrian, a clean-scrubbed American Mormon, a Canadian fry cook from Florida, a pair of dusty, beautiful hippie women from the Netherlands. Now they were all gone, off to catch a bus to Guatemala, or water taxis to the Cayes. They had all appeared worldly and roadworthy, but Al I could picture back in the States, wearing slacks and a name tag, selling home appliances in a strip mall.

The others looked like they'd traveled here. Al looked like he'd been caught here.

Whoever christened it the Seaside Guest House was being optimistic. If the wind is right, you can smell the sea from the second floor, and should the palm leaves part to provide a sight line over the tin roofs and down the adjacent alley, you might spy a scintilla of Caribbean glint. But knock your Belikin bottle over the balcony railing and you'll ding a taxi, not a sunbather.

Salon.com > Michael Perry

Belize in the dark