Monday, May 19, 2003


*** Holiday Monday in Vancouver. Victoria Day. Cheers! I found some time this morning to get some more of the Belize trip written up. Almost done now. Yay! Read on!

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Belize City, Belize.
Wednesday, April 30, 2003
“Of Grand Master, lighthouses smelling of urine and pirated movies.”


It has been a long night with a short sleep. Although I am in no way complaining about the accommodations that are being provided me free of charge, I would be remiss if I didn’t describe my bed.

It is a futon with a metal frame. The mattress pad is on the thin side and the metal slats that are under the pad can easily be felt. My body lines up perfectly with thin spots in the mattress, so my hip feels like it is resting on concrete. Luckily, it is only steel. I toss and turn all night, trying to relieve the pressure and avoid the formation of bedsores. When I do manage to drift off, the local dogs decide its time for an impromptu howling session. This brings me back to consciousness and the pain.

But it is free. And I’m not complaining.

The layout of Brent and Roh’s house means that I have to walk through their bedroom to get to the kitchen and bathroom. I tip toe through their room, looking off into space, just in case. I immediately walk into a fan and then step on the cat. I am nothing if not subtle.

Coffee down here is amazing. I have become addicted to the stuff. Using rainwater I put a pot on. I hear Brent get up, and it sounds like he is already pissed at Belize Bank.

I tag along to watch the fun as he tries to get his bankcard back. Huge lines, an ass of a manager, and little customer service leave Brent ready to pull his accounts. His experiences with the banking system here are incredible. Luckily there is some competition, though even just getting an account is a hassle – forms and letters of reference and so on.

We’re in downtown Belize City running errands when we see Lyric Man, the Rasta guy from the Pandy show. He is in the back of a truck and waves as he drives by. It’s a small country!

A few blocks later, we bump into Andy Palacio, a singer/songwriter and someone I’d like to interview. But time is short, and that will have to wait for the next visit.

On the way back home, we stop for huge plates of stew chicken and rice & beans from a street vendor. This is close to where Brent lives. It's lunchtime and there is a group of people getting food too. Cruffy is the Belizean word that Brent uses to describe them. It basically is the Belizean version of white trash. The cruffy order and watch with steely eyes, making sure they get their fair share. There is a large toothless woman who is just plain scary. I worry when she hovers too close to my food. As I am about to say something, she waddles off.

The plan for the afternoon is to track down Grand Master. He is the unofficial poet laureate of Belize, and the guy we heard at Andy’s studio a few days ago. I have to get an interview with him before I go.

The best way to find him is to head towards the tourist village. This is a new place that has been built since my visit in 1999-2000. Outside of the tourist village fences there are a number of street vendors selling similar or better merchandise for half the price. They tell us that they last saw Grand Master heading into the village.

The tourist village is little different than a Midwestern mall. Perfect for the Carnival Cruise crowd. It is sterile, over priced, but thankfully, air-conditioned. And the bathrooms are the cleanest I’ve seen in Central America.

There is no sign of Grand Master, so we head back the way we came, passing a funny scene at the gate to the village. There are signs warning that the street vendors are not part of the official mall! Yikes! Real people! A crowd of people stands there, scared to proceed, fear etched into their faces.

“Is it safe?” asks one.

“They are locals – and they’re dangerous looking,” says another.

After teetering on the edge of having an actual tourism experience that is not based on a marketing plan, the group turns around, in search of the safety of a Burger King.

Down the road, we pass a line of white women getting their hair braided. This is a ridiculous sight. Attention all white people: you look stupid!!! I imagine that the Belizeans doing the braiding for $20 a head laugh themselves silly every night.

One of the street vendors says that he saw Grand Master heading towards the way we came. We turn around and head back towards the village. And there he is!

He recognizes Brent right away. Being a six and a half foot white cameraman, Brent is easily noticed. And Grand master is recognizable right away: he is a short man, wearing a striped orange shirt, carrying a walking stick, with dreadlocks topped with a button covered hat. He wears glasses with no lenses and a watch with no clock. Think Spike Lee. Or Bobby McFerrin.

“I heard that two white guys were looking for me, and I was wondering if I should hide,” he tells us.

He is a warm and affable man. I explain that I am doing some stories in Belize and I would like to chat with him about his poetry and his music project that we heard portions of at Ivan’s studio. Grand Master, real name Leroy, is pretty savvy when it comes to marketing.
We’re sitting in a tourist bar in the tourist village looking nothing like tourists. I plug in my recording gear and we start talking about his life: His age (35) his attempts at suicide (2), his crack addiction, weed, booze, the Ghetto (his “office”), his political views and his dispute with the Prime Minister. It is an amazing conversation with an amazing guy.

It’s funny how we must appear to the folks around us: they probably think that some local scammer is ripping us off. They have no idea that this is the essence of travel: meeting unique and interesting people. It took a while for me to discover this, but with each trip, the experiences get more rewarding. And carrying a microphone seems to open up doors that I wouldn’t have even noticed before.

I buy a couple of drinks for Grand Master as we spend at least an hour talking. Brent is asking questions too, and with his perspective as a resident, I learn even more about this country. We have some problems with the sound: the bar keeps cranking bad music, and a deck is being hammered together only a few feet from where we sit.

In addition to the “radio” interview, I want to shoot some footage of Grand Master with my video camera. We leave the bar and walk towards the edge of the sea – passing the spot where Grand Master wrote his first poem. I pay the bill and Grand Master pours the remains of his drink into an old rum bottle he carries with him.

We’re sitting at the edge of the harbour, where a lighthouse towers over us (and smells like urine) and water taxis and fishing boats speed by. Launches head back and forth to the cruise ships carrying hard currency in and braided hair out. Ebb and flow.

Many of the same questions are asked and answered on camera. It is a blessing to have Brent here, not only for the second brain, but to have someone to shoot for me. It makes interviewing much, much easier. We are interrupted by buses (sporting humorous destinations like New York City) that seem to being doing laps, ants that find our exposed feet tasty, and more construction. There is no quiet here.

Grand Master is a great interview – every once and a while he digs into his little pouch and pulls out his book (he has 2) of poetry. We talk politics, and he shows us the autograph of the Prime Minister, a man he has the ear of. He has a habit of reciting his poems when the conversation turns to something he has written about. It is amazing.

Following the interview, we head back to the part of town he calls home. Like Pandy, he knows everyone and everyone knows him. I want to purchase a copy of one or both of his books at the gallery (Image Works) that stocks them. Unfortunately, it is closed. Time is getting short now and Brent and I have to get back to the house. This is my last full day here, and the option of staying longer was put to bed long ago.

I also want to shoot some video of Grand Master performing his poem “For A Few Dollars More,” a dig at people who sell their souls for money. We struggle to find the perfect location. We take a turn here, a turn there and suddenly end up in a back alley. There is a leaky water main bubbling at our feet. Rats and snakes are watching us, unseen. And the remains of what once was a building stands before us. Perfect!

I shoot photos and then three takes of Grand Master performing his work. This is great! And will make for great reading/watching/listening back in Canada.

We thank Grand Master and I slide him $20 for his time. He asks that Brent and I sign his book. Just below the Prime Minister. It was truly a great experience, and one that isn’t in Lonely Planet. But it should be. And if you ever find yourself in Belize City, make sure you find and hang out with Grand Master.

Walking back through the commercial core of Belize City, we bump into a photographer whose stunning street life photography is featured at the national museum. He knows Brent, of course, and we stop for a short chat. It’s pretty cool to be hanging out in a place where you can easily cross paths with artists and poets and musicians. In only one afternoon, we have met all three. Perhaps calling Belize City a shithole isn’t fair. In reality, there is a lot of greatness under the crusty surface.

Back at the house, we clean up. It’s time for dinner, and I am treating Brent and Roh. They suggest an Indian restaurant. It is a splendid choice: the food is great, and it only costs US$50 for the three of us to push the capacity limits of our stomachs.

After a cab ride home (walking would be impossible due to over indulgence), we settle into watching some pirated pay-per-view on cable. Tonight’s bad movie was shot in Vancouver (aw, home!) and every once in a while you can see someone stand up. The film was pirated by someone who shot the screen in a movie theatre. And this is playing off VHS and on cable. Go figure.

The movie is about cheating death and death getting pissed off and coming back to make things right. It is exceedingly gory and really dumb. Out attention soon wanes and that means that it is time to call it a night.

The lights go off as I reflect on my last full day in Belize. And what was probably one of the most interesting days in my life.

-30-







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