by Pauline Fisk
Kid marvelled that anyone should remember him, let alone give a damn about his clothes.
‘Did anybody buy anything?’ he asked.
‘Not in Mrs Edie’s they didn’t because she chased them out,’ Taxi-May said.
Kid thought about that girl up at Night Falls Lodge. He imagined taking the police up there and getting her arrested – Dave the American, and Marky too. It would be his revenge. But the police, he guessed, wouldn’t be interested. And, besides, revenge was a waste of energy. Kid could see that now. So, his clothes were gone. But there’d always be new clothes, and at least he’d survived to tell the tale.
Taxi-May’s car radio cackled, and she was called away. Kid returned to the field-base and spent the rest of the day either in the operations room playing on the computers or in the dormitory, sorting out what was his and what was Wide-World’s, so that when they sent him packing he’d be ready to leave.
Kid also spent some time on the internet, trying to plan an itinerary. There were plenty of places in Belize that he hadn’t visited yet. Beaches down the south coast that everybody raved about. Cayes out on the reef where people went diving. Towns and villages which were good for music, apparently, not to say anything of fantastic cooking.
Craig returned from the airport, bringing a note which Fritz had written Kid just before he’d left. But Kid didn’t want to read it, and refused to even take it. In the last few days, everything had been stripped away from him. First the project had been stripped away, then his first ever proper family, then the forest had been stripped away, then even his rucksack with everything he’d brought out from England, apart from a few personal effects including a stupid hat. Now even his last two friends had been stripped away. And it had all happened at the speed of lightning.
Craig tried again. ‘This is important. You should read it,’ he said, thrusting the note at Kid.
‘I don’t want to.’
‘Read it.’
Craig stuffed the note into Kid’s hands and walked away. But still Kid refused to read it until later, on his own. He went and sat in the empty dormitory, and wondered where Fritz was now and how far he’d gone on his flight, and then he unfolded the note and started scanning down the lines, still not reading them properly – until something forced him to stop.
What was this? What was Fritz saying here? Kid went back to the beginning and started again.
I want to give you something, Fritz had written. You’ve been a good mate. You always laugh as if my jokes are funny, even when they’re not. One day I hope we’ll meet again, but it won’t be in Belize. And that means there’ll be a placement coming up soon, if you’re interested, with a Kekchi-Mayan family, living with them and teaching in their school. Everything’s been paid for, so you wouldn’t have to worry about that. And seeing as I won’t be able to take it myself, I’ve talked to Craig about Wide-World letting you go instead. Apparently it’s okay as long as you’re insured. And as long as your placement isn’t anywhere near Hal. Craig reckons that living with the Kekchi-Mayans might be good for you, and you might be good for them. I’m not sure what he means by that, but what do you think? The placement’s yours, if you want. Have it on me. My parting gift.
22
A BUS RIDE
The bus was packed mostly with Belizeans, though there were a few lone tourists with rucksacks piled up at the back. Its windows were wide open and its seats covered with dust off the road. Kid sat by the window, his face pressed against the glass, his mind rolling back over everything that had happened since he’d read Fritz’s note.
That Fritz had offered him his placement was something that Kid still couldn’t quite believe. And that Wide-World Treks had gone along with it was hard to believe too. But, with a bit of arm-twisting from Craig, they had, and some special pleading from Jez, who’d been on the radio to say it was a crying shame about the fight with Hal because Kid was a good, hard worker whom everybody liked and who’d made it his business to fit in. The way he’d come out to Belize all on his own was an act of courage that deserved acknowledging. And, from a man like Jez, Craig said, you couldn’t ask for higher praise.
The bus set off, and Kid wondered what he was in for. He tried to imagine the people waiting for him at the other end. If I can cope with the jungle, he thought, I can cope with this. And if I can survive a jaguar, I can survive anything.
Kid’s stomach churned. Craig had assured Kid that the Kekchi-Mayans would speak English, but what sort of English? Would he understand it? And how would he get on with them, staying in their village for two whole months?
Normally Kid wouldn’t have minded about meeting new people, but he was anxious not to let Craig down, and all the other people who’d put their faith in him. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. At Belmopan he awoke as food sellers came down the aisle, selling homemade wares. He fell asleep again and didn’t awaken until the bus was on the Hummingbird Highway, heading down to a town called Dangriga which was where most of the tourists left the bus, heading south for the sandy beaches of Placencia.
The people who boarded at Dangriga were black-skinned Garifuna people whose ancestors were Africans, and whose language they’d brought with them. The way they spoke had nothing to do with the Kriol Kid had picked up in the jungle and in Belize City. Listening to them, he felt as if he was being taken ever-deeper into an unknown world. The bus had a new driver now, and reggae was his music.
As soon as it started up, the whole bus erupted. Fists were raised and cheers went up. The woman across the aisle from Kid leant across to explain in English that that he was listening to Lucky Dube, that giant among reggae artists who’d recently been shot dead.
‘What, here in Belize?’ Kid said, looking shocked.
‘In South Africa,’ the woman said, pronouncing the ‘Africa’ with a ‘u’, not an ‘a’. ‘But he still our brudder.’
It didn’t take long for Kid to decide that Lucky Dube was his brother too. Of all the reggae the driver played on that long journey south, his music was the best. When he sang, the whole world came alive. How could anyone, Kid thought, who sounded as real as sunshine was – anyone whose voice was so alive and powerful and warm and strong – possibly be dead?
Kid rolled south in a state of grace, Serious Reggae Music ringing in his head. Sometimes the road was lined with pink flowering trees. Once he caught a glimpse of great blue crags, which he guessed must be the Maya Mountain, outlined against the sky.
At the Cockscombe Basin Jaguar Reserve, the bus picked up a white-haired European woman with a rucksack, and her companion, a younger man with an Indiana Jones-style hat. Further on, it stopped for a couple of Mestizo men decked out in gold chains, looking more like pirates than hitchhikers. Then the bus became stuck behind a citrus truck that had broken down, and everybody had to get out to help push it out of the way, rewarded for their efforts with handfuls of grapefruit.
By now the mountains had disappeared from sight and the bus had entered a region of lush citrus groves. Through the open window, Kid smelled something smoky which had about it an unexpected fruitiness which reminded him more of blackcurrants than citrus fruit. For miles he watched orange and grapefruit groves flying past, and then the jungle took over again.
They were heading directly south now, along a paved track called the Southern Highway. A wild exuberance seemed to grip the landscape, which was lush, green and uninhabited for mile after mile. When the first thatched, Kekchi-Mayan house appeared, it came as a surprise.
The bus slowed down for speed bumps, which meant that a village was approaching, and Kid caught sight of a shack with the words KILL YU SPEED painted on it in big white letters. Beyond the shack, he saw a man on a bike leading a horse, and then a woman walking down the middle of the road as if no traffic ever came along. Even when the bus honked at her, she wouldn’t move.
The bus veered round her, honking wildly, then round a crowd of boys playing football on the road, then suddenly there was the village, tucked away betwee
n the trees. Kid saw wooden, thatched houses built straight on to the earth, chickens and dogs running about, women watching from doorways and children swinging from trees. There were no cars anywhere, and no cables running between houses hinting at electricity.
Kid watched the people in their doorways as the bus went by – men in dusty working clothes and women in brightly coloured dresses trimmed with lace. Nobody acknowledged his gaze or smiled back when he smiled at them. He could have been an apparition from another world as far as anybody was concerned.
Beyond the village, the made-up road gave out, turning from concrete paving to beaten earth. Immediately, everybody started to be thrown about and dust came in through the windows in red clouds. A series of other villages went by, all thatched like the first. If Kid had wondered if life down south was really going to be different, here was his answer. Each time a village approached, he wondered if it was his home for the next two months, Blue Bank Springs. Once or twice he even made to get off, but the driver stopped him, saying he’d tell him when he arrived.
For the first time since Belmopan, Kid’s stomach started knotting and he asked himself what lay ahead. The bus passed a village called Five Falls and another called Golden Stream. Kid pressed his face against the window, wanting to get a closer look at them. But the white-haired European woman across the aisle chose this moment to announce that she was a writer, travelling with her son, and to start telling him her life’s history.
Kid imagined ending up like her – travelling on a bus somewhere, looking for stories, unable to stop. Half of him was horrified at the idea of not having a home, but half of him warmed to not staying long enough to ever mess up.
A few miles down the road, another village appeared. This time it really was Blue Bank Springs. The driver pulled up. Kid grabbed his brand-new rucksack, which was a parting gift from Craig and
Jasmine, and started up the aisle.
‘Good luck,’ called the writer, as if she thought Kid might need it.
Kid didn’t answer. A man had boarded the bus and was watching him approach. He was short and slim, with high cheekbones, dark almond-shaped eyes and a thick mop of black hair.
‘Are you Kid?’ he said in English.
Kid nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said.
The man helped Kid down off the bus, taking his rucksack. Kid was aware of everybody watching them. He stood on the side of the road, not knowing what to say, overwhelmed with shyness for the first time in his life. The man beamed at him. There was nothing hidden in his face.
‘Welcome to our village,’ the man said. ‘I’m Reuben. I am your host. I’m happy to meet you. I hope you will be happy living here in Blue Bank Springs with us.’
23
REUBEN’S FAMILY
This was it. Kid’s village. Kid’s host. His next two months. There could be no going back. No going anywhere because the bus had disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Kid shouldered his rucksack and followed Reuben up a grassy track. The house they were heading for had one window with a single wooden shutter tied back with string, two doors which faced each other and were open, a bench along its front wall, a bird-house and a flag-pole sporting the colours of the new government party, the UDP.
As they approached, children from all over the village came running to greet them. Kid was danced around as he stepped over the threshold into a huge, cool space created by a vaulted thatch high above his head. Whole trees had been cut down to provide the labyrinth of timbers for supporting that thatch.
‘Welcome to my home,’ Reuben said.
A shy-looking woman stepped forward. She was Reuben’s sister and her name was Renata. The small boy clinging to her legs was Reuben’s son. Kid smiled at him and he smiled back, his face full of mischief. His name was Renaldo and he was four years old. His sister’s name was Juanita, and she was just a baby. Their mother’s name was Lydia. She emerged from a screened-off corner of the room that contained a bed. She was wearing a cotton dress patterned with brightly coloured flowers. Kid thought she looked like a queen, her thick hair twisted into a knot on the back of her head and her baby in her arms, shiny and contented. She greeted Kid shyly, but there was something proud about her all the same.
‘This is my wife,’ said Reuben.
Kid said, ‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ and smiled nervously.
‘You’re welcome. I hope you will be happy in our home,’ said Lydia.
Kid looked around. Blue Bank Springs was every bit as different as he’d imagined, but home was home wherever you went. He looked at the old string hammocks strung from beam to beam, the collection of small tables covered with oil-cloths, the pans hung from nails in the wall and the shelves stacked full of spices. All of them gave off a sense of homeliness. It might take a while, he thought, but he’d be all right here.
A fire was lit for supper in the open hearth, smoke rising through the thatch. Renata said she had some baking to do, and Lydia retired with baby Juanita back behind the screen, leaving Reuben to show Kid where to put his rucksack and where he would be sleeping.
The house was full of children by now, who’d crowded in from all over the village. Reuben said there was time before supper for them to take Kid down to the river to bathe. Immediately – without waiting to see if he wanted to or not – all the children, including Renaldo, swept Kid away. They were plainly curious about this stranger in their midst, who was taller than anybody else and spoke in a tongue that wasn’t Kekchi-Mayan. Kid felt as if he’d been caught up in a cloud of bright butterflies, their only means of communication the phrase, repeated over and over again, was-yur-name?
A path crossed the village between a string of other houses just like Reuben’s – single-storey, thatched dwellings surrounded by palm trees and flowering shrubs. It passed a couple of tin buildings which turned out to be churches, a cluster of brightly painted sheds and an old car without wheels. Beyond the last of the houses was the jungle, and a river flowed out of it, along the back of the village, looping back in again on the other side of the track where the bus had disappeared.
Kid was led down to a shady beach where the children stripped out of their clothes and plunged into the water, calling him to do the same, which he did – plunging in unexpectedly over his head. He came up spluttering to find everybody laughing. The children had known what would happen, of course. They’d led him straight into a deep spring of bubbling water, without a word of warning that it was there.
Kid tried to swim to shallower waters, but the children pulled him back and piled on top of him. Suddenly the quiet river was quiet no longer but alive with shrieks and yells. Children leapt off logs, splashed each other, dive-bombed Kid, and called out incessantly, ‘Was-yur-name?’ It seemed to be the one English phrase that everybody was confident about. And whatever Kid answered, the question kept coming back
Kid was everybody’s friend. He didn’t even have to try. More children kept turning up all the time, and other visitors came too – village women with pots that needed washing, and the simply curious who stared without any excuse. They stood between the trees at the top of the bank, keeping their distance as if not wanting to be rude. When Kid looked up to them, they’d wave shyly, and he’d wave back.
But there was nothing shy about the children. Kid returned through the village, dragged along by them as if he was their prize. Everybody wanted him to come to their house, meet their family, see their hens and dogs, share salt plums with them, ride their turkeys and see the trees they swung in when they played. But it was getting dark now. Mothers called their children home, and that included Lydia, standing at the doorway, looking out for Kid and Renaldo.
After Kid had entered the house, Lydia latched the door behind him and shut the wooden shutters to keep the mosquitoes at bay. Toledo District, where Blue Bank Springs was situated, was bad for mosquitoes, she said. Kid would have to watch out, especially at night, if he didn’t want to be eaten alive. She lit a couple of candles to drive away the darkness, and Renata
served up supper with a torch tucked under her arm so that she’d have free hands.
It was a special meal for Kid’s first night. Reuben sat by his side telling him what he was eating. First Lydia brought him a bowl of peppery-flavoured eggs, tomatoes and a cabbage-like substance cut from the heart of the cohune palm, accompanied by freshly-baked corn tortillas stacked beneath a small white cloth. This was washed down with a pinkish, sweet, fruit-flavoured drink that turned out to be chocolate, surprisingly enough. Then a cup full of yellow sticky gruel – more food than drink – was produced, tasting unmistakably of sweetcorn.
‘This is lub,’ Reuben said. ‘It’s a Kekchi-Mayan drink, and everything you’ve eaten is Kekchi-Mayan food.’
There was so much to eat that Kid struggled with his meal, not wanting to offend his hosts. Reuben talked all the way through, telling him about Kekchi-Mayan life and his concerns for their people’s future. He was an endless fund of knowledge on everything from the wisdom of not paving the tracks that ran through the villages, to the effects of television if electricity should ever come their way.
Finally Lydia – who’d installed herself in one of the hammocks where she was rocking Juanita – called out something in Kekchi-Mayan that brought Reuben’s lessons to an abrupt close.
‘Lydia thinks I talk too much,’ he said. ‘She says I shouldn’t fill your head with things you won’t remember. She says you’ve had a long day and I’m tiring you. She also says that, if I want you to be happy, I must let you go to bed.’
Lydia smiled from her hammock, as if to say yes, that’s what I said.
Kid admitted that he was tired, and Reuben showed him outside to the wash-house – a small plank shack, the size of a shower-cubicle – and the long-drop. Kid sat on its rough-hewn seat, the door pulled behind him, listening to geckos scampering about above his head, trying not to think about what else might be up there, hidden in the darkness.
