part 3

AZUL GRANDE

"Roll up your windows, and lock your doors," said Gene as we drove into the outskirts of Belize City. Mike, Gino, and I locked and rolled quickly. We'd read there was a serious danger of being robbed in Belize's largest city.
We actually expected to leave town with more money than we had on arrival, thousands more. The money would come from the sale of Azul Grande, the big blue van we had driven from California through Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras and Belize. Selling an imported car is legal in Belize, and the capital city is where the official appraisal is made and the taxes paid. The tax is based on the appraised value, so we hoped for a low valuation.
We had a plan for protecting ourselves and our possessions while looking for lodging in this dangerous city: two of us would check out the hotel while the other two remained with the van. We wanted a telephone in our room, a feature that wasn't standard in that country in 1992. We needed to call all the people who had shown an interest in buying Azul Grande.
As soon as we'd crossed the border from Guatemala to Belize, we'd put a sign in the back window in Spanish, "Se Vende," and English, "For Sale." During the following month, half the population of the small Central American country had inquired about the particulars. The asking price was $3,500 U. S., and the buyer would pay the taxes.
We pulled up in front of a hotel and were met not by a doorman or parking attendant but by a ten-year-old boy with a bucket in his hand. "Wash de car man?"
"No," said Gene. "We may be here only a few minutes." As he and I got out of the van, he said to our brother Mike and our thirteen-year-old son Gino, "Lock and roll."
Mike sang a barely altered chorus from a song by “The Rolling Stones" - "I know: It's only lock and roll, but I like it, like it, yes I do." Mike was a red head with a mustache, a strong man in a fragile body. His neck no longer turned independently of the rest of his body. He had two artificial hips, trouble with his knees, and walked with the use of a cane that he now held at the ready as a weapon. He didn't have to hold it long before we returned.
"Too expensive," I said. "It's not worth $30 a day extra just to have a phone in the room."
"Can we go eat as soon as we find a place to stay?" Asked Gino. He has my coloring: dark hair, eyes, and skin and his father's deep voice and muscular physique. He was large for his age with an appetite to match.
"I'm hungry too," said Mike. Those two are always hungry.
Our next stop, the Mopan, is a landmark house on Regent Street with a large screened porch across the front. Like most of the buildings in Belize City, it looked a bit shabby. We were following our looking-for-lodging-in-a-dangerous-city routine. As Gene turned to lock the door on the driver's side, a man came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. Gene whirled on him with every muscle in his body tense, the veins in his bullish neck showing. He was over reacting because the touch had caught him by surprise when he thought he was being alert to danger. We called Gene our muscle because of his powerful upper body and because he took his role as our protector seriously. Ordinarily, his blue eyes had a calm innocence that he was perfectly capable of exaggerating when it suited his purpose, but now his eyes were blue flames.
The man took a step back. "I just want to wash your car."
"Stay away from my car."
"I’m only trying to make an honest dollar," he called after us as we walked away.
They didn't have phones in the rooms at the Mopan, but the owner said Gene could use her office phone and that she'd send someone running up the three flights to get him if he received calls. We got the only room with a view of the bay, #303, at the end of a wide covered verandah. We brought our luggage and two folding lawn chairs up from Azul Grande. Mike stretched out on the bed for a few minutes while Gino set the chairs out on the verandah where there was already a bench. I unpacked the toiletries and set up the coffee pot. Gene made a quick repair on the ceiling fan. "Okay," he said. "Now we can go eat."
Waiting outside is the car washer. "This machine really needs cleaning," he said.
He was right. The mud of many rivers and the dust of many miles made the van more gray than blue. The washer man was old, and Gene was feeling mellower now that we were settled. He said, "I'll let you wash the car later, but not till I tell you, okay?" He explained to us, "I want the van dirty for the appraisal. It might make it lower."
An armed guard stood outside the entrance to Mom's, our dinner destination, so we knew Azul Grande was safe. Mom's is a funky old favorite with travelers from the United States, recommended to us by a friend. Besides tables and chairs, there is a lunch counter. Electric fans keep the warm air moving. Gene and I order Mexican food and Belikin's, a local beer. Mike is the most adventurous. He has Gibnut, a Creole specialty. Also known as Paca, Gibnut is a herbivorous rodent about the size of a badger. Although it is served with a tiny bit of fur still attached, it is fall apart tender and very tasty, somewhat like pork roast. Gino orders a hamburger, French fries, and a vanilla milk shake. The shake is thick but not too thick. His fries are golden brown. The meat tastes like hamburger. The bun is homemade, fresh and fragrant, and every condiment of choice is available. He’d been served enough disappointing burgers in our travels that he thought this meal was a minor miracle. We all agreed we'd return to Mom's.
Back at the hotel, Gene began to call the men who'd been serious enough about buying Azul Grande to give him their phone numbers. The only one who lived in Belize City was the Reverend Browning. We'd met him in Punta Gorda, a simple village on a narrow road that hugged the water. Reverend Browning visualized eight of his flock being transported to church services and socials in "the Van of God." The Reverend wasn't home. Gene left our number.
Rodney of Dangriga was home. Punta rock played in the background. He was still interested but hadn't got the money together yet. "You have 24 hours," Gene said.
The man from Crooked Tree, where we'd gone to see rare five feet tall Jabiru Storks, didn't have the money either.
Zandy, whom we'd met at the archeological ruins of Altun Ha, wanted the van for his tour business. He offered $2,000.
Gene said, "I'll drive it back to California before I'll take that kind of loss."
Sitting outside our room, sipping Belizian "Parrot" rum, Gene admitted we didn't have time for the long drive home. Besides, Azul Grande was purchased specifically to sell in Belize. Parts were easy to get. It had the high clearance needed on the bad roads.
Mike said, "If you take a loss, I'll absorb some of it. It'd still be cheaper than renting a car would have been."
"Maybe not at $2,000."
"You'll get more than that."
"I don't know," said Gene. "It's a short list."
"It only takes one," said Mike.
"I'm hungry," said Gino.
"We have a tin of sardines left," I said.
"No thanks."
"Metamucil?" offered Mike.
"No," said Gino. "I'm trying to quit."
Someone was running up the stairs. A young man appeared at the end of the verandah. "There's a call for Gene," he said breathlessly.
"I'll bring you back something," Gene told Gino. Mike waved his cane. Gene nodded to him, understanding that he wanted a snack too. In ten minutes, he returned with soft drinks. "This is all I could get. The call was from the Reverend. He's coming by for a test drive in the morning."
After the drive, the Reverend offered $2,500. Gene held out for the full $3,500. Reverend Browning said he'd ask for guidance from the Lord and money from his congregation. They'd talk again.
In between Gene making and waiting for phone calls, we devoted a good deal of our time to dining. We liked to sit out on the covered porch of Four Fort Street, an elegant old home converted to a restaurant with a few rooms to rent upstairs. They are known for their desserts. Homemade soursap ice cream had an unusual sweet and sour flavor. Sour sap fruit is the size of a grapefruit with conical but harmless horns on the lime green exterior. We had plenty of time to ask to see the fruit or to discuss how they made the cashew jam that was spread between fresh baked sugar cookies. It turns out, the cashew has both a fruit and a nut.
After visiting the Baron Bliss Institute, we had pretty much exhausted the sights to see in the city, but we couldn't spend all our time eating. We used our imaginations and walked from the Mopan to a horror movie set of a cemetery with overturned headstones, overgrown grounds, and out of control mosquitoes. "You'd think they'd take better care of this place," said Mike. "People are dying to get in here."
We shopped for music tapes of Punta Rock and photographed a store window that displayed towels, disposable diapers, women's clothing, and condoms, all in one window. We crossed the Haulover Creek swing bridge many times and never saw it swing. Our filthy vehicle elicited such a look of disapproval from the doorman at the fancy Fort George Hotel that we thought he might deny us entry, but he didn't. We swam and lunched poolside overlooking the bay. Locals hung out at the public pier across from the hotel just as they did in Beka Lamb, the novel I was reading by Belizian Zee Edgell.
We still practiced the precautions of paranoia, but it seemed that the notorious muggers and pickpockets had turned to a life of car washing. Gene gave the old man outside our place some money to keep an eye on the van.
Three hundred flights of stairs later, Gene had a deal. Reverend Browning had come up with $3,500, but out of that, he had to pay the taxes. What was left over was ours. Gene and the Reverend would take the van in for the tax assessor's appraisal the next morning. We decided to celebrate by making our return visit to Mom's. "I'm getting the hamburger this time," said Gene.
"Me too," said Gino. "And another shake."
"I think I'll get Gibnut," I said.
"To make the musical chairs meal complete, I'll have to get Mexican food," said Mike.
But there were no buns for burgers, no ice cream for shakes, and no Gibnut either. "Not even a small piece of fur?" asked Mike facetiously. The waitress was not amused. It was Sunday, and she'd rather be out at the cays or at least down at the pier.
"You'd think they'd get extra supplies on Saturday to tide them over till Monday," I said.
"Not all mom's are as organized as you," said Gino.
The meal was seasoned with too much disappointment to be a complete success, but at least we weren't hungry when we stepped back out on the street. Gene stopped in mid-stride. "Oh my God," he said. We all stared in shock at a sparkling clean Azul Grande. A raggedy Rastafarian with dread locks down to his bare shoulders stood next to the van, waiting for praise and payment. Gene turned on the armed guard. "How could you let this happen? What kind of a guard are you?" Dumfounded that anyone would be so upset about their car being washed, the guard didn't respond.
Gene looked like he was going to cry. He said, "I can't give him anything. Thanks to him, that's probably the most expensive dinner we've ever had."
"It could have rained," I said.
"But it didn't," he said. "And what am I going to tell the old man on Regent Street?"
Mike slipped Rasta man some money and said, apologetically, "He did a good job."
"Yeah," said Gene despondently. "The van looks great."

At the tax appraisal, Reverend Browning pulled Gene aside and asked, "Why'd you wash it?"
"I didn't." Gene told him the story.
The Reverend laughed. "If a car wash is the worst thing that happens to you in Belize City then the good Lord must be looking after you." He paid $600 in taxes. We left town with $2,900 and the knowledge that Azul Grande's dirty days were over.

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photos: first – Gino, Mary, & inspector at Guatemala/Belize border, second – another road less paved, to Punta Gorda, Belize,