Quintana Roo and Belize: X'Calac, Hopkins, Placencia

Introductory Note To The Reader:

This blog is based on observations and experiences I had talking with the local populations in each of the following towns visited. My goal was to reflect and process some questions and criticism that were raised while traveling within these diverse regions. In light of philosopher and scholar, David Garland, his interpretation of the work of Foucault is more or less the intention I kept while creating this blog:
“Foucault is, above all, a theorist of paradox. Throughout many of his studies-on madness, medicine, modern discourse, sexuality- there is a tendency to reverse taken-for-granted understandings and to discover that things are often very far from what they seem.” – Review: Foucault’s Discipline and Punish- An Exposition and Critique. American Bar Foundation Journal: 1987. JSTOR

I would like the reader to consider the fact that many of the questions proposed in this blog are left unanswered. They are meant to challenge the complexities of Caribbean spaces; spaces that should not be taken for granted or taken at face value.

X’Calac
We traveled north-west from the coast of the Laguna of Bacalar, circling the Bahia de Chetumal to the delicate peninsula of Cayo Ambergris. Our next destination was in a town in the northern region called X’Calac. X’calac lies north of La Laguna de Cantera and La Boca Bacalar Chico, which line the border of Belize along the Caribbean Sea coast.

Unlike Bacalar, X’calac was not a territory conquered by the Spanish colonial powers. The area was unknown throughout the years of Spanish colonization. Therefore, during the Guerra de Castas, X’Calac was seen as a site of refuge for the Maya population. X’Calac does not have the historical attraction that Bacalar possesses and therefore, cannot market its history the way other quant towns in the Yucatan Peninsula are capable of. Due to this, perhaps X’Calac’s lack of European domination from its historical onset has resulted in its humble infrastructure and underdevelopment that is apparent today.
As we arrived to town, it became apparent that there was no center plaza with a main governmental building. There were no coble-stoned callejones, or Spanish-style buildings and architecture. Instead, the buildings and streets resembled more of what we were to see in Belice: unpaved streets made of sand and dust, old concrete buildings that seemed torn down by bulldozers, and thatched roof houses made of wood elevated from the ground. This pattern of constructed wooden homes elevated from the ground can be traced back to the Colonial Plantation era when homes were constructed with an elevation from the ground in order to let the steamy, humid, tropical air circulate.
However, social stratification was still apparent in what seemed to be X’Calac’s ghostly appearance. Behind the tropical palm trees and dry brush laid several concrete mansions and private lots. A car parked in the parking lot of one of these homes had a Minnesota license plate giving away the fact that X’calac has also become a peaceful haven for a number of foreign expats.

It so happened that the woman who lived in one of these mansions in this midst of X’calac’s poverty owned one of the most pricey, high quality restaurants in town: The Leaky Palapa. When I walked by this seafood joint, it wasn’t the menu filled with lobster, crab, and other fancy delicacies that caught my attention. Rather, it was the flag of Gay Pride that swayed in the breeze over the restaurant. The Rainbow Flag proudly marked the spot of these Canadian and American expats who resided in X’Calac.




I knocked on the door to The Leaky Palapa and a very friendly woman answered. She seemed surprised to see two obviously foreign females by her doorway. I asked if they were open. She said no. I told her the menu was very enticing. She said thank you, and then proclaimed that it is also tedious and hard to maintain. It was in that moment that we came to her door that her partner was driving all the way to Chetumal in order to pick up their cooking supplies. Even though X’Calac resides right next to the Caribbean Sea and a sweet water lagoon, they need to drive four hours away to buy their seafood and cooking supplies.
Fishing provides the main staple food in X’Calac, but it seemed as though the majority of the fishing conducted was for individual subsistence and not for profit. Come to think of it, I didn’t even see a fishing market in the village. Why was that? What does the local population aside from fish and where does it come from? I would think that not everyone drives to Chetumal to buy their cooking supplies.
The conversation pretty much ceased after this since it seemed like she had quite a bit to do. She hoped that we would come by sometime when the restaurant was open. However, the traveling to Chetumal in order to by their supplies must be one of the reasons why the prices on the menu were so high. I wondered who in X’Calac could possibly afford the food at the restaurant. From what I could tell, the town didn’t seem to offer much work opportunities. Is there another foreign population in X’Calac that would relish in these delicious luxuries? From what I could also see, there wasn’t a main tourist hotel or resort to be found. So, what do the locals in X’Calac do?












I met a young man from London England during a short walk on only boat dock in town. His name was James. James is studying oceanography at his University in England and is writing his final Masters thesis on the topography and wildlife off of X’calac’s shores. He claimed that out of all of the Yucatan, including the sacred Mayan Cenotes, the coast of X’calac is by far the most beautiful area to underwater scuba dive. He said he’s been to the twonseveral times over the years and absolutely loves the peaceful atmosphere.
“Have you been to Mahaual?” He asked me. I said, “No. Not yet.” He said, “It’s absolutely awful.” He told me that over the years that he has visited the region, Mahaual had turned into a suffocating whirlpool of tourism that the inhabitants of X’Calac are determine to keep themselves out of. He said he liked X’Calac because unlike Mahaul, the people leave him alone and don’t tried to squeeze a dime out of him. Apparently the laws and regulations concerning land propriety, construction, and foreign investment are very strict to keep X’Calac “pure” of modern day imperialism (aka private tourism.) He then pointed far off into the distance at what looked like another peninsula. “You see over there,” he said. “That’s Belize.” He then informed me that even citizens of Belize need to obtain a special government permission in order to enter the Mexican part of the bay that borders the two countries.
James is one of seven other foreign students who are in X’Calac getting their Scuba diving licenses and studying oceanography. He showed me the house they lived in. I giant satellite cable disk protruded from the top of the concrete building. He told me that he doesn’t know any other foreigners in town, but the majority of the students are European and Canadian and mainly come to scuba dive, only a few others were students studying oceanography or marine biology like him.
As I continued to walk I started to notice the subtle governmental presence in the town. There were many signs telling what was allowed and what was prohibited in regards to the natural environment. Environmental conservation seemed to be a key concern within the community.

















X’Calac was most certainly peaceful and relatively welcoming to outsiders. The kids played barefoot in the dusty streets and no one seemed to try to squeeze a buck out of me in the few public businesses I entered into. They didn’t charge me anything to use a public bathroom in a restaurant, unlike Mahaual where they charged me ten pesos.
Two children playing next to the beach reminded me of today’s youth back in the United States. Would more kids in The States be playing the way these kids did if there wasn’t so much access to technological entertainment? I decided to stop and play for a while. These two boys had no shoes, but an imagination that reminded me of what “playing” was like before computers. I realized that my generation was the last generation to be raised without computers and internet in the home. Who knows, maybe every afternoon these two kids played video games and Nintendo Wii, but their ability to dodge the rusty nails sticking out of the wood beneath their feet, and see the giant branch protruding out into the water in the distance as a boat filled with pirates had me thinking otherwise. These boys convinced me that the fire they told me that was streaming out of their ankles, heals, toes, back, and shoulders was real.






The woman who was watching them worked cleaning bathrooms in a nearby Hotel. This Hotel did not look like a hotel at all, but instead a big brick house. The woman told me that the owner of the Hotel was Belizean and he paid her to keep it clean. But from what Yare and I could tell, there was no one inside staying there.








Belize: “One Bridge for the America’s and the Caribbean”






I was already in culture shock upon entering Belize without even leaving the bus. The sights and sounds were enough to make me realize the distinctly Caribbean difference between Belize and Yucatan. The open highway seemed quiet and empty. However, random signs in English, Spanish, and Chinese lined the towns that framed our path such as, “Tienda Verde,” “Tortilla Maya,” “Blue Note Motor Insurance is here to serve you!” and “Dong Lee Market.”
The radio was over-flowing with African-American artists: songs of Rhythm and Blues, Hip-Hop, Reggae, and recent American hits like Beyonce’s “Halo” monopolized what seemed to be almost every station. The advertisements announced portrayed a brazen pride within the local community. During the announcement for Belize’s yearly international bike race, the disc-jockey proclaimed, “Belize believes in the talent of our people.” Another advertisement in support of a national biscuit brand insisted that people should be attracted to their business because the owner was “100 % Belizean.” Subtle observations such as these gave me the impression that I had entered into a unique, and friendly nationalistic country.
Unlike Yucatan, where the culture seems to be a bit more conservative, the music and “shout outs” on the radio seemed to suggest a party-type attitude and atmosphere. For example, “DJ Bush got me blazin’ in Belize” would precede a punta rock song that seemed to mimic Jamaican dancehall rhythms. Not once did I here shout outs like these or punta rock or reggae on any radio station in Merida.
Aside from the beats that made it hard to sit still inside of the bus, Belize’s absolutely breathtaking landscape instantly caught my attention. We passed what seemed to be miles and miles of sugar cane fields. Similar to X’Calac, beautiful homes made of wood were elevated from the ground. This space between the house and the ground that was once used to keep farms animals and livestock in their place is now used as a garage for family cars.



Trucks filled with Mahogany tree trunks passed on the road, and hand-painted signs advertised cashew nut wines, natural fruit juices, and local cuisines that consisted of rice, beans, and different meat stews.







Hopkins

Before visiting Belize I had started reading a book on Garifuna music and dance: Heart Drum: Spirit Possession in the Garifuna Community of Belize (1986) by Bryon Foster. I was particularly interested in learning about local attitudes towards Garifuna music and dance practices upon my arrival in Hopkins. A brief discussion with a local young man gave me a new perspective on Garifuna culture and most certainly, Bryon Foster and his research.
I met Kenny while biking with travel partner, Yare along the main street of Hopkins. He was sitting in a circle with twelve other men. No woman was to be seen. Yare and I would not have stopped had not Jesus, the only male in our study group, was not also sitting in the circle with them. I was intimidated, and felt that I was infringing upon something that was clearly a “male space.” I could feel their eyes staring me down.

However, one man generously offered me his sit next to Kenny. After a few minutes of introductory talk, I asked him if there were a lot of people in town who still devotedly practiced Garifuna religion. He said yes and pointed to a giant, man-made, roofless hut on the other side of the street. “You see that,” he said. “That’s where it all goes down.”
Apparently two weeks every June there is ritual that takes place where people dance, play music, and “connect with the ancestors” without rest underneath this brittle hut. People come from all over the country and the United States, Canada, and Europe in order to partake in the special event. He even told me that “a lot of weird things happen.” And he seemed uncomfortable talking to me about it. I told him he didn’t have to tell me anything he didn’t feel comfortable telling me. He then gave a short laugh, shook his head, smiled, and proceeded. He said that sometimes when people don’t come to the ritual, when they are expected to partake out of respect or religious devotion, “bad things” happen to them that cannot be explained. I wasn’t quite sure what he was saying, but he continued to tell the story of a man he knew that became gravely ill because he refused to appear at the Garifuna ritual. He said, “It’s weird man, really weird” what “go’s on over there.” But he then said that the religion is sacred; that there is a secret language that is spoken, and that he couldn’t really explain or tell me any more about it. He then put his hand to his chest and proclaimed that the religion was not his, that he doesn’t practice it. He is not religiously Garifuna. What he knows is based on what he has seen and heard.
I then began to speak about Heart Drum: Spirit Possession in the Garifuna Community of Belize and that it was written by “this guy from England” who lived in Hopkins in the eighties. He asked, “What was his name?” When I told him Bryon Foster he said, “Oh yea. I’ve heard of the guy. As a matter of fact, he has a son wandering around here somewhere.” Another one of his friends in the circle said that they had heard of him too. Kenny smoothly remarked, “Yea, the guy had a reputation.” I thanked Kenny and decided it was time to leave the men’s circle to find where the woman’s circle was.

Two boys ride a bike in the main street of Hopkins near the town basketball court

I noticed that spaces were extremely gender specific while walking around the streets of Hopkins. It was mostly men who spent their time outside enjoying the local Belikin bear in broad daylight. I saw women when I peeked through the open doors to houses that lined the main street. I also noticed a different response from the older woman in the village towards Yare and I than the younger women. The younger women who I tried to greet seemed suspicious and slightly unwelcoming. The older women were a bit more warm and friendly.
The men were more aggressive in trying to grab our attention in the streets. Why did the younger women seem so suspicious of two foreign women walking in the street? It made me think of certain street dynamics I had noticed while in Havana, Cuba. I wondered, was there a type of underground sexual, political culture between the locals and foreigners that permeated Hopkins? I thought of Bryon Foster. Was this a place where white foreign men come to find young, black women? Was this a place where white women come to find young, black men? From what I could see, there was no explicit sexual tourism in the streets, but this is not to say that perhaps it doesn’t exist. It became more apparent when we traveled to Placencia how sexual tourism underlies the surface in certain communities in Belize.

Hamanasi Resort: The Eco-Tourists Paradise

Yare and I’s next destination was Hamanasi resort. We were trying to find the paradox between the local town and the flourishing tourist industry. We sparked up a conversation with the bartender, King and his bar-backer, Norton aka Mugzy who lived in the town of Hopkins. King told us that Hamanasi was voted as being the number one resort in the Caribbean by Travel Adsvisor last year. It’s “eco-tourism” flair makes it a trendy hot spot for North-Americans and Europeans. The owner is a Canadian.
King spun an evocative array of music on his Ipod, all reggae artists: Sizzla, Toots and the Maytals etc. He told me he just got his Ipod back recently from Belize City, where he had to deliver it to get it fixed. Belize City is the commerce heart of the country. The fancy wines and imported liquors that decorated the back wall of his bar must have passed through Belize City at some point. But what about the food served there? Here is a typical menu that can be found on Hamanasi’s web page:
Soup:
Spicy curry noodle soup with chicken and sweet potato
Salad Special:
Sliced pear wrap shrimp salad with fresh mint
Entrées:
Risotto folded with button mushrooms, heavy cream, shaved parmesan and topped with julienne orange glazed shoestring carrots
Rainforest honey baked ham with roasted garlic-butter chicken quarters served with sautéed assorted vegetables, candied yams, creamy whipped mashed potato and gravy
Baked banana leaf wrapped yellow tail snapper fillet rubbed with extra virgin olive oil, fresh cilantro, onions, and lime juice paired with pineapple-tomato tartare and petite sage dressing tart
Dessert Special:
Mango crème brulee

Curry? Cream? Yams? Not to mention dozens of vegetables that do not grow locally: mushrooms, cilantro, “sautéed assorted vegetables.” The majority of these products are imported, and pass through Belize City. Due to this, the importation taxes in the country are extremely high.
King said he dislikes having to go to Belize City. The violence is more than he can take. Apart from this, he has cousins that live there and when he goes to visit it’s just, “party, party, party, day and night.” King had been working at Hamanasi for the past ten years or so, and worked at another resort on an island close to Belize before that. He enjoys his job, and he was clearly very good at it. Our conversation got interrupted by a tall woman with a North-American English accent asking for a daquiri. Following her, a large crowd of Hamanasi guests flooded the bar. They had just returned from a nine hour trip touring Mayan ruins.
Yare and I struck up a conversation with one older man. He was Turkish, but had lived in Boston Massachusetts and Puerto Rico for several years. He said he absolutely loved Puerto Rico. That is was his “dream destination” and that he hoped to return there one day for good. When he lived there he worked for El Departamento de Haciendo, aka the United States Department of Treasury. That made me wonder:
I have never been to Puerto Rico, but from what I have learned from close Puerto Rican friends, it is also a complicated little island with its own violent and political conflicts. If this man worked for the US Government in the “Estado Libre Asociado,” I doubt his life lacked power and material wealth. Is it possible that a person, such as this gentleman by the bar, could live there for several years without acknowledging the fact that it might not all be paradise? If for him, Puerto Rico, was his “dream island,” what exactly did this “dream island” consist of? Why Puerto Rico and not, for example, Belize?



Another woman from New Jersey with whom I struck up a conversation by the bar had told me I should have come to Hamanasi last week because there were a lot of “people who work for the government” in the United States vacationing there. This was after I had mentioned that I was doing my Masters degree in Caribbean Cultural Studies.
Mugzy was King’s bar backer, another nice young man from the town of Hopkins. The first question he asked us was, “So, what do you guys know about Belizean culture?” My first response was, “Well, I know you still have the Queen of England on your dollar bill.” He laughed and retorted, “It’s crazy right?” He placed Kings sparkling new Martini on his tray and dashed out to the pool-side patio to deliver it to a guest. He seemed really curious as to why we were there.
After chatting on the subject for a while, he told us he had always been interested in getting his degree in Caribbean Studies from the University of the West Indies. He found the field to be extremely important. I got the impression that Mugzy was fully aware of Belize’s social and political complexities in a way that others locals in the area who I had previously met did not. I got the impression that he and King see who comes in and out of the country and where the power seems to lie. He asked us where else we were going to travel to, and we told him Placencia. His eyes seemed to light up, “That’s where it’s at!” He said. “There’s suppose to be a big party there this weekend!” Apparently it’s the number one party spot in the Stan Creek Region for locals and non- locals to. When I had mentioned that I had also heard that a lot of land was being bought out there, and that a lot of big homes and resorts were getting built, Mugzy’s facial expression changed from one of excitement to one of melancholy, “Excuse me, but I have work to do.” He said. He turned come back to the bar to chat with us for the rest of the evening.
I felt bad. Perhaps my comment upset him? I turned to King and said, “Was it something I said?” He just shrugged his shoulders, but I couldn’t help but feel that my comment concerning the current consumption of Placencia’s landscape might have rubbed him the wrong way.

Placencia


In comparison to Hopkins, Placencia seemed like the ultimate hippie tourist destination. There were far more shops, many of which were owned by Europeans and Canadians from what I could observe. There were also much more touristy services offered: scuba diving, deep water diving, resorts, excursions etc. It was a very colorful place. Jamaica reggae and dance hall music was blasting in the streets, people carried images of the marijuana leaf around their necks, and women walked around in bikini tops. I immediately noticed how youthful the town was, the majority of the people I saw in the street had to have been around thirty or younger. There were plenty of art galleries, hand-made jewelry shops, and “esoteric” type stores that did tarot card readings framing the streets. There was even a European-style gelato ice-cream shop.

Photos taken during Placencia's yearly arts fetival

The local population was colorful as well: Americans, Europeans, Canadians, Belizeans, Central American immigrants from Spanish speaking countries like Guatamala and Honduras, and Chinese. It seemed like the Spanish speaking habitants owned the majority of the fruit stands, while the Chinese dominated the grocery markets. A flyer in the Barefoot Bar reflected a “Good Bye” letter from a Canadian couple in Toronto who owned a restaurant in town but had to shut it down temporarily in order to return to Canada and make more money to open their Placencia restaurant again in the suture. They thanked the local population for their support and hoped to be back “home” in Placencia soon.




A tree by the road with a sign reading “Tree of Wisdom” caught my eye. I walked over to the group of men that were sitting by it. I ask them why the tree was the “Tree of Wisdom,” and they said it was because good people gather beneath it and make it wise. This was the spot where “people talk” and “have a good time.” I then asked, “So it’s the people that make it wise?” They laughed and said, “That’s right. A lot of people come to Placencia to have a good time.” This man was originally from Dangriga, but enjoyed coming to Placencia to make friends and party. He promised that if Yare and I decided to come and party with them, they would “bring us back to town safely” and that they would “take care of us.” He said that there were good and bad people in Placencia. That there were people you could trust, and people who will just rob you.

The "Tree of Wisdom"

Following this moment a man came up behind me, glaring at me up and down. He asked me where I was from and I said, New York. Following this statement he started to describe the way, and motion the way, he wanted to make “sweet love to me.” If I was at all interested, I could see how easy it would have been to full-fill that universal human act with him. Once I made it clear I wasn’t interested, he left. However, I did see something that was ever so common in Havana, Cuba: And obviously foreign woman walking down the street holding hands with what clearly seemed to be a shirt-less Belizean man.
One man who I then began to talk with under the Wisdom Tree used to live in Humboldt County, Northern California. I asked what he did up there, he said, “Grow.” Marijuana, that is. He was originally from Placencia, got tired of California, and decided to return. Now he makes a living by dealing marijuana in the city. Marijuana is illegal in Belize, but its availability and popularity would make you think otherwise. He had also traveled to New York and said he had family that lived there. He said he liked New York, but could never live there. He prefers the peace that Belize has to offer.
I met many ex- United States Belizean immigrants in Placencia. Two men selling music and necklaces by the beach used to live in Brooklyn. It was fun talking places and spaces we had in common when New York seemed so far away. One of the CD’s on their table highlighted two Belizean artists: one a black man, another Chinese. The name of the group, which unfortunately slips my mind, had an explicit reference to a “China man.” I asked him what the music on that particular CD was like. He said it was good. He then commented that it was rare because the Chinese population in Belize doesn’t really mix with the Belizeans of Belize. According to him, they are not seen to be Belizeans. He said, “It’s not like how it is in other parts of the Caribbean you know? Like how it is in Cuba, where the Chinese are considered Cuban.” There is a lot of music in Cuba that references the local Chinese population. I wondered what kept the Chinese population in Belize from acclimating itself completely into society. What would they have to do or be in order to be considered “100% Belizean” like the owner of the biscuit cookie company advertised on the radio.