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(12/12/22)
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Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer
Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2022 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
"The Belmopan Song"
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In 1977, telecommunications were nearly non-existent. There was only one phone in all of Cayo, located at the BTL Office, halfway up the hill to where Don Escandar’s hotel was still being built. But, our calls had proved fruitless. Minister Marin ran didn’t want to talk to us on the phone. So we drove to Belmopan, a tortuous trek down the bony, stony, muck-and-mire of the Cristo Rey road. After several trips over a period of weeks, we realized Minister Marin didn’t want to see us in person either. There we were in his office, perched on wooden chairs opposite his desk, waiting for him to put down the newspaper which completely blocked our view of his face. The newspaper was apparently far more engrossing. We waited, and waited. Finally, Minister Marin pulled the newspaper aside, looked at us briefly, and said, “All you gringos want to do in Belize is grow weed,” he said, dismissively. Again, the newspaper block. We thanked him politely, and quietly fumed during the long, bumpy, muddy ride back-a-bush.
Hmmm. This is going to take some original thinking. |
Over the next week or so, I did, indeed, come up with a creative plan. Bold, maybe stupid, and a major gamble. Mr. Marin would either think we were crazy and kick us out, or we were crazy (and therefore, a perfect match for Belize) and fit right in. Either way, this would bring about resolution, and would certainly leave a few government officials speechless. I had written a song, and planned to accompany myself on a funky old guitar.
I am no guitarist. I only knew a half-dozen chords, and would probably only need three of them. The tune was simple, the lyrics catchy, and I planned to sing it in Kriol. Or, at least, with a vaguely Kriol accent.
The Honourable Florencio Marin looked shocked as I walked into the sacred halls of Belmopan with a guitar over my shoulder.
“Are you going to play for us?,” he said, now looking almost frightened.
“Ya, mahn,” I replied, not caring if I sounded casual. “An I gwine sing it inna Kriol too.”
Now, clearly flustered, the Minister couldn’t think of how to get rid of me.
“Well… then go down the hall to Mr. Arnold’s office, and play it for him.”
The amiable Mr. Norman Arnold, a tall dark-skinned man with a huge white smile, invited me in and pleasantly motioned me to sit. He leaned back in his chair, and rested his hands behind his head, seemingly as amused as the Minister was flustered. Seeing the guitar, Norman didn’t know what was going to happen, but he had a feeling he was going to enjoy it. As I began, a crowd gathered in the hall, including Minister Marin, whose curiosity had obviously now gotten the better of him.
Oh, Belmopan, Belmopan
Seem like yu no help us, but we know yu can
We jus lookin for, wa small helpin hand
We jus want to buy wa lee piece a land.
We’ve looked in El Cayo, we’ve looked in P.G.
Border de Guatemala, to di edge of di sea,
No mind, steep or rocky, or full lone high trees
We jus want to buy, wa lee piece of Belize.
Oh Belmopan, Belmopan
Seem like yu no help us but we know yu can
We jus lookin for, wa small helpin hand
We jus want to buy wa lee piece a land.
Do farmin’ in the daytime, play music all night
We won’t do anyting now…… dat yu wouldn’t like
An only yu can help to rescue us from our plight,
We want peace and love, mahn, we don’t want to fight.
And then if we get it…… it will be so nice,
We’ll say “Thank you Mista Marin. Thank yu Mista Price.”
In that moment, Mr. Arnold, his staff, and every Belizean in the hallway outside broke into enthusiastic applause. Three days later, we were granted the permit under the Alien Landholding Act. Yep. Apparently, we were crazy, and fit right in.
Although I composed this song in 1977, I had never preserved it on audio or video. But in the fall of 2020, when I first decided to write for the Belize National Historical Society, I retrieved my granddaughter’s toy guitar, and set up the camcorder.
I figured it was time to preserve “The Belmopan Song” for the historical archives.
I am no guitarist. I only knew a half-dozen chords, and would probably only need three of them. The tune was simple, the lyrics catchy, and I planned to sing it in Kriol. Or, at least, with a vaguely Kriol accent.
The Honourable Florencio Marin looked shocked as I walked into the sacred halls of Belmopan with a guitar over my shoulder.
“Are you going to play for us?,” he said, now looking almost frightened.
“Ya, mahn,” I replied, not caring if I sounded casual. “An I gwine sing it inna Kriol too.”
Now, clearly flustered, the Minister couldn’t think of how to get rid of me.
“Well… then go down the hall to Mr. Arnold’s office, and play it for him.”
The amiable Mr. Norman Arnold, a tall dark-skinned man with a huge white smile, invited me in and pleasantly motioned me to sit. He leaned back in his chair, and rested his hands behind his head, seemingly as amused as the Minister was flustered. Seeing the guitar, Norman didn’t know what was going to happen, but he had a feeling he was going to enjoy it. As I began, a crowd gathered in the hall, including Minister Marin, whose curiosity had obviously now gotten the better of him.
Oh, Belmopan, Belmopan
Seem like yu no help us, but we know yu can
We jus lookin for, wa small helpin hand
We jus want to buy wa lee piece a land.
We’ve looked in El Cayo, we’ve looked in P.G.
Border de Guatemala, to di edge of di sea,
No mind, steep or rocky, or full lone high trees
We jus want to buy, wa lee piece of Belize.
Oh Belmopan, Belmopan
Seem like yu no help us but we know yu can
We jus lookin for, wa small helpin hand
We jus want to buy wa lee piece a land.
Do farmin’ in the daytime, play music all night
We won’t do anyting now…… dat yu wouldn’t like
An only yu can help to rescue us from our plight,
We want peace and love, mahn, we don’t want to fight.
And then if we get it…… it will be so nice,
We’ll say “Thank you Mista Marin. Thank yu Mista Price.”
In that moment, Mr. Arnold, his staff, and every Belizean in the hallway outside broke into enthusiastic applause. Three days later, we were granted the permit under the Alien Landholding Act. Yep. Apparently, we were crazy, and fit right in.
Although I composed this song in 1977, I had never preserved it on audio or video. But in the fall of 2020, when I first decided to write for the Belize National Historical Society, I retrieved my granddaughter’s toy guitar, and set up the camcorder.
I figured it was time to preserve “The Belmopan Song” for the historical archives.