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(09/11/23)
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Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer
Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2023 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER SEVENTY
"...Or a Gunman"
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The air was thick and sultry with the salty-sour tang of low-tide. Headed back to my hotel room on Eve Street, I certainly hadn’t expected to be walking the streets of Belize City after dark. I’d had a 4:30PM appointment with Mrs. Gallaty – a friend of Dona Paulita, Don Escandar Bedran’s wife up in Cayo – to deliver a commissioned carving. Afterwards, she had invited me to “take tea,” and then had started telling stories of her historical childhood. Soon, late-afternoon had quickly turned into dark-evening. Now, as I stood out front of her handsome Victorian home, I realized there would be no more taxis until morning.
Although I had driven myself from Cayo, I often left my vehicle parked at the hotel, if I could get a good spot. It was more expedient to use taxis for errands in the City, as they could better negotiate the tangled web of narrow one-way streets. Plus, I enjoyed interacting with the old-school taxi drivers – the ones who had been steeped in colonial tradition. They were real gentlemen, and most were downright protective of me, going out of their way to assure my safety. |
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In Belize City, it appeared that vehicles had the right-of-way, as opposed to those on foot. Accordingly, one of my favourite taxi drivers had a sign on the front of his vehicle:
Pedestrian Crusher
So, I could either stand there, waiting for a taxi that wouldn’t come, or I could walk. I started walking. I don’t remember exactly where Mrs. Gallaty’s was in relation to Posada Tropicana, but it wasn’t all that far in distance. Still, I was nervous. I knew full-well that walking alone at night in Belize City was a bad idea. Besides that, I was white, which added to my visibility. Literally.
Luckily, I didn’t bring a purse. The only thing I carried over my shoulder was one of those cheap Mexican plastic shopping bags. Currently, it containing only a piece of black cake – a gift from Mrs. Gallaty. I also had a my hotel room key, and a few BH dollars, intended for the taxi. Both were tucked in my bra.
Luckily, I didn’t bring a purse. The only thing I carried over my shoulder was one of those cheap Mexican plastic shopping bags. Currently, it containing only a piece of black cake – a gift from Mrs. Gallaty. I also had a my hotel room key, and a few BH dollars, intended for the taxi. Both were tucked in my bra.
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When I heard muffled male voices coming from behind me, my whole world became a slow motion dream-sequence. The thing was – I KNEW better. I knew I shouldn’t have been walking in the dark. Now, I had a clairvoyant sense of how the whole sequence of events would unfold. Far from being in denial, my thinking was crystal clear. Back-a-bush in Cayo, I knew my surroundings. I knew the dangers, and the rules. If I came across a snake, it looked like a snake, slithered like a snake, and bit like a snake. But here, in Belize City, the snakes walked on two feet, and looked like everybody else.
As the voices came closer, I heard the footsteps. There were two of them. I didn't turn around. I thought of speeding up, or running. But I knew what I did next would influence what might happen, so I did neither. Any second I would feel a hand on my shoulder, and then the confrontation would begin. |
Just then, the large hand, indeed, landed on my shoulder, and I flashed on Ernie Smith’s lyrics…
“Then someone said, ‘Don’t move.”
“Hey, baby. What’s in the bag,” said the one. “Which part you gwine, gyal?” said the other.
Again, the slow-motion reality. Should I scream? Would screaming prompt my attackers to further violence? I didn’t scream. Should I run? What if they had a knife, or a gun? They could shoot me close, or shoot me far. I didn’t run.
Again, the slow-motion reality. Should I scream? Would screaming prompt my attackers to further violence? I didn’t scream. Should I run? What if they had a knife, or a gun? They could shoot me close, or shoot me far. I didn’t run.
Their faces were dark, as was the night. There would be no chance of identifying either one of them, nor could I see well enough to read their intent. I could only see that one was tall, and one was short.
“Let go the bag,” the tall one intoned. Reflexively, I held on, not because the bag contained anything of value, just because I was having a quick internal debate on whether letting go would end the matter. I just wanted to get away.
Then, the tall one stood behind me, and pinned my elbows; the short one stood in front, now leering at me. The next thing I knew, his hand was fumbling down into my blouse. And that’s when I lost it. There was something about that contact of bare skin on bare breast – a feeling of overwhelming revulsion. OK. If it was coming down to rape versus the bag, they could have the damned bag. But now, with my arms pinned, I couldn’t release it if I’d wanted to.\
I allowed my body to go slack, my momentary version of “playing possum.” I wanted them to think I had chosen to be submissive. But, inside, I was a coiled spring.
Nope. Not happening. No way, I’d thought. I’d been in Belize for four years now. I’d been through the Guatemalan earthquake of ’76, flooding rivers, forest fire, and Hurricane Greta – even surviving Miss Carmen’s ghost, AND the creepy-Jesus painting. And I was NOT going to let a couple of urban gangsta-duppies take me down.
I pretended to stagger sideways, as if falling, momentarily catching both attackers off-guard. Then I stomped squarely on the foot of the guy behind me, tightened my elbow and drove it into his solar-plexus. In a smooth continuation of the same fluid motion, I cocked my right knee and rammed it onto the groin of the guy in front. It must have been a direct shot, because he crumpled like a paper bag.
“Let go the bag,” the tall one intoned. Reflexively, I held on, not because the bag contained anything of value, just because I was having a quick internal debate on whether letting go would end the matter. I just wanted to get away.
Then, the tall one stood behind me, and pinned my elbows; the short one stood in front, now leering at me. The next thing I knew, his hand was fumbling down into my blouse. And that’s when I lost it. There was something about that contact of bare skin on bare breast – a feeling of overwhelming revulsion. OK. If it was coming down to rape versus the bag, they could have the damned bag. But now, with my arms pinned, I couldn’t release it if I’d wanted to.\
I allowed my body to go slack, my momentary version of “playing possum.” I wanted them to think I had chosen to be submissive. But, inside, I was a coiled spring.
Nope. Not happening. No way, I’d thought. I’d been in Belize for four years now. I’d been through the Guatemalan earthquake of ’76, flooding rivers, forest fire, and Hurricane Greta – even surviving Miss Carmen’s ghost, AND the creepy-Jesus painting. And I was NOT going to let a couple of urban gangsta-duppies take me down.
I pretended to stagger sideways, as if falling, momentarily catching both attackers off-guard. Then I stomped squarely on the foot of the guy behind me, tightened my elbow and drove it into his solar-plexus. In a smooth continuation of the same fluid motion, I cocked my right knee and rammed it onto the groin of the guy in front. It must have been a direct shot, because he crumpled like a paper bag.
“You want the bag?” I yelled, breaking away, and finally giving in to my adrenaline overdose. “Then take the effing bag.”
I have never been a particularly fast runner, but that night I might have won against the immortal Don Quarrie, or the future Usain Bolt. I was only surprised I didn’t break the sound barrier. In less than two minutes, I burst through the front door of Posada Tropicana.
I have never been a particularly fast runner, but that night I might have won against the immortal Don Quarrie, or the future Usain Bolt. I was only surprised I didn’t break the sound barrier. In less than two minutes, I burst through the front door of Posada Tropicana.
The owners, John and Roger, came to my immediate aid – as did two of my friends from Barton Creek Valley, Jeff and Kris Dotson – who were in town and staying the night. I was never much of a drinker, but when Roger brought me a stiff rum and Coke, I didn’t refuse. I downed it, but it still took more than an hour for my heartrate to return to normal.
Now, thinking back to that night, I do not begrudge the pair of muggers. There were wealthy people in Belize City, like Mrs. Gallaty, and many more who were painfully impoverished. These two had been scavengers and opportunists, not unlike the jaguars of the night in the Maya Mountains. It had been my own fault that I’d made myself a target.
They had only been trying to survive.
Just like me.
They had only been trying to survive.
Just like me.
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NEXT: CHAPTER: SEVENTY-ONE>>>
"Hola, Hormiga Mia" |