(08/04/26)

Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer ​

​Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2026 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
"Boom & Chime"
​Back in the day, the music of Belize sounded raucous, primitive, tinny, and shrill to the unadjusted ears of the foreigner. Compared to the refined professionalism of both live and recorded music in the States, it seemed raw and amateurish. In the hot and humid climate, perpetually sweaty players clanged and banged on instruments that were crude, often homemade, and mostly out-of-tune. To newcomers, lyrics sung in Kriol were unintelligible.​
But Belizeans had enthusiasm and rhythm, and what never failed to pull in the crowd was the beat. The homegrown music, born in the roots of African, Latino, and Caribbean music, was a mish-mash sort of tropical zydeco that became known as “brukdown.” Newly-landed gringos—like everyone else—soon felt the contagion, and found themselves dancing with a bottle of Belikin, or a glass of One Barrel in their hand at the peppy, booty-shaking parties, parades, festivals, and miscellaneous jump-ups
​The all-time heavy hitter of the genre was “Mista Peters,” iconic accordion player, singer, and front man for the most famous such group, “Boom and Chime.” He became the Belizean equivalent to Jamaica’s Bob Marley, and brukdown, an answer to reggae music. Mista Peters’ primary sidekick was Terry Chimes who played his namesake-custom-one-sided mahogany drum, specifically designed for dual functionality. The skin-side was hit with a mallet, producing the “boom,” while the other produced a high “chime” when a drumstick struck the metal rim. 
Most of the other instruments in Boom & Chime were percussive, their history rooted in the 19th century mahogany camps where isolated workers had drawn rhythms from everyday objects. They used what they had, making mahogany drums, bongos and congas with drumheads of stretched mule-skin hides, and blocks of resonant rosewood, plus rum bottles, coconut shells, and rattles. 
Picture
Turtle shells strapped on chest. (Second from right.) 
By the 1960s, Mista Peters had brought in a musician with a beat-up guitar. But, for all decades ever-after, the group still maintained traditional use of “found” objects. One player used the jawbone of an ass which he scratched with a stick, as well as the brake-drum of a car, hit with a metal stick. My favorite? The guy with two inverted turtle shells strapped to his chest. 
    “Shall I baby.” Dat’s a “Shall I baby.” 
Find yu pikni-daddy, fu eh no fayva me.*
Some of Mista Peters most famous songs were “Good Mawning Belize,” a standard cheery wake-up call heard over the radio at the crack of dawn. Two other, slightly cheeky, songs included: “Run Fu Yu Life” depicting Mista Peters’ narrow escape from a married lady’s husband. The other was “Shall I Baby,” which wasn’t an invitation to romance, but rather a back-room “nickname” imposed on a infant whose paternity was in question. (Lyrics here are paraphrased.) 
​
​Throughout the late ‘70s and early ‘80s, the Fort George was the default venue for U.S. Embassy social events and official receptions. By then, Belize City was brimming with foreign delegations, journalists, and diplomatic staff in anticipation Belizean Independence Day, set to occur on Sept. 21st, 1981. 
We’d had the good fortune to be invited by U.S. Consulate, Tanya Russ, to a rooftop party hosted by the Embassy. The flat-roof terrace on the Fort George had been a part of the original Colonial Wing—a large, lovely sky-kissed space at that time—which, sadly, was destined to disappear in the modern Radisson renovation in the 1990s. The terrace was approximately 65-feet long and 40-feet wide. It had a parapet wall, roughly waist-high on an adult—and just sufficient to prevent any rum-soaked guests from falling overboard. 
Cooled by the sea breeze, I took in the view. The Caribbean was dark, with occasional boat lights from small craft moored nearby, the waves lapping softly against the seawall below. Southeast was the white lighthouse tower, its soft gentle glow lighting the tomb of Belize’s revered patron, Baron Bliss. To the west was Belize City itself, with the old Colonial Hospital a few blocks inland, and the dome of the Supreme Court faintly visible. The city was so much darker in those days. Street grids were lit only by sparse sodium street lamps, and occasional taxi headlights along Marine Parade and Cork Street. Neon signage was non-existent. 
​On the terrace were festive coloured lights strung around the perimeter, and festooning diagonally throughout the venue. Besides the bar, there were tables and chairs, but most guests preferred to stand with their drinks, alternately dancing and talking, while Mista Peters played his accordion, and wailed into the microphone. Attendees were U.S. and Belizean government officials, British military brass, gringos from Cayo and the other Districts, and many Belizean businessmen and their wives and girlfriends, various influencers, and friends of the Consulate. Fruits and hors d’oeuvres, meat pies, and pasties, coconut cakes, and shrimp, and all kinds of delicacies guaranteed that all guests would be well-fêted. There was also cashew wine. 
​Many people do not know that cashews are unique, in that they only grow one nut atop each individual cashew fruit, known as cashew apple. The cashew inside the casing is actually soft and delicate, and the shell contains caustic, poisonous oils in its raw state. It must be heat‑treated, usually roasted or steamed, to remove the toxic shell oils before it can be rendered as a raw nut, and then it may be roasted again for flavor. As for the fruit, cashew apple can be eaten fresh, or as an ingredient in cooking, or turned into preserves. But it has a short shelf life, and therefore it is usually only used or served very locally to where it is grown.
​My young son, now 6 years old, was not the only youngster at the gathering. That night, a dozen or more Kriol and Latino children caroused with a number of tow-headed gringo kids, dancing, chasing each other, creating chaos, and thoroughly enjoying the party. Reminiscent of the old-time Colonial era, formally-dressed white-gloved servers from the Fort George staff carried trays with glasses of the delicate cashew wine, offering it to the guests. 
Lupita, who had often accompanied me to Belize City, had agreed to come with us to the party that night, as we would be staying over in one of the hotel rooms downstairs. At some point, she’d departed the rooftop with our boy, to make sure he got to safely to bed.
So, it was quite a surprise to arrive in our room around 1:00AM, and find Lupita still sitting in a chair beside the bed—a look of concern on her face. She glanced over at the child, and back at me. Our 6-year old was lying on his side, eyes half-open, his cheek smooshing his face sideways on the pillow, and drooling slightly. He was either asleep, or in an altered state of consciousness, as his lips were moving in a manner of a dying fish gasping for air. 
Sheepishly, Lupita looked up at me...
​
​Miss Nancy, so sorry to say, but I think he's drunk."
And it was true. We had assumed the wine steward would have provided better supervision. But, apparently, none of us had considered that the white glove servers had (either innocently, or devilishly) been offering cashew wine, not only to the adults—but also to the kids. 
The next day, my son told me he felt dizzy, that his head hurt, and the room was “acting funny.” I was mortified, and made him drink several glasses of water.  My poor little 6-year-old was experiencing his very first hangover.

But then again, Belizeans knew how to party. 

* Shall-I-Baby. That's a Shall-I-Baby.
Find your pickaninny's daddy, because he no favor (look like) me."