Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer ​

​Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2023 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
"Must Be a Duppy" (or a Gun Man)
The air was thick and muggy 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 Don Escandar’s wife, to deliver a commissioned carving. Afterwards, she had invited me to “take tea,” and then started telling fascinating stories of her childhood in the 1920s. Soon, late-afternoon had turned into dark-evening. Now, outside 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 Posada Tropicana 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 old-school Creole taxi drivers, dignified 
​​​gentlemen, who went out of their way to assure my safety. In Belize City, vehicles had the right-of-way, not people. Accordingly, one of my favourite drivers had a humourous sign on the front of his taxi that read: Pedestrian Crusher.
Well, I could stand there, waiting for a taxi that wouldn’t come, or I could start walking. I don’t remember exactly where Mrs. Gallaty’s house 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.
​Intentionally, I hadn’t brought a purse. The only thing I carried over my shoulder was one of those cheap Mexican woven-plastic shopping bags. Currently, it contained a few pieces of traditional Belizean black cake, a gift from Mrs. Gallaty. I also had my hotel room key, and a few BZE dollars tucked in my bra.
When I heard muffled male voices coming from behind me, my whole world became a slow-motion dream-sequence.Busted, I thought. Now I had a clairvoyant sense of how the whole sequence of events might unfold. Far from being in denial, my thinking was crystal-clear.
​As the voices came closer, I heard their footsteps. There were two of them. I didn't turn around. I thought of speeding up, or running. But I knew whatever I did next would influence their actions, so I did neither. Any second, the confrontation would begin.
Just then, indeed, a large hand landed on my shoulder, and I flashed on Ernie Smith’s lyrics, “Well, it must be a duppy or a gunman…” *
“Wat yu got inna di bag?” said the one. 
Wich paat yu gwine, gyal?” said the other. *
​Again, the slow-motion reality. So many thoughts in my head. Should I scream? Would screaming make it worse? I didn’t scream. Should I run? Did they have a knife or gun? Would it matter? 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, but I could certainly read their intent. 
“Lef go a di bag,” ** the tall one intoned. Reflexively, I held on, not because the bag contained anything of value, but because of my nternal debate. I just wanted to get away.
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. That’s when I lost it. Something about the contact of that rough hand 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. 
With all the “too-many-ways-to-die” I had already outlived—trapped on a submerged bridge between two flooded rivers, crouched under a bed while a hurricane roared overhead, nearly being burned to death in a milpa, feeling the earth quaking under my feet—even having survived Miss Carmen’s ghost and the creepy-Jesus painting--no way was I going to let a couple of urban duppy-gangstas take me down. 
​I allowed my body to go slack, letting them think I had chosen submission. But inside, I felt like a coiled spring; I had no intention of making it easy. This caught both attackers off-guard. I stomped squarely on the instep of the guy behind me, tightened my elbow and drove it into his solar-plexus, driving the air out of his lungs. In a smooth continuation of the same fluid motion, I cocked my right knee and crotch-shot the guy in front. It must have been a direct blow to his testicles, because he crumpled like a paper bag. 
I have never been a particularly fast runner, but that night I might have beat the immortal Don Quarrie, or the future Usain Bolt. In less than two minutes, I burst through the front door of the hotel.
​John and Roger came to my immediate aid, as did Jeff and Chris, two of my friends from Barton Creek who were staying in town for the night. I was never much of 
a drinker, but when Roger brought me a stiff rum and Coke, I downed it quickly. It still took more than a half-hour for my heartrate to return to normal.
Thinking back to that night, I do not really begrudge the muggers. Although there were some wealthy people in Belize City, like Mrs. Gallaty, most of them were painfully impoverished. These two had been scavengers and opportunists, not unlike the jaguars in the night. In a way, I had been complicit, in the sense that I’d allowed myself to become a target. ​The predators had been merely acting out their part—playing their role in the game of survival.
As had I… ​
The self- defense moves, taught to me by the SAS officer, had paid off.  
​********************
 
* "Duppy Gunman" by Ernie Smith. Click here for You Tube video.

​** What do you have in the bag? Where are you going? 
​
*** Let go of the bag.