Noticed by Wyatt

Belize at Christmas

Belize | Saturday, October 16, 2010 | 5 photos

Hundreds of miles of potholes sprinkled with occasional chunks of bitumen stretched behind our shattered taillights. The thick air bathed my lungs, and the jungle thrived in tangled masses just off the broken road. An empty water bottle teased my feet and crinkled with dehydration, bouncing lightly with each rut the jeep dove into. We saw him and stopped with a squeal: it was the Pineapple Merchant. Juicier than a bass beat and sweet as your niece in a sundress, his wares awaited. Ten cents and a pineapple later we were back on the road, his smile disappearing in the distance.

Belize flows along an easygoing river towards an uncertain future. Staggering natural beauty drenched in a Caribbean climate sits and watches silently as centuries of conflict sweep by. The eclectic Garifuna culture washes syncopated rhythms over the small cafes and school yards. It feels pleasantly deserted, relaxedly free.

With the influx of tourism that brought me to Belize's shores came the startling (and unnerving) juxtaposition of wealth against poverty. The five star resorts dot a coastline of driftwood shacks and cinderblock homes. Piles of pink conch shells lie wasting in the harsh sun outside Westernized restaurants.

I noticed one thing uniting all today's Belizeans, the permanent and temporary, the beached and the snorkeling, the adventurous and meditative, the un-owned dogs and owned people -- the tropical storms. They roll in unannounced but with great aplomb, and everything stops, or gets soaked. Moments later they're gone and the sky forgets it ever was grumpy.

And the Pineapple Merchant still sells his juicy wares with a smile as big as the world.