"Go Slow"

by Brittany Spear (United States of America)

Making a local connection Belize

“Go slow, girl.” The first time, he said it to me from his bicycle. With dark skin made darker under the unrelenting Caribbean sun and cropped hair with a dust of middle-aged salt, his sandaled feet pushed lazily on the pedals as he slid past me. I looked up at him with a crazed look I wouldn’t have dared shoot an hour ago when I was slightly less bedraggled and a lot less angry. My mountainous backpack, heralding my relative travel inexperience, was cutting deep grooves into my shoulders as a layer of sweat wormed its way between strap and skin. Sand had crawled into my socks as I trudged down Caye Caulker’s main boulevard, an open stretch of sand sandwiched between sun-bleached shops and homes, for the third time. This place was supposed to be my beachy backpacker’s paradise after a steaming, 3-hour bus ride across Belize and a 45-minute jaunt via water ferry. However, in a stroke of flippant “go with the flow” that had served me well before in Guatemala and even Belize’s highlands, I had not booked a hostel ahead of time, and was now severely paying for it. Hostel rejections plagued me for two hours before I begrudgingly settled on a bunk in a dark-paneled, steamy dorm sans air conditioning. I looked at the eight bunks sandwiched into a room designed more like a puzzle piece than a rest stop and consoled myself with the fact that the rum punch was free and the beach was close enough. The important things. And yet that night, in a bar lit by the moon as I was regaled with stories of all-night ragers in Honduras by my chain-smoking, Irish medical student hostel mates, I felt dissatisfied. Sure, I was living the backpacker lifestyle, hopping between bars all night to sleep it off all day, but was this truly the place I had traveled so far to get to? Was this experience really the one I wanted? I gnawed on that question all night as I sipped more slowly. It echoed still when I woke to the oppressive darkness and heat of my dorm room, a small sliver of sunlight through the door frame cutting across my face. “Go slow, girl.” The second time, he was sitting on a porch step in the early morning sunshine as I quickly walked south, a frown on my face. He shook his head as I strode past the locals placidly hawking conch shells and puka necklaces, the tantalizing, greasy smell of fresh fry jacks drifting in the air. I was barely aware of the few golf carts and bicycles passing me by. All I could think of was that question: was this what I wanted? My pensive roaming took me along the island’s distinctive sandy roads, and as the sounds of others faded away, I looked up to the sun shining on lapping waves and a wooden dock stretching from the white, sandy shoreline. Up against the dock was a bright pink building with small yellow huts dotted around it; two signs hung from the window: “Vacant Mini-Huts” and “Go Slow”. It only took a moment for me to stride in and ask for a hut. I swiftly walked back to my dark dorm room to collect my things and left silently, my midnight companions still snoring. “Go slow”, that beautiful island slogan that, as I experienced, locals would forcefully state if you moved too fast for their liking, echoed in my head with each step. The rest of the day was spent swinging in a hammock on that dock, occasionally leaving my book to slip into the bright blue water and wiggle my toes deep into the soft sand. I laughed freely at the joy I felt being exactly where I wanted to be. “That’s right, girl, go slow.” The third time, he said it with an open smile and understanding nod as I meandered up the sandy street. The cool sea breeze gently touched my ocean-salted hair in the fading light as I searched for dinner. I exhaled deeply as I waved back and went forward at my own, slow, pace.