Sherbet

by Sophie Marchant (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection Belize

A can on wheels: words to best describe our weekend transport to Dangriga. A can left in the sun just a moment too long, getting fuller and warmer. The contents sticky and aggravated. Sighs echoed as the driver started the engine and the air con kicked in. I settled for the hour journey. My travel companions spread across the bus making use of empty seats and minimal space before we stopped at the busiest stations. They bustled with vibrant locals eager to question my intentions in this heavily Caribbean community. Stretching across the arguable leather, I prayed that the neighbouring seat stayed vacant for the rest of the ride. I was heavy with torridity and concern, having only arrived in Belize the week previous. I was still figuring out this new land, and it seemed like the country was epitomising my thoughts. The Belizean-Guatemalan territorial dispute had long been spilling over. Central American neighbours, the two states were to culminate the centuries-old discord in the coming days. A referendum was to decide if international courts had the final say on the identity of Belize and where its borders cease. It soon became clear, over the abounding froth of passengers, it was sherbet on the tongues of the Everyman. Fragments of dialogue between friends encompassed my ears. Some conversations were calm and equal. Others were harsh and hostile. If this aluminium cage couldn't agree their homeland’s identity, I was uncertain as to how a whole country could. More buzz talked of corruption at the hands of the government. “Some are being offered money to stay at home, and taking it. Rather than vote.” offered my minder, Mr. Sam. I gently squeezed for more. “We all have to travel back to the towns we were born in. I am proud to be from Hopkins. Some others may not be.” he said forthright. He turned his head and pressed it back on the hazy glass of the window in front and closed his eyes. That was all he was going to extend. I felt an unfamiliar warmth reach my side. In my conversation with Mr.Sam, I failed to realise the bulging capacity that the bus had now reached. “Hello-where-are-you-from-pretty-lady?” the thick Caribbean accent inquired. “England” I replied with a modest smile. “I could tell. You haven't been here long. No tan!” The Stranger sat next to me as he continued. “I want to marry a nice English girl like you one day”. I tried to rip my bare thighs from the seat to make room for my inquisitor. The sound that followed was one similar to that of Velcro being torn from its teeth. I prepared myself for an influx of questions. But, as The Stranger turned to meet me eye-to-eye, a scar revealed its self. From nose to ear on his left side, it was apparent this man’s identity too, had struggled. I traced his blemish with my eye. It was deep and serious. “I was lost at sea for 18 days. That is how I got this.” gesturing to his face. My breath faltered with embarrassment at being caught. “I..that..must have been..” “It was my own fault. I was on the run. Did bad things. Been in prison 15 years. Was only freed 8 months ago.” The Stranger didn't look a day over 25. “Tell me, what is it you want to do?” “In life?” I asked. “Yes! With this life you have been given!” “Well I would like to be a writer. Tell people’s stories.” My reply was somewhat bashful. “Tell me. What is your name?” “My name is Sophie” I said, welcoming that The Stranger had chosen to unpack on me. “Sophie from England, my name is Ernesto Pablo Hernandez. And I have a story to tell. One day you will hear my name. You must write it down.” I left the bus with the same concern I entered with. I had been presented with a country that has struggled to establish boundaries and identify. Yet, a country that seemingly wants its struggle to be told. We must heed Ernesto. We must write it down.