Pixie in Paradise

In the four weeks since moving from the southwest desert of the United States to a tropical island in a very Caribbean part of Central America, I’ve begun to figure out how life works down here, moved in with a Belizean man I met here for five minutes six months ago, and started to establish community in this remote area of the world. It has all happened so fast and partly due to visibility at a regular cafe most days and my outgoing nature – when I want to be. I’ve met so many interesting locals and tourists at this cafe, each with their own wonderful story, a story of how they came to visit or ended up moving here, like me. 

While Rasta is still on night shifts for a few more days, people have started figuring out where I fit in here with him and, as more than a tourist. I tell them about our association primarily to let the local men know that I am off the market, so they can stop catcalling to me, and in an attempt to add an extra element of safety to my life. As in, if I go missing someone will come for me and they don’t want to risk that. Rasta is the most laidback human being I have or will ever encounter but I feel that when it comes to me he will do what it takes to keep me protected and safe. He always seemed different from the other men out here and that has never been more clear than recently, as I hear new girlfriends tell me stories of their relationship woes out here, and from what I’ve seen already. It’s a different culture, women tolerate certain things many American women wouldn’t, least of all me. 

Rasta seems to have a very good reputation out here and the respect of all who know him. Unlike most of these men he isn’t a womanizer and is always fair with whomever he’s dealing with. He has one of the better jobs on the island not directly in the hospitality industry, so he isn’t having to hustle and swindle like I’ve watched some of the other locals do. In his spare time he fixes bicycles, having owned a bike shop out here before the pandemic and people still look to him for help. I had already figured out that I have possibly gotten the best one on the island – certainly the cutest! Great work ethic, always incredibly respectful to who he’s speaking to and almost shy at times, as well as incredibly humble.

While he was sleeping yesterday I made my usual trek to the cafe and met another new person, a guy named Mike. We have almost identical tattoos. Mike is from England, Southampton, specifically. In a moment of absolute ridiculousness in my head, I asked if that was near Sherwood Forest where Robin Hood lived? Seriously, how high must I have appeared?! Without skipping a beat he said no, Robin Hood lived in the north and he is from south of London. Well, okay.

We talked for quite a while and I listened to Mike’s captivating story as to how he ended up here for the last 23 years, along with his sister, while still traveling the globe doing various jobs. I finally told him I had to get up and use the restroom. My laptop, drinks and backpack were strewn about the outdoor counter we were at though. I was hesitant because I would need to pack up all of my stuff, throw it into the big waterproof backpack I can’t begin to live without, grab the key to the restroom from the cafe staff, then head over to the other side of a bar where this tiny room is. There’s barely enough room for me let alone putting my backpack somewhere “clean,” in a public bathroom where you can’t put toilet paper in the toilet – it has to go in the garbage can! All public restrooms out here are like this. An entire island full of marine toilets?!

Mike sees the wheels turning in my brain and promises me it’s okay to leave all of my things and he will watch them. I am not a trusting person and while I really think Mike won’t sell my laptop on the beach, I’m in a tiny internal panic but really have to pee. He recognizes this too and hands me his huge smartphone, stating it is collateral, that he won’t abandon me because I have his cell phone. So I stroll to the tiny bathroom with two cell phones in my jumpsuit which weighs down the entire thing to the point one boob is hanging out in my bikini top from above the jumpsuit which is weighed down by these two cell phones. Looking absolutely silly but protected by the fact I have this stranger’s phone, I do my business and return to find Mike, my laptop and my backpack in the same condition I left it in five minutes prior. I come back laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation and we resume our conversation.

These interactions, the stories and connections with humans just sitting at the cafe while I’m trying to write are absolutely priceless. I mean, it’s all worth writing down, in and of itself! Me sitting at this cafe is the equivalent of a comedian going to a public event or family reunion and taking notes. Sometimes it can yield unlimited content!

Mike went on his way and then one of my new friends – Raul – a regular at the cafe strolled in, which he does most days after 12pm. This usually means my productivity is done for the day because we chat nonstop while enjoying our coffee. We settle in with miscellaneous conversation then Raul starts telling me about something crazy that happened to a friend of his about ten years ago. He doesn’t really set up the story or give me any context, so while I am carefully listening to him it doesn’t occur to me until he’s done as to why he actually shared this information with me.

Raul tells me he has a friend named “Ana.” Ana is in a different town on the mainland, two hours from where we are now and there’s a big gathering of people, supposedly after an election of some sort. People are gathered in the public park when a woman and her mother approach Ana. For reasons I did not learn in this conversation, one of these women begins to stab Ana with a knife, repeatedly. Most everyone is just standing around while this is happening but a man looks over and sees what’s going on and realizes the next wound is headed for Ana’s heart and it will be fatal. By this time he has made his way over to them and grabs the blade with his bare hand, breaks the knife in half, then calmly but firmly says, “There will be no more of this. Ever.”

I am confused by the story, Raul’s slight accent, the amount of humidity in my lungs and in my butt crack and am still not quite sure why he’s telling me this. He sees the confusion on my face and does some sort of quick six degrees of separation explanation. Long story short: the hero in that true story is the man who currently sleeps in my bed!!!

This is also the same human I’ve recently told (on numerous occasions) to empty his freaking pockets before putting clothes in the laundry basket. I’ve almost washed a pair of scissors, two lighters, his house key, all of his money, his smartphone and two cloves of garlic. Why the garlic though? Are there vampires in Caye Caulker too? Something did just fly across the wall as I type this and landed somewhere underneath the bed, but I’m pretty sure it was a roach not a vampire.

In all seriousness this is a shockingly spectacular story and I didn’t understand why it came up in the first place. Apparently I rode down the main street a couple of days ago and Raul was standing with Ana or her boyfriend and pointed me out, telling them who I was or where I fit in with Ana’s savior.

My hero…the man who makes even laundry day exciting.