Pixie in Paradise

[I had to let the words below all marinate overnight because it’s truly ridiculous to me that I was so angered by a man’s bullshit, yet that is not an infrequent occurrence. Am I right, ladies?]

If I’m remembering correctly, it was just a few Sundays ago that I also found myself headed to Koko King beach to enjoy some solace. I wanted to be by myself, work on my tan and be a beach bum for half a day. That Sunday I was in my feelings and definitely a bit “emo”, as about any number of things had hit at once. Today I was absolutely fine, even had the luxury of a morning rain which is always my favorite. I make tea, sit in the hammock on the balcony and listen to the downpour. So far this is one of the highlights of my current life: early morning rain with tea in my hammock. Sun and humidity hide while the sheets of rain come down so the weather is always perfect for this small window of time. In anywhere from 15 minutes to an hour it is over and the sun immediately comes out along with 80% humidity. You go from the most comfortable you’ve been since the last rain, to oppressive heat as the river of sweat runs down your back again. It’s crazy!

Yesterday I decided to leave early today for the quiet beach on the north side. After tea, hanging a load of laundry on the line and a quick breakfast, I went on my way. The journey to Koko King requires a 1.2-mile bike ride from my apartment, jumping on to the Split to Split Ferry for a 30-second boat ride then pedaling off for a couple of minutes to reach the pathway to the beach.

I knew I would see Marco, the groundskeeper, and have to pay him the public beach fee and he could find a fresh coconut for me to drink out of, and also hit on me despite the reminder with each visit that I have a boyfriend. I’m going to go out on a limb and just say that if you’re a solo female traveler, tell people you have a partner, maybe wear a ring on the left fourth finger. This is such a bullshit practice we’ve learned over our years, but so many men – not just here – assume women want them in their lives in a romantic way. In many cases it’s some schmuck that would not have a shot with the woman he’s trying to hit on. They just aim too high. Men have way too much confidence when it comes to women and applying to jobs they’re not qualified for, I read that somewhere. Whereas women don’t apply for the jobs they really want because they feel they don’t embody more than 70% of the job description – men will apply in many cases with only 30% of the qualifications on lock. For fucks sake. I am NOT a man hater. I love men – and all the body parts that are specific to them! I. Really. Really. Do. 

Last time I came to this beach I only stayed for 45 minutes because Marco started a burn pile of garbage that really shut my lungs down. It was pretty hard to breathe with all of the smoke, and I left. Upon my arrival today I made him promise not to burn anything until I left. He felt so bad and said he definitely wouldn’t burn anything while “his angel” is around. Marco seems to be a kind and helpful man but he does lay it on thick. Only he and Rasta call me an “angel,” which in both cases will most likely be short-lived, eh? I think Marco is relatively harmless and probably has relatively decent integrity but not sure I’d want him to be the only one walking me home at night either. And I definitely wasn’t prepared for his little friend, Manny, who I’ve never met before but was there supposedly helping Marco do some cleanup work around the beach.

When Marco left to run to The Split for a beverage or something, Manny sat down on the lounge chair my belongings were on. I had my towel and purse there. I was laying next to it on a large swing lounger where my backpack and sunglasses were. The small lounge was in shade, the larger one had a slice of sun I wanted to lay in for a while. I laid on my stomach on the large lounge chair and not two minutes after Marco left Manny came over and sat at the end of the small one. I was already taken back as this is a beach with no one on it, several lounge chairs and seating areas including the beautiful dock with swings and hammocks that Marco and Manny were hanging out on when I arrived. Why did this guy think he should come sit right next to me? I was so uncomfortable, in a very small thong bikini swimsuit and this dude is two feet from me. Marco, who I’ve only run into three times here and is in charge of the place, has left for probably the next 20 minutes and I’m stuck two feet from this stranger who doesn’t speak much English. I just met him, barely, for five minutes. Clearly his spatial and situational awareness is lacking.

Manny almost immediately started talking to me, something about the bugs – sand flies and mosquitoes. There were quite a few gnats and some sand flies on the beach especially under the coconut trees where I was sitting but I have this amazing bug oil concoction from Paulette, owner of The Red Flower Gallery. This bug oil not only repels mosquitoes and sand flies but it also helps if you’re bitten and also has some sunscreen in it. Paulette has a biochemistry degree and perfected this stuff. I haven’t told you Paulette’s story yet but yowza, what a tale!

He then gets up and stands over my mostly naked body and puts both hands on the middle of my back, trying to say – in English – that I need bug repellent right there. I’m so stunned that this strange man has just put hands on me and I’m so incredibly uncomfortable that he has, but all I can do is reply that I am fine, trying to give him the hint that he doesn’t need to be there. He says something about it again and puts his hands on my back AGAIN and this time I turn over slightly and say, “No. I’m good.” This idiot sits back down on my small lounge chair, I try to go back to laying there on my stomach on the large swing waiting for him to go away. He then proceeds to speak to me in Spanish, since he heard Marco and I having a conversation that way. His Spanish is not easy to understand but I’m hearing some pretty weird stuff I hear “back to,” “cuarto,” “cama,” and I’m not believing that he’s actually trying to ask or suggest we go back to mine or his room and do anything on a bed. In complete disbelief I just respond in Spanish that I live with my boyfriend. That seems to slow down his train of thought a bit and I go back to sunbathing. When he is still sitting there five minutes later I say in English I’d like to be alone. He seems to understand this and walks away, but oh so much damage has been done. 

I’m now at a level of rage that feels very dangerous – to him, not to me. I’m 47 and by the time a woman has reached the age of 47, we’ve seen and done some stuff. We’ve endured some stuff, specifically a lot of subtle and not so subtle harassment and innuendo and unwanted advances from men. We keep a tiny pocket of rage in our left buttcheek, tucked away for a rainy day. It’s our survival rage: we use that power if and when it becomes necessary. I almost used it today, but come on, it’s Sunday. Let’s try to have a peaceful day, Jesus, Buddha and our living angel, Dolly Parton, are watching over us so let’s try to not choose violence on the Sabbath.

I kept my composure and stayed because I wanted Marco to be a witness to or at least hear my version of these events before he comes back to find his friend with no eyeballs. By this age I have gotten so good at setting boundaries and have pretty much always told people the thoughts rolling around in my head with no filter. But when it comes to telling men they’ve made me uncomfortable, telling them that something they’ve said to me or someone I care about is offensive and they shouldn’t do it, that took longer. That took me a little longer because I was fortunate to never have to endure any really traumatic events around behavior like that. I’ve been hit on of course by many men and told them to take a hike, had my butt grabbed in a nightclub a few times, some creep and his friend would want to dance with me and my girlfriends but we just maneuver right out of those situations. That’s just what women have to do. We aren’t officially trained in it, but we get skilled at it as we grow up. I’ve rescued many friends or acquaintances or new besties I’ve met while drunk in a bar bathroom, having to run interference between them and a man that wasn’t “getting the hint.” And I’m not too subtle about it sometimes, depending on the situation. I’m so much better at getting friends out of those awkward moments but in the last few years when I’m in the midst of that bullshit I’ve been known to unleash on my own behalf too. I really got to hone those skills once I started partner dancing in the latin dance community back home. Learning quickly it was about the quality of dances not quantity of dances, I am much happier with only the dance partners I’m comfortable with and have a good connection to, rather than a bunch of random sweaty clumsy dudes who want to grope me on a dance floor.

But when poor Marco showed up with his son – who is Belizean Coast Guard – I relayed to them what happened with Manny and how it made me feel. I went so far as to very firmly and passionately ask him how that would have gone if it had happened to another tourist?! I told Marco I was sick of this kind of behavior on our tiny island, so many guys are like this here. I’m tired of the catcalling and the not so subtle gazing. Rasta was right about all of this but I just thought he was exaggerating. For the most part, he wasn’t. And then I told Marco how angry Manny had made me by doing what he did, and if it happens again out here with him or anyone, I was going to kill them and put the body on his burn pile. I know, it’s a big gross dramatic leap, but I was so fucking pissed. Without skipping a beat Marco agrees to burn the body for me. And that was Sunday morning.