Sentimental in PG

I was a bit swamped my last few weeks in Belize, and so these next entries are ones I wrote, but did not have time to post. I'll be posting the date they were written above each one. Enjoy them! 

Written August 11, 2012. 

I’ll be the first to admit that I am incredibly sentimental. I often mentally record the last time I walk through a certain hallway, eat at a certain restaurant, bike a certain route, close a certain door. I catalog these things, hoping I’ll be able to hold onto them. Despite this awareness, I am quite surprised at just how sentimental I’ve become here in Punta Gorda. I have exactly two weeks to go until I leave Belize, and I’ve already begun hungrily collecting memories for my mental catalog. Perhaps it’s the departure of an amazing friend, Mari, someone that was so freakishly similar, yet so different, that we often questioned how we had managed to find each other; followed by my friend Sergio, a quick-tongued Spaniard with a sense of adventure, and enough patience to deal with my Spanish (hey, Sergio, I know you are reading this, and no, I’ll never forgive you for that accent comment) that has marked a premature end to my adventure here in Belize.

But I’ve noticed it already. I took note of leaving Mari’s apartment for the last time. I no longer listen to music in the morning and evenings, choosing instead to soak in the last weeks of the sound of waves crashing against the foundation of my apartment. I’ve been staying in my hammock further and further into the evening hours, ignoring the mosquitos and the moths, hungrily watching as the storms roll in off the ocean, the lightning dancing among the clouds. I stay there, staring into the darkness, enjoying the feeling I’ve had since I’ve first moved in of being on the edge of the world. At night in my pajamas, I find myself sneaking back out onto the porch, gazing at the stars and the moon’s reflection on the water.

Night view from my apartment.

I find myself lingering longer on my walks to and from work, no longer looking at my watch as King continues his speech on the latest topic of interest. Rather than my speed-maven biking through town, I’ve slowed down, watching the scenes as they unfold around me: three mangy dogs scratching at their flees in unison, a bike piled with three children laboring up the hill next to the town square, the clock that towers over the square, right only two times a day, the Guatemalan shops and their owners, sitting on chairs outside listening to the radio, and the half dozen catcalls I get on my short loop around town.

Me and King, after one of our lengthy discussions.

Punta Gorda is not a place I ever imagined becoming sentimental about. When I first arrived, shouldering my bags and attempting to ignore the lurid stares from the drunks that inhabit Front Street by the docks day and night, picking my way around potholes and garbage, I couldn’t imagine 3 months in this place. I arrived at my hostel, cursing my latest plunge into the developing world. As that first weekend waned, I was feeling rather hopeless. This town could never become a home for me. But, against all odds, it has. I settled into a routine remarkably quickly, learning what parts of Front Street to avoid at what hours, deftly maneuvering around the potholes, attempting to ignore the trash. And I’ve come to appreciate the grit of this ocean town. I savor every view of the ocean I can get. I look forward to my bike rides along Front Street, ocean to my left. I, without fail, respond to every “Hey, baby” “Looking good” (or my personal favorite, when I  swerved around someone as I barreled down a hill, “I wish you had hit me so you could give me CPR, I like tongue…”) comment yelled after me as I bike along. I issue a good morning, afternoon, and evening to everyone I pass in the street. I’ve cut a place for myself in this town filled with ragamuffins the world over. That may be one reason my assimilation has been so easy, everyone in PG, it seems, is a little off.

If you had told me when I first arrived that I would not want to leave PG by the end of the summer, I would have laughed in your face. But that is what has happened. I’ve grown accomstomed to the slow pace of life. The sounds of waves never far away. The proper and lewd greetings from men filling my ears. The way everyone seems to know everyone. My tiny apartment that is constantly teeming with creatures of all sorts. The dodging of the puddles. I’ll miss it all.

I like that I’ve carved a place for myself. That the Guatemalan running the Italian restaurant in Belize calls “buenas tardes and como estás” to me while we each bike through town, running our errands. I like that my landlord invites me to her 67^th Birthday party happening at the restaurant above my apartment. I like that the aging Rasta man that runs an amazing vegetarian restaurant in town mentions that he notices me biking through town, and wishes me safe weekend travels. I like that I know that when I leave my house every morning at 8:00, I’ll be greeted by the amazing man that fixed my leaking ceiling, as he begins his day of work.  I like that we’ve become good enough friends with our drum instructor that he postpones a vacation, and instead gets us to organize a Full Moon party.

Some of the crew at our Full Moony Party.

I like that I never come home to a quiet apartment, the neighbor girls in the complex always eagerly awaiting my arrival, waiting to fill me in on the days activities. I like that the owners of the hostel I stayed at in my first week still call out greetings, calling me sister, and asking how things are going, always with a word of advice on how I can make myself more comfortable. I like that the men with whom I haggled the price of embroidery materials, hammocks, mosquito nets, and boots in Spanish still call to me as I bike by. For some people, this carving of one’s place may be insignificant. But for me, that is honestly one of my greatest accomplishments this summer. For someone who so hates the feeling of not belonging, of being an outsider, this establishment of home is an amazing thing.