By Reid Coggins, '04
Funding: Dickey Center
I remember the waves crashing against the shore. I remember the sun shining down upon my face, my arms, my legs. I remember their faces, full of the vitality and eagerness that is Belize.
* * *
I rode my bike from my cabana to my host family's house for breakfast around 7:45 one bright, humid, Hopkins Village morning. Chickens and dogs and occasional cats were going about their business along the paved road, pecking, barking, and just trying to make it through another day. I passed the now-familiar wooden-board and concrete-slab houses, most of them raised up on stilts above yards full of sand and weeds. Their occupants were usually either inside preparing breakfast or on the front porch waiting for breakfast. I was not alone on the road. Other passersby and bike riders were on their way to school or to the nearby store to fetch supplies. The ocean breeze was keeping the bugs away-the local mosquitoes and sandflies could be man's worst nightmare. Lining the road, the palms and other indigenous trees swayed in the wind against a deep blue sky, spotted with beautiful white clouds.
Hopkins Village only has two paved roads and only 1,000 inhabitants. There are a handful of restaurants, bars, small stores, and places to stay. Many buildings are only partially finished-their owners add to them as they find money to pay for new materials. Yet, Hopkins Village is rich. It is rich in kindness. It is rich in beauty. It is rich in yellows and oranges and reds and blues. Never before had I been so struck by the constraint of low socioeconomic status juxaposed with the sky-high level of hospitality. For the first time in a long time, I felt relaxed and comfortable.
Bumping up and down, I could make out the concrete house of my host family up ahead-they were lucky to have it; most families lived in wooden or thatched houses. Because their house is a few blocks away from the shore, their yard is grassy, and I rode onto it and parked my bike outside their front door. I immediately heard "Reid, REID, REID!" joyously screamed into the morning air as I walked into the house. The thick aroma of fresh tortillas, rice and beans, and bacon fat filled the air, and my six host siblings-Keith, Twila, Lydia, Stephen, Job, and Grace-varying in age from 2 to 12, ran to me and clung to my arms and legs. Barely able to move, I finally made my way over to their couch. I was reluctant to set my water bottle down, because it had a habit of wandering off into the boys' room every time I went to reach for it.
Now that I was no longer the center of attention, the children returned to their game of marbles or playing on their new computer. Herdie, their father and a local pastor, had recently brought the computer back from the United States, where he had attended a church conference. The computer was quite a rare find in the Village. As I watched them play and enjoyed the sounds of the distant waves and nearby birds, Victoria, my host mother, handed me my breakfast. Although it was - once again - rice, a boiled egg, a piece of fried ham, and a tortilla, it was excellent as always. Because everyone had eaten before I arrived, I did not worry too much about eating in front of them-8 in the morning might seem early, but they get up and eat breakfast at sunrise, around 5:45 am. After I finished eating, I watched the children play for a bit longer and then headed off to begin the day's work.
