It was hot. I mean, I’m from the Deep South so I am used to hot. And humid. But, fuck me. The air here was malleable. I climbed up the stairs of the old mansion, my backpack dragging at my shoulders, and wondered why they had transformed the place into a hostel rather than a hotel. It was nice. Really nice. Dark wood floors, colorful lanterns, sheaths of fabric blocked out light and what little breeze existed. Not the mosquitoes though, I thought slapping at my wrist. Finally, I was shown to the women’s dorm on the third and top floor. The cheapest, hottest floor.
I slap my pack on the bed and seek out the community bathroom. It’s as clean as can be expected of a public space and showering off the sweat of the last two days feels glorious. This is a job I have been regretting for weeks. Since about hour two. The next morning, I join my boss, an old white dude who was not staying in the gent’s dorm.
We’re heading down to the docks to catch a boat that is both a fishing trip and a trip to the next destination. Most of the people range from pale to tan but I can’t help but notice that there is a large percentage of Black people. I want to call the Black people Garifuna, but they also seem like they are recent immigrants. More African than local. But it might be that segregation has allowed/forced them to hold on to/develop an entirely different society.
The usual racial hierarchy is obvious. I keep getting odd looks. I’m Black, but my skin tone is brown, and I am traveling with a very, very white man at least 20 years my senior. But I don’t seem like his concubine or his servant. My English is American, but my Spanish is Guatemalan, and I don’t speak any of the local indigenous languages. People treat me with grudging respect, like they don’t want to risk insulting me but also feel like I am undeserving.
At the docks I call my husband and daughter to check in. They are fine. While I’m on the phone this kid, anywhere from 8 to 13 with nutmeg brown skin and straight black hair, tries to rob me. Because I’m a soft touch I feel sorry for her and offer to buy her food and drink at the convenience store. At the store she tries to rob me again and I’m yelling for her to stop but no one does anything. Finally, she gets off of me and runs away. I call the emergency number but realize I’m speaking Spanish in something close to the local accent. I pretend to hand the phone off to the victim and using my American English actually get help.
I go down to tell my traveling companion, but he’s left without me.
I realize I’ve left my pack and phone at the convenience store. When I go back the store clerks, a Black man and woman, have it and the phone waiting for me and are all helpful smiles. Considering their complete lack of help when the Kewpie doll was trying to rob me I am immediately suspicious. The pack is unwieldy and I break one of those big candles in a glass, but this one is all burned down. I still offer to replace it. They quote me 19.99 which is 3 or 4 USD and more than it’s worth. I hand over the money and note them noting where it came from. The cops show up and spend a lot of time and effort doing absolutely nothing.
I’m leaving the store planning on finding a cool place to sit down, have a drink, and figure out my next move when the kid pops up. In English with a surprisingly neutral accent she says, “You know they cloned your phone. Tried to get into your pack, too.”
“I figured. The phone’s a burner for local calls and show.” Glancing at the store I ask, “Y’all working together?”
“Nope,” she replies all wide-eyed innocence. “But I could work for you.”
“I may have a bleeding heart but eventually you’ve got to cut it off or die of blood loss. You already burned me twice.”
“But you’re going to do it anyway.”
Sighing I reply, “Looks like I’m stuck here for the next little while. So, I’ll cut you a deal. You let me record your story and I’ll cover room and board.”
“Plus, a small fee.”
I smile and hand her the phone. Then I speak directly into her mind. Sometimes the lies we live with are not our own.