by Colin Hyde

In this incident, I am selling the Amandala newspaper around 4:30 one evening upstairs of #1 West Canal Street in Belize City, when two guys come up the steps. The one in front asks for 50 newspapers. I get the papers, tell him the price, and his colleague who is right behind him shoves his hand into his pants waist and I see he is pulling out a gun. Before the gun can clear his waist, I reach out and slap his hand, and the gun and the magazine tumble into the yard below. They both run downstairs; the one who lost the gun grabs it, and they flee on bikes they had parked outside of the fence.

When they got on their bikes, I wasn’t far behind them. For a reason, speed on foot is not my forte; and with them on bikes, pursuing them further was futile. I remember watching them ride away, and thinking that if I had a gun I would have shot the guy who had reached for the weapon, in his back. Yes, I was very angry.

Following the recent hijacking incident, things were posted in the media that weren’t accurate. For a couple days, the sense was that the guy who shot the hijacker, waited, bided his time until the plane landed. Everyone who commented on social media about the incident, called the folk who survived the terrifying ordeal heroes. Based on the information that was out there at the time, long before it was revealed that the heroic pilot was under a serious attack when an injured passenger shot his assailant, a couple persons hinted, wondered, if the life of the hijacker could have been spared. And they got savaged.

To my mind, the individuals who asked the question are more Christian than those who stomped them down; certainly more Christian than I who, had I had a gun, would very likely have shot a fleeing man in the back because he had pulled his weapon on me. On learning more about the hijacking, I think even the best Christians would say the heroic passenger should have shot the man who was out of his mind—BEFORE he attacked the pilot. Prayers for the family of the hijacker, on the loss of their loved one. It’s tragic, but he was out of his mind, and he seriously endangered people. It’s wonderful that this one didn’t end up like the E.M.L. Joyfor all who survived the ordeal, and special cheers for the pilot, the one who protected him, and the others who put themselves in harm’s way to save the day.

Observations from the 1980s about the Kriol tribe and business

I have two personal stories here from when I was a young adult. No, no, no one needs to sweat. When one of my old colleagues learned that I was getting in the habit of putting pen on paper, he said he hoped I wasn’t writing about him. Naa, no one needs to fear my pen. If there is a tochiz subject I’d like to discuss, I’ll ask or tell the other party or parties involved before I go there. That’s how I roll.

The first story – I don’t recall sharing it before—is from my only meeting with former DPM Lindy Rogers. It’s a clip—“Lessons from CLB Rogers”—from an unpublished story, “What to do with me”.

I was staying at #29 Santa Maria Street in Belmopan during the time I was working on my farming project, and one day, Evan (that’s the Amandala publisher) and Mr. Lindy Rogers, who was at one time our deputy prime minister, stopped by briefly. Mr. Rogers said to me: “When a Mestizo man earns or borrows some money, he builds a business; and when a Kriol man earns or borrows some money, he builds a house”.

I belong to the Kriol tribe, but contrary to Mr. Rogers’ generally accurate observation, I fit the mold of the Mestizo. I was going to build a business and buy a fishing boat before I built a house. It’s probably okay for educated Belizeans; they could look at the papers hanging out of their back pockets as an established business, but for rank and file Belizeans like me, investing in a dream house was putting the cart way before the horse.  

Of course, Mr. Rogers wasn’t knocking building houses to rent, a very good business if one had the heart for it, which I didn’t have. As my paternal grandfather couldn’t refuse credit to a mother who needed milk for her child, a practice that led to the ruin of my grandmother’s grocery shop, I couldn’t see myself evicting a family that fell behind in the rent payments, a not infrequent occurrence in that business.

   In closing this chapter on houses, I must admit that my “philosophy” might be influenced by the fact that I am wholly unimpressed by palaces. I don’t need a tall ship; a little sloop will do. When it comes to houses, all I ask for is a secure door, a roof that doesn’t leak, and a clean bed.

Mr. Rogers also said: “If I’m walking on the street and I slip on a banana peel, somebody put it there to trip me up”. Here Mr. Rogers and I parted ways. I won’t slip on a banana skin, because I walk with my head down; and if I see one I will, without a thought, pick it up and throw it in a wastebasket. Seriously, with respect to the deeper meaning of Mr. Rogers’ lesson, I’d have to do a personality transplant to accept it. I’d have to slip on two banana skins before it crossed my mind that an enemy might be about.

I think Mr. Rogers was cynical because through childhood, and well up into his years as a young adult, he had had to battle for his survival in the streets. My innocence is explained by the fact that I didn’t know a day when I wasn’t sure where my next meal was coming from, until I left the home of my parents.

The second story, which I might have touched briefly before, is from the same 1980-82 period. During this time, I had the great fortune of spending many evenings with one of my dad’s great friends, Mr. Telford Vernon. At the time I’m writing about, Mr. Telford, a former head of the Income Tax Department, and Comptroller of Customs, was the General Manager of the DFC in Belmopan.

During the week, Mr. Telford rented my dad’s house, and for a period I had a room. I think cooking was one of his hobbies. The man could cook. I was around when dinner was served. Look, I hate cooking. I will eat dry bread and cheese or bread and sachiz and be happy. He was into the exotic dishes, culinary business. I couldn’t eat dry bread and cheese when there were exotic dishes in the house. Leave me alone.

Hmm, I nearly got into the banana industry. The DFC was overseeing government’s initiative to revive the banana industry, and a la George Price’s “mixed economy,” small farmers were being encouraged with heavy subsidies to take up plots (I think 10 and 15 acres). One evening Mr. Telford showed me all the opportunities that were there waiting for me. I was a little star in agriculture then. We can forget all that, because it doesn’t relate to this story.

Returning to the Kriols and business, Mr. Telford told me that our tribe was making a very bad mistake with the upbringing of our children. He used to go to the market to select the best and freshest produce for his pot. The man was tops, elite, but simple things didn’t escape him. He said when he went to the market, he saw Mestizo kids working the stalls, but no Kriol kids. He said the future belonged to those who were engaged in business, and it was important that kids got involved with bartering, negotiating the sales of products from an early age. No, that wasn’t a racist observation. Mr. Telford was a fair-skinned Kriol, Mestizo phenotype. The real in a good country is that no tribe can be left behind. The Kriols have been left behind, way behind.