Humans of Belize

I was awakened by wind and noise. When I looked out, I saw roofs blowing off the houses, zinc flying in the sky like leaves, whole trees flying like kites. It was loud. We couldn’t go anywhere. It was too dangerous.”

On October 31, 1961, category 5 hurricane “Hattie” made landfall on the central coast of Belize (then British Honduras), becoming the most deadly and devastating hurricane in the country’s recorded history. The storm and its aftermath would change the nation forever. There may be lessons to learn from hurricane Hattie survivors about endurance, resilience, and unity in the face of adversity.

Hurricane Survivor: Yola Robateau

Once you passed our house in Dangriga, there was nothing but bush and then the sea. Right before hurricane Hattie, a woman, Ms. VG, built a house in front of us and then that became the last house before the sea.

I was nine years old and my brother Joel was maybe 8 months old. Our parents were out of town and we had a nanny with us, Mrs. Coleman. We knew the hurricane was out there but it was headed away from us on that night before Halloween, so we went to sleep.

I remember Ms. Coleman asked Ms. VG across the yard, “If the hurricane turns around could you wake us up so we can go to the shelter?” And Ms. VG said she would. That’s the last we heard before we went to sleep.

I was awakened by wind and noise. When I looked out, I saw roofs blowing off the houses, zinc flying in the sky like leaves, whole trees flying like kites. It was loud. Everyone woke up. We couldn’t go anywhere. It was too dangerous.

Our roof started creaking and lifting just before the wind stopped. It was lifting and I thought it would blow off, too. But my father was a builder and he built our house with all posts in concrete and a solid foundation with reinforced roof.

Soon, some of the nearby houses started blowing apart. People began knocking on our doors and we started letting in our neighbors. We took in a lot of people, it was too hard to close the door on people in need.

The last time I looked out, I saw this big wave coming and coming, higher and closer and it broke on Ms. VG’s house—the one closest to the sea. And then it took the whole house! I saw the entire house floating out. I don’t know if she was in it but it was breaking up as it flowed in the current down to the jetty.

The wind stopped eventually, but the water wouldn’t recede for days. We couldn’t even go out. Chickens and ducks, all animals were drowned. It took two weeks for the water to go down. We continued to shelter people whose homes were blown away until they could find a safe place. That’s when new communities formed like Silk Grass and Hattieville. It was for survivors of hurricane Hattie with no place to go.

When the water receded just enough, I went out to look for food. I was on one of those streets going to Bluefield. There was a house on the corner there where there used to be a parrot that always talked. Before the storm I had a friend there so I went there first. I hadn’t got that close before I saw the body of a young girl, her eyes were all white in her head. I ran back home so fast, I did not go out looking for food again.

We shared food and ate drowned chicken and drowned ducks until the Red Cross come in and supplied food for us by the clinic right by the sea. I don’t remember being hungry.

When I was in line for breakfast at the Red Cross clinic, from there I could see men throwing bodies in big holes they dug. These trucks drove around and collected dead bodies and dumped them into two or three pits.

After a while, I stopped remembering things. Your mind just blocks certain things. But what I will always remember is that the people came together. There was no pushing, no shoving in the food lines, people shared. The family that stayed with us, they cooked and kept things together. We became closer.

Right now, as Belize faces times that could become hard again, people must remember our history and strength. We should come together instead of attacking each other. We depended on each other to survive then, in those days after the hurricane, just as we will now as we face a different kind of storm. Belizeans have seen other hard times and always find a way to recover and thrive. I survived Hattie; I know what Belizeans are capable of.

Why I Loved–and Left–Detroit

Detroit is a bad city. I mean, Michael Jackson bad. Urban Dictionary bad.

I love the country feel of the East side because it reminds me of home. I love the stylish realness of the West side because it reminds me what I left home to experience. I love being in a city full of black people where I can walk into a room, a bar or a party and not feel the heft of an entire race on my shoulders.

Detroit gave me a profound service that perhaps no other city could: it taught me that agriculture is cool and that black is beautiful. When I was 15 I left my family farm so that I could go to school and escape the fate of being a lowly subsistence farmer in the bush (I’m talking less than 10 acres).  In Belize, like many parts of the world, farming and farm work is mostly for peasants or the lower socio-economic class. Big old mega farm owners are hardly farmers compared to the small grower who tills the soil themselves. Large scale farmers are often lofty managers of managers of supervisors of farm workers.

Small scale/ subsistence farming—putting your hands in the soil—is just not a respected trade in most parts of the world. As much a I loved watching things grow as a child and teen, I knew I had to leave the small farm if I wanted to wear shoes or eat cheese more than one day out of the year. But despite the hard times, farming followed me around. Plants wouldn’t leave my head. The day I left Belize was the saddest day of my life. I was 15.

For four years I felt ruined. I stuck with my decision to live in the US and get an education because I believed it led to a better future. After I endured  all that pain, culture shock and homesickness, if you were to tell me that I would end up in agriculture in the end I would have felt defeated. It would have shaken my will to live.

But being in Detroit changed me. And then this happened: After 16 years in Michigan (seven of them in the city of Detroit) I moved back to my small farm in Belize.

Right now I am sitting in my room here in Belize City at my family’s house. It’s dry season here and everything is crispy hot. A few thirsty frogs are croaking in the empty drains under the window. Through the darkness I can hear people talking in the street, trying to get their kid to take a bucket bath.  The barking of dogs is so constant I hardly hear it anymore. The backs of my heels are on fire from walking around the city in new shoes. My tongue feels gritty from eating too much cashew fruit (more on that later).

Today was my first day of having an upper management job. Before this I worked contract to contract hoping ends would meet. After serving with AmeriCorps for two years, I scraped by with freelance writing work (mostly corporate puff pieces) and from selling goods grown on vacant lots I managed in the city of Detroit.

In 2012, I threw all my energy into a one-acre urban farm (about 14 city lots) operation for three years only to realize that unless you’re prepared to live in poverty, work for a nonprofit, live off of grants and/or are privileged enough to get periodical cash lump sums from your parents, then small-scale urban farming is not a realistic, sustainable source of income.

The reality is that the global food system is simply not set up in a way that allows for anyone to survive above the poverty line (especially in cities) by working off of anything less than ten acres of land. It’s just not.  One or two acres can feed a whole lot of people, but when it comes to income, rent, utilities, etc. that incredible value of fresh food doesn’t transfer into cash. Over the years I started looking at it like an overtime job with less than part-time pay. Not only do you gotta love it, you gotta be obsessed.

I am saying this because I put three years into trying to make it work; I mean, all in. By any standard I lived in poverty, making less than  $12,000 USD a year and that’s without subtracting taxes. But I grew up in poverty so I found a strange comfort in it and was able to make it work (or not work) for so long. I wrote some grants; that helped. But I don’t have any financial support system. If I fail, I fail. No parental subsidies.

I could be ironic and say I’m moving to a (so-called) third-world country to get out of poverty, but that would be irresponsible. It’s way more complex than that.

Living in Detroit did something magical for me. It exposed the cruel design of the American food system and beyond. Not only did I get exposure to the unjust systems in Detroit, but I got a hand in challenging it. Detroit made it okay to be me: a wild and strange bush girl with the reflexes of a single quash.

Detroit cured my bitterness about farming.  The city linked me with people whose faces lit up when I told them I grew up on a farm; people who openly admitted they wanted to farm. Good people, cool people, smart people, stylish people. My mind was blown. I didn’t know how to take it. At first it made me mad. My head raced with sharp thoughts, like: “What could these city slickers know about farming? If they really had to farm to live, they would hate it. It’s not cool, it’s not glamorous, these fools! If only they knew the suffering I endured in order to escape the farm life!”

But after five years of working with people who have made farming in the city a part of their life, I realized that if it’s done right, urban farming is a gallant act of social justice, community building and self-determination among many other spectacular things. Let me be clear: growing food in a city is a powerful thing to do. In the city, the moment you tear up even a patch of grass and put in kale, it’s an act of defiance and self-determination and absolutely no one on this earth can put a price on that. But in the current system we operate under, urban farming as a for-profit business is not a pathway out of poverty.

Unfortunately, we live in a world where food is not currency. Our food system has taught us that it’s an insult ask for $3 for a pound of carrots while it’s a status symbol to buy a shot-sized cup of coffee for $6. I know people who work tirelessly to change that. And they are doing it one heart and mind at a time. But that takes time.

The hard truth that I don’t want to even say out loud is that in the given current system, micro-farms cannot fully financially support the amount of people/energy it takes to run them without some sort of subsidy or what most would consider abject poverty or even  *gasp* slave labor. In the United States, large mega farms depend on subsidies as well. Clearly, this isn’t something we can work within the system to change. We have to find new models that involve taking money out of the equation and build trade/barter systems. That, too, takes time.

In the meantime, though, I’ve decided I can’t live so bare bones anymore. I also can’t do the corporate grind, hustling my life away for something I don’t believe in.  So I got a job managing a cacao supply chain company in my hometown in Belize. I’ll be working with a socially and environmentally driven for-profit company whose mission it is to support small farmers and develop a quality product and provide access to resources to scale up their cacao bean production and their income.

I’ll also be rehabbing my family property with my main goal being to revive our subsistence farm that will ultimately hammer down my cost of living so that the amount I make in cash is not a reflection of my quality of life. My experiences in Detroit helped clear the static so could hear the tropics, my birthplace, calling.

One thing Detroit is not, is tropical. To me, the winters became more frightening to live through than hurricanes.

Detroit, hopefully my mark on the city will live on in the farms I built and worked and supported with all of my energy. Hopefully my work will show in the perennials I planted, the grants I wrote, the dirt I dug and buried my heart into. Detroit became such a part of me that in a way, I haven’t really left.  When I lived in Detroit, that’s how I felt about Belize. Now that I live in Belize, that’s how I feel about Detroit. They say home is where the heart is, but I wonder: can the heart be in multiple places at once without being broken? I am starting to think the answer is yes.

Cashew fruit. Did you know the cashew nut hangs outside of a false
Cashew fruit. Did you know the cashew nut hangs outside of a false fruit? They smell like heaven and taste like sweet, fruity deliciousness aside from the stringent gritty after taste. Cashew Fruit should be The Body Shop’s next scent.