Chapter Nine

B-VILLE

Roger admired the view from his window seat as his southbound commercial flight to Belize took him across the Yucatan Peninsula. Shortly after they began their descent, Chetumal Bay’s contours helped him locate the Mexican city of Chetumal on Belize’s northern border. After he was oriented, Roger noted landmarks until they landed 15 minutes later at the international airport just outside Belize City. Roger had already crisscrossed this small country of 8,867 square miles several times by both land and air, but he tried to add to his knowledge every time he visited.

Anti-aircraft guns under olive drab camouflage netting greeted the airliner as it crossed the airport’s threshold and rolled up to the terminal, and humidity blasted into the cabin as the door opened. The passengers were already sweating when they walked down the stairs onto the hot tarmac.

The other passengers covered their ears as they made their way toward the old building, a former military terminal, but Roger stopped for a moment to watch a British Harrier jump jet hover 50 feet off the ground on the other side the runway, rotate 180 degrees, then bounce its nose wheel off the ground and accelerate vertically into flight.

He smiled at the sight, then turned his attention to the ground crew as it unhurriedly unloaded the plane. One of the baggage handlers walked over to Roger.

“Welcome to Belize, Señor,” he shouted over the engine noise with a broad grin that exposed big, tarnished teeth highlighted by one large gold cap in front. His dark face accented his sincere smile. “Your baggage tickets, por favor?”

“Here you go, Buddy,” Roger shouted back as he produced the tags. “Nice to be back.”

Buddy pushed a small hand cart to the plane’s open cargo door, then waited while his co-workers unloaded baggage, watching until Roger pointed out his bag and boxes. Buddy retrieved them and wheeled them over.

“George is waiting in the circle,” he shouted, “I take these to him and tell him you be right out.” Roger nodded and pointed to the VCR box.

“That one’s for you!” he shouted.

Buddy looked at the side of the box and cracked a wide smile.

“Thank you for remembering, Roger, my friend,” he shouted. “You the only American I know who does these things.”

Roger slapped him on the back as Buddy looked beyond the passenger line to see if any of his associates were watching. Satisfied that the coast was clear, he vanished behind a door of long black rubber strips into the cargo area. The line continued moving slowly towards the immigration desk.

“What is your business in Belize?” an officer sternly demanded of Roger when he reached the desk.

“I’ve come to dive the beautiful reefs your country is so famous for.”

“How long?” the officer challenged.

“About a week.”

“What hotel?”

Roger gave him a bogus itinerary, miles from his true destination.

“Return ticket.”

Roger showed him his round-trip ticket, verifying the length of his intended stay and confirming his intention to leave.

“Next!”

Roger moved to next table to claim his baggage. Buddy had long since taken his position by the terminal’s customs exit. When Roger presented himself at the desk, Buddy caught the inspection officer’s attention and nodded discretely toward Roger. Roger identified his bag and the officer placed it on a narrow table. Roger unzipped it himself.

“Do you have anything to declare?”

Roger shook his head.

The officer pretended to look into the bag but he mostly kept his eyes on Roger.

“You may go,” he said, nodding his head toward the exit. Roger smiled and shouldered his bag and walked directly out the door where Buddy waited.

“I need forty dollars, twenty for each station,” Buddy whispered. Roger saw George sitting nearby in his bright red pickup and motioned for Buddy to follow him over. When they reached the driver’s window, Roger gave Buddy five $20 bills.

“Here, give forty to each, and keep twenty for yourself.”

“You don’t, you don’t need to—” Buddy stammered.

“Then please give it to your wife, and tell her I said hello,” Roger interrupted.

Buddy flashed a bright smile as he slid the money into his pocket.

“Thank you so much,” he said, and returned to work.

George gave Roger an enthusiastic handshake as he slid into the truck, then eyed him seriously.

“Roger, you don’t have to pay them,” he scolded gently. “I take care of the officials already. And you don’t even know Buddy’s wife; why do you give her twenty?”

“Listen man,” Roger chuckled, “I know how tough it is down here for you folks. Everyone’s just trying to survive. These people are working with us, so it’s nice to make sure they’re taken care of, and that way they go an extra mile for us some time when we need it.”

“Sí, but they know they’ve been paid,” George countered. “I don’t want them thinking they can take advantage of us.”

“I’m sure you took care of them,” Roger grinned, “but better we err in their favor, not ours.”

“True thing you say,” George conceded. “Everywhere I go, the ganjaleros fight to work for you. Everywhere, they want to do us favors. You remind me of my father, hermano, and I know he would be proud that I work with a man such as you.”

“Muchos gracias,” said Roger, “now let’s go say hola to Mama.” George grinned and put the truck in gear.

As the lush countryside streamed around them, Roger thought of his companion. George was a third generation Belizean from the Ramirez family. His Spanish grandparents learned that hard-working countrymen earned their British superiors fortunes, leaving them only with callused hands and poverty. His parents encouraged him to use his intelligence so he might one day rise above hard labor. His mother’s love encouraged him to study, and he became fluent in Spanish, Mayan, and English. His father traveled occasionally to outlying farms to purchase sugar cane and excess produce, and thus did George visit the country’s northern villages. There he met the people, learned their ways, learned to negotiate—and built lasting connections. His father’s consideration and respect for these people, and his gifts of food and money, made him a welcome friend among the thatched-hut peasants. Even with these advantages, though, George’s five-foot-eight-inch frame was marked by scars from childhood labor and hardships—which underscored for Roger the need to be generous with the Belizeans whom he knew were nowhere nearly as lucky as George.

They passed clapboard houses set up on stilts above the flood plain as they approached Belize City, then crossed the Haulover Bridge over the Belize River just upstream of where it emptied into the Caribbean after its meandering path through the country from its origins in country’s Maya Mountains. On the other side of the river, age-streaked homes mingled with newer cement block structures. As they crossed the flat coastlands nearing the city, George broke the silence.

“We need to get a Land Rover from Smitty,” he said. “I told him you were coming, so he said we can have one on credit. I’m tapped out of cash, so we’re going to have to take care of him on that. Manu’s there now picking one out. He’ll drive it to Orange Walk for the re-supply.”

Roger reached into his pocket and handed George $2,000.

“Here, no crew chief of mine walks around without a few bucks in his pocket.”

“Thank you, Roger,” that’s a big help.”

“No problem,” Roger nodded. “We’ll update all the accounts tomorrow, okay?”

George nodded, and a few moments later they crossed the Belcan Bridge over Haulover Creek and entered the narrow streets of the city’s poorer Southside area. Wooden buildings in need of repair stood alongside gutters overflowing with raw sewage that emptied into the smelly Belize River. Old and poverty-stricken, Roger had no doubt this district was a tuberculosis breeding ground, but he also knew that a police tail would stand out in sharp contrast; the police here did not like being seen in beat-up vehicles when doing undercover work.

George stopped at a gas station to fill up, taking care to inspect his truck before they went into the bush.

With tanks full and all fluids replenished, George and Roger doubled back to the more open spaces of the west side. They took Central American Boulevard a short way, then turned into a dirt alley by Smitty’s auto rental. Smitty’s son was the first to see Roger, and he called his name from a second-story window.

Smitty came out with a bottle of beer for each of them. They exchanged hellos and started talking business. Roger paid the charges George had racked up, and left a deposit for another Rover. George inquired about his partner, and Smitty’s son directed them across the alley to the parked rentals where Manu’s feet stuck out from under a vehicle.

Manu, a skinny man of African descent with childlike features that hid his 30 years, had teamed with George when they first approached Roger. Tired of working for unreliable Americans who had trouble finding buyers for their substandard ganja, they saw in Roger a trustworthy partner who not only treated people with respect but acted like a real businessman. Roger in turn had liked them too, seeing their seriousness and discipline, and soon shared with them his vision of growing a superior product that would change the dynamics of their market. Manu and George loved Roger’s plan and agreed to work exclusively for him to make it happen. In return, Roger got reliable men on the ground who could knew local families from whose ranks they could recruit and train growers.

Their equal partnership quickly hit a snag; Manu would take his payments and skip out on the work—at least until his money ran out, leaving George and Roger to take up the slack. Still, Roger admired Manu’s fluency in English and Spanish as well as his considerable mechanical talents—a critical resource when working in the bush—so rather than bouncing him from the partnership, Roger put George in charge of the pair. Manu then got paid only as his completed his tasks. His work ethic quickly improved, and the arrangement now worked smoothly.

Manu crawled out from under the Rover covered with dirt and grease. Roger offered his hand, but Manu waved him off, showing a greasy hand. He handed Roger his beer instead, and Roger drank the cool beverage to show his appreciation for the gesture. The truck and the Rover were soon ready. Manu washed up, and they headed back up the Northern Highway towards Orange Walk, avoiding the road’s notorious potholes.

Roger enjoyed people and their history, and George made perfect company for the three-hour trip. With independence less than a year old, Belizeans, and George in particular, felt a tremendous pride in their new nation.

“Belize has been raped and plundered for hundreds of years,” George said. “First, it was the conquistadores, who stripped the people of their gold and silver. You may have heard of their great treasure fleets and of the British buccaneers who hunted them? It was a pirate who founded Guatemala from which our country came. The Spanish had no interest in establishing settlements.

“And then they came after our resources, the Spanish and British. They made laws restricting trade and imposed their cruel tyranny on us. They built only the roads necessary to extract raw materials and transport them to the sea.” George turned to Roger and grinned. “Even then we had smugglers who defied the great powers. Treaties among the powers brought the pirating to an end, and the British buccaneers converted their pirate ships into cargo hauling vessels to join the commerce. They built small settlements of African slaves and, together with repressed Mayan and Mestizo Indians, they did their master’s grueling work. The poor Mestizos, they fled to Belize from the Spanish in the Yucatan. We became a melting pot. But our Latin pride and the African desire to rid themselves of their slavery aided our long struggle against the wealthy white masters.

“Once the land was stripped of its timber, we used the bare ground to plant crops for the absentee owners. They cared nothing for us.”

George occasionally interrupted himself to point out a Mayan ruin or potential landing strip.

“German Mennonites seeking religious freedom immigrated here. They brought their skills and knowledge in agriculture and dairy farming with them. They were the first Europeans to not treat us as animals.

“The British conscripted the black Belizeans to do their fighting in World War II. This injustice flamed our desire for independence and, in 1964, the British allowed their last crown colony on the American mainland to self-govern, though only as a member of their United Kingdom. In 1973, we changed our name from British Honduras to Belize and, finally, on September 21, 1981, just one year ago, the deeply rooted Catholic people overcame the tyrants, and our country won its independence!”

Roger knew about this last event. He had arrived in Belize just after its independence to evaluate the country as a potential marijuana source. During his stay, he’d actually heard a speech by Prime Minister George Cadle Price, the “founding father” of Belize, in which he told his people to help themselves raise their standard of living, which had been devastated by the falling price of sugar. In his address, he told them, “If you can’t feed your family growing corn and cane, then grow something you can.” Squeezed by the rich multi-nationalists on the world’s sugar market, the Belizeans had to produce a more marketable good. Without the U.K.’s restrictions, trade began to flourish, and Roger realized that Belize was the place for him.

As they weaved down the neglected road, testing the limits of the truck’s suspension, George changed the subject to the farm’s progress.

“The plants are strong and healthy. The leaves, Roger, they’re bigger than my hand!”

“I thought those seeds would give us plants like ‘Jack and the Bean Stalk,’” Roger said. “Fertilizing them the way I showed you will give us the buds we want.”

“Even the Mennonites are amazed. They want to buy our seeds, but I won’t give up even one.”

“As soon as we harvest our seed crop, we’ll have more than we can use, so don’t be afraid to give some out. It would be good to have others producing good bud. It makes a better demand in the States.”

“No, Roger we are going to plant every one,” George said, shaking his head in disagreement. None will go to waste. I want to do like you said before we started. I want to grow the best buds in Belize. Besides, Roger, we need them all for another reason.”

Roger looked sharply at George. He could tell by the suddenly sad tone in his voice that something was up—something bad enough that George hadn’t said anything about it until now.

“Your government has caused us a problem,” George said. “It said we must fight drugs in order to get the benefits of the Caribbean common market, so the Prime Minister allowed helicopters from Mexico to spray some of the fields with something. We go there first so I can show you what happened.”

They turned off the highway onto a dirt road just south of Orange Walk and parked next to a gravel quarry. Normally, they would hide the trucks in the thick vegetation, but there was none; all the trees were dead, dying or sickly, their leaves fallen or deathly yellow.

Roger’s jaw muscles tensed as he looked at the carnage.

“Paraquat,” he hissed. George nodded.

“And not only does it kill and hurt the plants,” the Belizean went on, “it poisons the water and the food. The U.S. forced the Mexicans to spray it on their own fields, but when the Mexicans saw what it did to their land, they demanded it be stopped, but they had some left over, so the U.S. had them spray it on our fields.”

“Jesus,” Roger muttered as he became aware of buzzing and walked over toward the sound. There among the ruined bushes lay a young goat, dead and rotting in the sun.

“Our animals are sick, the vegetables are dead, and the peasants in the area are weak,” George went on. “The newspapers came out loudly against it, and we have been told that the operation is over, but that your DEA is upset because only a few plots were sprayed. One of them was ours, but it was a small field so that is not so bad, but we will have to start it over again.”

Roger sighed in disgust, still too upset to speak. He walked away from the dead goat and scanned the ruined field and surrounding vegetation.

“I’m so sorry,” he said quietly to Manu and George, “and I apologize as an American for this terrible thing done in my name by the U.S. government. “Put up some signs as soon as you can, will you, please? Signs that warn people of the danger so they will stay out and not drink the water or try to salvage the food or plants in the field.” Then he turned on his heel and marched back to the truck, eyes angry that this newly independent nation was still being ground into the dirt by a colonial power.

They drove into the town of Orange Walk. It was a rich town by Belizean standards, but by American standards it looked more like a town from the old West, its dirt streets filled with Mennonite growers who had come out of the bush, seeking buyers for their vegetable and marijuana crops. To them, it was an open-air market of free enterprise all done for their family survival.

They stopped in the park square. George gave Manu some money to buy supplies, then he and Roger drove to George’s house on the edge of town and pulled across a grass field next to the Coca-Cola factory. George’s seven small children came running out of their house to greet Roger. George lit up proudly as he watched his children jump on Roger like a favorite uncle. Roger in turn acted like one; he pulled his box of toys from the truck and gave each one their choice. Soon balls were bouncing and Frisbees flying as the children happily entertained themselves.

“Roger, you’re more than a brother to me,” George said. “The day I met you changed my whole life. I am so proud to work with you and so happy that my family loves you.”

Roger reached behind his neck and took off a gold chain and cross he had worn to get it through customs.

“This is for your wife, for putting up with you,” Roger grinned.

Then he handed George a box with the other pair of cowboy boots. George saw the Tony Lama label and was so overwhelmed, he couldn’t look Roger in the eye; he blindly bear-hugged him instead. Then they walked to the house and Roger gave his wife the cross and chain, not as a form of payment but as a token of their friendship.

Roger had cemented their relationship the year before when he sent down the red F-250 four-wheel-drive pickup. When George had received this unexpected shipment, he told Roger he would take good care of it for him.

“Take care of it for yourself,” Roger had replied, “It’s yours.”

After a quick lunch, George dropped Roger off at the Chula Vista Hotel, conveniently above a gas station just north of town in Trail Farm, so he could get some rest. They had a big day ahead of them.

 

The next day, George handed Roger a blue knapsack he’d left on his last visit. Inside, Roger found his calculator, pen flashlights, and miscellaneous survival items. He took it back to the truck while George spoke to the hotel’s owner. Roger reached into the box of toys and put the four radios in his pack, along with handfuls of toys.

The men went back into town and started buying a few additional supplies for the boys in the bush. They had lived on very little for a couple weeks while waiting for more cash. They loaded up with nylon bags of flour, rice, and beans, then made a final stop at a bakery, where George bought several dozen loaves of bread and placed large blocks of ice in coolers on a few bottles. They met Manu back at the square and loaded more basic staples and containers of water and gas into the truck.

“I checked some buds coming in from the fields,” Manu told them, gesturing toward some of the farmers. “My eye is now trained for the quality the Americans want and there is nothing I see that compares with what are growing. We have no competition in looks or bite here.”

Only the previous year, Roger had taught the farmers something they had barely noticed the difference between the male and females plants. He showed them that the female plants grew a pistillate flower with distinguishable white hairs, were generally smaller, and produced the highest levels of THC, especially if the male plants didn’t pollinate the females. The male plants grew taller, had yellow and green sepals, and boasted clumps without hairs. Roger showed them how to delicately harvest the males a week or so prior to the females to prevent pollination.

During that first trip, Roger had also identified the harder working men who would support their families any peaceful way they could. Unlike most Americans, who never ventured beyond the whorehouses when they came to buy, Roger journeyed deep into the country’s jungles and grasslands to personally meet and work with the people. In addition to giving them tips on growing, Roger taught them about health, hygiene, and world events. These expeditions into the heart of the nation convinced Roger to start a co-operative farm with the dedicated Belizeans. He saw clearly that by organizing their efforts and bringing in the right seed and equipment, they would earn more than they needed to survive; they could actually prosper—and so, of course, would he.

The heavily loaded vehicles bumped down dirt roads past Mestizo and Mennonite villages, bound for their hilly base camp in the Edenthal area bordering Mexico along Orange Walk District’s northwestern corner. George led the way. Manu followed far enough behind to avoid George’s dust cloud.

The jarring ride soon aggravated Roger’s money-crowded feet so much he couldn’t take it any longer. He removed the most burdensome one and peeled off the tape along with the hair on his leg. George heard the ripping sound and laughed at the grimace on Roger’s face.

“Ha ha! Oh, Roger, you should wait until we pass the Blue Creek police station before you do that.”

“Sorry, man,” Roger said, flexing his toes and ankle. “I’d rather get busted than wear this another minute, much less two hours.” He placed some of the money inside an inner pouch in his pack and handed $15,000 to George.

“Give this to the guys when we get there,” he said, glad to be rid of it.

“Roger, that’s way too much!” George said, startled at the size of the stacks.

“No, that’s way too little.”

“You don’t understand,” George countered. “If you pay them this much now, they’ll go into town and expose themselves and the farm.”

“Fair enough,” Roger said, “so let’s do this. Go to the village and leave something with their families instead. Their wives will manage it better than they will, right?”

“Ah, yes, Roger,” George laughed, “that is a good idea—and we have to stop there to pick up a water pump anyway.”

News of the famous red truck’s arrival spread quickly through the village as soon as they arrived in San Felipe to pay the families the wages their men had earned. When Manu caught up, George gave him a radio and sent him southeast to the camp near Indian Church where his men were setting up plots for the future. Manu and his Rover rumbled off, trailing a cloud of familiar Belizean dust.

Roger and George loaded up the pump, then went to a cluster of dirt-floored, thatched huts where three of their workers lived. Livestock wandered freely through the one-room, bamboo abodes as the men entered and loudly announced their arrival, scattering chickens in every direction. George walked out of the hut to the rear yard and spoke to one of the grandmothers in Mayan. Roger returned to the front with his bag hanging from one shoulder and found himself facing a crowd of dirty, barefoot children. He smiled at one young boy, and the boy hid behind the leg of another.

Roger unzipped his bag, took out a ball, and began bouncing it to himself. Then he grabbed it in his hand and stooped down eye level with the child. Catching his smile, Roger rolled the ball slowly over to him. The boy grabbed it happily with both hands. The other kids closed in a little more, and Roger tried some of his Spanish on the small tribe.

“Hola, niños. Como esta?”

“Quieres un naranja?” a little girl replied.

“Na-ran-ga?”

“No, no! Nar-an-HA. Orange.” The little girl annunciated each syllable for Roger. As she corrected him, the children erupted in laughter, slightly embarrassing Roger. He sat in the dirt and opened the bag of toys. Soon he had the young lads hanging on him, waiting to choose one. Roger stood, feeling pleased with himself and even happier for the kids. His young Spanish instructor came over and gave him an orange.

“Cómo te llamas?”

“Mi nombre es Rosa,” Rosa grinned and ran to play with the other children.

George finished his business, and they headed to another hut. A boy came to George at the door and tugged at his sleeve.

“The elder asks if Mr. Roger has time to speak.”

George looked over to Roger, who’d heard the request.

“Of course. Let’s go.”

The boy jumped into the back of the truck among the supplies and pointed the way to the elder, who sat in a chair on the porch of a raised plank board house in need of paint.

It was Francis, who Roger had briefly met on his last trip, a man respected by the other villagers and who acted as the village’s mayor.

Francis stood up and invited the two inside, where his wife gave them each a glass of water and left them to their privacy.

“Mr. Roger. Your presence is changing my people,” said Francis. “Can I ask you something, Mr. Roger?”

“Certainly Francis. And please, call me Roger.”

“Roger, why do you choose to come to such a poor town, a poor country? Listen, I have lived here all my years and seen many changes. I’ve thought about what you are doing and its place with our people.

“Long ago I closed my eyes when we grew sugar cane for rum. The government said this was good, but we have had much trouble with rum and drink. Now, no one buys our rum, so we grow what we can sell even though it is against the law. Such things must be because we are poor. With so little money, we are forced to cross the river and buy our goods in Mexico. To survive we must break the law so our people can eat. But these drug laws are made for your country, which has much. We are blamed for the drug problem because we grow, but we grow what we can sell. When we grow our fruits and cane, sometimes we have good markets and sometimes not. If we do not, then our hard labor rots back into the earth, and we do not eat. We gain nothing and the rich nations say this is better. But better for who, those with much?”

“Not sure who it’s better for,” Roger said honestly, because he really had no idea why America’s drug laws were like they were. He also wondered where Francis was going with his commentary.

“We are a poor nation,” Francis continued, “one that has received little recognition for all we have suffered. So how is it Belize does not have a drug problem and the countries with plenty do? Since the past we have won many victories that have earned us dignity and self-respect.

“Now you have helped us to be independent from the markets we cannot control and do not understand. In little time, you have brought a chance for us to have better things, but who benefits? Here we have no government except in the towns. The villagers are simple people who are living simple lives. We have been left alone because we are so few with so little. Having little is the price we pay for freedom. It is better this way. When there is wealth in abundance, those who have much come to control.”

“I think you say the truth very well, Francis,” Roger said. “What you say is true all over the world.”

“That is why I have asked you here, Roger,” he said, “to help you understand the Belizeans and for a favor. Please, no matter what you do, do not import violence to our country. The Nicaraguans, Salvadorans, and Guatemalans come to Belize seeking peace. They flee from what your country has done to theirs. America brings to these places things for war, and now they have war. Your government denies involvement, but Central Americans still die. I fear one day the U.S. will come here and do the same.

“I have heard there are many guns at your camp. The young men in the village speak of owning one some day. The children hear, and they repeat the same. Since television has come to the house with electricity, our young crave the things they see from America. Our close family binding is damaged by longing for material items, and many move to the city in pursuit. You must realize your influence on the children and the people who see you with many things. Your actions can steer them right or wrong. I ask you to do the former. I have learned you are different from others like you. You are honest and good to the people, but if you bring weapons, one day you will be gone and the weapons will remain. We must not forget why the refugees are here.”

Roger waited respectfully for several moments before he replied.

“I realize all the other countries growing pot are full of guns and pain, but that is not the case yet in Belize. Your police don’t carry guns, and your army doesn’t control the trade. Your government is still young and trying to learn how to govern, but Francis, as I already said, your words are true, so I am afraid. Your troubles will come when America imposes its will upon you. Our government blames others for our problems because it cannot expose the fact that it is our government that is the problem. We offer money to other nations, and they impose hardships upon people like you. When your government accepts our bribe money, it’s only natural that lower officials do the same. If I am in business with people, with the farmers, they cry foul. But the black market is the truest form of free market, because it supports the people. Our governments operate with double standards, where their personal ends justify any means they can get away with. In Belize, it’s an outright pocket payment, and in the U.S., our politicians take positions of wealth after they leave office. Government is supposed to serve the people, but it actually imposes suppression and injustice. This creates poverty and forces people into black markets to survive. Government-created poverty is the worst for the people, and it is the greatest root of crime and violence, much worse than drugs could ever be. Please understand it is not the American people who do this but the powers that run the government. We are taught to accept what we are told. Our submission will one day make things much worse. You are right, we will pay for this with our freedom, and… .”

A runner breathlessly interrupted, “The policia are here searching houses. Someone has told them goods from Mexico have come.”

“Come on, Roger,” George hissed, “let’s get out of here. If they see us with the supplies, they will know it’s for the ganjaleros.”

“Go straight away,” Francis interjected. “This boy will show you the safest way from the village.”

Francis and Roger briefly locked eyes as Roger stood to leave. Roger meant to show humility and understanding through his eyes. He couldn’t tell if Francis got his meaning, except maybe for the respectful nod he received from the elder as he went out the door.

The little boy ran through the back of the house and through the dusty roads. Roger and George kept pace with the little boy who ran proudly around the back of the little village to the red truck.

 

They got out of town without incident. George thanked the boy as he jumped from the truck, and Roger tossed him a bunch of bananas in appreciation as they drove off.

“It makes me mad when the police steal food from the peasants,” George told Roger.

“They do that?” Roger asked, shaking his head. “Well, if the old man is right and that’s their biggest problem, then their problems are small. We need to arrange a working relationship with the cops so they leave the villagers alone.”

“No, no, Roger. We only need to make them pay one time for them to realize we will take no more.” Roger smiled at George’s determination, but he shook his head.

“If they revolt with arms, then the police will carry guns,” he explained. “If they are brave enough to enter the homes and steal food now, how much more courage will they have if they carried guns? You gotta go to South America to understand, it’s better the way it is. George, Francis is much smarter than we are about this.”

“Well, we need guns to hunt, and to protect the camp. I always carry mine.”

Roger thought again what Francis said and he weighed his next words.

“George, if I’ve taught you anything, I hope it’s that the secret to survival is to not let anyone know what you’re doing or what you’ve got. If you organized a resistance, it would expose a growing power, and the government will form a force against it. Believe me, this place is sweet the way it is. We’ve got it made. The trade is still small, and the farmers are unorganized. One day, it will change, but for now we should enjoy it. George, promise me that you won’t forget that our progress is only temporary and you won’t get crazy with your guns.”

“I understand what you’re telling me,” George said, giving him a long, sober look. “I promise, neither I nor any of the crew will act except in self defense.”

“Good,” Roger said. “It’s the only way to go.”

The men drove down the open flatlands along the Blue Creek, passing the lone police station where the raiders were based. On the Mexican side of a narrow bridge, several homes lay scattered across the hillside. Driving quickly, they left more dust in the air as they went westward through rising terrain to the Mennonite settlement of Tres Leguas.

Beyond the first house on a ridge just outside the settlement, Roger saw the fuselage of an old Lockheed Constellation converted for storage by an enterprising farmer. The decades-old hulk bore witness that somewhere nearby there had once been a long landing strip. Following the dirt road that closely paralleled the Mexican border, they came upon a family of Mennonites in a horse-drawn cart. Roger pulled out his camera to take a picture, but as soon as the people saw the device, they hid their faces in their hands, and Roger quickly lowered the camera feeling embarrassed that he had violated their privacy. He held out his hand and gestured an apology as they moved past.

The Mennonite’s religious lifestyle fascinated Roger. Their white shirts and suspendered black pants brought to life a time long past. They believed in doing everything in its most natural way and that modern innovation was the downfall of man. Roger wondered if they were right. He knew little of the people except what he observed and what some outcasts of the group had told him.

George spotted one Mennonite man talking to another as they sat in an old flatbed truck by the settlement. These were George’s friends, outcasts who had violated their culture by driving trucks and tractors.

“This is the guy who’s building the airfield,” George said, pointing to one of them, “Jacob. And they’ve both been growing and selling too.”

As George pulled alongside, the men looked in the back at the supplies, and one leaned in the window of the truck.

“Hi, Jacob,” George said. “Anything going on?”

“No. Nobody’s been by here. It’s been real quiet. Heading back?”

“Soon. Do you remember Roger?”

“Yeah, from last year. Hello Roger.” He stretched out his hand to greet Roger.

“Jacob, I hear you got a strip that’s pretty long. Is it one you built?”

“No. Oh no. This one’s been back there for many years. I think the last time it was used was in the sixties.”

“It’s perfect,” George said. “Long enough, and close so we won’t have to haul the load on any dangerous roads.”

“When can we look at it?” Roger asked Jacob.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

“As soon as we get back from delivering the supplies,” George said. “Tomorrow mid-afternoon okay?”

They nodded and George continued up the road. Roger grinned at George.

“Glad we can check it out,” he said. “Can’t trust a non-pilot’s word about a runway, no matter what they think they know.”

“You have trouble with that in the past?”

“Just once, but it was big trouble. I’ll never do that again.”

The road deteriorated rapidly as they drove on past a small, scattered Mennonite village. Soon the road became a two-rut wagon trail. Soon after that, it became a footpath. When it became impassable for the truck, George turned off into the trees and parked. Roger handed him a radio and he punched in the frequency monitored by the men in the bush. A few moments after the second call, their response came back, and George told them to bring horses and men to haul the supplies.

Roger arranged his bag for the hike, then looked up at a sound outside the truck and saw three shotgun-toting Belizeans standing next to his window. He tapped George on the shoulder and George got out to greet them with hugs and smiles and backslaps. Then he gestured for Roger to join them.

“Roger,” he said as soon as Roger stepped from the truck, “these are my brothers Rubin and Hector, and this is Juan. He lives in San Felipe. Juan’s a great runner and can go for many miles. He’s our back-up radio. They are guarding the entrance to camp so no banditos come upon us.”

Roger smiled and shook their hands.

“George, these two are your brothers? They don’t look anything like you!”

George laughed as he handed them a loaf of bread and cold drinks, a bushman’s luxury. While they waited for the others, George refueled the truck from a 55-gallon drum and checked its fluids. He took out a map when he finished and oriented Roger on the route they had traveled.

“See, the road had officially ended near the settlement,” he said. “The ruts we followed are a peasant’s crossing into Mexico. Jacob and Pedro, the other Mennonite on the flatbed, they picked the location for the farm because it’s so close to Mexico we have an escape route if there are any problems.”

“Sounds great, George,” Roger said. “Good work.”

“Thanks, man,” and Roger could see George’s pride at the compliment.

The carrying party arrived then, eight men and a pair of pack horses emerging quietly from the jungle. The short, black haired men with coffee-colored eyes and somber round faces smiled excitedly when they saw the supplies, and a moment later were even happier when Rubin and Hector handed them cold beers.

George, Roger, Hector and Rubin first loaded the horses with the heaviest parcels while the eight growers rested and quaffed their beers, then they filled each man’s pack with a decent load. George picked two of the new arrivals to stay with Juan to guard the trailhead, then they started up the hill into the jungle.

Half an hour later, they passed a guard at the outer perimeter of the camp, a mile and a half into the jungle, and shortly thereafter reached the camp itself.

Roger surveyed the settlement of crudely made hammocks and makeshift Visqueen tents stretched between trees on the well-trampled ground. A small natural spring bubbled over a circle of rocks and trickled down an incline into a clearing at the edge of camp. He saw a fairly neat garbage dump and latrine downhill from the camp, and far offline from the stream. Aerial searchers could find it if they knew more or less where to look, but Roger was satisfied that it would probably elude casual observation.

The hikers dropped their packs, unloaded the horses, and stowed the cargo in wooden crates under thick trees that protected it from the elements. Rubin then picked the strongest growers go back downhill and get the rest of the shipment. When one of them balked at the additional hike, Rubin whispered in his ear.

“More cold beer down there, too, amigo.” The man’s frown disappeared and he dashed to the front of the group as they left camp.

“Works every time,” George said to Roger with a grin.

The growing team consisted of 12 in all, a huge operation for Belize. The group had emerged from Roger’s frustration on previous trips, when he’d been forced to travel from one end of the country to the other to put together a single ton—due both to small operations and such poor crops that he rejected most of what he inspected.

His searching time had not been a waste, though; through his travels, he met the most qualified growers and George had recruited them into the present operation. Each man was proud to be a part of the well-equipped co-op and of its productive yields, and each knew he was learning invaluable knowledge that he could use for his own plots when this commitment ended.

And they were extremely well-equipped, especially for Belize. Each time on previous trips, Roger and Hanoi had had sent generators, pumps, and other gear for the plantation on every plane. They hadn’t deadheaded to the country a single time. Now, with the operation fully scaled up through Roger’s smart leadership and intricate planning, they were preparing the largest single shipment of Belizean sinsemilla in the country’s history.

Much remained to be done, of course. The growers were now expert at working jungle pot farms, but they were also rookie smugglers and unaware of the mission’s magnitude. Roger counted on the veteran help of his main men, George and Manu, to make sure each team member could handle his assignment the day the big plane landed. It would be a big challenge, but Roger was confident the operation would succeed.

He toured the facility and saw the yet-to-be-used processing stations. The first contained three stretcher-like devices made from long, straight trees holding apart several layers of chicken wire. George explained that this was where the dried tops would have the “sheesh” shaken from them. Slightly downhill from that were four trash compactors mounted on a plywood floor and protected by a heavy olive drab tarpaulin. The machines made a 12 x 18 x 18-inch, 20-pound block, an ideal size for handling, transporting, and selling stateside. Continuing down the gentle slope, the men walked along the spring-fed stream to the final station on the tree line. There he saw gardening utensils, machetes, and fertilizers.

George called over Paco, the head grower who Roger knew from San Felipe, and the three ventured into the clearing for a preliminary field inspection. They passed through the grower’s vegetable garden, then entered row upon row of a well-cultivated crop. Roger knew the growing stages and was quite impressed with what he saw.

“What are your watering and fertilizing procedures?” he asked Paco.

“I let the plant tell me when it’s ready for each,” he said. “These are different than the Mexican I grew.” He stopped next to a ten-footer and brushed aside the thick branches, exposing a huge main stalk. “These plants will get much bigger, so I don’t want to rush the flowers. If we let the plant determine when to bud, we’ll get much more than if we use potash now.”

Roger knew Paco was right, both from the obvious health and vigor of the plants, and what he knew from his Hawaiian source: the seeds came from 20-foot trees grown from multi-year hybrids. He was delighted to see that Paco knew exactly what he was doing.

The rest of the supplies arrived as they wandered around the patch, and the three returned to camp just as the others finished storing the goods, so Roger gathered the growers together for a meeting. Before talking, however, he unzipped his Cordura bag and handed each man two pairs of new jeans that were exactly his size. Most of them stripped off their dirty old pants and donned their new denim on the spot, chattering happily among themselves and thanking Roger with smiles, nods and gracious words. When they settled down, Roger stood in front of them.

“My friends,” he said, “I am very happy with your work. You built a good camp, and everything is in the right place. And the crop. It is—”

A nearby gunshot interrupted him.

Roger frowned as he watched the men quickly run off toward the sound, showing no fear or even concern. He looked at Paco, who was smiling.

With no sign of intimidation the men hurdled the brush under the canopy of trees.

“Our hunter has been hunting jabalí,” he said, “and I think he got one.”

“Wild boar?” Roger asked.

“Sí, and the others go now to finish him off. With that and the new food, we feast tonight, yes Roger?”

“Sí,” Roger said, smiling. I really need this, he thought. I need this for my soul.

Several minutes later, the growers returned proudly, carrying the dead hog. Roger noted that they all wore knives that Roger had previously sent to them, and one man was already putting his to work dressing and cleaning the main course. The others gathered around a young man Roger assumed was the hunter as he told the story of his hunt. When he finished, Roger went over to him and shook his hand.

“Excellente, señor,” he said appreciatively.

“Gracias, don Roger,” he said respectfully, and as he bowed, Roger noticed that he still wore old blue jeans. He counted heads and realized there were now 13 in all.

“I’m sorry I didn’t bring jeans for you,” he said, then turned to George. “How long’s he been here?”

“We just brought him on to hunt for us.”

“Well, he sure did his job today.” He turned back to the hunter. “Amigo, next time I come down, I’d like to bring you something. What would you like?”

The hunter looked at George for guidance, unsure how to talk to the American.

“Go ahead,” George prompted. “Answer him.”

“I would like boots like yours,” he replied confidently.

Roger looked down at the man’s bare feet, then his own, then he pulled a pair of socks from his bag and handed them to the hunter. The young man took them, frowning in uncertainty at what Roger was doing.

Then Roger sat down and yanked off the expensive Tony Lama and handed them to the hunter.

“See if they fit,” he ordered. The hunter instantly sat down and put on the socks, then pulled on the boots. They fit perfectly and the smile that spread across his face lit up the camp.

“Gracias, señor,” he said happily. “Muchos gracias!”

The rest of the growers celebrated the hunter’s good fortune as the young man stomped around the camp in his stylish new footwear.

Roger was at least as happy as the hunter; now he could put his comfortable sneakers back on, which he did, then kicked back under a tree and watched the show.

He saw the camaraderie of his growers as they sliced vegetables and made flour tortillas on a hot piece of metal over hot coals. The joy they took in preparing their feast showed him how such simple things were the most valuable. He could see what Francis was getting at when he told him about not wanting the children to become materialistic. Roger saw how happy these people were before he brought them gifts and a hefty salary, but he also saw that new jeans, cold beer, and fresh meat also made them smile.

Roger struggled with the paradox between his gifts and a relaxed life not spent in pursuit of material wealth. Were they not already happy in their simplicity? Americans are not generally happy in their wealth, so how can bringing money and gifts benefit these people?

Roger meant for his gifts to hopefully buy their loyalty, but wouldn’t this disrupt the simplicity Francis wished for his people? This was just a different world, a different world that held different perceptions. He wondered if their generous salaries would lure them to seek the white man’s toys in Belize City. Then he thought about the Mennonites. These people knew of but rejected the temptation of modernization. Finally, what about himself? Did he place too much value on his own fast-paced life of airplanes, boats, islands, and suitcases full of money? Roger took a drink from his bottled water, watched his team prepare dinner, and pondered which lifestyle was correct, if either.

Later that evening, the group sat in a circle on stumps, enjoying the spread. While the growers looked on, Roger hesitantly tasted the wild boar, then bit firmly down on it, crudely tearing a hunk with his teeth. He ignored the toughness and concentrated on the taste—and was surprised to find it very good.

“Bueno!” he said, and the growers applauded his pronouncement and went back to their own meals. Then Paco passed him the armadillo they had shot before Roger arrived, cooked in its shell. Armadillo on the half shell, he thought. My God, this thing’s a rat in armor!

Roger didn’t know what rat tasted like, but armadillo wasn’t bad and the thanked his companions for sharing it with him.

“De nada,” said the cook, then smiled slyly. “Roger, I would like you to try my favorite, habenero.”

“Is that a pepper? Well, I really do like spicy and hot food.”

The cook placed a small piece of the native habanero on some rice and Roger ate it. Instantly, his mouth felt like he had swigged battery acid; he spit everything out and tried to breathe. He tried to say he’d never tasted anything so potent, but he couldn’t talk. Fresh beads of sweat joined the perspiration already rolling down his face. His eyes filled with tears and he stuffed tortillas in his mouth to dampen the burning.

It didn’t help. Nothing helped. The growers roared with laughter as he tried to regain his composure.

“I’m so sorry, Roger,” said the cook, laughing with the others, “but you said you liked hot things.”

Roger’s mouth finally calmed down, but he was done eating for the night. He had truly lost his appetite.

A mellow atmosphere fell over the camp as they sat around the fire with full bellies.

“Roger, what is life like in America?” one grower asked. “Is it great?”

“Great is a word for those who want to believe doing something or having something makes you better than others,” Roger said thoughtfully. “For some of you, your fathers are most happy when they have lots of chickens laying eggs. For others, it’s a good harvest. I’m an American, and seeing how you live, I can’t say America is great, or even better. It’s just different. Here you live in peace, free to do what you want in a natural environment. You are so different from the Mennonites and the other people who’ve settled here, but you all live in harmony and neither of you looks down upon the other. In America, we preach unity but segregate the minorities. One day that will all explode if things don’t change, and then living in Belize will be much better.”

“You mean this is better, living in the bush hoping one day to have a house and a truck?” asked another. “In America, doesn’t everyone have these things?”

Roger listened, flashing back on Francis’s words and he thought about his answer.

“First of all, no, not everyone in America has a house, or even a truck. Second, don’t be fooled into thinking that having fancy things makes you happy. Yes, you can have fine possessions and be happy, but you must weigh more than the package. Nothing is better than God, health, and freedom. When we rate a temporary pleasure over things that last forever, we have lost sight of value. Don’t underestimate what your parents can teach you. Good people only come from good stock, just like the plants we grow. Our plants are special because they come from special seeds. With lots of love and care, the plants thrive, but if they are neglected, they wither and die. As with you, you must let your parents teach you the things of life. So take advantage of the values you learn from them.”

“You mean Belize is better than America,” another asked, “but you still want to live there with all those things you have?”

The question threw Roger off because he had never realized that his philosophy was hypocritical.

“For me, I must say that as bad as America can be, I still feel it is the best place for me to live. It is my home, and that is what I’m used to. We must not forget that all things are temporary and power corrupts. If we don’t keep watch on the government’s actions, we will pay like the Nicaraguans. Americans are being lulled to sleep by chasing possessions. They don’t realize the struggles that go on every day around the world. The most comfortable ones don’t want to know there are people like you struggling to feed your families and happy when no one is sick. The fancy things you ask about have captured their minds, distracting them with materialistic pursuit. I guess what I’m trying to say is we all look through different eyes and have different goals. Being Belizean is the same in that respect as anywhere. We must always be happy with what we have rather than unhappy with what we don’t have. When you obtain fine things, never allow it to change who you are. Remember these humble times.”

“Roger, what other places have you traveled to?” Rubin asked.

“All over the United States and Mexico. Some other places too.”

“What’s it like being able to travel, Roger?”

“It’s nice to see how other people live. It gives you a new perspective into your own life, and you get to see new things. And it makes going home even nicer.”

“That sounds so great,” Rubin said. “I can’t wait until I can travel to new places. I have dreams about taking a jet plane to the United States.”

Roger stayed with the party until fatigue and alcohol overcame everyone. Alongside the fire they prepared a bed for him by laying the horse blankets over a pile of sticks to soften the ground. Drifting into sleep, listening to the dwindling crackles of the fire, Roger pondered the questions they had asked. Never before had he been in a position to share his experiences, nor had he openly admitted his feelings to himself.

 

Roger woke up in cool shade that rapidly became humid light as the sun rose and the day began. He rolled his shoulders to stretch out the soreness from the ground as the camp began rustling with life. He took out a small portable electric razor and shaved. The growers laughed at him for it, but if things turned sour, Roger didn’t want to look like he’d been in the bush.

After a hearty breakfast, the oldest growers assigned chores and the crews went to work. Roger’s first inspection of the field had been brief, so he looked forward to a better look as George gathered Paco and Ramon, the most knowledgeable growers, and soon after they resumed the tour.

As they walked from one plot into another, the plant heights kept increasing until Roger stood beneath 16-foot pot trees with flourishing, six-foot colas that strained to hold the bud-laden branches. Their unmistakable aroma saturated the air. Roger walked in awe among the flowering plants.

“I can’t believe how full these are,” he said, as he grabbed a branch to closely inspect the glistening red hairs, feeling the hearty girth of the cola. Moist resin oozed between his fingers.

“Feels like flypaper,” he said to a clearly proud Ramon as he pulled it to his face and sniffed the female’s potent aroma. “Excellent, man, totally excellent.”

He stepped back to gaze towards the top, still amazed by its massive size.

“How much older are these than the ones near the camp?” he asked Paco.

“Two weeks,” he said, and Roger’s eyebrows arched at this news. “These plants were sown two days before the full moon. That is the best time to start. It will give us nearly twice the yield as the others. The majority of the crop is from this planting.”

Roger was intrigued by Paco’s knowledge. His talent was evidenced by the farm’s abundance. Roger followed him deeper into the mist.

“We stroke the long branches upward and knock off the yellow rain leaves,” Ramon said, “and of course, the rows are planted north and south so they produce more.”

“How long will it take to bale five thousand pounds?” Roger asked Paco.

Paco consulted Ramon in Spanish for a moment before answering.

“The amount you wish is much larger than we are accustomed to.”

“And so are these plants!” added Ramon.

“Our guess is that each one will bring four pounds of dried bud,” Paco went on. “In this field alone, we have over one thousand trees, and the largest patch is behind that hill. The answer depends on the rains because we will easily have over ten thousand pounds if all goes well. This field should be ready very soon. We are only making them cry out more against the sun. When the rains end, which is soon, we bring in the last. That should be two or three more months. We have several more men coming in for the harvest. So we need half that time for the amount you need.”

“Good,” Roger said. “That’ll be about right to get everything ready on my end too.”

As they walked back to camp, dwarfed by the towers of legendary herb, Roger was quietly elated. The operation was running as smoothly as he’d hoped and the results were better than he’d expected. Now for the next piece of the puzzle.

They rested awhile before hiking back to the trucks, so George drew up a list of needed supplies and refilled their canteens. A relief team carrying food and radios for the watchmen at the trail head went with them and traded stations with their counterparts.

George and Roger drove back onto the road and a mile past the Mennonite settlement to the turnoff for Jacob’s white, well-maintained two-story house. The tall thin bearded Mennonite came out to greet them, his children following him onto the porch but no further. His oldest boy had a green pet parrot perched on his shoulder, and they all stared at the visitors as Jacob got in the truck.

They headed east for a while, then turned onto a dirt road that ended at a private drive blocked by a locked gate. Jacob got out, punched in the combination, and waved them through. They cleared a small knoll and approached an apparently deserted house. Jacob looked out as they slowly drove by to see if anyone was there, then instructed George to pull across the grass and behind an old barn.

Roger looked around doubtfully. He saw nothing that resembled an airstrip among the rolling hills.

“You sure there’s a mile-long airstrip out here?” he asked Jacob.

“Absolutely,” Jacob said confidently, unconcerned by Roger’s obvious doubt as he directed George truck through a narrow pass between two small hills to a long valley hidden from the road.

A tremendous view Mexican mountains a mile away opened up in front of them, accented by an old hangar off to one side. Several broken-down buses and trucks blocked the runway. George parked near one end of the strip and they got out to walk. Roger looked down the deceptively narrow stretch and realized that this had been an active airfield. The crumbling blacktop needed repair, but it was blacktop, not dirt, and it could certainly handle the Howard.

The men fanned out into the waist-high grass growing through the cracks, looking for holes or obstructions. Roger walked the clear center and counted his steps. At the end of what he considered the usable length he had paced around 5,000 feet—almost a mile, just as Jacob had said. Recounting the steps back he noticed that the hill, which conveniently hid the strip from the road, was also a potential takeoff hazard for a heavily loaded plane.

“Which way’s the prevailing wind?” he asked Jacob. Jacob pointed toward the unobstructed Mexican border. Roger nodded.

“Perfect.” he said, and looked around the valley again, soaking it all in. “So who built this and what did they use it for?”

“Can’t say,” said Jacob. “All I can tell you is that no one’s used it for many years, and certainly not for the purpose you have in mind.”

They returned to the truck and Roger drove up and down it three times to re-check the length and test the smoothness. It came in at 1.1 miles and it was actually pretty smooth.

“We’ll have to cut this grass down, though,” he told Jacob. “Can’t have anything dinging the props or slowing down the takeoff roll.”

“Sure thing,” Jacob agreed. “I can take care of that for the right price.”

Roger grinned at the negotiating tone that instantly appeared in Jacob’s voice and they spent the rest of their return drive haggling good-naturedly until they settled on a healthy figure that included some Mennonite loading help.

When they got back to Jacob’s home, his blond-haired brood was playing in front of the house. Roger thought of the toy stash in the back.

“Is it okay if I give your kids some presents?” he asked. Jacob was surprised at the request, but he smiled warmly.

“Thank you, Roger. Yes, you may,” he said. “It would be a blessing.”

Minutes later, Jacob’s kids were playing as joyfully as George’s children had two days before—and Roger was just as happy watching them.

They took their leave of Jacob and went to San Felipe, where Manu waited at the edge of the village. Manu spotted their truck and hailed them on the radio. George pulled up next to the Rover parked on the side of the dirt road.

“The Blue Creek police came through here and cleaned these people out,” he said, clearly upset. “They took everything—even stuff clearly marked from Belize. None of the people are asking for anything, but they’re really hurting.”

“Let’s go talk to Francis,” Roger said, controlling his anger. He hated bullies, really hated them, and bullies with badges were the worst. When they met up with Francis, though, Roger soon learned why he was so respected in his village.

“It was a small price to pay for the wisdom we all learned,” he said calmly as he confirmed Manu’s account for Roger. These are new police transferred from Punta Gorda in the far south. They are unlike the local police, who only took contraband.” He smiled a little and his eyes twinkled. “Next time, we will be better prepared. They will find that we are a very poor village that has only empty shelves.”

“You are a wise man,” Roger said quietly. “It is an honor to know you. Please let me know how I can help.” Francis shook his head slowly.

“We are a proud people and do not seek charity,” he said. “Besides, Roger, you must keep your presence here secret from them, and if you help us they will know that—how you say in America?—something is up.”

Roger smiled in spite of his grim mood, and shook hands with Francis as they got up to go. As soon as he got outside, though, he stuck a wad of cash in Manu’s hand and told him to follow them back to Orange Walk, load the Rover with whatever he thought the villagers needed, and get it back to them before dark if possible.

 

Roger checked into at the Chula Vista Hotel again when they got back to Orange Walk and reviewed their trip and past accounts while Manu went shopping. The hotel was very simple, but it was the best Orange Walk had to offer. It was pretty clean, for one, and, best of all, it had an improvised shower stall rigged in the corner. The building included a small but good restaurant below and Roger’s room plus the adjoining two-pump gas station, over which the owners lived.

Roger approved George’s past expenses, and they planned out remaining payroll and aircraft loading details. Roger decided to personally handle the stacking inside the plane so it was distributed properly and wouldn’t shift in flight. George would supervise the bale throwers from the truck, and Manu would help the co-pilot refuel. Roger chose three of the growers to help him, and George picked four. They also planned to place one of George’s brothers as a lookout on the hill above the road. The total crew came to ten at the plane, plus the pilots and lookout.

Roger leaned back and visualized the operation. He calculated an estimated ground time of no more than 20 minutes. While waiting for Manu to return, they exchanged dreams for the future and casual small talk. Roger didn’t tell George of his retirement plans. He wanted to see how things worked out first. If all went well, the organization should survive without him. He did tell George that the money was tight for the time being and asked him to be conservative. George, being honest and frugal by nature, agreed without hesitation.

One of their radios squawked. It was Manu.

“I’m just coming into town,” Manu said. “Dude was blown away by what we brought. Tried to turn it down with that same charity speech, but I told him exactly what you told me to say—“This is only fair for all that your men have done for us in the bush.” So he took it and said to tell you thanks.”

“Great,” Roger answered. “Good job. See you at dinner.”

 

Manu filled in Roger on the Indian Church project over a delicious home-cooked meal of chicken mole and at Roger’s favorite “mom and pop” restaurant, whose owner ran a black market currency exchange and was always happy to see Roger and his American money.

Indian Church was an abandoned village south of San Felipe that lay along a series of narrow fresh water lakes. With a year-round water supply, they hoped to farm during the dry season. Manu already had their youngest crop growing there to test this idea.

“Good work,” Roger said to Manu around a mouthful of mole.

“That’ll bring in a lot of cash if it works,” added George, “because we’ll have product when no one else does.”

“Next thing,” Roger went on, “I want you to charter a plane so we can get coordinates and landmarks on the Tres Leguas site for the pilots. I also want to over fly the farms to see how exposed they are from the air and, if we have time, try to find that abandoned strip at the Gallon Jug settlement on the west side of the district. I’m tired of slogging through the bush looking for it.”

 

The next morning, Manu went back to Indian Church while Roger and George returned to Belize City. When they got there a few hours later, Roger went to the government telecommunications building and left a coded message for Mickey that everything was on schedule. Then they drove to the Belize Municipal Airport on the water’s edge on north side of town, and chartered a British-made Islander from Belize Aero, which they had picked over the other FBO because it had an air-conditioned office—a sign of a more professional, better-run business.

The Islander was the only available plane at that time, but Roger was more than happy with it because it was a rugged, high-wing, fixed-gear twin-engine turbine in which Roger logged many hours flying jumpers.

His next order of business was feeling out the young pilot, Romero, who needed to be a trustworthy person, not only a competent pilot. Roger started by telling the young man only that they were doing a sightseeing tour in the northern part of the country, with George acting as his local guide.

Roger climbed through the pilot’s door and into the co-pilot’s seat, followed by Romero after he had loaded George into the plane through a separate door under the high wing. The plane normally carried ten passengers and luggage, but the four rear-most seats had been removed.

“We need the room for scuba gear,” Romero said. “Most of our charters are divers going out to the outer cays. Very beautiful out there.”

“I know,” Roger smiled. “Been out there a few times myself.”

Roger watched Romero intently as the young pilot formally went through every item on his pre-flight checklist. Thorough and methodical, Roger thought. I like what I see so far. He put on a headset so he could hear the tower chatter.

Roger was happy when Romero taxied. Soon, they’d be airborne and clear of the intense heat. Roger knew Romero didn’t have a lot of flying time, but he was confident and conscientious, a good combination.

He was also flying a good plane. The Islander could take off from very short and rough airstrips, especially when it was lightly loaded, and when Romero pushed the throttles forward, the powerful little twin jumped quickly into the air. Romero smoothly transitioned from takeoff to climb profile, then opened his window to clear out the air. Roger followed suit with his own window, watched Belize City and the Caribbean stream by beneath the propeller spinning right next to his head, then turned his attention to the folded map in his lap.

En route to Indian Church, they crossed the nearly completed Northern Highway and its long runway-like features. The road-scarred land stuck out as it cut through the lush bush of the flatlands. Roger leaned back in the noisy cabin and asked George when the highway would open.

“Hard to say time-wise,” George answered. “Task-wise, they only have a couple more bridges to finish before it will be passable.”

“Let’s fly up the highway for a while,” Roger told Romero, pointing northward, “and see how the construction’s going.” Roger wanted to see how many places there were along the highway to put down a large plane, but he didn’t want his pilot to notice, so he took some pictures with George’s camera of what he called “cool images” of waterways and farms. When they reached the spot where the new route intersected with the old road, they flew over Orange Walk on up to Progresso, a small village on the western shore of Progresso Lagoon, where Roger had landed most of his past runs on a strip disguised as a cane road next to the lagoon’s ghastly white water that made it so easy for the pilots to find. They did one picture pass, then turned south along the Hondo River, which marked the border between Belize and Mexico.

From their lofty vantage point, Roger easily spotted the Tres Leguas strip, and he turned to Romero.

“Mind if I set the VOR?” he asked. Romero frowned in surprise, then smiled.

“Sure,” he said cheerfully, “have at it.” Then he watched carefully as Roger dialed in the VOR signal at Belize International Airport and jotted down the reading.

“How long have you been flying?” he asked.

“Long time.” Romero grinned at the news.

“You want to give her a try?” he asked, gesturing at the wheel.

“Yeah, that’d be nice. Thanks.”

“Okay, man, you have the airplane.” He watched Roger grasp the wheel like an old friend, then lifted his hands clear so Roger knew he was now running the show.

“When did you start?”

“When I was about seventeen, maybe eighteen. I—”

“I started at nineteen!” Romero interrupted. “I just love flying.”

“Me too,” Roger grinned. “Can’t get that sensation of freedom anywhere else—or that warm feeling you get when you put her safely back on the ground.”

“I feel the same way! How many hours do you have?”

“A few thousand.”

“Wow! Fantástico! What ratings?”

“Commercial, instrument, multi-engine rated.” Romero nodded in approval and appreciation, then turned serious.

“What do you think is the most important thing for a pilot to do?”

“Always stay ahead of the airplane and never ignore your gut,” Roger replied without hesitation. Romero nodded.

“The same thing my instructor said every time we took off.”

“You had an excellent instructor,” Roger said, then smiled. “But I already knew that from the way you fly—and more importantly, the way you pre-flight.”

“Gracias, amigo,” Romero said humbly. “That means much coming from such an experienced pilot.”

Roger nodded in acknowledgement and smiled inwardly. A new friend for life, he thought.

Roger looked back and saw George on the radio, talking to the ground crew at the farm. He leaned close to Roger’s ear.

“Good thing I called,” he said. “They were nervous when they saw the plane, but okay now ’cause they know it’s us. Paco says he hopes you like the setup.”

“I do indeed,” Roger grinned, having already noted the massive size of the complex and how every foot of open ground had been cultivated. Roger was turning away from the farm when George thumped him on the shoulder. Roger looked sharply around to see George pointing to the radio, clearly distressed.

“Manu says a village girl just got hurt bad by a tractor accident and no one knows what to do!” Roger immediately turned east.

“Indian Church?” he asked. George held up a hand as he listened to the radio, then looked at Roger.

“San Felipe.” Roger looked at Romero.

“We have a situation,” he said. “Hold on.” Then he cranked the plane around and started a rapid descent.”

“What’s up, man?” asked Romero, unconcerned with the sharp maneuvering but curious about what Roger was doing.

“Little girl needs a medevac,” Roger said as San Felipe came into view. “We’re gonna go pick her up.” Romero’s eyes widened in fear.

“If we land there, I’ll lose my job!” he said loudly. “Company rules and national regulations!”

Roger ignored him as he spotted a tight knot of people in a cane field south of the village, and Romero did not say anything more as Roger circled the area in a tight bank and surveyed the sole dirt road. Roger pointed it out to the young pilot.

“Can you land there?” Romero checked it out and shook his head.

“No way, man. Not me.”

“Well, sit tight then, ’cause I’m gonna!” Romero gasped at the notion as Roger gestured at George with his chin and George quickly handed the pilot a Grant. Romero grabbed the money and took a deep breath.

“My eyes are closed, señor, but please don’t make me regret this.”

“Thanks, man,” Roger said, and patted Romero’s tense shoulder comfortingly, then dropped one wing and stomped on the opposite rudder, slipping the plane rapidly from the sky. The maneuver let Roger line up on the road and all of his experience flying jumpers came together in one heart-stopping approach swoop onto a steep final approach. He settled in at 45 m.p.h. and with the stall warning horn blaring, flared close to the ground and used the ground-effect cushion to stop his descent just as the mains hit the dirt. He slowed the plane well before the end of his makeshift runway and turned to Romero.

“Keep them idling so we can get off fast,” he said as he climbed out of the seat and left the plane through the under-wing door, then helped George out and kept him clear of the spinning propellers.

“Keep everyone away from the plane,” he shouted over the noise. “We don’t need somebody walking into a prop!”

Then he ran over to the tractor and his heart sank. The little girl lying in the cane field was Rosa, the girl who had given him and orange and helped him with his Spanish. Around him, the villagers talked in Spanish so fast he had no idea what they were saying, especially the man’s whose horror-stricken face marked him as Rosa’s father.

Roger saw that the tractor’s big wheel track intersected her tiny body, a very bad sign. But the ground is very soft, he thought, so maybe there is still hope. He knew little about medicine, but from her pain-ridden eyes and his experience with drop zone injuries, he knew there was no time to waste.

He grabbed a tarp from the tractor, laid it out next to Rosa, and rolled her carefully onto it. Then he enlisted her father and two other men and they carried her to the plane, her mother followed closely behind, hysterical with grief. George shepherded the other villagers away from the props as they laid her gently in the plane. Then Roger climbed in, George helped her parents board, and George pulled the door shut behind him.

Roger realized as he reached the cockpit that Romero had climbed into the co-pilot seat. He tapped his checklist as Roger strapped himself in.

“Ready to go,” he said. Roger slapped him appreciatively on the shoulder.

“Right on, Romero!” Roger revved the engines slowly to warn everyone away from the plane and as he bounced the plane over part of the cane field to turn around, Romero readied the flaps and boost pumps for takeoff, then placed the trim wheel in the most ideal position. Then, with a smuggler’s skill, Roger stood on the brakes and wound up the engines, creating a huge cloud of dust and a gale-force wind that blew the hats off every villager. Then he released the brakes and the plane lunged forward on the dirt road. Roger pulled the nose up quickly to reduce rolling drag, then flew the plane smoothly off the road with plenty of room to spare.

As soon as they were airborne, Romero cleaned up and re-trimmed the plane, then grabbed a map and pointed at the compass.

“Fly heading one-three-five,” he said, then he keyed his radio.

“Belize Tower, Belize Air zero-six-Papa. We have a medical emergency and need an ambulance to meet us on the tarmac. ETA fifteen minutes. Over.”

“Copy zero-six-Papa. Need ambulance onsite fifteen minutes, over.”

“Affirmative, Belize Tower. Zero-six-Papa out.”

Romero looked at Roger. Roger grinned and nodded at the young pilot like a very—very—proud papa. Romero beamed at the silent praise, then turned back and gave Rosa’s parent a thumbs up and a gentle smile.

“Una ambulancia estará allí,” he told them. They sighed in relief as Father held his wife tightly and she in turn stroked Rosa’s hair.

When they reached Belize City, Roger cranked a hard, skydiver-pilot turn to a short final, touched down halfway down the runway and kept the speed up as they rolled toward the tarmac.

“I didn’t think the plane could do that!” said Romero. Roger laughed.

“Planes can usually do more than their pilots if you let them,” he said.

They rolled up to the main airport building just as the ambulance arrived and the paramedics spilled out of it. Roger shut down the engines before the plane stopped and George jumped out while it was still moving to make sure the approaching paramedics didn’t run into the props.

They pushed their stretcher up to the door and quickly loaded Rosa onto it, then rolled her quickly back to the ambulance. George helped the little girl’s parents out of the plane and put them into the ambulance. One paramedic shut the door as the other one jumped into the driver’s seat and dashed through the airport’s gate, siren wailing.

Roger and Romero climbed out of the Islander as the ambulance siren faded into the distance, and saw the charter company’s manager walking over to see what the commotion was all about. Romero looked scared. Roger shot him a stern glance.

“Confidence, man, confidence,” he whispered urgently. “Just follow my lead and everything will be cool.”

Roger smiled at the manager and shook his hand.

“Congratulations. Your pilot is a hero,” he said earnestly, setting the tone.

“Really,” said the manager, frowning at Romero, who stood stiffly.

“Yeah, really. He picked up a distress call about a badly injured young girl and told us he had to help her, then did some great flying to land close by.” The manager’s eye flicked over to the plane and Roger knew instantly what he was thinking. “I am a pilot for many years and he is one of the best I have ever seen. He took no big chances and landed softly. I am very proud of him and you should be too. He was very brave and kind to help like he did.”

The manager eyed Romero intently, searching his young face.

“This is true?” he asked. Romero nodded but said nothing.

“He told me you might be angry that he broke the company rules,” Roger went on, his eyes boring into those of the manager, “but that he was sure you would understand that even a good rule is not worth a child’s life. I agree.”

The manager pondered for a moment, then looked again at the plane.

“And there is no damage to the plane, nothing I have to explain to the owner?”

“No sir,” Romero said.

“In my opinion,” Roger interjected, “he deserves a raise. He’s a very good pilot.”

“Yes, he is,” said the manager, “but explaining a raise is harder than explaining damage to the plane. Perhaps it’s best to celebrate this good deed in our hearts instead of in the books, no?” Roger laughed out loud.

“You’re a wise man, sir,” he said. “I look forward to doing business with you again!”

“Thank you very much,” the manager said, and finally he smiled. “I am glad you enjoyed our service. And now I must get back to the office,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow. “It is too damn hot out here.”

Roger and Romero watched him go, then walked back to the plane, Romero still in shock from what had just happened.

“You talk as good as you fly,” he finally said, “and I thank you very much but it is you who was brave and excellent.”

Roger retrieved his pack from the plane and helped Romero clean the cabin of its cane straw and dirt, then handed Romero another Grant as George looked on.

“Don’t be so modest, man. You were the pilot in command of that flight. I only did what you allowed me to do, and you did many things yourself that made it possible for me to do what I did.”

“Really?”

“Really, so take credit where credit is due.” They all shook hands.

“Okay, Roger, I will, and I will never forget the many things I learned today from you about flying—and about life.”

 

“Why did you do that, Roger?” George asked, as they got in the truck. “You were the real hero, not him.”

“Because if there’s any publicity, I don’t want my name in the paper,” he said simply. “I want the story to focus on Romero and his ‘tourist sightseeing flight.’”

“Ah-ha,” said George. “Once again, you think so far ahead. That is why I am proud to work for you.”

“Besides,” Roger said, “every word I said was true. He really is the hero. If he hadn’t risked his job, and if he hadn’t been a drop-dead perfect co-pilot, we may not have been able to help her or get her to help on time.”

“No wonder men work so hard for you,” George whispered, a hint of awe in his voice.

They arrived soon after at the hospital to see how Rosa was doing, and met her parents in the waiting room, still shaken from the mishap. They told George in Spanish what was going on.

“The doctor told them she only broke three ribs and will be fine,” he told Roger, “but that one rib had punctured her lung and she had some internal bleeding, so it was very lucky that we were there to help. The doctor said she may not have made it without you, so they are forever grateful to you.”

George glanced over at the parents and confirmed that he had relayed all of their words to Roger. They went to Roger and embraced him, the mother sobbing in his arms as he embraced them back.

“Dios te bendiga, señor,” she whispered between her sobs. “Que dios te bendiga.”

 

The next day, George and Roger returned to the hospital, along with some toiletries and a bucket of chicken for her parents, whom they knew had spent the night in the waiting room. The mother immediately disappeared into the restroom to clean up. The father munched on chicken and told George in Spanish what had happened.

“Rosa was riding next to me on the tractor and she dropped the ball you gave her,” George translated for Roger. “She leaned over to catch it and fell beneath the wheel.”

The father shook his head and looked toward Rosa’s room, then spoke again in Spanish to George.

“The first words she spoke in the hospital, she asked for her ball,” George translated. “I had to tell her that it was lost.” The words hit Roger like a thunderbolt. My God, maybe Francis is right, he thought. Look what has happened because I gave her a gift and she thought more of the gift than her own safety. Or am I overthinking this? Maybe it was just an accident.

He shook the darkness from his mind and stood up.

“Back in a minute,” he said to George, then went out to the truck and pulled another ball from the box in the back and put it in his pack, then stopped at the nurse’s station near the waiting room.

“Is Rosa taking any visitors?” he asked, tossing the ball in the air with one hand.

The nurses smiled and one led him to her room, her parents following.

“Buenos dias, Rosa,” Roger said when he entered. “Cómo está?”

“Cómo está usted!” she said sassily.

“Bueno. Y usted?” Roger answered.

“Bueno, señor Roger, Muchas gracias.”

“De nada,” Roger said and handed Rosa the ball. She smiled and her spirits lifted as she cradled the toy and looked at her parents, eyes shining.

“It’s nice to see you smile,” he said, “and thank you for the Spanish lessons. Next time I see you, we will do more, okay?”

“Okay,” she said. “Vaya con Dios, señor Roger.”

“Vaya con Dios,” her parents echoed, and Roger hurriedly said goodbye so he could leave the room before he burst into tears.

George saw his wet eyes as they left the hospital but didn’t mention it.

“My own daughter is the same age,” Roger said anyway. Then he wiped his eyes and went back into business mode. There was much to do before he left later that day on his scheduled return to the U.S.

A few hours later, he was almost done. He switched his belongings back into his original bag, counted the remaining money and left it and a task list with George, then they drove to the airport, timing it so that he spent the minimum time necessary in the airport before getting on flight.

“Make sure they get home and everything is taken care of, okay?” Roger said to George as he got out of the truck.

“Of course, Roger. I will handle it.”

“Good man,” Roger said, and headed into the terminal. He saw Buddy’s tooth flash near the entrance. Buddy took Roger’s bag, and they reversed their arrival procedure as they went back through customs.