The 1970s were a guitar-riffing heyday for Rolling Stone magazine. From the breakup of The Beatles in 1970, to the Billboard domination of rock legends like Led Zeppelin and Aerosmith, there was no shortage of music news during this decade. While the rock revolution appeared to occur exclusively on either side of the Pond, Belizean musicians were having a notable jam session of their own along the sunny shores of the Caribbean.
   
The brainchild of Pen Cayetano and the Turtle Shell Band, punta rock started making waves in the late 1970s as a medium for social commentary. While the genre is built on the traditional punta rhythm of the Garifuna people, electric guitars, synthesizers, and catchy hooks contribute to the contemporary sound. Punta instrumentation—including bass and treble drums, maracas, and a set of turtle shells—is often accompanied by a performance of kuliao, a competitive fertility dance of West African origin. Punta rock has gained significant popularity throughout Latin America, but Belizean punta—often sung in the Kriol language—has established a unique following in its celebration of Belizean identity. Punta Rebels, Aziatic, and Super G are all great examples of modern punta.

Walk into your local Walmart superstore and you might just find a spicy taste of Belize. Marie Sharp’s habanero pepper sauce, named after the company’s founder, has become an irreplaceable staple of Belizean cuisine.

Continued…

I've never been to a Caribbean paradise.  The closest I've come is through the stories of cruise shrip journeys that alighted like mystical floating cities from one point to another; now that I'm in Belize and can hear reports of the ships from actual locals, they seem more like frigates of war unloading wave upon wave of fierce gringo strength upon the islands of mainlands. 
 
Oh, and there were those rum (tequila?) commercials that depicted beautiful young people (faces never shown!) lounging beneath the palm trees on a deserted beach, putting limes in their drinks while "miles away from ordinary" flashed on the screen.  Those mainly pissed me off, since they always seemed to air when the New Hampshire winter was coldest and darkest.                          
 
In true Let's Go form, my journey to the cayes off the Belizean coast took place in Jack-like squalor rather than Rose-like opulence (Titanic fans, this is your day).  I, a scrappy and scruffy young artist who won my ticket in a last-minute gambling spree, still enraptured by memories of freezing Wisconsin lakes and nude Parisian girls posing for my shitty drawings, zoomed from Corozal, a coastal town (really Belize's answer to Coney Island) near the Mexican border, to San Pedro on Ambergris Caye.  Luckily, I didn't freeze to death in icy Atlantic waters while my selfish flooze of a girlfriend hogged precious living space on a piece of debris (just kidding, I love Kate Winslet and all of her characters).  But I did endure hundreds of stomach-busting jolts as the skiff recklessly careened over the heavy Caribbean waves.
 
San Pedro is Belize's most popular destination, but the less said about it, the better.  It's basically the antithesis of Let's Go frugality, dominated by resorts with clear blue pools glared at enviously by dirty travel guide researchers.  Though I did have a great time at a downstairs hostel bar, downing jagermeister shots while the British owner gave me helpful advice amidst loud, drunken, usually short phone calls, most of them drunkenly demanding recognition of his upcoming birthday. 
 
Caye Caulker, just to the south, is the lovable pothead younger brother to Ambergris' obnoxiously overachieving grind.  No paved streets, but many Rasta guys and backpackers who want to be them.  The first one I met, Gilbert, engaged me in conversation as soon as I stepped off the boat.  Within a minute he was accusing me of having tagged his people as illiterate.  Not sure what I said, but we patched things up quickly; within a few nights we were sharing a tender moment on the bach, gazing at the moon shining brilliantly onto the tranquil sea, as he told me about his romantic misadventures with a 62-year-old Canadian woman.  That's CC: dreadlocked, freindly, and a little forlorn.

Part 2
For contrast's sake, I was thinking about Mennonites while sitting in the midst of Belize City's most dangerous section, a small area of crumbling shacks forming the ghetto next to the main bus station.  I'd been taken there by another American who, like me, was from New Hampshire and staying in a seaside hostel.   This gregarious jack-of-all-trades, ostensibly come down to Belize to register his non-profit, had walked right off the bus and into the mean streets of BC at dark.  He made a few friends while he was at it.  Now he was taking me in, trying to reassure me after a mugging the day before left me bruised and walletless.  I appreciate it, man, but meeting a little kid who'd been shot in the arm when he was 4 months old and being offered someone's sister for US$10 didn't do much in the way of comfort.  The Paul Farmer side of me wanted to do something, but at a certain point dreams of altruism have to hit the wall of self-preservation--and what better place for the collision than Belize City?  I hightailed it from the sunny Caribbean dungeon as soon as I could into the arms of the beautiful Belizean countryside and the incredible people who sparsely populate it.  They've given me directions, rides, food, and company, which is really all a researcher needs.  Hopefully I can pay them back by being able to understand Creole by trip's end.

But to return to that other group of incredible people.  Mennonites were on my mind a few days later while I strolled through the jungle at night (with a trained guide, calm down!), swatting away five-inch beetles and peering through the canopy's darkness to catch a glimpse of exotic wildlife. And the next day,  cruising down the  New River on my guided way to the isolated (and spectacular) Mayan ruins at Lamanai.  When what do we pass but...a Mennonite village!  And a small canoe full of fishing Mennonite children!  All of whom, I'm pretty sure, had made it through their first four months without a bullet lodged in their limbs.  Ah, the fruits of isolation.

I've become obsessed with Mennonites.  Specifically, Mennonites living in tropical jungles.  More specifically, Mennonites living in the tropical jungles of Belize.  They've been here for fifty years now, refugees of Mexican and Paraguayan and American and Canadian and Russian and Prussian and German and Dutch meddling with their affairs.  All they ask is to be left alone, as everyone's favorite Confederate president said, and Belize is glad to comply.  They better be glad; these straw-hatted workaholics produce most of the country's produce and furniture.  You can't have Belizean rice/bean/chicken masala without a very white bearded man tending the coops.

They congregate in Orange Walk, a small town in the country's northern district. (Belize is all villages and small towns, except Belize City, which is like a shitty small American city.  But shittier.)  There they sit, lounging next to Creoles and Mexicans, speaking a Low German that was passé in 1700.  They're a beacon to idealistic Luddites everywhere, especially the extremely conservative ones with sweet-baby horse and buggies.  I feel a strange that-could-be-me rush whenever I see one--and I see them everywhere.  A lot of people here wear similar straw hats, disappointing me when I realize that no, they don't really believe in adult baptism.