Eleven Nights in Belize

By Robert Lundberg

Contributing Writer

Two years have passed since my travels in-country. Thus, I write “Eleven Nights in Belize” as a reflection. Still, the sights, sounds, experiences and people of Belize are as vivid as ever.

Credit: Robert Lundberg

May 08th 2023:

The Toyota pick-up sped southward on the George Price Highway weaving around lethargic motorists and oncoming traffic-more of a one-lane road than a highway.

My guide and driver Virgil picked me up in Belize City an hour earlier, his foot never leaving the 

accelerator since. Navigating the road with local expertise, he maneuvered us with a zen calmness, albeit with a few close encounters. In contrast, my right hand never left the truck’s interior grab handle, my heart jumping with every swerve and kilometer per hour.

I was alive again. The first leg of my journey had begun: the pine forests called, adventure awaited….

This was more than a vacation, it was a personal quest. Belize had been on my mind since 2017, the year everything changed.

Brooklyn  Nov 2016-Jun 2017 Transition: Flashback 

A leap of faith or the risks we take: Fall-Nov (Winter 2016)

The city called to me for years. Lured me in like Sirens of lore. My home town: Boston, 

squeezed my soul. Too familiar, too small. 2013, the year Steven passed. 

The weight of losing my best friend propelled my inner voice to go and experience 

a larger spectrum of life. What better microcosm of the world than New York City.

After a few start and stop attempts, I finally took the risk and moved to Crown Heights, Brooklyn. Into a windowless room with three other roommates, just off of Nostrand Avenue. A neighborhood in-flux, an eclectic stew of diversity and change. The local West Indian population jammed into a mix with the gentrifying young people seeking city life. 

My natural disposition to discover and explore the neighborhood led me to befriending the local shopkeepers and business owners with fervor. There was “A” the owner of a Latin American restaurant, “F” the owner of a West Indian cafe and restaurant, the Filipino couple who owned the furniture shop in which I purchased my bed. 

A few blocks down, I opened the glass doors to a clean geometric space, the white walls consuming the natural light streaming in from a well placed skylight. To my delight, an art gallery lived a few blocks up from my apartment. This is where I met and swiftly became friends with  “T” the gallery assistant. An encounter that would spur my adventures in Belize years later.

Springtime in Brooklyn 2017

The smell of grilling jerk chicken wafting through the thick city air into my nostrils flowing downwards into my empty stomach, caused a slight gurgling sound to emit from below.

It was late springtime in Brooklyn.

After a harsh winter one in which I found myself standing in line for a free meal on Thanksgiving day and in December mourning the loss of my last living grandfather. 

The city seemed to sense my need for light and color. Coming alive with food, music, movement, and color. My heart danced back to life with excitement.

Enamored with the gallery space and excited to have a friend in the neighborhood, “T” and I frequently engaged in vibrant discussions about art, culture, and the city. 

I learned that she, like myself, transplanted from her home state of Georgia to Brooklyn 

seeking a creative or shall I say an artist's life.

After a few weeks, “T” mentioned that her family was rooted in Belize. Both her mother and brother lived in-country and she frequently traveled down to the small Central American 

nation that was slightly larger than Massachusetts…..