Belmopan Read online

  Abducted Miles away, along a jungle path lit only by small, hand-held lamps, five men traveled at lightning speed. Bundled and slung from a long pole straddling between two men running tandem, was a body almost unrecognizable but for locks of black hair that fell from the loosened wrap around her head. Shawna was exhausted from the continual pounding and swaying of the pole being jostled around. Every half hour, a change of couriers was in order and a quick moment of relief from the bindings at her wrists and ankles that lashed her to the pole. Her kidneys ached from the wide swath of cloth that had suspended initially from the center of the pole, covering her hips but had now worked its way to her waistline. She desperately needed to relieve herself but that seemed to be of no concern for her captors. Unable to control the urge any longer, her insides let go and the warm fluid filled her dangling posterior and the wrappings that bound her. Taking no notice of her mumblings of discomfort and the smell, the journeymen continued as if there was no purpose but to run, and run, and run.

  With the sun beginning to rise, and after a severe pounding in which she rose and sank from consciousness, Shawna began to hear the mumblings of a man speaking in a mixture of Spanish and another language. She was able to recognize a number of words and piece together that there was a helicopter buzzing around. Shawna was not certain but got the impression they were to change direction. She barely understood the meaning but recognized the word ‘auto’. Throwing her recklessly down to the ground, they began to unleash her bindings, careful not to expose her face. Ripping the short pants from her body, not bothering with her now torn undergarments, one of the men dowsed her with cold water in an attempt to wash the lingering stench. Unsure of their intentions, in fear she fought to keep her legs together as not to expose her nakedness. With brute strength they pulled her thighs apart and dowsed her once again, washing the urine from her body. To her astonishment they wrapped her tight with new linen and threw her into the back of a waiting vehicle; she could only presume it was a van. Her body fell asleep but her mind, though exhausted, raced at the probabilities of her abduction. It all came back to one thing, she knew something that they needed to know; it all added up to the Jade Bowl.

  “What do you want with me?” she screamed, frustrated and sore from bouncing on the metal floor of the truck. “You cowards, do you not have the guts to show your faces?”

  It was best she saw none of the faces, for if she had, they could have killed her. Their mandate was obviously of pickup and delivery, for if it had not been, with her beauty, she would have experienced greater humility and indignity.

  A crashing blow to the side of her head brought numbness and darkness. The next moment she regained consciousness, she was lying on a grass woven cot, still wrapped in the linens she had been incarcerated; her face was exposed and bloody. She could barely move and could only stare at the network of timbers supporting the grass-thatch roof; she guessed it was mid morning. What seemed like an hour passed and she heard little apart from the rustlings of mice intent on procuring residence, or food in these fine dry quarters. She gently tugged at the bindings at her wrists trying to loosen them; the shuffle of feet on the threshold of the door warned her of a coming visitor. Bracing herself for what was to appear in the doorway, she covered her face as best she could. The wooden, plank door swung open and a small, brown woman, carrying a washbasin and a towel, strode to the side of the bed. Placing the furnishings down on the side table, a tree stump, the slight woman looked toward a plastic bucket in the corner. Shawna wondered at the response in light of the state of her incarceration and how she was to use the facility in her bound condition. Meek and very gentle, the woman began to wash the residue from Shawna’s face. It became obvious that she was a true Mayan native and could communicate no English with Shawna. Rather forlorn, the native woman continued the task of wiping her body and unraveling the linens that restricted Shawna’s movement. At last, the remains of the traveling ordeal lay in the bottom of the clay basin along with a soiled pile of linen by the door. The little woman placed her hands on either side of Shawna’s face in tender embrace and smiled a girlish, toothless grin. Retreating back through the doorway, she left Shawna sitting on the side of the cot, near naked with only her torn undergarments covering her lap. With the clanging of the bolt on the exterior of the door, Shawna got to her feet and peered after the little woman through the spaces between the bamboo poles that made up the walls of the hut. It was no surprise to see a guard, sitting in a green, plastic lawnchair not ten feet away, intent on following the servant lady with his eyes. She disappeared into a distant hut while he returned to puffing on his cigarette and cleaning the rifle that lay across his lap. Barely able to run her abraded fingers through her fine, black hair, Shawna resigned herself back to the cot to rest her disfigured, swollen ankles and sore wrists. Retrieving the linens piled by the door, she lay back down and began to empty the pent-up emotion she held inside. She slid into fitful sleep.

  She did not move or wake until dusk when the door opened and the little lady scurried in closely followed by the guard who had been sitting across the path. Without taking his eyes from Shawna, he sauntered over to the corner and sat on a make-shift chair of logs and grass. The smell of his stale sweat permeated the room and made Shawna feel sick to her stomach. Trying to cover herself from his gaze, she pulled the torn linens up tight under her chin. The Mayan woman carried a tray of tortillas, fresh tomatoes and a small bottle of drinking water. Overcome with hunger, Shawna began to gorge herself on the food till every crumb and seed was gone. Briskly wiping her chin with her forearm, she placed the tray on the small stump and watched as the guard’s eyes darted over the naked areas of her body. A toothless grin came to his face. He started to laugh and got up to approach her. Shawna braced herself for his advance by positioning herself to kick. The little lady jumped to her feet and rushed to put herself between Shawna and the belligerent man. Angrily, he pushed her away to the corner and advanced to Shawna, but once again the Mayan woman intervened to Shawna’s’ safety. Perturbed, the man twice her size, tried to push the little woman aside when all of a sudden she let her shawl fall away to expose herself to him. He grabbed her by the throat and followed as he threw her out of the wooden door before him. The door slammed shut and bounced several times under the force. The latch popped up and had not secured itself. Realizing the circumstance, Shawna eased herself from the bed and crept over to the door to ease it open. The guard had chosen to remain close to the hut and forced the Mayan to the ground. He grunted as he groped and tried to enter her. She sobbed and stifled her screams as his weight came down on her. Shawna, gripped with fear and anger, dare not scream but slipped from the door and finding a piece of log crept up behind his prone frame and struck as hard as she could. The log gave a hollow thunk as it hit his head. He gave a sigh and toppled to the side. The little lady gathered herself as best she could and staggered toward the jungle motioning Shawna to follow. As Shawna looked back toward the small compound, she could see several men sitting by a fire unaware of what had taken place.

  Shawna’s feet ached as she dashed behind the women, trying to keep up. The linen that wrapped her body was little protection against the branches that lashed and tore at her as she fled into the dark. There was very little light left from the day, and beneath the canopy of the forest, it was darker still. After a while, the Mayan began to slow and Shawna was able to keep up. They scurried through the underbrush as best they could until the little women stopped and turned to find shelter in the tall foliage near a tree. Signing Shawna over to her side, they both cuddled close under the palms and the dampness of a Mayan shawl. With their backs to a tree and clutching each other in their arms, they fell asleep.

  The cry of a Toucan woke Shawna from a sound sleep. The little lady was not awake yet and was cold to the touch. Her eyes fell to the pale, yellow skin of the hands of her savior and the blood soaked shawl that had kept her warm through the night. Her little angel had hemorrhaged and had bled as they raced
through the night to find shelter and safety. Shawna sat motionless, cradling the near lifeless body as if to subdue the call of death and nurture this frail body to strength. Panicking from the circumstance, the only response she could muster was to sing childhood native songs she remembered from long ago and stroke the short, bobbed hair of the little lady. The hum of the jungle slowly became louder and louder till she could bare it no longer. She began to sob uncontrollably.

  She sat unmoving for what seemed an eternity till she heard the low voices of men through the din of her surroundings. A bolt of fear ran through her. Controlling the urge to run, she sat motionless, peering between the leaves of the hovel in the underbrush. A Howler monkey gave a loud cry from the tree above and the men turned to gaze into the treetops. A short Mayan looking man at the rear of the troop gazed up and then down to the base of the tree. Breathless, Shawna stared back at him and tried to reassure herself that she was not visible. The men, satisfied that the Howler was alarmed at their intrusion and nothing else, continued along the cluttered trail out of sight through its density.

  Shawna remained cradling the woman for a short while to assure the men would not return. Slowly, placing her on the ground, she wrapped the shawl around the woman’s body leaving her child like face exposed to the early morning sun. She eased herself from the hiding place. High up in the tree, the monkey began to stir. Not wanting to disturb the belligerent pongid, she stopped to peer in the direction of the patrol.

  ‘Thunk!’ Shawna felt a sharp pain in her arm. She looked at a small, feather endowed thorn protruding from her skin. Glancing up to the monkey, she wondered what he had thrown to violate her in this way. Feeling dizzy from her upward gaze, she sat down on the ground to catch her balance. Before her, in the underbrush not too far distant, a slight, scantily clad Mayan stood with a long, thin pole resting on his foot. Beside him, the Mayan, she had seen at the rear of the patrol, looked on in quiet.

  Shawna never completely lost consciousness, but slowly lost control of her body. Drifting in and out of a daze, she listened as the two men crawled in the underbrush to inspect the little woman. She then felt the grasping of their hands as they dragged her to the enclosure shared by the woman. They left; she slept.

  By mid-afternoon, the men had returned, accompanied by several women. Lamenting when they saw the little lady, they cuddled her and cried. Persuading Shawna to rise with tea, they comforted her and gently stroked her face. The men lifted Shawna out of the enclosure and began to pour more of the same fluid into her mouth. Barely able to hold it in, she swallowed as best she could, spilling half of it down her chin. They seated her against the tree opposite to where the women prepared the little lady with wrappings and went back to give them a hand. Within twenty minutes, Shawna began to get feeling back in her legs; the men lifted the little Mayan woman in a large shawl and prepared to carry her from the site. The women helped Shawna to her feet and together they slowly trod their way up and out of the small ravine area where they had been hiding; the Howler monkey remained silent through the whole process.

  It was almost dusk when they arrived at a small village by a river’s edge. The dogs were the first to greet the small troop while the chickens and pigs were less inquisitive and disappeared from view. The elders of the village were quick to come forward and met the travelers with embrace. Children came to the doorways of the small grass huts but were kept from advancing to the procession. The men continued to carry the Mayan woman through the village to one of the far huts. Shawna could only speculate that this was the woman’s village. An old woman, supposedly the mother, began to weep as she followed and closed the door behind. Shawna was taken to a different hut along with several other women who helped her to clean and dress. The rest of the men gathered in the center of the small, community clearing, and then disappeared into the forest.

  TWO

  Primero dia (day 1) It was like walking into an oven as Brian eased himself down the flight of portable stairs from the plane. A haze of humidity hung in the distance beyond the runway. The semi-air-conditioned small passengerjet had been deliciously cool in comparison to the heat that waited outside. As Brian stepped onto the hot tarmac, he could feel the heat radiating up through the soles of his sneakers, his full-length jeans began to dampen and weight. Within seconds beads of sweat dripped down his temples and soaked the rim of the Canucks cap that sat askew atop his head. The walk across the steamy expanse towards the terminal, with his hand luggage pulling relentlessly at his arms, seemed to take forever; the small bags felt much heavier. The hot air was thick, and all the while he plodded along, it sluggishly squeezed in and out of his lungs.

  Once inside, the atmosphere in the small immigration area was pungent with sweat, full of passengers waiting to leave on the continuing flight to Honduras. A large, black dog pulling a security guard, darted back and forth between the scattered baggage of the waiting patrons, sniffing for contraband making all but the righteous few nervous. By a group of elongated worktables, the uniformed Immigration Officers carefully leafed through the bags of the disembarked passengers, with not so much as a hint of a smile or goodwill.

  “What is your business here Mr. Uhh?” the inspector asked, scrutinizing the passport for my name. He patiently leafed through the pages, oblivious to the sweat that perched itself on his brow.

  “Alexander, Brian Alexander.”

  “Yes, Mr. Alexander. What brings you here?” “Vacation, I am here for a couple of weeks for

  relaxation and sight-seeing the ruins.”

  “Yes,” he replied. “We have many of those. I hope

  you brought plenty of film?”

  Brian nodded in agreement.

  “May I see your camera?”

  Without hesitation, he reached into his bag and

  produced the small package.

  “Small isn’t it,” the guard insisted.

  “Yes, it is digital, not as cumbersome as they used

  to be. I can hook it right up to my computer and edit,

  copy, or do anything I wish with very little hassle.” He

  reached for his phone, “This will be next, as soon as I

  can afford it.”

  “Yes, we could use a little bit of this technology

  these days,” the officer replied handing Brian back his

  camera. He reread his name and looked closely at him

  and then to his passport. “Thank you. Have a nice

  stay.”

  Brian quickly gathered his things and followed the

  directional signs to the main hall of Arrivals. Forcing

  his way through the maze of bodies and luggage that

  cluttered the exit, Brian came to face a line of local taxi

  drivers. Perspective drivers greeted the few passengers

  before him, and within moments his hand was being

  shaken.

  “Hi. Welcome to Belize,” came the salutation from

  a middle-aged, well weathered, black man. Taking the

  luggage, he proceeded to the rear of the taxi.” My

  name is Bart. Where would you like to go?”

  “Ah, the Royal Reef Hotel.”

  “Ok! Hop in,’ he replied, without the slightest

  concern.

  After haggling a short while for twenty Belize, or

  ten dollars U.S., they headed out of the dusty, pothole

  laden lot.

  Bart gave his passenger a little grin and chuckled

  at the response, Brian later found out the standard fare

  was indeed eighteen.

  The ride from the airport was fast and bumpy.

  Brian had barely enough time for a few fleeting

  thoughts of Shawna. The roads looked and felt as if

  they had not been repaired for years. Considering the

  timeline of the British leaving after their occupation, it

  was obvious they took the road repair equipment with

  them.


  Bart, with his gregarious, friendly personality,

  would not cease to turn his head and talk of his

  children, his wife and their life together here in Belize.

  Many times during the twenty-minute drive, Brian

  would close his eyes and brace for sudden impact.

  Needless to say, the hotel was eventually arrived at, but

  with the windows wide open and air blowing limitlessly through, it was quite an initiation.

  “Any time you need a ride, you give me a call

  ‘Mann’. I’ll take you anywhere.”

  “Thanks, Bart. I appreciate that.” He did not know

  how to take Bart’s jocular nature, but learned there

  would be no better service than what Bart could offer.

  They shook hands and Bart delivered the luggage from

  the trunk and disappeared down the road in a cloud of

  dust. Brian headed for the foyer and check in desk.

  The interior of the hotel was quite light and neat. The marble, tiled floor reflected the identical exit doors at the rear of the foyer. A small fountain, off to the left, adorned with a variety of native foliage, shadowed a small, sitting area overlooking the pool. Just to the right a young, attractive girl in a trim, white blouse and navy skirt, smiled at him and waited for Brian to approach the front desk.

  “Hello,” he said, returning the smile. “Brian Alexander. I have a reservation.”

  She punched at the keys of the computer terminal and after several seconds looked up. “Yes, Mr. Alexander, I have it right here. May I have your credit card please?”

  “Sure,” easing his wallet from his back pocket. “Could you also check for any messages?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Steve, his brother-in-law, would be coming down in the next day or so, but needed to leave his arrival times at the desk. Steve had been very patient over the few months previous; the construction business had been down sized temporarily to accommodate Brian’s studies in Victoria. It had taken Brian more time to glean the necessary information from the clues left behind by Vincent daLima (Brian’s somewhat mentor), before making the commitment to come down to Belize to look for Shawna and the jade bowl - the very reason for this journey. The late Vincent daLima had been able to point him in the right direction, but all the necessary details had to be extracted from endless books, memoirs and his personal files. It was only after a short trip to Albuquerque and meeting some of Shawna’s associates that Brian was able to discover that she had indeed gone to Belize and to an archaeological dig not too far distant. Brian just had no idea how to find them or who he could hire to accompany him. Steve offered his services right off the bat, citing their escapades of a few years earlier as credentials. Brian had made it through customs but was not sure whether Steve would be as fortunate. There was one contact name that they had, but there would be no guarantees of help, or loyalties, from any of the nationals. He would be meeting their contact tomorrow evening at a little cantina in downtown Belize City. His name was Magnus, Dr. Magnus.