It’s 5am. I step out of my little wooden cabana that sits right on the beach of the Caribbean coast of Belize, and into what feels like a painting.
The sea has barely woken up – it looks like glass. It’s still dark but a hint of light is peering over the horizon, a warm pink hue starting to emerge in the sky. I take my camera out with me but my lens immediately fogs up due to the humidity. Oh well, I’d rather bask in this moment anyway. I walk down to the water which gently kisses the sand. As I walk in, to about knee height, my movement creates the first sign of life within this painting I now exist in, ripples silently slicing up the glassy surface. Every now and then, our world has this ability to completely take our breath away by being staggeringly beautiful. It’s not just what you see though, it’s that delicate energy that you feel when you take a moment to breathe, allowing nothing else to matter.
I love mornings. I often wake up at these early times to access this stillness but that wasn’t my reason on this particular morning. It was quite the opposite. Alongside and in between the lines of this stunning scenery live a people whose history and culture cannot be overlooked. I was here, on this coastline, to learn more about the Garifuna.
A distant drumming breaks the silence. A sudden excitement breaks my peace. I smile. I can also hear singing, it’s upbeat. And maracas. My eyes scan the sea, full of anticipation. Where are they?
Almost 400 years ago, these seas had ships full of West Africans being transported and sold as slaves. In 1635, a Spanish slave ship is said to have wrecked off the island of Bequia, near St Vincent. From this shipwreck, the people found themselves liberated and intermarried with the local indigenous Carib population. They put up a strong resistance to British and French slave labour practices which led to their exile to the Bay islands of Honduras. It was hard to fathom such brutal human behavior in the gentle scene that stood before me. A few years earlier I had been travelling these islands and stayed on one of those which the Garifuna people were exiled to. It was a sleepy place. The town itself got quite lively at night though – a love of rum had something to do with this. It was a town that made me feel like I was living in the background of Pirates of the Caribbean.
On November 19th in 1802, the Garifuna people migrated from these islands to the coastline of Honduras, Guatemala and Belize. The singing got louder. I can see a silhouette against the pinks and now golden yellows of a boat. It is packed with people, leafy branches and flags. The flags are waving high, a black stipe, a white stripe and a yellow stripe – the Garifuna flag. The black representing the people’s African heritage, the white representing peace and the yellow, sun and prosperity. Today is November 19th. It is exactly two hundred and twenty two years since the Garifuna arrived on these coastlines where they were able to establish a community in peace. And each year, to celebrate this and the heritage of their culture, the Garifuna people reenact this arrival.
People start to appear on the beach. To my left, a long pontoon stretches out to the sea. More people appear there as well, looking out to the lively, joyous boat with waving leaves and flags. It teases us before speeding away along the coastline, beckoning the rest of the world to wake up too. I walk over to the pontoon. The locals had come to greet their past, ready to dance the morning away. I wondered if my presence bothered anyone, but everyone shared my excitement, and the people smiled, allowing me to photograph them, welcoming me into the moment with them. The boats then arrive.
The morning is finally alive. Ladies dance along the boats, large leaves strapped to them as they precariously attempt to half jump and half trip off the boat edges onto the sand. People rush in to help or catch them, squeals of fright, followed by laughter, followed by more singing and clapping. Drums are thrown down and everyone gathers, taking to the streets where this celebration would continue in a parade. A whirlwind. I’m caught up in it, ducking out of the way of large branches sweeping, flags waving and maracas flying as people dance and sing and blow into instruments that are actually just large shells.
And then they were gone. I stood there, slightly bewildered. It was now maybe 7am. In 2001, UNESCO recognized the Garifuna language, music and dance as a masterpiece of the oral and intangible heritage of humanity. I can see why. What an incredible way to remind us of such an important and real history. What an extraordinary culture and country that I had the privilege and joy to see.
