Sunday, January 8, 2006

Last night we tried a restaurant called Tilingo Lingo. It’s way down at the other end of town from the rest of the restaurants, by the beach. When we sat down I thought, hmm. It was dark, there were spiders in the corners, and a black and white cat jumped right into my lap, scaring the crap out of me because I had my head turned the other way. I figured the food would either be dreadful or amazing.

Maria, the owner, cook, and waitress, scolded us when we tried to order before she’d told us all about the food, which included a story about how she’d married an Indian guy and lived in Calcutta and so therefore could make Indian food, and everything was very fresh. The chicken and curry dishes come with real garlic bread and a salad of lettuce, tomatoes, carrots, with basil and oregano, and she invented the dressing herself. The salad and bread are for free.

I ordered the lemonade and she said I’d love it, that she makes it Mexican style, by blending the entire lemon, peel, pits and all, and then straining it. This didn’t sound good to me, but I had to give Mexico the benefit of the doubt. The lemonade, and Michael’s iced chai latte (“I dissolved the tea just now, very fresh”) were amazing. Out of this world. It boded well for the food, chicken curry and fish curry, which followed through with flying colors.

So this morning… or early afternoon… after we changed hotels (Rios Tropicale, shared bath but charm for miles) we were headed back down there for the breakfast she had told us all about last night (she whitens the potatoes), and as we were walking down the street, a herd (flock? pride? school?) of pigs came trotting across the street. Michael started taking photos. That’s when we met Polo.

“You like pigs, mon?” he said, in a friendly way. He was Garifuna, old, graying, and wiry in flip-flops. He shook our hands, mine first, which never, ever happens. He wanted to know what we did and where we were from. When I told him I was a writer, he nodded and said we needed more African writers. He talked about the trash that has been passing as black literature lately and mentioned Toni Morrison in a favorable light.

He wanted to know if we know where the Garifuna had orignally come from. When Michael tentatively guessed, “Africa?” he got the “look” in his eyes for the first of many times. The look involved falling silent and leveling smoldering yellow eyes right into the victim’s long enough for everyone to get ready for the beatdown.

Michael said, “I don’t know man, I’m here to learn, educate me,” but the look continued until Polo was good and ready to break his gaze and shake his head in disappointment. Finally he saw fit to explain to us that the Garifuna are not African, that they come from black Venezuelans who moved up to Central America and then mixed with Africans. “The mix happened here,” he said. “Nothing to do with Africa.”

I didn’t really understand. We never thought that the Garifuna were Garifuna in Africa, we understand it’s a mix that occurred in the Americas, but I didn’t understand the not being African part. For me it’s like if orange looked up from the color wheel and said, “Man, why are you so ignorant? I’m not from red, I’m from yellow.”

I was very much inclined to take his word for things after he echoed my own feelings about black literature, but I think we had some kind of misunderstanding. But by then I was already terrified of the look, and didn’t want to take the chance of calling it down upon myself, so I didn’t ask for clarification. He did say he was the only one who knew this fact, that he’d figured it out for himself from study.

We talked with Polo for a while, standing in the middle of the road recently vacated by the pigs. He told us about the problems the Garifuna face today, how they are at the bottom of the heap and how “the Latins” keep them down. How they can’t get anywhere, and how “you people,” us the tourists, help them by patronizing their establishments.

I was really interested in the topic, but I was distracted by the need to press my hand to the side of my face that was being broiled by the sun and I wished we could be sitting down, or at least standing in the shade.

We were saved by the appearance of a girl who’d ridden in with us on the lancha, and who seemed to know Polo well. He explained to us that she had helped out with his feeding program yesterday and he needed to give her an address. So we were all able to walk down to Tilingo Lingo and sit down, which was a huge relief for me.

It turned out Polo was also a musician and sold CDs of his music. He’d sell us one, but we’d have to give him the money up front. Michael and I looked at each other. We were both thinking about how the LP had warned not to give pay for things in advance, and I was thinking of my friend Arun, who had visited Livingston a long time ago and had given someone money for a cassette (I told you it was a long time ago) of Garifuna music and then had gotten nothing but excuses. Plus, why not just go get the CD first? It makes the most sense.

Michael dared suggest that Polo bring us the CD first and was treated to another round of the look. He told Polo not to take it personally, but it was clear that Polo was taking it as personally as getting peed on. “Do I look like a man who would run off with your money?” he asked. So Michael gave the money, and told Polo he was making an investment in humanity.

This was met with another version of the look, a considering version. “One hundred quetzales is not worth ducking you every day,” he said. Then the look faded and Polo joked, “Maybe a hundred thousand dollars, but not a hundred quetzales.” He laughed. “For a hundred thousand dollars I’d say, ‘hey, Garifuna, let’s go to Brazil!” We all laughed, the tension broken.

It was like that, talking with Polo. One minute he would seem bitter to the core, and the next he would present another side to the situation and laugh it off. He was angry when he learned we had moved from a Garifuna-run place to the Rios Tropicale and called the proprietors Chinese racists. But after a short silence, he shrugged and said, “But the King George is a sleazy hotel.”

He ended up having to leave and later, when he came back, he had Michael’s CD, and one for the Italian couple at the next table. “I was thinking about what you were saying,” he said. “What was that you said, an investment in something?”

“In humanity,” I ventured. It was the first time I’d spoken up in about an hour. The look was no joke.

“Right,” Polo said, “An investment in humanity. I was thinking that when you come here, because of your money, you get preyed upon so that makes you afraid.” He seemed immenantly reasonable. Even when justified, his anger was like a lash, but one could almost forget it when his voice mellowed and he played Devil’s Advocate with himelf.

Michael assured him that he had as little faith in his own countrymen and asked him if he wanted a coffee. (Maria’s coffee, very special, the best in Livingston, made partly in the Turkish way, people came every day for it.) The Italian guy put his CD into the house CD player. It sounded good.

 

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You like pigs, mon?

View of the main tourist strip from Palacio Municipal.

View from the walkway outside our room at the Rios Tropicale.