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The Color of God

A bright red hibiscus lay on the table. Its petals of fire remind me of that nightmare day. I remember it now, just like it is real again.

 

Those heart-numbing hours began with a taxi ride to Costa Rica's Santa Maria International Airport that lies at the end of a six-lane highway crammed with snorting, belching trucks streaming from the dilapidated city of San Jose. My husband, Guy, and I are taking our only child, 18-year old Tyson, to catch a flight home to Vancouver on Taca International, with a change of planes in Los Angeles. His school vacation is over and we are on our way to a much-needed respite in a hotel hidden in the soft, seductive jungle of Belize.

We lingered over our good-byes in the airport's cheap air-conditioned café, empty except for the swarm of flies buzzing over spilt drinks no one bothered to wipe up. As the flight was called, we hugged our lanky son and watched him disappear through the glass door to the departure lounge, with its row of brown plastic chairs attached like cutout paper dolls. The last thing we saw was a flash of blue from smiling eyes as brilliant and free as Costa Rica's iridescent blue butterfly, one slender arm waving goodbye.

As always, when he leaves, part of us goes with him.

After seeing Tyson off, we returned to our hotel near a noisy bus stop in San Jose. On our way back through the city with its unavoidable potholes, our taxi driver threaded his way down Calle Ocho, a street lined with warehouses and food processing plants. Costa Rica's countryside is a naturalist's dream with belching volcanoes, fruit loop birds and long quick lizards cooled by a canopy of trees.

But here in the city it is the height of the day and the sun is a hot ball with the properties of a laser beam gone mad. It penetrates even San Jose's thick veil of smog, but has not yet dried off the sidewalk and street from an earlier rain. We pass men lying on the rain-wet sidewalks, their heads pillowed in garbage. I don't know if these men are dead, in an alcoholic stupor, drugged into oblivion, or most likely just so despondent that to lie on garbage on a filthy busy street is all they can do.

That is an indelible memory of San Jose.

I am glad Tyson will not witness this desolation, but I don't know why. We've seen such wretchedness before. Costa Rican men that walk like zombies, their eyes drowning in despair, wander the streets in front of our hotel. It is because many of the fincas (farms) in the countryside have been taken over by the government and are now factories. These small farmers, once the backbone of Costa Rica, have been displaced. It is the worst type of economic and moral depression. These hapless men have no other skills to earn a living. Their land has been usurped by so-called progress, and they are too proud to beg. They are attracted to San Jose like metal shards to a magnet, but once there they wander with empty eyes.

I don't know why I'm glad Tyson isn't seeing this. He had already seen more street life, good and bad, than most adults witness in a lifetime.

My memory scrolls back to a time when I was reluctant to let Tyson explore Jakarta, Indonesia with me, but I gave in because he was as eager as I was to see the city. I wanted to shelter him from the sadness. Beggars of all ages loll on the metal flyways that hang, like cheap cutlery over the backlogged traffic of Jakarta's main thoroughfare, Jalan Thamrin. On Jalan Thamrin, in front of some of the finest hotels in Asia, Mercedes with immaculate white-suited chauffeurs rub fenders with open-bed trucks overflowing with Indonesians coming from the countryside to search for work. Pieces of torn cloth cover their mouths to ward away the fumes of poison, a modern stench concocted by industry and progress. There is still hope for a better life in these migrant's eyes. Tyson must have been about twelve when we experienced this.

 

We never heard the beggars on Jalan Thamrin speak over the third world nightmare of beeping, seething, choking traffic. Sometimes, they sell postcards, or shoe polish, invariably available only in dark brown. Or, they beg silently, bony arms outstretched for a few rupiah, our equivalent of a few pennies. Yes, we have seen much despondency throughout the world. No wonder Tyson's bright eyes seem to mirror the depth of his soul.

We are happy, Guy and I, to be leaving Costa Rica. We have chosen Maruba Resort and Jungle Spa for our retreat because it is cut off from the world of phones, fax machines, newspapers and television.

We walk together up the dark-earth path to reach the small lobby. Checking in is a treat. Immediately we are offered a complimentary glass of strawberry daiquiri, one perfect red hibiscus floats on the top, its cutout petals nature's art. The reception area is like a trendy Tarzan's living room: couches covered with faux leopard skin, black wood bar with stools carved astutely, but casually, from fallen jungle limbs.

Outside the insects hum their repetitious tune. They hardly ever seem to take a breath. At the back of the reception area, is an office -- two stools, one desk, and what looks like radio equipment obscured by a sea of paperwork. Through the open door I see a 1994 calendar, a stuffed jaguar head, regal but moth eaten; and a ceiling so low it looks like a bomb shelter.

A young Belizean, open-faced and serious, comes to carry our luggage to our room, hidden from view by Maruba's acres of jungle. But it is almost dinnertime and I want to check out the restaurant. The Belizean sun is dropping like an orange stone over the jungle, over the Mayan ruins, over the fields of marijuana that grow nearby.

I look at the menu board. It boasts four courses. All produce is grown fresh in the resort's organic garden. All meals are served outdoors on white tables, their legs digging into the jungle floor. A single red hibiscus is each table's sole adornment, brilliant and real against the pristine plastic. Tonight, our first night, there is a choice of paka, a jungle rodent, or jerk chicken with papaya, grown on the premises. I look forward to dinner, but first the young man who is waiting for us must show us to our room.

Belizeans are shy, not like Jamaicans. Belizeans have not yet learned to hustle tourists. They do not make small talk to elicit fatter tips, but this one wanted to talk. "That is a terrible thing," he said as he placed our battered suitcase on a wooden table in our room that is the perfect height for unpacking. Outside the window, two palms salute, fronds still in the breathless jungle-scented air.

"What?" I said not listening to the Belizean but admiring the room, with its slowly turning fan, as if it, too, was stuck in the time warp of late afternoon heat. I check out the bathroom first, as is my habit in each new hotel room. I notice the ever-present red hibiscus that sits like a brooch on the toilet paper role, and I smile at the superfluous, those pleasing touch. Then I turn back to the two men. I watch Guy fumble in his pocket for Belizean dollars, a tip; and my ears pick up.

 

"The air crash into the mountain," our luggage bearer says, his serious young face adding gravity to such news. "The one go yesterday from Costa Rica to Los
Angeles. It crash hard on mountain. All people smashed. Such a terrible thing, mon."

His front tooth is studded with a silver star.

I watch it flash in the waning light while his mouth moves.

I stare open-mouthed at Guy. Don't worry," he said, instantly. "I spoke to an American on the plane today. He'd read the news in a U.S. newspaper and was sure it happened the day before Tyson caught his flight."

I recalled turning around in my aisle seat on the short flight between Costa Rica and Belize City because I heard Guy's voice raise as he chatted with another man.

"What airline?" I managed to whisper.

"It was Taca. I didn't want to tell you. I didn't want you to worry. It wasn't Tyson's flight."

The young Belizean shoots a look of nervous concern from Guy to me, his lips now shut tight as the skin of a jungle drum over his brilliant white teeth with the single silver star.

"But he said it was yesterday." I pointed to our luggage bearer, who had meant to tell us how lucky we were not to have been on that plane.

"Tyson was on the Taca flight yesterday." I said.
"The American was positive it was the day before." Guy was pale, angry. I could tell by his anger that while he hastened to reassure me, he wasn't altogether certain that our son was not on the flight.

In a terror of imagining, I pictured the mangled metal pieces of a Boeing 747 against a backdrop of jade, the evil tangle of living jungle. The horrible shrill buzz of cicadas from outside sounded in my ear like a never-ending scream. The pieces of metal I saw in my mind's eye were dead cold but winked and glinted in the sun unnaturally, the way a silver star in a tooth would glitter in bright sunlight. I could see Tyson, my one and only Tyson, being snatched away from me.

"It wasn't yesterday. It wasn't Tyson's flight!" Guy said again.

I answered, "How do you know? Why would you trust the word of a stranger on the plane? How could you do that? What if he's wrong?"

"The American was positive!" Guy answered, but I knew again he was unsure.

The night descended, fast and furious as bad news. The other guests were gathering for dinner under the velvet, star-peppered sky.

"We could have asked at the airport," I said again to Guy. "That way we could be sure it wasn't Tyson's plane." "I didn't want to upset you," he repeated. "There was no point. The American knew for sure it was Tuesday, not Wednesday that the plane crashed."
"How could you not check?" I screamed at my husband as fear and fury mounted inside me.

The thought came at me like the dark descends on jungle -- quick and final. Without Tyson, I wouldn't want to live. For a fleeting moment, I searched the room for a shard of metal, a piece of glass, anything that I could thrust into my husband's heart before I stabbed myself.

I looked at Guy who loves me and Tyson more than himself. He'd proved it over and over again. I wanted him to lift the curtain of fear that suffocated me.

Guy turned away and left me alone. I knew I wouldn't eat; I wouldn't sleep, until I knew Tyson was safe. And if he wasn't safe, I wanted to die. All happiness was lost. My life was a useless bad dream. I looked at the single red hibiscus adorning the pristine roll of toilet paper that had given me such pleasure only moments ago. I snatched it away and crushed it in my palm. Its brilliance was a mockery of the darkness inside me.

I heard voices and footfall. Guy returned. He spoke softly. He told me he would prove what he knew to be true. There was a field telephone in Maruba's tiny office. We could call Tyson. He should be at home in Vancouver by now.

Together, we walked the dark earth path to the tiny office at the back of Maruba's hibiscus strewn lobby. The night manager dialed the number and placed the old-fashioned receiver in my trembling hand. In an instant I heard the ring, ring, ring. It would have been midnight in Vancouver. The house in our own jungle of West Coast rain forest would be dark. I heard Tyson's voice say hello and I burst into tears.

"Why are you crying? Mom, what's wrong with you?" His voice was young, sleepy, confused like young adults are when they are suddenly awakened.
I started to tell him, but when he said again, "Mom, why are you crying? Are you crazy?" I was silent. I knew then I didn't want him to feel the drowning weight of my fear. I laughed raucously, like a crazy person, and my darkness lifted as beautifully as the Belizean jungle night lifted each morning.

I laughed again, changed the subject, and never mentioned the incident in front of him again.

 

For a safe but adventurous trip to Belize, call Island Expeditions at1-800-667-1630 or visit their website at http://www.islandexpeditions.com

For information on Maruba Resort & Jungle Spa telephone 501-3-22199 or fax 501-2-12049, or contact Belize It Tours: 1-800-MARUBA-7; 713-799-2031; fax: 713-795-8573. Maruba is located at 40 ½ Old Northern Highway, Maskall Village, Belize, Central America.

To contact Victoria Brooks, please email: editor@greatestescapes.com

My memory scrolls back to a time when I was reluctant to let Tyson explore Jakarta, Indonesia with me, but I gave in because he was as eager as I was to see the city. I wanted to shelter him from the sadness. Beggars of all ages loll on the metal flyways that hang, like cheap cutlery over the backlogged traffic of Jakarta's main thoroughfare, Jalan Thamrin. On Jalan Thamrin, in front of some of the finest hotels in Asia, Mercedes with immaculate white-suited chauffeurs rub fenders with open-bed trucks overflowing with Indonesians coming from the countryside to search for work. Pieces of torn cloth cover their mouths to ward away the fumes of poison, a modern stench concocted by industry and progress. There is still hope for a better life in these migrant's eyes. Tyson must have been about twelve when we experienced this.

We never heard the beggars on Jalan Thamrin speak over the third world nightmare of beeping, seething, choking traffic. Sometimes, they sell postcards, or shoe polish, invariably available only in dark brown. Or, they beg silently, bony arms outstretched for a few rupiah, our equivalent of a few pennies. Yes, we have seen much despondency throughout the world. No wonder Tyson's bright eyes seem to mirror the depth of his soul.

We are happy, Guy and I, to be leaving Costa Rica. We have chosen Maruba Resort and Jungle Spa for our retreat because it is cut off from the world of phones, fax machines, newspapers and television.

We walk together up the dark-earth path to reach the small lobby. Checking in is a treat. Immediately we are offered a complimentary glass of strawberry daiquiri, one perfect red hibiscus floats on the top, its cutout petals nature's art. The reception area is like a trendy Tarzan's living room: couches covered with faux leopard skin, black wood bar with stools carved astutely, but casually, from fallen jungle limbs.

Outside the insects hum their repetitious tune. They hardly ever seem to take a breath. At the back of the reception area, is an office -- two stools, one desk, and what looks like radio equipment obscured by a sea of paperwork. Through the open door I see a 1994 calendar, a stuffed jaguar head, regal but moth eaten; and a ceiling so low it looks like a bomb shelter.

A young Belizean, open-faced and serious, comes to carry our luggage to our room, hidden from view by Maruba's acres of jungle. But it is almost dinnertime and I want to check out the restaurant. The Belizean sun is dropping like an orange stone over the jungle, over the Mayan ruins, over the fields of marijuana that grow nearby.

I look at the menu board. It boasts four courses. All produce is grown fresh in the resort's organic garden. All meals are served outdoors on white tables, their legs digging into the jungle floor. A single red hibiscus is each table's sole adornment, brilliant and real against the pristine plastic. Tonight, our first night, there is a choice of paka, a jungle rodent, or jerk chicken with papaya, grown on the premises. I look forward to dinner, but first the young man who is waiting for us must show us to our room.

Belizeans are shy, not like Jamaicans. Belizeans have not yet learned to hustle tourists. They do not make small talk to elicit fatter tips, but this one wanted to talk. "That is a terrible thing," he said as he placed our battered suitcase on a wooden table in our room that is the perfect height for unpacking. Outside the window, two palms salute, fronds still in the breathless jungle-scented air.

"What?" I said not listening to the Belizean but admiring the room, with its slowly turning fan, as if it, too, was stuck in the time warp of late afternoon heat. I check out the bathroom first, as is my habit in each new hotel room. I notice the ever-present red hibiscus that sits like a brooch on the toilet paper role, and I smile at the superfluous, those pleasing touch. Then I turn back to the two men. I watch Guy fumble in his pocket for Belizean dollars, a tip; and my ears pick up.

"The air crash into the mountain," our luggage bearer says, his serious young face adding gravity to such news. "The one go yesterday from Costa Rica to Los
Angeles. It crash hard on mountain. All people smashed. Such a terrible thing, mon."

His front tooth is studded with a silver star.

I watch it flash in the waning light while his mouth moves.

I stare open-mouthed at Guy. Don't worry," he said, instantly. "I spoke to an American on the plane today. He'd read the news in a U.S. newspaper and was sure it happened the day before Tyson caught his flight."

I recalled turning around in my aisle seat on the short flight between Costa Rica and Belize City because I heard Guy's voice raise as he chatted with another man.

"What airline?" I managed to whisper.

"It was Taca. I didn't want to tell you. I didn't want you to worry. It wasn't Tyson's flight."

The young Belizean shoots a look of nervous concern from Guy to me, his lips now shut tight as the skin of a jungle drum over his brilliant white teeth with the single silver star.

"But he said it was yesterday." I pointed to our luggage bearer, who had meant to tell us how lucky we were not to have been on that plane.

"Tyson was on the Taca flight yesterday." I said.
"The American was positive it was the day before." Guy was pale, angry. I could tell by his anger that while he hastened to reassure me, he wasn't altogether certain that our son was not on the flight.

In a terror of imagining, I pictured the mangled metal pieces of a Boeing 747 against a backdrop of jade, the evil tangle of living jungle. The horrible shrill buzz of cicadas from outside sounded in my ear like a never-ending scream. The pieces of metal I saw in my mind's eye were dead cold but winked and glinted in the sun unnaturally, the way a silver star in a tooth would glitter in bright sunlight. I could see Tyson, my one and only Tyson, being snatched away from me.

"It wasn't yesterday. It wasn't Tyson's flight!" Guy said again.

I answered, "How do you know? Why would you trust the word of a stranger on the plane? How could you do that? What if he's wrong?"

"The American was positive!" Guy answered, but I knew again he was unsure.

The night descended, fast and furious as bad news. The other guests were gathering for dinner under the velvet, star-peppered sky.

"We could have asked at the airport," I said again to Guy. "That way we could be sure it wasn't Tyson's plane." "I didn't want to upset you," he repeated. "There was no point. The American knew for sure it was Tuesday, not Wednesday that the plane crashed."
"How could you not check?" I screamed at my husband as fear and fury mounted inside me.

The thought came at me like the dark descends on jungle -- quick and final. Without Tyson, I wouldn't want to live. For a fleeting moment, I searched the room for a shard of metal, a piece of glass, anything that I could thrust into my husband's heart before I stabbed myself.

I looked at Guy who loves me and Tyson more than himself. He'd proved it over and over again. I wanted him to lift the curtain of fear that suffocated me.

Guy turned away and left me alone. I knew I wouldn't eat; I wouldn't sleep, until I knew Tyson was safe. And if he wasn't safe, I wanted to die. All happiness was lost. My life was a useless bad dream. I looked at the single red hibiscus adorning the pristine roll of toilet paper that had given me such pleasure only moments ago. I snatched it away and crushed it in my palm. Its brilliance was a mockery of the darkness inside me.

I heard voices and footfall. Guy returned. He spoke softly. He told me he would prove what he knew to be true. There was a field telephone in Maruba's tiny office. We could call Tyson. He should be at home in Vancouver by now.

Together, we walked the dark earth path to the tiny office at the back of Maruba's hibiscus strewn lobby. The night manager dialed the number and placed the old-fashioned receiver in my trembling hand. In an instant I heard the ring, ring, ring. It would have been midnight in Vancouver. The house in our own jungle of West Coast rain forest would be dark. I heard Tyson's voice say hello and I burst into tears.

"Why are you crying? Mom, what's wrong with you?" His voice was young, sleepy, confused like young adults are when they are suddenly awakened.
I started to tell him, but when he said again, "Mom, why are you crying? Are you crazy?" I was silent. I knew then I didn't want him to feel the drowning weight of my fear. I laughed raucously, like a crazy person, and my darkness lifted as beautifully as the Belizean jungle night lifted each morning.

I laughed again, changed the subject, and never mentioned the incident in front of him again.

For a safe but adventurous trip to Belize, call Island Expeditions at1-800-667-1630 or visit their website at http://www.islandexpeditions.com

For information on Maruba Resort & Jungle Spa telephone 501-3-22199 or fax 501-2-12049, or contact Belize It Tours: 1-800-MARUBA-7; 713-799-2031; fax: 713-795-8573. Maruba is located at 40 ½ Old Northern Highway, Maskall Village, Belize, Central America.

To contact Victoria Brooks, please email: editor@greatestescapes.com

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