Primeval queen

Before I kill him, I hold him.  I am careful not to squeeze him too hard. I don't want to harm him, or worse, scare him. 

I can feel his heart beating.  I like the warm weight. 

His feathers are soft and glossy, fading from  deep, terracotta red to iridescent green-black.  Beautiful.  I think about the earrings I am going to make with them later.

I stroke his back and look into his yellow, darting eyes.  I project calm.  Although my heart beats hard, I do not want him to feel my nervousness. 

We hang him up from a tree by his feet and leave him there for the blood to drain to his head.  I apologise to him for the situation.

I put my hand over his chin and beak, covering his eyes.  I don't want him to see the knife.  Hanging upside down, wings open out like an inverted umbrella, he is so helpless that I have a sudden urge to save him. 

I feel a pulse in the artery underneath my thumb.  I think about how he is alive.

I slice the knife across his neck. Warm blood spills over my hand and drips onto the grass.  I don't know why, but the temperature surprises me.

For a moment, the chicken is still and I am left with a brief silence, during which I can almost hear the liquid falling from the knife and my hand.  Then he starts moving again and Jimmy takes the knife from my hand, hacking his head completely off.  It falls to the ground like a discarded toy.

The headless body starts to flap its twisted wings and cluck, as if the soul of the bird is echoing its life as it leaves the body.  On the floor, the head twitches.  The movement of the body is so violent that I stand bewitched, watching the blood fall to the floor as the carcass tugs and swings on the rope.  After two minutes it falls still. 

"Ya," says Erica.  Enough.

We pull feathers from the body to save for jewellery.  If I pull too hard, skin comes off with them.  I will need to wash these.  When I've taken what I want she dips the whole thing in boiling water, loosening the cuticles and enabling us to pull the remaining feathers out in wet handfuls.  They lie on the compost heap in soggy balls. 

She toasts the naked body on the fire to burn off any last hairs.  I scrub it all over with a soapy scourer.

I tell them I would like to butcher as well.  The family gather around the stone sink to watch.  I think they find it hard to believe that this twenty-six year old girl is not only unmarried but has never killed or butchered a chicken.  I am not sure what to tell them, other than, "things are different in England."

But I want to do this.  For years I have wanted to do this.  I have always felt very uncomfortable about the fact I had never killed anything.  How could I be happy eating meat when I was not happy to kill it myself?  The food we buy in Tesco is so far removed from its origin that it is hard, sometimes, to remember that it was once a living, breathing thing.  In some twisted way this process is a token of respect to the animals I have eaten.

Erica holds the legs apart as I cut around the anus. 

I must be careful not to contaminate the meat with the intestinal contents. I slice down the left hand side of the spine, opening a cavity through which I carefully pull the innards.   I wonder how machines carry out such a delicate job.

When I chop the feet off at the lower joint, I am left with something barely resembling the chickens I'm used to buying at home.  I wonder what they must pump them with to make them so rounded and white.  This one is wrinkled, thin and bright yellow.  The flavour will be impeccable.

The whole job has taken almost an hour.  I have turned a bright-eyed, beautiful creature into food.  I am hugely aware of the significance of what I've just done, and the inappropriateness of the usual indifference we have for meat.  But I feel relieved. 

I hadn't realised how much it bothered me that I had eaten meat most of my life and yet never killed an animal with my own hands. I feel slightly less of a fraud. 

I whisper a promise to the chicken soul; to always be thankful for the life of the animal that I'm eating.  I am a strange, yet conscientious cross of a primeval hunter and a privileged hippy.

I sit at home, cadaver in the fridge, and twirl silver wire into earring springs.  Time to adorn myself with my kill.

Caribbean kingdom

One minute I am eating tacos and chatting in lively Spanish, next I'm face to face with black, dreadlocked border officials, trying to decode the lingo.

Of course… I forgot. Belize is Commonwealth.  This lilting, smiling language is actually my own - or was, once.  I finger through to the underlying meaning and emerge with another stamp in the passport.

I climb up in to the ex-US schoolbus going down the only main road south.

People of all colours climb on, speaking their rhythmic islander's talk, speckled with unfamiliar slang.  I keep forgetting, asking questions in Spanish.  The bus driver plays reggae and I talk to a child next to me.

She is the smartest girl in her class.  She is also the oldest, with the one class serving children aged 8-11.  We hold up a five pound note against a ten dollar bill, comparing the Queens.

Her school is 'non-profit.'

Sea air frosts everything with a salty crust.

The landscape of northern Belize is flat, dry and less interesting than I had anticipated.  The settlements, however, are intriguing.  Wide, dusty roads, sprinkled with homes and jungle palms.  Run-down schools, labeled as Hurricane Shelters.  Wooden houses, paint peeling in the sun, propped up precariously on stilts. Some of them lean beyond reasonable stability. 

All in all, I feel very much like I've stepped back in time.  I cannot get over the language, and how it relates to my country.  I feel strangely like a modern-day pioneer, painting the Caribbean with my flag.

I am slightly embarrassed to be British.

I talk to an old woman, Mary-Lee, about my predicament.  When she was born the country was called British Honduras.  I ask her how it has changed. 

"Independence don't mean freedom," she says, with a sorry shake of her head.  "Dey keep telling us dey'll help us, but everyone lies.  No politician ever follows through.  It jus' gonna get worse and worse."

I tell her; "if its any comfort, politics are the same everywhere.  We have a new government and already they're breaking promises.  At least you have the sun!" 

She laughs and agrees.  "I spent ten years in England before I decided Belize was a better life.  Ain't so sweet over there either.

"But it be same everywhere.   World's covered in fire n' flood.  Evil be spreading."

I ask her what she means.  "Worlds endin', girl.  Jus' you wait."

The bus journey goes on for several hours, through towns seemingly named by fantasising children. Orange Walk. Cool Shade Camp. Ladyville.  Until finally I am in Belize City. 

It is tiny, yet energetic.  After the sprawl of Mexico it feels wrong to call this a city.

I had been nervous -- as usual, with no guide book, I am going on word of mouth.  Depending on the age of the adviser, this has not always been positive.  But five minutes into the city and I am relaxed.  Everyone here has a smile on their face.  The women move with an enviable rhythm.  The men are, in general, very attractive.  Everyone calls me baby. 

The wind keeps blowing.  I hear Belize is all about the coral islands. 

I have a little time. 

I buy a ticket for the last boat to Caye Caulker, enough food for a week, and sit in the sun to await my chariot.

God of Small Things

I'm on a bus heading south. Sitting across from me is a woman, perhaps 20 in age, with a small son who has no hair. She wants US dollars, I want Belize, so we swap and start talking.

She wants to know where I've been, and why I don't want to marry and settle down in my own country. I give her the standard spiel. The spanish rattles out freely and I enjoy the surprise on her face. 


***

Once upon a time, I watched football. I shamelessly supported the Mancs because they were the best and because my boyfriend did. We used to ritually tramp to Brixton's Elm Park Tavern, sun illuminating the pub in dust rays, pint of cider on the table, to pass a Saturday afternoon esconsed in drama and delight.

These days, although I love the game, I have no time and no patience for the delicate advertising-machines running the pitch. These are the glorified soap stars, paid sickening wages and supported by self-righteous masses. Without the pub and the boys I find it hard to take an interest.

***


The conversation moves over to her. She is Honduran, married to a Belizean. She doesn't speak English but is trying to learn for her son; given that they live in Belize, English will be his first language. She hasn't been home for four years because she doesn't have the money.


He is three years old and has cancer. The hospitals in Belize don't know what to do with him, so she's been taking the five hour round-trip border-hop up to Chetumal in Mexico to get his treatment.


I ask her how often she goes.


"Every day," she replies, with a smile. "Every day for a year."


My heart aches for them and I feel like a fool for my indulgent life and naïve cries for freedom. I feel desperate to help. I want to fly them to England and make him better. But I can't. That is the lesson I learn every day - that everyone has their own agenda. You can only ever give so much.

***

Going through my belongings, shapeless lumps in the attic of my father's house kept for reasons unknown, I uncover a Manchester United strip. I pause for a minute, pondering how to get rid of it. It's too small for any of my fellow fans to get away with. It would be a shame to send it to a charity shop.

Although now, to me, it symbolises the Dirty System, it once represented comraderie, love and a shared passion. And it might one day mean something else for someone out there.


So I bring it with me. They love football where I'm going. I know I'll find a home for it somewhere.


***

When she climbs down from the bus, halfway to Belize city, I pull the earrings from my ears and press them into her palm. With my other hand I give the Manchester United strip to the boy. He looks up at me with big eyes. He is huge for a three-year old but the t-shirt is still so big he will drown in it if he wears it right now.

Maybe she will sell it.


But maybe, if he grows older, he will play football in it one day.

The other home

Its hard to describe the feeling as I fly over the turquoise shores of Quintana Roo. Something bordering on ecstasy, but far too calm for that word to fit.



I am alone again - and instead of feeling lonely I feel full. High on myself. Elated. The warm wind that hits me as I exit the airport at Cancun is the same wind that blew me here in the first place. It whispers to me and I shyly yield to its touch like a lover.

I just cannot believe how happy I feel.


I packed Mexico away into a neat box in my head, barely sniffed at in six months, and yet in just a few minutes it tumbles out; a surprise party, bursting with song.


Dogs, casually roaming. Dirt roads, playgrounds for the happiest children I've ever seen. Smells, pulling me in every direction. Old men, gossiping toothlessly from their chairs in the roadside shade. Shrieks of tropical birds, with something to say every minute of the day. People, everywhere, smiling.

And that wind, that soft, warm wind.

I avoid Cancun altogether in favour of the more genuine Puerto Morelos, checking in to a beautiful room at Casitas Kinsol. It is a haven under the shade of fruit trees and the baleful wide eyes of a chihuahua.

I borrow a bike and ride through a few kilometres of mangrove swamp to the white beach, where one of many of today's contented sighs slips out to join the wind. In moments I am paddling the shallow turquoise water, washing myself clean of my 60-hour journey. I make some friends, who buy me a beer. I sink my toes into the sand.

Tonight is full moon. It is as bright as the sun in England. I honour it with enormous prawns a la diabla, re-anointing my mouth with the familiar chilli fire of Mexico. I frequently pause my baptismal meal to tend to a small child, whilst the mother and grandmother serve the locals around me and the father, grandfather and uncle lean back with machismo.

I eat slowly, and afterwards spend a long time sitting at my table, facing the street.

It ain' awll bad, son...

Being on a budget, I thought nothing of accepting a 36-hour,3-flight journey in order to save a few pennies. Being on a budget, therefore, I take with grace the 60-hour epic that eventually unfolded.


After the first 10 hours I emerge in San Francisco. Grey, drizzling, cold. I actually find myself dreaming of the sun I left in London. I somehow entertain myself for 8 hours. Return to the airport at 10pm to be told one flight is delayed, another cancelled altogether.


Time to whip out the sleeping bag. Other travellers eye me with jealousy as I steal my first 3 hours sleep in 24 hours on the airport floor. A further 3 hours stretched over free seats on the plane and I can be almost be counted as awake when I stumble out in sunny Atlanta, Georgia.


My mind twists as I try to work out what day it is and what time my body clock is following. But in the third time zone in thirty three hours it is only 9am and I know better than to capitulate to the heavy eyes this early on. So I check into a hostel. Shower. Leave.


Despite the dragging mind, I'm glad I had this extra time in the states. It reminds me of why I'm not staying.


I still have a lingering sense of attachment to the American Dream. I still associate the ideal with the safety and love of my childhood. Its almost a forbidden vision of a possible future. And, goddammit, that makes it exciting.


As I child I believed I would settle in the Promised Land. As an adult I find myself torn between this dream and the rejection of the whole concept of the country. I simultaneously love and despise the excessive use of fast food. I hold myself back from the glitter of the malls. I don’t want anything they offer - but the advertising works so well.


But today I had a revelation - aside from idealism, a true reason why I can never settle here. A reason I can accept, and be at one with, without feeling like some kind of opinionated idiot. The clincher?

It starts when I realise I am walking the streets of Atlanta alone. My only pedestrian companions are the crazy and the homeless, of which there are an extortionate number.

And then I remember. 'Outside' is a strange concept, here.

Everyone drives everywhere. Every single shop has its own parking lot. The consumption of space is ruthless. I have been to city upon city, West, deep South, South East and North East and all of them sprawl, eating up the landscape. Away from small downtown hubs, sheer distance gives people no option other than be slaves to their vehicles.

And they are happy to. Billboards everywhere preach fear.

The first sign to greet me at the airport: "there are other ways to lose your life than dying".
The metro voiceover: "surveillance cameras cannot guarantee your safety."
When I tell the hostel people I will walk (*shock!) downtown: "Keep your hand on your wallet. Don't talk to anyone."

Everyone is scared of everyone else.

The answer to their fear is to keep behind doors - the airconditioned doors of offices, the sliding doors of shopping malls, the slamming doors of cars.

I feel like I'm in an apocalyptic video game. I walk the streets avoiding stumbling meth-twisted zombies, countering their approaches with English politeness and a smile that cracks my airplane-dry lips. I cast my eyes over the concrete Olympic Park and swerve to avoid Coca Cola World.

I'm almost relieved when my legs start to give way from exhaustion. I can legally (my own rules) go back to the hostel. I buy myself a pot of Ben and Jerry's and curl up in front of Friends.

Well, it ain't awll bad...

Valentine's Ode

Home was a calling that I didn't know I'd heard
Home was an accident, for which I was unprepared.
Home was a siesta after a year of wandering -
Home was the answer to my silent pondering.
Home was beds and walls and hugs and multitudinous Things
Home the nest in which to rest my aching open wings.
Home compacted years of life to tiny scraps of days.
Home became the doorway, to open the next phase.


Home was overwhelming, in a shiny kind of way
Home regurgitated things I didn't want to say
Home cut me a window into all my previous lives
Home made me a passenger on other people's rides.
In home I found the things I left, reasons I had to go
But home exposed the things I love, the reasons for the flow.
My home can only ever be the root of all of this -
The home of all the ideals that I never thought I'd miss.


This home is now a flame to light the path I choose to take
For home, you see, revealed to me the lonely choice I make.
At home live friends and family who actually understand!
But home they stay, far away, while I flee to foreign lands.
My love hides there, love for them all, for I can't bring it along
As a passenger, it eats away the heart that once was strong.
But my home is not forgotten, although it is far away
Home for me is everything. I just wish that I could stay.