Lori Ostlund - The Bigness of the World

“But it is far too early for beer,” said Sarah in Spanish.

The woman seemed puzzled. “For tourists, it is not too early, I think.”

They were annoyed to be called tourists but did not say so. Instead, they both ordered coffees, black and without sugar, though when the young woman returned with the coffees, both contained sugar. They said nothing, sipping from their cups as she hovered nearby. Finally, Sara asked her in Spanish for chopsticks, and she again appeared puzzled but went off behind the bar and returned with toothpicks, which were also called palillos . She set the toothpicks down in the middle of their table and then stood back to watch what they would do with them. They could have laughed and explained the misunderstanding, pretending to eat with chopsticks to demonstrate what they had really wanted, but neither of them had the energy for it, so instead they reached for the toothpicks and sat with them in their mouths until the rice arrived.

The old woman had prepared fried rice for them with plenty of tidbits, which they suspected were scraps left from the night before, chicken and beef that had been ordered and picked at by other diners, and though in theory they were impressed by this degree of resourcefulness, in fact they found their stomachs turning. Both women took up the forks that they had been given and worked through the rice carefully, as though they had lost something of great importance amid the grains. In this way, everything that was not rice was removed and added to a pile on the side of each woman’s plate, perhaps, they hoped, to be recycled one more time.

As they finished eating, the door opened again, and a dapper black man in a pressed linen suit came in and proceeded at a trot to a table not far from them. Before he sat, he removed his Panama hat and tipped it in their direction, and they could see then that he was much older than his quick step had suggested. “Top of the morning, ladies,” he said, setting the hat on a chair and seating himself beside it. The old woman hobbled out from the kitchen and over to his table, and he repeated the greeting to her, using her name, which was Mrs. Chu. Mrs. Chu returned the greeting, speaking with a strong Chinese accent.

“How’s the honey?” he asked, and she nodded vigorously.

“Ah yes, honey still have. Thank you,” she told him. Then, uncharacteristically they thought (though they had only just met her), Mrs. Chu giggled and a blush of sorts spread across her cheeks.

The dapper man leaned back in his chair so that he could see both Sara and Sarah before he spoke. “Perhaps you ladies would be interested to know that I am a beekeeper,” he said.

They both nodded politely. “Beekeeping. Now that must be a fascinating profession,” observed Sara.

He nodded solemnly. “Yes. Indeed it is. You may not be at all surprised to learn that my father before me also kept bees. In fact, everything I know, I learned from that man. Say,” he said after a moment, “how many times do you suppose I’ve been stung over the years? Go ahead — wager a guess.”

After a moment, Sarah suggested a hundred and five times and Sara agreed that that sounded like a reasonable number. The old man chuckled and brought his hands together in front of his face, forming a large circle through which he peered at them. “Ladies, would you believe it,” he said dramatically. “The answer is zero. Those bees just don’t fancy me. But I’ll tell you this, and nobody would deny it. I raise the best honey around.” He paused thoughtfully before reconfirming Sara’s earlier observation: “Yes,” he said, “a fascinating profession.”

There was an uncomfortable silence then, though uncomfortable only for the two women, who felt that the conversation ball had been bounced back to them and that they were simply sitting with it. Finally, to fill the silence, Sarah said, to nobody in particular, “The bee.” She stretched the word out thoughtfully, as though she planned to offer insight, but the old Chinese woman misunderstood her, thinking that she was requesting the bill . In turn, she called out sharply to the mestiza, who rushed in with a large, colorful bird perched on one shoulder and presented them with a slip of paper bearing the price of their breakfast, two Belizean dollars and fifty cents.

“Excuse me, but do you know how far it is to the Mennonites?” Sarah asked politely in Spanish as she handed her the money for the bill.

“The Mennonites,” the mestiza answered in English. “They are very far. Maybe you go thirty kilometers, maybe you go more. The Mennonites are far from us.”

“The Mennonites?” the dapper black man said, breaking in on their conversation. “The Mennonites are not far. I would say precisely twelve kilometers, give or take a few. Which route do you plan to take?”

“The shortest,” they answered in unison. “We’re walking,” Sarah explained.

“Walking!” the beekeeper exclaimed in horror. “Nobody walks to the Mennonites. And the Mennonites, for their part, do not walk to us.”

“Well, we’re walking,” said Sarah again, “so if you would be kind enough to point us in the right direction, we would be grateful.”

“Come,” said the beekeeper, struggling to his feet. They stood also and waited as he placed his Panama hat precisely atop his head, and then they followed him from the restaurant.

“Do you see this road?” the beekeeper asked, but the sun was strong already, and they both had trouble seeing after the darkness of the restaurant. Finally, when Sarah’s eyes had adjusted sufficiently, she found that he was pointing straight down at the very road that they were standing on, which was also the road that led to their bungalow.

“Yes,” she told him. “I do see this road.”

“Very well.” He went on to explain that they should follow this road out of town. “You will pass some bungalows,” he said, and they nodded. “You must continue past the bungalows for approximately one more kilometer. On your right, you will see a river. Leave the road and walk down to the edge of the river. Stand by the edge in full view of the other side, and soon somebody from the other side will come for you in a boat and ferry you across. You should give him fifty cents apiece. When you reach the other side, you will see another road, and you should continue along that road. There will be people to guide you.” They thanked him and started on their way, though they were skeptical about the river crossing. In fact, everything unfolded as the beekeeper predicted, and when they each handed the boatman fifty cents, he tipped his straw hat at them and extended his oar for them to hold on to as they stepped from the boat onto a cluster of damp rocks and from there to the shore.

They walked all morning, but the longer they walked toward the Mennonites, the farther away from the Mennonites they were, or at least that was how it seemed, for as they stopped at the various houses and huts along the road to inquire about the distance, the numbers tossed out grew steadily larger. At one hut, the woman opened her refrigerator and took out two sodas, which she offered to them. They drank them, but when they prepared to leave, she told them that they owed her two dollars for “the refreshments.” They gave her the money and didn’t mind really because they had been thirsty and they knew that she needed to make a living. Then, after they had paid her, as they were waving goodbye, she said, quite matter-of-factly, “You will never reach the Mennonites,” and for some reason, this, they minded.

Several times during the day, they sat down along the side of the road, generally under a tree, to drink from their water bottles, and each time, a passing vehicle stopped and the driver offered them a ride. Finally, they were afraid even to pause because they found it difficult to reject the offers again and again. At one point, several schoolchildren approached them, giggling, and asked for water, so they gave the children a bottle that was half full and told them to keep it, though they both knew that they were acting less out of generosity than a shared fear of germs. Finally, after they had been walking for more than six hours, they decided that they had no choice — they would accept the next ride, which turned out to come from a very large, blond man in overalls accompanied by two equally blond, similarly dressed teenage boys all crammed together in the cab of an old pickup truck. The man in overalls nodded toward the back, and they climbed in and squatted as though preparing to urinate.