By Dickie Bradley
We lost the battle for Sarstoon Island. evoke
It was a bittersweet defeat at the mouth of the Sarstoon River which separates us from our neighbor.
This happened early Sunday afternoon August 16th, 2015.
The day had started out like any other day. Jehovah’s mighty sun rose in the east as we headed south by road. When the first rays hit the sky, they scattered the clouds in crimson splendor across a land that once was so free alongside the Caribbean Sea.
Wil Maheia had organized another of his border expeditions. His territorial volunteers would travel to the Sarstoon Island and if possible try to place the Belizean flag on it. If not possible, the island would be circled by a flotilla of hired boats.
Volunteers from every district were arriving in Punta Gorda on Saturday evening. The plan was to take a bus from P.G. head to Barranco and then boat across to the island. I decided to leave Belize City early Sunday morning and drive through to Barranco Village by 9:00 A.M.
On the journey along the George Price Highway I saw the waste that always greets me. Land, land everywhere and none of it being developed.
At the Guanacaste junction just before Roaring Creek Bridge a massive multi-million dollars project is unfolding to construct a roundabout and widen the road that leads up the Hummingbird Highway. It will no doubt be an impressive sight. It is a classic example of third world waste. Millions of dollars for an unnecessary project that could have been satisfied by traffic lights. This, in a land with the shameful statistic of 48 percent poverty. Political show-time at the expense of rising poverty.
No scene can rival the long and winding road from George Gabb’s sculpture to the 50-mile junction of the Southern Highway just outside the land-mark “drums of my father” art work in culture capital, Dangriga, a few miles from the turn to head to Toledo.
On the Southern Highway, over wide bridges and very narrow ones the failure whispers constantly: make use of my rich soil; place me in productive pastures; let me feed you and make you a prosperous people. I try to switch my mind to other thoughts but dreams of crops and cattle stretching through the lush land dotted with factories and happy villages become a stubborn dream that refuses to fade.
Somewhere in one of my tattered King James Version is a tick and a scratch under a verse. Jesus said the Kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to another people who will produce its fruits.
Miles upon miles of undeveloped land roll by. We are cursed with visionless leaders. Where in the world are there a people with so much land wasting in idleness. We eat imported food and swallow manufactured cancer while the Lord’s great blessing sits idly in our sight. When Oh Lord! When will you send us leaders with vision? You have warned us that where there is no vision we will perish.
Is agriculture not our pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?
Am on the road to Barranco, soon seventeen miles of rough, jagged road. Then the sea. Glimpses of a sea so calm it looks like a painting. I see E. Roy Cayetano, my brethren from Dangriga. He and I were in Cuba at Carifesta as writers, a long, long time ago. His is that most awesome poem “Drums of My Fathers” which every child in school should learn. He shows me where the pier is. I park and walk. My son Richard is with me. We had gone with Wil to Jalacte previously.
On the pier, there is a colorful panorama. The Volunteers are in all colors. There is a good vibe among everyone. After small speeches the few, the brave, the adventurers started getting in boats for the trip. I meet Patrick Rogers and his wife. I meet Hubert Pipersburgh from Wagner’s Lane. He is home from America. He is very knowledgeable about the Guatemala issue. Am proud of him. Along comes Greg Cho`c,, home from first year law school in Barbados. His unusual long hair makes him look like a Marcus Canul or Geronimo.
I have always been fascinated by the first peoples of the hemisphere, be it the so-called red Indians of North America or the Maya, Incas, Aztecs and others. It is clear to me, that they and the Esquinoes are related to Asians and Chinese. Stoicism seems to be in their DNA. I often wonder what our world would be like had they all united and defeated the invading Europeans who came with guns and cross-shaped swords.
There are two short Policemen in regular Police uniforms roasting in the sun. Four tallish Coast Guards are on the pier. Their training and discipline is obvious. Three shake our hands. Their boat is far out to sea. No doubt on instructions from Belmopan.
We board a boat. Glen Tillett and Alberto Vellos are there. So is Carolyn Trench Sandiford. She too had journeyed with Wil and volunteers to Jalacte and across the creek up to container hill. A brave and intelligent woman. Behind me is Alfredo Ortega of the Cane Farmers’ resistance fame. In front is a slim dignified lady, Vicente Palacio. She wishes to set foot on Sarstoon Island.
We are taken about four or five miles in still waters up to the mouth of the Sarstoon River. There are dozens of volunteers in the river. Brackish river water above their waists. When all are gathered, they sing the national anthem which include the words “From proud Rio Hondo to old Sarstoon…” but here as in the 1859 Treaty between Guatemala and Britain there is no mention of Sarstoon Island. Article 1 of the 1859 Treaty states, “Beginning at the mouth of River Sarstoon in the Bay of Honduras, and proceeding up the mid-channel thereof to Gracias a Dios Falls….”
Wil Maheia comes over to the small mouth I am in. He says we will all go around the island. I tell him I came to go on the island. He says follow him to his boat. I walk in water over my waist to his boat two hundred feet away. I climb in. Rebels are aboard.
Nigel Petillo, Paco Smith, Hubert Pipersburgh, Greg Cho`c, Carolyn Trench-Sandiford, Alberto Vellos, Audrey Matura-Shepherd, Ya Ya Marin, Philip de la Fuente, David Garnett and others are in Dora, the largest boat. A count revealed 45 passengers. As we sail off with the four much smaller boats to our right, two Guatemalan gun boats at the far left are seen coming in our direction. They come in front of the flotilla, setting up a blockade in the form of an “L”.
Wil calls me up to the bow of Dora. He is shouting to Orlando de la Fuente, passenger in one of the small boat boxed into the L. Wil is shouting, “don’t throw no rope” to them (the Guats) and to evade the bloackade. As Dora comes much closer, the biggest of the Guatemalan gun boats reverse to block us. In doing so an opening is created and Orlando takes over the steering wheel and drives through. The Jefe (who we later learnt to be Vice Admiral Carlos Thomas) gives instruction to one of his boats to go after the small flotilla.
Dora then moves forward. Vice Admiral blocks us with his boat. He is tall and in full kahki. Two of his companions are in regular green military uniforms with side arms. Two more are seamen in blue, one at the bow, the other at the wheel. Theirs is a thirty footer boat. Ours about 34 feet. We move to port (left forward)-we are blocked. We move to starboard (right forward) we are blocked. We are blocked again and again and again.
This time there are more than six persons on the bow shouting and conversing with the Vice Admiral. No amount of ‘this is our side of the river’; ‘we are in our own territory’; ‘you are illegally in Belize territory’; ‘you have no right to block us’ moves El Jefe. He motions over and over for us to go back or to mover over to the river edge at Belize’s mainland. Wil is arguing that we cannot go that way as it is too shallow. El Jefe is cool and just keeps blocking us. Our captain shouts that he cannot see because of the number of passengers on the bow. Our two boats hit each other, buff. As the blocking continues our two boats make contact several times. El Jefe warns this could bring trouble for us. The Spanish word for infantry is heard. He also holds forward his cell phone, so does one other officer, as if videoing. Our captain offers to go speak to El Jefe. I go to the steering wheel. The engine is in neutral. The only one or thing not taking sides. Some of the passengers look a little worried. The have food reason to be. The Belize Coast Guard boat which was miles behind us, is out of sight. The flotilla, the OAS tiny skiff, Guatemala media boat and gun boat are all disappearing into the northern channel of the river to circle the large island.
We are alone on the river with our Guatemala nemesis. El Jefe is determined to prevent us from moving forward
The captain returns to his wheel, unsuccessful. Wil calls me back to the bow. He shares that it is the same captain and same boat the Guatemalan military had towed from the river to Livingston in March with 30 odd Belizean Northern Volunteers. They spent a fretful overnight in Guatemala and were only released after the captain was convinced by Belize’s Ambassador to Guatemala to sign a confession that he had made a wrong turn in the Sarstoon River and went into Guatemala waters. Wil was of the view the captain was feeling intimidated. If we were to be towed away in his boat he would face bigger trouble than the rest of us. He was already technically convicted for trespassing and illegal entry into a hostile country.
Wil says he is unable to reach Giovanni Brackett or Orlando or other leaders by cell phone. As leader of the expedition he wanted to be with the volunteers. His responsibilities were heavy on his sun-drenched shoulders. He had spoken passionately and angrily to El Jefe but he remained composed. He agreed that when the smaller boats from the flotilla returned we would swap passengers so we could go around the island. I would still get a chance to get out the boat and me and Wil and no doubt several others would go on Sarstoon Island.
I sat on the bow thinking. A wind was starting to gather. Calm seas had turned to light- choppy. In my mind I tried to remember words from Shakespeare I used to know- it’s about when we are in peace time, it’s fine to be modest and humble. But when the blast of war blows, then we are to turn tiger-stiffen our sinews, summon up the blood. But I couldn’t concentrate. It did flash through my mind that Jesus had said a time will come when we will have to sell our clothes and buy swords. But I couldn’t concentrate. I thought it so ironic that the Belize government and the Guatemala government were now saying the same things- keep away from Sarstoon Island. Keep away from Sarstoon River.
Then there they were. The flotilla came around the Southside of Sarstoon Island. White water spewing from their engines. The grey Guatemala gun boat plainly paralleling the front boat. We counted to make sure.
As they came closer Wil was flagging the first boat to stop. It slowed but did not stop. It revved up for Barranco. So did the second boat. Then they all passed, full speed for the mainland safety.
Wil reminded me many of the volunteers were from Orange Walk and Cayo and had been out from Saturday.
El Jefe was still in position, talking on his cell phone. He would never let us through.
We turned and headed for Barranco. I mentioned to Audrey that the volunteers had done better than the bogus battle of St. George’s Caye. Back then the two sides did not come as close as we did and as unarmed civilians we had come face to face with the military and did not back down or turn back. We had defied the Belize government and the Guatemala government and circled the Sarstoon Island.
And so what?
Well, Sunday’s confrontation has galvanized Belizeans at home and abroad. No one thought Guatemala was so aggressive towards Belize. Never mind what Guatemala’s Foreign Minister says, it is the Guatemala military that is in charge. Their sworn duty is to protect and defend their country and Sarstoon Island is part of their country, so they believe.
Sunday’s expedition has convinced me more than anything else, and it confirms why our poor, hapless government has been acting so strangely since February.
What I write, I write with much sadness this Wednesday morning 5:00 A.M on the 19th of August 2015. We have lost the Sarstoon Island and we will never get it back.