A visit to the Hot Sauce Factory

Easily the best known name in Belize is that of Marie Sharp. It's a name constantly on tongues and passed across tables from Punta Gorda to Corozal, from the deepest jungles of Cayo to the Cayes of Glover Reef. For Marie Sharp is the creator of the Belize's most popular condiment, Marie Sharps Hot Sauce. The nation is not known as a culinary hot-spot. While people may rave about Singapore's Roti or Switzerland's fondues, the most people usually say about Belize's staple dishes - things like rice and beans, stew chicken, fried fish - usually served with a liberal heap of cole-slaw, considered a vegetable around these parts - is that it's tasty and filling enough. It's unfair, of course - there's plenty of delicious Mexican fare like panades, garnaches, lobster, shrimp and conch ceviches, as well as traditional Garifuna dishes like hudut and bundiga. But as a general rule, if you're a budget traveler (as I am,) the more you learn to love stew chicken & rice, rice and beans, and a few variations thereof, the happier you'll be in Belize.

And if you're going to love these dishes to the fullest, you've got to learn to love Marie Sharp's hot sauce. Available in a variety of degrees, ranging from mild to hot to a variety called "No Wimps Allowed," which is one below the hottest blend, which bears a large red label which reads simply "Beware"

There is indeed a Marie Sharp, and she's known to run a tight ship. On the day we went to the factory for our tour, Mrs. Sharp was involved in a meeting with a Japanese client (the Japanese, I learned, are crazy about Marie Sharp's hot sauce, and Japan is a major importer of the stuff) and wasn't able to speak on camera. But we did our tour, and learned a few things about the inner workings of Belize's second-most beloved product. *




*the first most beloved is probably Belikin beer; the video of that tour is unfit for public viewing.


** Special thanks to cameraman David Gobeil for keeping a steady hand and sharp eye.

Everything you ever wanted to know about Belmopan (but were afraid to ask)

Bellmopan became the political capital of Belize after a hurricane nearly destroyed the capital of what was then called British Honduras in nineteen sixtyzzzzzzzzzzz....

Wazzat? Sorry. Anyway, yes. Belmopan. The political capital of Belize, Belmopan is home to a number of government buildings, as well as a shopping area and sevzzzzzzzzzz....

Huh? What? Don't touch my stu...huh? Wazzat? What was I writing about again? Belmo-where?

Oh look. I made a film. Where's the bus station again?

Back in Howler Monkey Land

To be fair, the growling of the Howler Monkey is less zombie like in broad daylight than it is at night, which isn't a bad thing. Back in the Community Baboon Sanctuary they seemed quieter in the light of day, more simian and less likely to be cannibals driven into flesh hunger by necromancy, voodoo, or, as is becoming more popular these days with the new breed of zombie auteur, viruses and/or chemical warfare tests gone awry.

Why, it was downright peaceful when I shot this film on the bridge leading to the CBS just 6 miles west of the main highway.






It's a shame my flip cam ran out of batteries when it did, because if it had just lasted 3 more minutes I would have captured them on film (or whatever these things record on nowadays - pixels? moon dust?). My driver thought they were farmers, or perhaps fisher-folk, though I was immediately thrown off by their paleness. Nobody who works in the sun could be that ghastly white, especially not in Central America. Albinos? But why the shambling.

"Buenos Dias," my driver said, but there was something in his eyes, some doubt. He had grown up in the area, and was all to familiar with the Maya legends. Too late. They were on him. One grabbed him, and making that same horrible growl, sunk its teeth into my driver's exposed shoulder. He screamed like a Spanish banshee, which was basically like a regular banshee but with a long, rolling "r.r.r.r.r.r.r" at the end.

Then the other one joined in. The biting...the ripping...the horror. Poor Vitalano! I wish I'd caught it on film. Or whatever.

I saw was more of them coming up from the banks of the river, the same beautiful, peaceful river I'd been filming only moments before. Apparently they'd been hiding there, among the reeds and crocodiles. And why not? Damn you, Romero, damn you for setting that precedent in LAND OF THE DEAD. We thought moving water would give us some element of safety. Like from Vampires.

Vitalano's screams were terrible. There would be no cave tubing for me tomorrow. Good luck with cave tubing, guide's a fucking zombie now.

Not yet, he's still screaming, something in Spanish. Zombies don't do that.

Spanish is still the most romantic language...don't you think?

I ran, ran down the road and hitched a lift with a Belikin beer truck back to Belize City. This job has gotten too hairy for me. This is the worst thing that's happened since I ran into that cannibal-run dumpling operation in Guangxi province. To this day, Fodor's won't return my calls.

This link leads to the last thing I wrote about the Howler Monkey / Zombie Nexus.

It's real, folks. It's very, very real.

Anyway, I have to run. I'm supposed to be seeing Maya ruins later in the day. Some sort of underground boneyard.

Some Photos from Belize

From the Library in Monkey Bay Wildlife Sanctuary, where I'm writing from.

A large Iguana in a tree. Next camera gets a zoom lens for shots like these.

A shy brindle dog in Caye Caulker

A hut on a dock, Ambergris Caye

I make my peace with BelizeCity

Night in Belize city, staying at the Bayview, a small Taiwanese owned Hotel on the north end of town. The town has grown on me, strangely enough, though I'd be hard pressed to think of more than a couple of reasons to spend a day and a night here.

Unless you've come to gamble at one of the Casinos. Which I haven't. Or research a guidebook, which I have.

I'd heard rumors that Belize City had lost some cheap accommodation choices since the last update, which turned out to be true. One place which has been in the process of collapsing on my last visit finally did, and two others have closed down with no forwarding address.

Passing out. And I still need to update my damned PDF files. Here's a video made this morning from somewhere else entirely.

Belize Day What? Caye Caulker

In hindsight, trying to label blogs by day on this trip might have been overly ambitious. Hell, trying to keep track of time in Belize in general is a mistake.
I wound up spending an extra day in San Pedro. By Friday afternoon, my research done and edited, I was ready to leave. But I was committed to another yoga class at Ak'bol Yoga on the northern island Saturday morning, and by the time the class was out I'd missed check-out, and figured another day of research / relaxing wasn't going to set me back.

I'm in Belize, after all.

I liked Ambergris more than I thought I would. Two years ago on vacation I gave Ambergris a miss in favor of Caye Caulker, from where I now write over a plate of shrimp pasta. The rain has stopped, and I've got more hotels to hit, more dive operators to chat with, and more beaches to walk.


A rough job, but someone's got to do it.


A short film I made this morning.

Belize Day Three: On the Wings of a Dove

The Thunderbolt from Corozal to San Pedro is a good deal @ US$25, but at US$40 Maya Air's 20 minute flight is a better deal for the time constrained and speedboat averse.

Day Two: Crack Smoking in Corozal

Corozal is a laid back town, not even close to being as dodgy as Belize City. Even the crack smokers are more relaxed here, as demonstrated by this guy enjoying a pipe on main street in broad daylight.




A few moments later, he crooned for us.






You've got to respect a crackhead unafraid to relax publicly.

As long as he keeps away from your bicycle, that is.

Belize Day One: The best laid plans...

...Of mice and men, or so begins some bit of advice against making plans in the first place. Wise words in Belize, where serendipity is prayed for and logistics is a dirty word. It was no surprise when my plans for the day - to explore Corozal, where I landed late last night - had flown out the window by ten AM, replaced by newer, better plans. Two Canadians working on a real estate development across the bay were taking two potential clients in a private boat to their property, just a mile south of Sarteneja. They'd be back by one, two at the latest, and there was room for one more in the boat. Since I needed to check out Sarteneja, a fantastic strip of jungle-on-ocean I'd visited while researching the last guide, I hopped a lift.

In general, I don't like boats.




Sarteneja was still there, still beautiful, and can still lay claim to being one of the better kept secrets in Belize. I stopped by Backpacker's Paradise, a lovely camping and chill-out spot with gardens and horses, wifi and hammocks; got the details on their upgrades and chatted with the owners (they were happy about the last write up I'd done, which made me happy). Went into town and researched what there was to research. Even had a few empanadas at a small cafe (mediocre, and Marie Sharp's fiery hot seems to have lost some kick since my last visit - must research further when I visit her factory in Dangriga). Then went to meet up with the Canadians and the couple they were showing property to.

I should point out here that the weather had been, up until this point, mostly good, with some scattered light showers mixed with heavy sunshine. We ate some more lunch together. The sun got brighter.

As we drove back towards where the boat was docked, it began raining lightly. "Lets just let this squall pass before we head out." The boat's captain suggested.

So we waited. The squall became a storm. We sat around in the mostly completed but basically unfurnished structures for an hour. Someone suggested that we drive back (much longer, over terrible roads,) but the driver of the truck had taken off. Eventually the captain of the small, uncovered boat we'd come in on determined that the weather was too rough for his craft to proceed safely, and suggested that we call up the much larger once-a-day Thunderbolt ferry and see if we couldn't catch it as it passed by Sarteneja on its way through from Ambergris Caye. Calls were made, and we were told to be at the Sarteneja dock in 30 minutes.

But the driver of the truck had shut off his cell phone.

We did get to the dock, in the back of a pickup truck, and the Thunderbolt arrived just as the rains stopped. So a few hours research wound up taking up the whole day; On the bright side, I did get theses lovely photos of a rainbow, first from the bough of the ferry then from dry land.

The matinée photographer

One afternoon in December of 1983 I was wandering around the Bowery, either heading to or from CBGBs for a hardcore matinée. Though I have no solid recollection of the event, apparently I ran into a young photographer and film maker named Drew Carolan, who had set up a makeshift outdoor studio, some white cardboard, maybe some sheets or something like that on a wall and sidewalk. Drew was doing a series of photographs of the kids who made up the CBGB's hardcore matinée scene from 1983-1985 on the Bowery in New York city, and since I was one of those kids I posed for one of Drew's pictures. Being a budding teenage alcoholic at the time, I promptly forgot all about it.

A year or so ago I got an email through Myspace. It was from an account called "The Matinée photographs" or something, and the gist was basically "could you visit my page and tell me if the kid in this photo is you?"


This was the photo. And the kid was me.



Drew had taken the photos, shot two+ decades earlier, and begun compiling them alongside essays in a book called The Matinée Photographs. He'd located me through an old friend, Anderson Slade, whose photo was also in the book. Andy knew my full name, and heard that I'd gone to Taiwan, so finding me with that information was pretty easy. Still, Drew mistakenly listed me as having been 12 years old in the photo.

Drew asked me to write an essay to go along with the photo, maybe talk about what I was feeling when the photo was shot and what I was carrying in the bag. I wrote the following attitude-heavy paragraphs (it was for a Punk retrospective, after all):

First off, let's get something straight: I wasn't twelve when that picture was shot. When I was twelve I would have been at yeshiva studying for my bar mitzvah, not hanging out on the Bowery. So I was closer to 14. Judging by the layers I'm wearing it was probably winter, but I'd have to have a better idea of when this was taken to say what was in the bag.
When I first started going to shows it was with my Staten Island Hardcore scene cohorts. We were totally straight edge, so if that picture was taken in early 1983 I wouldn't have been carrying beer.

At some point the SIHC crew seemed to disintegrate into a blur of incest, teenage angst and black magic, and with that went my commitment to the straight edge ethos-for the next six years at least. I kept going to matinees for another year or so though, if my very hazy memories from the time are correct, not every weekend.

If this picture is from late '83-'84 the bag probably had a 40-ounce bottle of Olde English 800 (or something equally vile) purchased from the deli across the street from CBGBs through the good graces of one of the local winos-maybe a greasy chicken thigh as well. I pretty much lived on that stuff.

Adolescence at CBGBs was kind of cool in its own way. Because I was just so damned small I always got in for free. I always felt safe in that dank, cave-like space. There were a couple of bigger kids-skinheads mostly- who tended to look out for me, and I don't remember ever being hurt too badly in the mosh pit. Some of the bigger kids and I would do this sort of piggyback/slam dance thing that usually ended up with me jumping from their shoulders onto the stage. I remember seeing bands like the Circle Jerks, the Big Boys, Warzone, Agnostic Front, Murphy's Law, Reagan Youth, Gilligan's Revenge, the Cavity Creeps and probably a hundred other bands whose names I can't remember.

What was I thinking at the moment that picture was shot? Well, I was probably thinking that you were a dick for taking my picture. Nothing Personal. I just wasn't particularly gregarious in those days. Apart from that it's hard to say where my head might have been at; it was a pretty dark period for me. Aside from the occasional adrenalin high from taking out my aggression on the dance floor, I wasn't a particularly happy kid.

After the SIHC scene fell apart I was a loner for a while until I discovered psychedelic drugs and latched onto some older longhair kids who set me on a different path. Not too long after this picture I grew my hair out, stopped identifying as a punk and going to matinees altogether in favor of mellower activities like eating acid in Sheep's Meadow.

In retrospect I'm glad I managed to pack so many different identities into a few years of adolescence.

Drew thanked me for the essay, and suggested that I look him up if I ever came to LA. Since today was my last day in LA, and one of very few free non-Getty fellowship days I've had since coming to LA, we arranged to meet. Drew came to my hotel room, where he filmed me packing for my trip to Belize while interviewing me about what it was like to grow up at CBGBs in the early eighties. One lost piece of the puzzle was found when he showed me the original of the photo, which was dated December 17, 1983. The date told me a lot, helping me to put the shot in perspective. By late 1983, the group that I'd hung out with had pretty much dissipated in acrimony. Deprived of tribe, by that point I was more-or-less a lone wolf, drinking, smoking and snorting whatever I could find, buy or beg. It was not too long after this photo was taken that I lost the Mohawk entirely. I remember distinctly asking my mother to cut off my punk haircut on one of the first days in 1984 (the memory stands out because I noted that it was ironic that I was "dropping out of punk" to celebrate 1984, supposedly the year of Orwell). She was all too happy to do it. I also remember very clearly putting on a knit hat over my newly bald head, putting on "normal" clothing and heading into Manhattan to smoke pot and drop acid with my friend Timothy.

Within a few months, I was no longer a punk. I'd traded straight edge for psychedelics, Hardcore for Zappa, King Crimson and Gong. By 2005 I sported short, scrappy dreadlocks.

Anyway, so much for identity. Drew and I wound up hanging out for a couple of hours, and he shot this excellent still photo of me, purposely hamming it up for the camera.

He even drove me to Trader Joe's and shouted me to a box of Emergen-C and several bags of dried fruit for the road. I guess that was the dollar I'd asked him for back in '83 and not gotten, with serious interest.

In any event. it was a pretty amazing encounter, one that tied together some loose ends in my life. I can't wait to see how the final book comes out, and am equally eager to see what becomes of the film footage.

On that note, it's time to go to bed, as an airplane with my name on it (well, on one seat, anyway) awaits in the morning. But check out this film that Drew cooked up. If you look closely, you'll see a familiar angry young face. The voice over at the beginning, BTW, is none other than Mr. Anderson Slade.