Caribbean nation’s poverty defies belief

Let me first tell you that I did not plan on going to the Caribbean as a self-humbling experience. I basically agreed to attend the cruise last winter break for the food.

I would say I’m fairly well informed about what goes on in the world—I read Yahoo News and occasionally sit down and watch CNN when I’m bored (like, extremely bored). I tell my friends to think about the starving children in Africa when they throw away their half-eaten lunch.
But that could never have prepared me for what I saw in a red trolley ride around Belize City, Belize, a small island just south of Mexico.

It started off as a overwhelmingly awe-inducing cruise trip, with the spotless marble floors of the Piazza deck, the endless buffet, the outdoor pool reflecting the waves of the ocean.
This wonderful dream was interrupted with a wake-up call when we landed in the port at Belize City. Within a few minutes of our disembarkation, the skies gave us our welcome by showering us with relentless rain. We signed up for a trolley ride through the city, and in doing so, flaunting our tourist status to everyone in sight.

Our tour guide explained that Belize City was split in two parts, with the “rich” people living in the north, where we were currently, and the “not-so-rich” people on the south.

I was baffled. Surrounded by average-looking homes with shabby paint jobs and hostile metal bars blocking the windows, I had guessed by default that we were on the south side.

The tour guide claimed that even the wealthy could not paint their houses, for if they did, their house insurance would rise drastically, as it was a sign to robbers that the homeowners had money to spare.

Belizians have a far lower standard of living than people in Saratoga. A family of four in Belize could get by with only $7,000 USD per year. If you happen to be blessed with a $1,000 retirement income per month, consider yourself lucky.

Furthermore, education in Belize is mandatory for all children, but the extra cost of textbooks, uniforms and supplies often are a financial strain, resulting in early dropouts.
Mulling over this, we passed an all-girls primary school. And this, forgive my cheesiness, is the sight that opened my eyes.

Over a hundred Belizian girls went to school in a torn down, two-story building slightly larger than our McAfee Performing Arts Center. I could see the worn yellow paint peeling off of the exterior hundreds of feet away. And to think in the beginning, I was complaining about Saratoga High’s new paint color.
We then entered a bustling street, a section of downtown Belize City that spanned several blocks. The downtown may be large, but the shops each had a de facto maximum occupancy of about 10 people. They made the little boutiques in downtown Saratoga look like five-star hotels, with the musty smell and the only source of light coming from the door.

Again, I know it’s cheesy, but, whenever I catch myself complaining about something as trivial as how far my chemistry class is from my locker, I think back to those run-down yellow school buildings in Belize. No words can explain how grateful I am to not have to sit through the rain in that building.