Little Girl, Big Responsibility

As I sat inside the bus terminal, I was approached by a little girl with a basket on her hip. I couldn’t help but see myself 25 years earlier. While most kids had fun during their vacation playing football, ketch, hide-and-seek, swimming in the river, or relaxing at home watching television, for me, at eight years old, summer meant something very different. I spent my entire days, from sun up to sun down, at the Belmopan Bus Terminal. 

At four a.m. each morning, my mother woke me with a firm but loving shake. "Es tiempo de levantarte, mija. Tenemos que ir a vender." (It's time to get up, my daughter. We have to go sell.) By then, my mother had already packed the steaming-hot tamales into buckets and assembled the shop paper and other necessary items in her bag: shop paper and disposable spoons and forks. I, too, had to prepare my basket, ensuring it was spotless because in it, I'd carry something of great value—my mother's delectable tamales. Each morning, I carefully prepared for the day's work. 

I recall one particular day very vividly. I put on my faded brown skirt, a well-worn green T-shirt, and my trusty blue Suave Chapina rubber slippers. Then I headed out to the street with my mother to catch the 5 a.m. bus bound for the Belmopan Bus Terminal. 

At the terminal, my mother set up her buckets full of tamales in a corner frequented by commuters. Then she proceeded to neatly place about twenty of the hot tamales into my basket, flicking her hand to fan away the scalding heat, all the while chanting, "Tamales! Hot tamales! Only one dollar." 

A lady passing by inquired, "How much for the tamales?" 

"Solo un dollar," my mother replied. 

"I'll take three," the lady said. 

Turning to me, my mother asked, "Con chile or sin chile? Preguntale." I respectfully asked the lady, “Miss, she dih ask if yuh want it with peppa or no peppa.”  

"No, no peppa," she replied. 

My quick yet careful mother handed her three tamales wrapped in shop paper, along with three forks wrapped in napkins. The lady continued on her way, and my mother finished stacking my basket with tamales. “Ya esta lista la canasta, mija. Apurate! El llego el otro bus!” The bus usually stayed at the terminal for only five minutes to drop off and pick up passengers, so I had to hurry. 

Steadying the loaded basket as best as my eight-year-old self could, I staggered toward the buses. The steamy tamales, wrapped in plantain leaves and boiled to perfection, released an appetizing aroma that made my stomach growl. But it wasn't time to eat; it was time to make money. 

I began to shout, "Hot Tamales! Get your hot tamales, only for one dollar!" With my soft yet determined voice, I caught the attention of bus passengers who indicated their craving by gesturing through their windows. I moved swiftly but found it challenging to reach the windows and was forced to stretch and strain to meet each customer's request. Nonetheless, I skillfully distributed the tamales, and collected their cash, their grateful smiles filling me with a feeling of accomplishment. I was off to a good start. 

However, as the day progressed, it began to seem unlikely that we would  be able to sell the last twenty tamales. Giving up was not an option; I had to sell them all. Buses were infrequent at the terminal at that time of the day, so I sat beside my mother inside the terminal, calling out, “Hot tamales!” as commuters passed by. 

Around mid-afternoon, the sound of an approaching bus engine quickened my heart. As the bus neared, my hope of selling the remaining tamales grew. When the bus stopped, I was already there, calling, “Hot tamales, only one dollar!” Surprisingly, nobody seemed interested. Passengers minded their own business, ignoring the eight-year-old with the basket full of tamales. I needed to sell the remaining tamales, though. Each one not sold meant one less dollar for groceries at home. 

So, I took a brave step and boarded the bus. I looked at the bus driver, focused in his cellphone, as the bus engine idled. Summoning my courage, I asked, "Sir, would you like to buy some tamales? Only one dollar." 

His face became stern and angry as he responded, "Nobody wahn your stinking tamales!" His words were a scalding wave of embarrassment that washed over me in an intense rush of hot blood that set my cheeks burning and my heart heavy with shame. 

Just as the driver's words were about to overwhelm me, a voice from the back of the bus called out, “Hey, dah tamales you di sell? I want five, please.” Relieved, I smiled as I made my way toward the passenger. As I hurriedly exchanged the tamales for money with the kind passenger, I heard the bus door screeching shut and saw that the driver was about to drive off. Panic gripped me as the bus began to move. I clutched my basket, tears welling in my eyes and a lump forming in my throat.   

"Wait!" I cried from the back of the bus, my voice trembling. But the bus was already gaining speed. Up ahead in the bus, passengers glanced back, some with concern in their eyes, but it seemed as though nobody knew what to do. I felt helpless and alone, and terrified as Belmopan city seemed so enormous. The bus sped on, my eyes darting outside the window as the streets and buildings passed by in a blur. Fear continued to grip me, and I wished with all my heart that someone would stop the bus. 

Suddenly, the bus began losing speed and came to a stop. The door creaked open, and I rushed toward it, bumping into incoming passengers in my eagerness to get off. As I hurried past, the driver said, "Dah fi mek you learn to not sell your stinking tamales on my bus!" 

His harsh words lingered in the air and followed me, leaving me with a mixture of fear and deep humiliation. 

Amidst my emotional turmoil, I realized I was left stranded at least one mile away from the bus terminal. With a heavy heart and my precious basket of tamales, I knew I had no choice but to get on with the long walk back to the terminal. Fortunately, the way back was fairly straightforward. But my steps were heavy and my mind confused at the unkind heart of the bus driver. Why was he so mean? I thought to myself.  

On my way back, I encountered a few curious souls who noticed my basket and asked, 

"What you di sell, lee gyal?"  

With a cheerful smile, I replied, "Tamales! You wahn buy some? Just one dollar each." 

"How many do you have?" asked one lady, staring into my basket and counting in the air. "Because I need about fifteen of them." 

"I got fifteen!" I said. 

"Gimme di fifteen dehn," she said. “Here—fifteen dollars.” She added.  

With the weight of my burdens now lifted, my heart swelled with a great sense of accomplishment. I continued my journey back to the terminal, now with an empty basket and a much happier heart.  

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Laura Garcia is an English Education major at the University of Belize and resides in Ontario Village. She has a passion for teaching and working with young people, not only in academics but also in Christian dance choreography and drama.