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Hello, travel bloggees!
This is a much delayed post, but due to immense frustration when using Mike´s tablet (Samsung autocorrect defies the English language) and varying qualities of free wifi, not to mention being out and about exploring, it has taken about a month to write this.
So: Belize.
After 45 hours of travel through the very Western parts of the world (London, New York, Houston), Belize immigration and luggage claim presented a juxtaposing welcome of kettle drums, Spanish guitar, bongos and bunting. The three cheery musicians playing on a platform above the conveyor belt did a lot to loosen the tension of opinionated American check-in staff and the many other things that went wrong over the course of our many flights and stopovers.
Mike and I had chosen to go straight to Caye Caulker, a popular island famous for its nearby reef and uber-relaxed take on life. And, after being directed by the ferry men to the nearest place to buy beer (without asking them), we were glad we had chosen to go.
Heading towards the end of the rainy season, we experienced many brief-but-fierce storms, which provided a nice view of the two worlds of the Caribbean: the scorching heat and crystal clear seas of the sun-drenched world, which would quickly become the gale-force winds tearing through palm trees and stirring up the sea to impressive heights. Despite the rain, we achieved many of the typical tourist adventures: cycling around the island dodging the innumerable lizards (stopping each time and screeching in adoration (Mike, obviously, not me)); eating freshly BBQ´d jerk chicken and lobster (too good to describe); and, most importantly and excitingly, snorkelling with sharks.
SHARKS.
Okay, they were nurse sharks, and yes, they ignored us to the point of being rude as we swam amongst them, but still, the fish with the killer teeth and evil eyes. Most amazing of all were the green turtles. Floating amongst bright fish and huge brain coral, we would suddenly find ourselves hovering above a plain of sea grass and, usually, we´d find turtles there, munching on the grass. It was incredible. No doubt accustomed to humans, they´d eat and eat, swim up to the surface for a bit of a breathe, then sink back down for more nibbles. What a life. As if my brain didn´t have enough to process, our guide stopped the boat midway to our next destination and yelled at us to "GO GO GO!", which we obviously did. It was until we´d hit the water that he pointed and shouted that there was a manatee. Flippering furiously through the water, it was a shock to the system to suddenly find a huge manatee, lazily gliding along beneath us. The sound of my harried breathing through my snorkel offset the serenity of the moment, but I will continue to be in awe of how graceful and giant the manatee seemed. Even from a distance, though, I could see the straight lines of propeller scars on its back, bringing to light the reality of the how and why these are endangered animals. All the snorkel and dive tours on Caye Caulker are donators towards the protection of these animals, and there is very much a strong, communal sense of responsibility towards them on the island.
After having our minds blown and our bodies relaxed by the Caribbean sea, we travelled inland to San Ignacio on the western edge of Belize. Here, I should mention the reason for the bunting in the airport: Belize Independence Day is September 21st, and throughout Belize towns, cities and villages were covered in "Belize in You, Belize in Me" posters (un-Belize-ably catchy, right?) as well as red, white and blue bunting. In San Ignacio, Independence Day fervour had exploded all over the town: parade practices (hundreds of school children waving flags, walking to ear-shattering reggaeton, and probably just happy to not be in a classrom), speeches from councilmen and -women in the central square, and everyone we spoke to telling us that San Ignacio was the place to be to celebrate.
As fun as it sounded, we were there for a far greater occasion: my birthday. It´s not everyday a girl turns 24, so we chose to do something that isn´t your everyday (or every birthday) experience. We went to Actun Tunichil Muknal, a huge cave that was used for Mayan sacrifices and religious ceremonies up until 1000 AD. More than this, though, it was essentially an open museum, an unexcavated archaelogical dig wrapped up in an hour or two of river wading, cave swimming, climbing and spelunking. With only headtorches (nothing else is allowed into the cave; several idiotic tourists had damaged a couple of skulls by dropping cameras onto them) we tiptoed around clay pots and elongated skulls to reach the piece de resistance: the full skeleton of a young Mayan girl, drained of her blood to please the gods of water and war during a time of drought and national Mayan conflict in 950AD.
Pretty cool.
Despite the tempation to celebrate with San Ignacio, Mike and I decided to spend Independence Day in Hopkins in the south. We passed through Dangriga intending to stay there, then immediately decided not to. With slow season in full swing, we were bombarded and chased by tour guides, which unfortunately only added to the already seedy feel of the town. It´s perhaps an unfair judgement to have made in half a day, but more often than not your gut will steer you in the right direction when travelling, and both Mike and I had instant gut feelings to leave. Immediately. So we went to Hopkins and found, rather than the laid-back slice of paradise that we were led to expect by guidebooks and fellow travellers, an uncared-for hostel (the only one open in the slow season, run by a man who clearly resented tourists and their questions, as well as cleaning. Anything.) and a higher ratio of Canadian and American ex-pats than locals. I expect in the fast season that the town is alive and hub of activity, life and sociability, but the 4 days we spent there were anything but. Plus, we got eaten to death by mosquitoes.
From Hopkins, we had intended to go to the c*** comb Basin Jaguar Reserve and camp there for the night. We rented a dirt bike (somuchfun) and hit the unpaved, pot-holed flooded tracks (to say ´roads´ would be a huge exaggeration). After an hour climb through steaming jungle we reached the Tiger Fern double waterfall, a gorgeous sight to two sweaty, mud-streaked dehydrated hikers. Needless to say, we jumped right in. With fish nibbling at our dead skin (and occasionally, living tissue; ouch), the waterfall pounding our heads and the thick jungle surrounding us, we seriously considered never leaving. Unfortunately, lightning struck. Literally. Deafened by the thunder and feeling the reverb through our feet, we raced to get back to the entrance cabin before the rain hit.
And failed.
Being a rainy country with fertile soil and lots of sunlight, the jungle trees contained no large, umbrella leaves to keep us drive as we ran down paths that were rapidly becoming rivers. Birds and insects quietened; frogs rampaged in soggy ecstasy. (I would briefly like to mention that, as I write this in San Cristobal, it is tipping it down with a deluge that will no doubt last for hours, but that´s another post.) Soaked through with no clothes to change into, we cut short our plan to camp in the jungle and instead headed back to Hopkins.
A quick warning: dirt bikes were not made for pillions, so I recommend if you do ever hire one for two people, hire two. The padding is not enough to compensate for large rocks and deep potholes, and Mike does not suit a John Wayne walk.
Hopkins was our final stop in Belize, and so we headed to Corozal, a border town near Mexico. Only 6 hours by chicken bus, and we had travelled much of the length of Belize. Looking back, Mike and I agreed that if we ever came back to Belize, we would hire or buy motorbikes, and travel it in style and comfort (relative to that of the chicken buses, which blared Enrique Iglesias or reggae for hours on end (not that mike minded this part), stop every 30 seconds for a new passenger to embark, and are old American schoolbuses designed for children and not the legs or widths of adults). With only 3 highways transecting the country, it is easy to navigate, and takes only 3-4 hours to travel the entire width. Plus, on the unpaved roads to the towns and villages, bikes are whole lot more fun than buses. And faster.
There is some truly beautiful scenery in Belize, and some wonderful people. We learned that despite the inevitable influx of American Wal-Marts and, weirdly, the monopoly of convenience stores by the Chinese, many Belizeans would prefer their earlier lifestyles, living off the land and bartering with their neighbours. We met a lot of people who had come from family homes in jungle settings, and who now resented the non-competetive pricings of the Chinese-run supermarkets and the Mennonite-controlled corn empire.
Needless to say, we ate a lot of chili sauce. Marie Sharpe is the national heroine and icon of quality chilli sauce, and she is now endorsed whole-heartedly by Mike. Eaten at breakfast, lunch and dinner, Marie Sharpe´s accompanies everything: breakfast burritos, shrimp quesadillas, scrumptious chicken stew, BBQ´d pork and everything else we ate.
Not accompanied with breakfast (but sometimes lunch, and usually dinner) was the national beer, Belikin. Belikin lager and Belikin stout are everywhere in Belize, and I would happily choose either over most of the standard lagers back home.
The title of this entry is, obviously, food-related: on every bus we got in Belize, hawkers would come on selling foods and drinks. The most prominent and lyrical (imagine this in a thick Caribbean accent) was: "Coconut tart! Lemon tart! Jam roll!" Also, the lemon tarts were amazingly delicious, and I really liked the imagery of a big strong hard-looking man with a gold tooth carrying round a giant tupperware box of homebaked treats and saying to me as I asked for a lemon tart: "Are you sure? You´ll love my coconut tart." The art of bakery bus-hawking through poetry and picture.
Next stop is Mexico: replica Bicester Villages, perfect beaches, stolen bags, and highland chills.
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