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This is a tricky question. 

Paul and I never felt threatened during our stay in Belize.  We were cautious against petty theft in our hotel rooms and while we were out but we felt very very safe everywhere we went. 

Some of the adventures we participated in had elements of danger.   The threat of being stung by the sting rays, falling during the ATM tour and getting held up at gun point on the way to Caracol.    

A man recently fell at ATM and dislocated his shoulder.  He had to lifted up to the trail, make his way back the two miles (and four river crossings), down the bumpy gravel road to the Western Highway and then go to the hospital in St. Ignacio.  Orlando, our guide, said the man was screaming in pain the whole time.

And a woman drowned cave tubing the week before we were there.  The river was higher and the tour operators advised people NOT to go cave tubing.  One of the cruise ships didn’t want to cancel the tour so they went ahead, with too few guides for the hundreds of people. 

Kim, at the Almond Beach Resort said Belize is the most dangerous country in the Caribbean.  I did not feel that.  However, while we were there the assistant manager, Luis, lost a close cousin in a shooting in St. Ignacio.  In a strange twist of fate, Paul and I met Luis sister, Kara (and her daughter), on the flight to Belize.  Kara told me about her brother working at Jaguar Reef and about her cousins and their store.  Four men came in and threatened Kara’s uncle.  Her cousin stepped in to protect him and was shot, point blank through the heart.  All four men were caught.

It is not without its hazards, mostly due to its remoteness.   So you find yourself being a little more cautious, slowing down, which in the long run is a good thing.  You enjoy the scenery more, pay more attention to the details.  The potential for harm (or death) makes the joys of life sweeter.

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I had breakfast with a friend (Snappy is his name) who went to Belize last year and did the ATM tour.  It was nice to discuss it with somebody who had experienced it but not experienced it with me.   As we were discussing the various parts of the tour, the hike, the rocks, the cave itself I couldn’t help but ask, “Do you think it was dangerous?”
“Yes”, he replied immediately.  “There was peril involved. They would never let us do something like that here in the States.”

A few of my friends have made comments about the “type of vacation” it seems I like, full of adventure and danger.  I am not an adrenal junkie.  I do not seek out danger.   I did not know what difficulties were ahead of me when I entered the cave.  If you remember my previous blog about it, I was concerned with the hike.  The cave was not an issue.

I even chided Karen when I returned to the Jungle Dome.  “Why didn’t you tell me about the cave being so hard?”
“You asked about the hike, which isn’t hard.  I knew you could do the cave but I knew if I told you, you wouldn’t do it.”

Snappy says he got the same type of answers when he asked about the ATM Tour.  And he admitted that if somebody had told him what the cave entailed he wouldn’t have done it either.

We are both very happy that nobody told us.  We would not have wanted to miss that experience and challenge.  It was a once in a lifetime adventure.  When you are in those moments, you just do what it takes.  You swim into the mouth of the unknown, you climb a slippery rock formation, you plunge down a water shoot and you are better person to have done it.

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I decided a few years ago that I want my home to reflect my travels. 

While on Caye Cauker, I came across the Cooper's Art Gallery , home to Debbie Cooper's works of art.  They are colorful Caribbean prints depicting local women, birds and plants.  I fell in love.  And, much to my delight, her husband had just put out a small original for sale.  I thought about it overnight and then bought it.  It had been in the gallery less than 24 hours. 

Its my little piece of Belize sunshine!

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No.

I don’t think Belize is done with me yet.    The next visit will focus on southern Belize, down near Porta Gorda.   I want to spend time at the Cotten Tree Lodge and explore that part of Belize.  

In addition, I’d like to visit  Honduras. Luis II says the Mayan ruins of Copan are worth the trip.   In addition, I heard nothing but wonderful things about Flores in Guatemala.  

This is the itinerary I envision:

Fly:       LA/Houston/Belize City
Fly:       Belize City/Porta Gorda
Boat:     Cotton Tree Lodge (7 days)
Boat:     Porta Gorda to Honduras
Drive:    Copan (1-2 days)
Bus:      Copan to Flores (they say the bus ride is beautiful!)
            Flores (3-5 days)
Fly:      Flores/Belize City (on Tropic Air)
Car:     Jungle Dome (as long as Karen is at the Jungle Dome I will go visit)
Fly:      Belize City/Houston/LA

Next year for New Year’s, Paul and I are thinking about the Galapagos Islands and Ecuador.  So, I think I will return to Belize in two years.

Its odd.  Being home is strange.

After being driven for the last two weeks, getting behind the wheel of a car seems unusual.  Like I’m in a dream and I known I’ve done this before but this isn’t where I belong.   Maybe it’s the pavement.  The roads are paved, the parking lots, sidewalks,
parks, shops–all paved.  The natural world, although just outside my window, feels so very far away.  Like the asphalt is sucking out all the life from the trees and the flowers.
I miss the dragonflies, hummingbirds, butterflies, even the ants.    The spider problem I claim to have in my condo seems laughable now. 

And as I drive, I look at all the stuff.   Balconies piled high with boxes stuffed with things forgotten by their owners.  Stores selling more stuff we don’t need or want.  Items that won’t bring us joy just separate us from our money.  I look around my condo, at the closet full of clothes, many of them I don’t wear.  The office closet that is so junked up I only open it when absolutely necessary and then snatch and grab before it all falls out.  The accumulation of magazines and books.   I own more right now than many families in Belize will own in a lifetime.  Does that make me better, happier, more of a success? No.  It just means I have more stuff.

My skin is dry again.  My nose bleeds when I blow, my hands feel as if they are on the verge of cracking.  While I don’t miss the humidity, I do miss the moisture in my skin.

The itching bug bites are slowly diminishing, scabs forming and falling off.  They are being replaced by accidental scratches by Bailey, my kitten. 

Slowly, Belize is falling away.

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Belize, which is roughly the size of Massachusetts, appears to be very manageable when traveling.   Somehow the beauty of the vast jungles and marshlands and the calm of the barrier reef swallow up the remoteness.  

There are only three highways in Belize.  The Northern Highway, which stretches from the Mexico border to Belize City, The Western Highway unites Belize City to St. Ignacio (and the Guatemalan Border) and the Hummingbird Highway.  The Hummingbird Highway stretches from Belmopan to Dangriga, where it morphs into the Southern Highway and runs all the way to Porta Gorda.   

Paul and I began our journey back to Los Angeles in Hopkins, about 20-30 miles south of Dangriga.  The road in Hopkins used to be paved but floods have washed away the majority of the pavement and left huge potholes in its wake.  It takes us almost twenty minutes to drive the six miles to the Southern Highway.   Another twenty minutes along the two lane highway (all the highways are two lanes) finds us in Dangriga. 

Oswald, our driver from the Almond Beach/Jaguar Reef, turns off the paved highway into a neighborhood of shacks and dirt roads.   The airport is hidden on the edge of the town. With no clear street signs, you have to know where you are going in order to find it.

The poverty of this neighborhood was heart wrenching.   Stilt raised wooden homes with thin worn white cotton curtains blowing in the breeze.   Holes where the planks have rotted away, offering little protection from the whims of nature.   Some houses so small, they appeared to have only one room, the cooking area and tables gathered close by outside.   Women, listless in the heat, sat heavily on cheap plastic chairs on slanting porches.   Chin in hand, they watch wordless, as we drive by, their eyes following our vehicle.

Our twelve seat Mayan Airplane was full so Paul gets the prized “co-pilot” spot up front.  The runway, barely paved was mostly rock in some places, but we rise with little effort.  The flight is seventeen minutes long and takes us over the reef, following the coastline.  After Dangriga falls from sight, there is nothing but water and marshlands.  Not a person in sight.   It’s a reminder that this little nation has only 300,000 residents (not counting the influx of 4,000-6,000 visitors when the cruise ships are docked at Belize City).   It is just one of the many reasons to love this country.

The rest of our trip home is uneventful.   We are upgraded to First Class from Belize City to Houston but our flight from Houston to Los Angeles is packed.  Fourteen hours after leaving the resort in Hopkins, I am back in my condo in Los Angeles, curled up on my couch with my kitties.

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Bittersweet.   Webster Dictionary defines bittersweet as (1) both bitter and sweet  (2) pleasant and sad.   The Thesaurus offers not alternatives to this word.  It is what it is.

The final days of Belize are just that, bittersweet.   Paul and I spend our days alternately between the Butterfly Spa and the sunny beach.   The moon, just missing a tiny sliver, beckons us to stay here in Belize our last night.  

But the strings that tie us to home have already begun to tighten and we spend more time on the Internet, thinking about work and family.    This has been an amazing trip but it must end.

Our last day at Almond Beach/Jaguar Reef I spend working. 
Vicky Cross, the Butterfly Spa manager, has staged the spa with flowers and candles.  I arrive for my last treatment, reflexology, thirty minutes early to take photos.   Vicky is new here to Belize, having just arrived from Minnesota in March.  Her husband oversees maintenance here and they have a little apartment on the property.  After a tough adjustment period, they are settling in and loving Belize more and more each day.

Shortly after my spa visit, I meet up with Kim Leland.  Kim arranges all the weddings and special events here at the resort.  Originally from Hopkins, Kim has the same infectious smile and laugh that is shared by all the local Hopkins women that work here. Ms. Pat, one of the owners, joins us briefly as Kim and I walk through the Vista Suite. This suite would be a very fun bachelorette or girls vacation room.  Three bedrooms plus a media room, library, dinning room and full kitchen, it sleeps ten.  Small wedding receptions are held here as well.  For an extra $200 a night, a personal chef can be brought in to cook.  I’m sold!   This is also where the owners stay when they are in town so it holds many extra amenities, such as its own washer and dryer and Jacuzzi tubs. For the next half hour Kim shows me the variety of rooms that they have.  All the rooms have unique features.  There is something for everybody here at this resort.  Honeymoon rooms with no TVs and private outdoor showers, budget rooms that look out on the garden or pool, family suites that offer tiny kitchenettes.

It’s a nice way to spend my last few hours here at the resort before we begin our long trip back to Los Angeles.

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A lone snorkeler navigates the water, his black fins rhythmically beating against the waves.  A lean brown Shepard mix runs along the shore, passing by a worker from the construction site next door who is asleep in my hammock.  I say my hammock but it’s really the resort’s.  It is where I took my nap yesterday and I have been anticipating becoming intimate with it again today.  
I’m staring holes in the back of his head but I don’t think my laser vision is working today.  Since he seems to be the only worker, and he sleeps away the afternoon, it makes since that he has been hammering away at this building since June.

I am fresh from a shower.  Today has been a day of pampering.  A Cucumber Facial and a Manicure/Pedicure.  I even splurged and had small white flowers painted on the red nail polish on my big toes.   The pedicure was the best I have ever had in my life.  It had the standard nail clipping, filing, painting and soaking.  In addition they sand and polish the bottom of my feet, applying a stimulating scrub and then wrap my feet in hot towels.  That is followed by lotion and massage.  (sigh)

Yes, you are right.  I am no longer at the Jungle Dome.  Yesterday Paul and I said goodbye to our new group of fellow travelers at the Dome (a couple from New Zealand, that live in London; a couple from Tacoma, and two couples from Alberta, Canada).  They are all at the beginning of their adventures and I am jealous of all the new experiences they are about to enjoy.

Roy, from the Almond Beach/Jaguar Reef Resort, picked us up at 11A to begin the two hour journey to Hopkins.  Hopkins is just south of Dangriga, which is located in the southern part of the country (everybody calls this area southern Belize but if you look at the map its central Belize—go figure).  The ride, mostly along the Hummingbird Highway, is beautiful and reminiscent of Kauai.  They even have a Sleeping Giant mountain.  The Hummingbird Highway is relatively new, only paved in the last 12 years.  Roy used to travel this road from Belize City to see his grandmother in Hopkins when he was younger.  He said it took six hours and if the rivers were too high to cross you had to try again later. 

Our room at the resort is a beachfront cabana, big and spacious.  It has a king sized bed and two Murphy beds, plus a little sitting area (couch and two chairs).  The veranda is huge with a four top table and two lounges.  Stairs lead from the porch to my beloved hammock and the ocean just ten feet away.


What a peaceful way to end our vacation.  (The dog mentioned at the beginning of my post just came up on the veranda for some love, laying his head on my lap and looking dolefully at me with his big brown eyes.)

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I recognized David right away.  He lost his boyish looks and has become a handsome, young man.  Lean and tall, with curly black hair, his English much improved.  He is a father now, at twenty, to a nine month old daughter named Amy.   And he is taking his tourist guide classes.  Hopefully within the next year he will pass them all and become a certified tourist guide.   It’s amazing how far he has come in such a short time.  Five years ago he didn’t speak English and mowed the yard at Jungle Dome.  Now they are grooming him to help manage the place and he is on his way to becoming an official guide.

Karen’s happiness spills from her very pores.  She recently married Omar, a local bike shop owner, and became a stepmother to his three kids.  They are building a house in the nearby village of Roaring Creek.   She has settled in here in Belize.  Life takes you to strange places sometimes.  She never imagined when she came down from Canada to teach yoga that four years later she’s be married and putting down roots.
 

The Jungle Dome  looks much the same, the vegetation just having grown up a bit.  Max and Phoebe, the dogs are still there as is one of the cats.  Andy and Simone have moved to Aruba and the wonderful house they built (Simone calls it her dream house) is finished and is now part of the rental property.  
Paul and I get the pleasure of rambling around the four bedroom, three bath house with its blue tiled kitchen and stone bathrooms.  The master bath has a sunken stone tub with a picture window that showcases to a small private garden.    Hanging almost hidden on the wall of the garden is a small Buddha that overlooks a couple embracing statue.

The bugs in Belize, and especially at the Jungle Dome, still don’t understand the concept of inside the house and outside the house.   One day I am invaded by a brigade of army ants.  They have marched in through the closed front door in search of insects.  Within minutes the hundreds have reduced to about thirty.  Those thirty are busy trying to carry a dead bug out and before I know it they are all gone.   Going into the living room, I see they are now on patrol over the windows and up the side of the house.   A few minutes later they have conquered the wooden deck.  Before long, they have completely disappeared.    Roaches, crickets, spiders, earthworms, all kinds of flying insects made their way into the house.  Even a couple of geckos check out Paul’s room.

Local wildlife is barely any better.  One night Paul and I are woken by loud banging noises on the roof.  Our first thought is that a Jaguar has made its way there.  The next night Max, always the hunter, trees a possum next to the house and the mystery is solved.  Birds flock to the cut green grass that surrounds the property, toucans, oriels, flycatchers, even turkey vultures.     And one day I watch the cat chase a snake off the pool patio.  Karen sends Max over to hunt down the snake.

Life moves on.  As much as it stays the same, it also changes.  The house and The Jungle Dome are for sale.  I hope whoever buys it doesn’t change a thing.

The lovely ladies of the kitchen (Wani, Tella & Nora)

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Today, Paul and I are alone with our guide.  The Alaskan couple has moved on and the other group at Jungle Dome is heading to the airport after their tubing experience.  Today our guide is Luis.  A different Luis.    We’ll call him Luis II.  Luis I was a fine guide but I think Luis II is even better.

We arrive at Jaguar Paw Resort before the onslaught of the cruise ships.   Gathering our inner tubes (and life preservers) we begin the 45 minute hike to the second cave, where we will begin our trip.  Doesn’t it seem like every adventure begins with a 45 minutes walk to our destination?   

Settling our butts into the tubes we push off in calm water and float slowly into the cave.   This reminds me of my first trip to Belize when I canoed through Barton’s Creek.
The water laps gently at the cave walls as we travel backwards, watching the light of the entrance slowly fade.   Silently we glide along, the current taking us deeper and deeper.
Our headlamps on, we examine the walls, ceilings and formations, sometimes startling a sleeping bat.

All too soon we hear the laughter and shouts of the first of the cruise ship patrons.  They splash their way towards us, their weak yellow headlamps looking like a candle light vigil. 

The second cave we enter has even more formations and a sinkhole that creates beautiful  silhouettes when we turn off our lights.   I can understand why the Mayans thought these caves were mystical, especially when we see the outline of a human face among the rocks.  The sanctity of these places, the caves, the ruins, still runs strong even after 1000 years.

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After lunch we started the long trek back to Jungle Dome, with a few stops along the way. 

Our first detour was to the Rio Frio Cave, which was located near the Army post.   To get there we had to drive through the now abandoned village that used to service the national park system.   Shacks boarded up with broad numbers painted on the sides, outhouses in the back, many with empty chicken coops.   Luis, our guide, lived here with his family back in the 70’s.  His father was a mechanic.  He showed us the hill where he first rode his bike, his family’s house, the school and the clinic.  The village has a surreal movie set feel to it.  The houses feel like shells, maintained but not loved.  The grass is mowed, yet weeds spring up close to the houses.  And it is silent.  There are no cars, no children’s laugher, and no women’s voices.  Just the silence of the lonely houses, sitting there, waiting for the people to return.

Along the road to the Cave we come across the burned remains of a car, the smell still in the air.  We find out later that it belonged to some tourists and it had caught fire at 9:30A that morning. (Nobody was hurt.)  Everything in the car had been destroyed, the steering wheel melted, all the windows shattered, the charred rim of the spare tire still attached to the rear door.  Can you imagine that conversation with the rental company?

Rio Frio Cave is a short walk from the turnaround where we park.  I can imagine Luis playing here as a child.  The cave is deep, around 100 feet, but not broad.  Sunlight pours in from both entrances and the Rio Frio River runs through it.  The locals have parties and bbq inside.   It is majestic in its simplicity.  There are no ruins or pottery remains but it still feels magical.  Luis said the Mayan’s used this cave for simple offerings but no sacrifices.

Our next pit stop is the Rio Frio Waterfalls.  Here the Rio Frio River cascades slowly down the side of the mountain, forming swimming and wading pools.  The others (I have forgotten to tell you that Lael-yes, that is the correct way to spell her name, it rhymes with sale-and Mark are with us on our Caracol adventure) change into their swimming suits and begin exploring.   I decided to just get my feet wet and enjoy the natural beauty.  There is something soothing about the sound of rushing water and waterfalls.  I lay back on the warm rock, close my eyes, listening to the sounds.  I begin some deep breathing and silent chanting.   I feel solid.  As one with my surroundings, as if the water is flowing through me and I am rock.  And all too soon, it is time to go. 

Back to the worse road in the history of roads.  But the journey to Caracol and back was worth every minute.  The road is a reminder that it isn’t always easy to get to the things that are important.  Don’t let the path deter you.

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Today we drove down the worse road in the history of all roads.  Forty-six miles on the Chiquibul Road.   The first third of the road was rocky, pitted, and riveted from mini creeks (now dried up).  It was like driving down a riverbed.  Even those travelers with a strong constitution felt a bit woozy after an hour of jaw jolting bouncing and quick swerves to avoid small boulders and potholes.

As we crawled up to a higher elevation, the landscape changed from second growth jungle to a pine rain forest and thin limestone smoothed out our road.  Beetles have attached this pine forest and over 80% of the pines have been affected. 

Twenty-three miles from Caracol we pulled into the army checkpoint.   From this point we will caravan with an army escort.  Two and a half years ago, Guatemalan bandits were dipping over the border and robbing tourists on this portion of the road.  There are five vehicles in our caravan, one small yellow SUV holds our friends from Eugene Oregon who were with us yesterday at ATM (Actun Tunichil Muknal).   Since they have room in their car, two Army soldiers, rifles casually slung over their shoulders, climb in.  They will transport our guardians.

Almost an hour later, Caracol emerges from the dense jungle.   It took us a total of three hours to get there. Neat mowed green lawns surround the support building.  There is no electricity up here but none is needed.   The buildings are constructed to keep cool and allow for light, besides we are here to see the ruins, not the modern buildings.   Caracol, in its heyday, boasted a population of 180,000, surpassing its famous neighbor in Guatemala, Tikal, by 40,000 people.   “Canna” (Sky Palace), at 140 feet, is the tallest manmade structure in Belize.

(Paul going down the 2nd of three levels)

In comparison to Tikal, only 2% of the community has been excavated (Tikal is 10-20%), and only 10% has been mapped.  Discovered in 1938, it is still an active site, with archeologists coming for three months (March, April, May—the dry months) every year. All around us, hidden in the mounds in the forest, are the buildings, homes, and ceremonial centers of the ancient Mayans.

It quickly becomes apparent, that Luis, our guide, loves Mayan history.  He is ½ Mayan and even though he only has a high school education, he immerses himself with Mayan thesis papers and archeologist and anthropology theories.   He is able to read the Mayan hieroglyphics and he spends a lot of time reading the different stone tablets for us.  He may have spent too much time talking as we made our way through the plazas and buildings but he was able to make this ancient world come alive. 

One of the major differences between Tikal and Caracol are the crowds.  Even though the site is smaller, there are stretches of time when we were the only people among the ruins.  This helps visualize the hustle and bustled of the elite Mayans, the religious ceremonies and their day to day life.


(Canna, the tallest manmade structure in Belize.  You can only see two of the three levels here.  The third is hidden from view.)

Our time here is too short.  If we want a military escort out, we have to leave at 2P.  We end up back at the picnic area around 2P, just as the yellow SUV with our friends and the people, are pulling out.   There are many guides still at Caracol, so we settle down and eat the lunch that Jungle Dome had packed for us.  

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WOW!  Many of you are wondering why I came back to Belize.  There is so much of the world to explore and so little time.  I came back to Belize for days like today.  And the day I swam with the stingrays.  That is why I came back.  After today, I feel like I can do anything, absolutely anything.

The day didn’t start that way.  The little nagging voice inside my head woke me up during the night.  “You are too old to be doing this cave tour tomorrow.  You are too overweight.  You are too out of shape.”  And each time it would whisper in my ear, I would hush it.  

“I climbed a mountain and explored a cave the day after I broke my rib.” I tell it.  “I can do anything.”  But I had lost the conviction. 

Four of us from Jungle Dome are going.  Myself and Paul and a couple from Fairbanks, Alaska.  Leal and Mark.  We join up with our guide, Orlando, and two other couples.  One from Sweden, one from Eugene, Oregon.   Our first task, to walk across a river to a waiting bus.  It has already taken us 45 minutes to get to this place, now another twenty in the bus to the trailhead. 

 
The beginning of our adventure is a two mile hike through the Tapir Mountain Nature Reserve.  The trail is well defined but off to each side is heavy jungle, too thick to see through.   A mile in I am dripping with sweat.  Nobody else seems to be hot.   My little voice is creeping up on me.  “See you are the oldest, fattest, most out of shape person here.”  It says.  I concentrate on the trail ahead and ignore it.  Forty-five minutes later and three additional river crossing and we have arrived at the cave entrance.

We are issued hard helmets and headlights, which we will use the entire journey (I have never been so happy to have a helmet.)  To gain entry into the cave, we have to swim in and then our climbing begins.    There are four sections of the cave, the Entry, the Sinkhole, the Ceremonial Alter (The Seplucher)  and the Cathedral.  All, except the Cathedral are in the water.

To get to the Sinkhole we have to maneuver around and up and over huge boulders.  The going is slow and tough and many places are a tight squeeze.  The only light illuminating the cave are the headlamps on our helmets.  This isn’t Carlsbad Caverns with its concreted pathways and special lighting.  This is rough and tumble, you could get seriously hurt at any time, type of caving.  You can see the sky through the sinkhole.  This is where the ancient Mayans lowered down ceremonial urns. 

The Ceremonial alter is surrounded by twenty feet of water.  Scuba divers found many pottery remains at the bottom.   The priests and elite Mayan members came here to cut themselves, pool their blood and set it on fire.  They believed that this blood smoke was the way for them to rise to their gods.  

Finally we make it to the Cathedral.  To get to the Cathedral we have to climb up twenty feet of rock, scrambled onto a ledge and wedge ourselves there to take off our shoes.  Only socks are allowed in this part of the cave to protect the limestone.  In the Cathedral we are treated to amazing rock formations, ceremonial pots and sacrificial skeletons.  It is overwhelming to look down on the skulls and bones of the Mayans who volunteered to be sacrificed for the well being of their fellow tribesmen.

At this point of the tour, we have been climbing and swimming for two hours (we will spend three hours in the cave) and are a half a mile deep inside.  The cave is a total of three and a half miles long, but this is as deep as the Mayans came and it is as deep as we will go as well.

Orlando, our guide, says we will take the “easy” way out.  First we have to make our way, stocking feet only, to the ledge and reclaim our shoes.  Then we gingerly make our way DOWN the twenty foot high, slippery rock.  We manage without any injury.  We backtrack all the way to the sinkhole, then take a different path.  One of the most treacherous parts is a water slide, through a narrow passageway.  Making my way past the sharp rocks, I turn sideways, then the other way, head down and have to very careful of the huge rock right at landing.   I have to admit.  I was scared.  I was more scared than the big twenty foot rock climb.  The voice was back.  Only this time it was saying, you are gonna get stuck.  I shushed it and in I went.

Climbing out of the cave and back to our trailhead for lunch, I felt so exhilarated.  This was by far the hardest thing I have every done in my life.    Every muscle ached but I have finally silence the voice that has been creeping back into my life since the last time I was here.

I think I will go horseback riding next.   

Sorry for not writing much yesterday.  The day had been so busy I had not had time to digest it, reflect on its moments.  Plus I had a panty ripper at dinner (my NEW favorite drink) and was a bit tipsy. 

Yesterday we went snorkeling.  Belize has the second largest barrier reef (Australia of course being the Great Barrier Reef).  Actually the reef begins in Mexico and extends down to Honduras but Belize has the majority of it.  Nineteen of us, along with two guides, boarded a little boat and within 3-5 minutes were at our destination.  Among us were a group of European boys, an Australian and a couple from New Orleans.

The tour was divided up into three parts, a guided tour in the Salt Channel, snorkeling on our own in the Coral Garden and a stop in Shark and Stingray Alley.  All of it is within a nature reserve.  I have mixed feelings about the guided tour…..swimming in a large group like that isn’t fun.  I spend most of my time worried about hitting somebody with my fins or getting smacked myself.  I also find that, for the most part, I am watching where the guide is going and not to what is below me.  On the other hand, when he free dove down about 20 feet and got a green moray eel to come out of his hiding place…that was pretty amazing. 

Second stop was the Coral Garden, where we jumped out of the boat and explored on our own.  While many of my fellow snorkelers hurried to see how much ground they could cover, I was content to float above different sections of coral and watch all the activity. 
Resting on top of the water, hearing my own rhythmic breathing, feeling the flow and tug of the water while watching the fan coral wave in the current and beautiful yellow tang fish dart in and out of the coral felt amazingly peaceful.   As if all was right with the world.  It is nice to feel that occasionally, especially right now when our world seems to be crumbling around us.

I would have been content if that had ended our tour but we had one last stop, Shark and Stingray Alley.  Years ago the island fishermen would clean their fish here and dump the remnants, therefore the stingrays and sharks gathered.  The stingrays hear the drone of the boat motor and come over immediately, knowing they are going to get a snack.  The water is shallow, four to five feet, and it’s easy to see them following the boat, sliding underneath.   Surprisingly, about five people choose to stay in the boat, worried about getting hurt.  As we stand, faces in the water, the rays glide around us, brushing up against us, showing no fear.    I count between 20-25 of them.  Our guide, Omar, holds out his hands and several rays rush for the chance of being held.  He scopes one up, raising it out of the water and we all get to touch it.  They are strong, finely toned, slippery smooth.  We all giggle as they continue to bump up against us, seeming to enjoy the encounter as much as we do.   Slowly they begin to wander off, until only four or five remain around the boat.  Almost everybody is back in the boat when I see a movement out of the corner of my eye and I see them.  They are swimming in formation, four across, at least five waves, like an armada, headed straight towards me.  They are graceful and fluid, swimming past me, surrounding me, just out of reach.  And then they are gone. 

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From our hotel, Caye Cauker is six blocks wide.  Last night Paul and I took the LONG walk to the west side of the island to watch the final sunset of 2008.   As the gold turned to orange, seeming to set the edge of the world on fire, we walked accompanied by a gaggle of local kids.  They soon spotted a salt water crocodile and made sure I saw it so I could take photos.   The kids, tall and short, crowded to the water’s edge, watching the croc with only the delight and innocence of children.

Walking back through the town we were quietly offered some celebratory pot, which we passed on and fresh cakes and brownies, which we bought. Key Lime Cake, Cream Cheese Brownie and Banana Bread, by the Cake Man.   We walked down to the strand, a natural channel that splits the island in two and checked out the local bar, The Lazy Lizard, before heading back to our hotel room.

I want to take this opportunity to wish you all a Happy New Year.  Thank you for sharing it with me.

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At the end of an old wooden pier, three tourists lounge, basking in the late afternoon sun.  The breeze plays through the coconut laden palm trees surrounding the hotel’s pool courtyard, sounding like a soothing babbling brook.   People stroll along the beach path that separates me from the shore.  They are sunburned, wind blown, water soaked, lugging snorkel gear and beach towels, their peace and happiness exuding from them as they reconnect.  Reconnect with each other, with the earth, with themselves.  Finally in the silence of the island they can hear what is always spoken.  The love and calmness that transcends all things but is so often lost in the din of everyday lives and stress.  It is here.  Loud and clear.


Our hotel, while one of the largest on the island, would be considered a boutique hotel anywhere else.  Ten rooms and six cabanas surround one of the only fresh water pools on the island.  Painted a vibrant orange/yellow with patches of thatch work on doorways, the area has an immediate relaxing impact on me.  It is at once engaging and calming. 

A small bar adjoins the pool, happy hour is from 3P-8P.  They make a mean rum punch.  Actually I haven’t had a bad rum punch yet!   Last night Paul and I had an engaging conversation with the bartender and a friend of his (who happens to be the head bartender at another hotel called The Iguana) about Mayan ruins and culture.  The friend, who is Mayan, told us how his grandfather still practices the traditions of the Mayan way, making offerings after harvesting crops. 

While exploring our little island yesterday, we came across Caye Cauker’s Chinatown.
You heard me.  Chan’s supermarket (the largest on the island), Chan’s hardware, and two Chinese restaurants.  Paul’s suitcase handle had fallen off so we made our way to Chan’s hardware in an attempt to find some screws to fix it.  While Paul is scrounging around, I decide to explore the supermarket.  One of the easiest ways to get connected to a place and its people is by shopping their food markets.  BBQ Chips are $4.50 for a small 20-ounce bag.  Fruit juices, canned and fresh are a big seller.  And boxes of tea lined up, take up almost an entire row.  Just a reminder that this used to be the British Honduras.

And then it happened.  You know those movie moments when the little girl sees the puppy in the window, the boy sees the bike, your husband/boyfriend sees the guitar of his childhood.  The world fades away at the edges and time seems to stop.  I am standing in front of the soda fridge and there, in all its glory, is the biggest bottle of coke I have every seen.  I drink Coke from aluminum cans and plastic bottles only because I have no choice.  One of the joys of traveling is being able to have Coke in a bottle.  Coke tastes so much better coming out of a glass bottle.  And I have never seen a bottle this big.  I am in heaven.  I may never come home.

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Conquering Caye Cauker

Thirteen hours after leaving Los Angeles, Paul and I finally land on the narrow strip that the locals of Caye Cauker call the runway.  Four miles long, this former sleepy fishing caye has swollen with tourists but has still been able to retain its charm and calm.  Unlike its sister Caye, Ambergris, Caye Cauker has not been infested with tall gawky condo buildings, golf cart chocked streets and tourists who can’t tell the vacation difference between Destin, Fl and Belize.

Paul and I are the only visitors to depart the twelve passenger Mayan Air twin-engine plane.   We are greeted by an older, carob colored man who has a diminutive air when we offer a tip for unloading our luggage.  He orders us a taxi and invites us into the air conditioned Mayan Air office.   We begin small talk but soon discover that we have met somebody extraordinary.   One eye sunken and empty, his other eye captures our attention and we don’t even notice he is handicapped until we are deep in conversation.

“My grandfather bought this island from the government”, he tells us.

“That makes you the king of the island, “ I say, teasing him.

He grins, exposing three long yellow teeth, the only ones he has left.   “I guess”, he says.
Then he lights up even more.  “I suppose I am the king.  My name is Edward, a royal name and my last name is Reyes, which means king in Spanish.”

“I have to take your picture!  The king of Caye Cauker.”  I pull my new Cannon point and shoot out of my thirty pound backpack.

He is grinning but takes on an imposing stance as I click away.

When he passes us off to our taxi driver, I make a mini bow to him.

“Thank you your highness,” I say.  “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

He smiles ear to ear, a twinkle in his one good eye.