Category: Belize

Near the bus terminal in downtown San Ignacio is an Italian restaurant, amor mio, run by an Italian couple that serves hand-made pasta coupled with made from scratch sauces. They also serve Belikin beer cheaper than anywhere else in the city and a mean cup of coffee. They aren’t open for dinner yet, but one of the owners, Fabio, offers me a table to have a cold beer and sort things out, then leaves me completely alone.

When asked he tells me that there are numerous hotels, explains the street layout, and informs me that there is a hotel that was recently purchased by an American and offers free breakfast and wireless internet.

When I get to Rosa’s Hotel, the owner Tony is asking a bit more than I was looking to pay. However, on looking the room over, it is clean and has hot water. Go back and read that again.

Hot Water.

Just for the record. This is the first I have seen of this in Belize. So I splurge and spend the $25 for my own room, near the wireless hub and warm water with a private bathroom.  It’s almost like heaven. He even provides towels. After a warm shower I am feeling in quite a good mood, so I go back to Amor Mio for dinner.

Maltagliati. The bad cut. This is the name for the leftover pasta bits after an Italian woman has made handmade pasta, the cut are odd shaped, as it is leftover scraps. I know this because the chef knows this.

Maltagliati Bolognese is on the menu for dinner and it is all I could hope for and more. An extremely amiable Dutchman sits down across from me and we spend the evening discussing Amsterdam, windmills, traveling, Belize, etc.

For the third time today, I see a Harry Potter lookalike in an odd purple hat. Now, he is sitting across the restaurant eating dinner. Behind me I can hear an American Tourorist giving us all a bad name and giving Fabio a hard time. U.S.A. yeehaw!

The Dutchman and I eventually finish our repast and head out in search of entertainment. We play some pool and find a gigantic warehouse of a club cranking out techno music at all volumes without a single customer inside, so I give him a high five and head back to the hotel to go to sleep.

The following morning I’m walking over to meet my cave guide for ATM, the cave of the crystal maiden, when the Dutchman pops out of a restaurant called Flayva and yells Buenos dias. There are numerous characters in my caving group, perhaps not as strange as the crotch hunting german or Daniel telling us how simple brain surgery is. There is a quite agreeable boat captain from new England who is all about sustainable living, a lovely brother and sister pair from the U.S.A. and, not surprisingly, the weird purple hat guy.

Eric and Julie are the American siblings, Emil and Poncho are the guides, and Dom is the weird hat guy. Nearly half of the group are old enough or fat enough so as to be a liability for a trip such as this. At the last toilet stop before the cave no one exits the bus to use the restroom, but we take a break anyway. I use the time to get off the bus and walk to the closest farmhouse and talk to a pair of local high school kids about their life. Things are not so different here aside from the distance they travel to go to school. When not in school they inform me that they basically watch tv and hang out in the street. Also, they have a wild looking phone book.

Socks are important in Central America. Emil, our guide, tells Dom to bring his socks several times before he tells Dom to get his damn socks or he isn’t going into the cave.

The hike is marvelous, truly jungle terrain. The trees are like nothing I have seen. Emil points out chocolate trees and fruit that can be used to start a fire. The entrance to the cave does not disappoint. It’s like something that fell out of an Indiana Jones movie. It is massive, and we enter swimming. Emil confides in us that it is good that our half of the group is all young and relatively fit so we can take the fun and more challenging routes through the cave. We see see plants, bats, crickets, and fish in the cave. Emil does his best to explain the cave formations, but I’m hardly a geologist and I don’t really care.

I am the only one that notices that Emil is not wearing socks. When we are asked to remove our shoes and walk only in our socks through the sacrificial areas littered with skeletons and broken pottery, I ask him why he is barefoot. His answer is what I suspected, but is still a trip to hear.

“I am a Catholic,” he prefaces, “I believe in God. However, these are the gods of my grandmother; old Gods. The spirits here are both benevolent and malevolent. When I walk here, I can feel them. I don’t want you to be affected by them. It would be like… bad karma.”

Shocking.

Aside from that little tidbit, he imparts some interesting statistics. 9/10 of the Mayan people died around 1500 from numerous causes. That equates to about 1/5th of the world’s population at that time; comparable to 1.2 million people today.

The bones are cool, and the rock formations are simply staggering. I imagine myself as a Mayan priest, climbing a half mile underground by torchlight, smoking a bunch of weed and eating mushrooms. This must have been one hell of a religious experience for them.

On the trip out of the cave, Dom is in front of me a few feet. He turns a corner, then comes right back. Emil, the guide is gone. We are a half mile underground in a cave with numerous routes that may or may not lead out. Dom starts to panic, but I tell him to keep going forward and start leading the way.

Once Emil sees that his group has a new leader and is leaving without him, he materializes from a hole in the wall. His joke didn’t go quite the way he had planned. Nor is it for Dom. He forgot his helmet.

Back on the bus, the siblings, Dom, and I make plans to meet up later for the Superbowl… in Belize.

Unfortunately, no one but me shows up at the proposed time and location. So , I order a bucket of beers, anticipating their arrival, and a big steak dinner because I am already hungry. No one shows. I go for the backup plan in the third quarter; Faya Wata.

Everyone is there. They went to my hotel loking for me after everyone was ridiculously delayed and when I was gone, they went to plan B. Dom definitely comes up with the high card for wild phrases for the evening.

“There is a town in Bolivia where you can buy dynamite, as much as you like. I tell you this as a friend… don’t try to cross the border with it. As you are well aware… I forget things.” ~ Dom on south American jails.

“It sounds like Italian, plus chicken speak. Only, Imagine the chickens are speaking Spanish.” ~ Dom on Argentine Spanish.

“I am shat.” ~ Dom on… well… Dom.

The night ends well and late. I fall asleep on my bed, surrounded by my belongings such as they might be, fully clothed.

3 a.m.

I am jolted awake by my hotel room door crashing open and a mildly attractive latina walking in and giving me the ‘oops’ look. I return her startled stare, as it would be impolite to do otherwise, and she apologizes in English and walks out. I lock the door and go back to sleep.

7 a.m.

I am jolted awake by knocks on the door. Luckily, it is just Harry Potter. I mean Dom. Apparently, I told him to meet me at 7 so we could see Xunantunich. Oh. I remember. We also planned to see Cahal Pech and then go to Guatemala. I’m slow getting packed.
By 10 a.m. we are fed, faxed, and on a bus for Xunantunich. Much the same drill, enter the pass and pay once it is on the way. For $1.50 Belize we get a ride to a dock at a river and a sign saying we are only 1 mile from our goal, but that is not the story here. The story lies in the miles between the city center and Cahal Pech. The story is Jack Sparrow.

In my short time in Central America I have learned that one can meet some gnarly individuals on the bus. None of my experience has prepared me for this.  Quite possible the most drunk bipedal entity I have ever personally witnessed clambers about our modified schoolbus. Noone says a word, no one even acknowledges the mangle-toothed, snaggle-toothed, rum-bedraggled bastard that stumble-swaggers down the aisle of the bus. There are empty seats all over the place and, in fact, the entire rear half of the bus from Dom back is empty. Passing all the the empty seats before and eschewing the empty area behind, our horrible angel of the Belizean apocalypse swings squarely in to the seat next to Dom. There is a small fortune of gold in his mouth and a large meals worth of food stuck between his teeth.

“hawashacvaggaajabaasa!”

Yup, that’s pretty much it.

The next 20 minutes I will always remember as the day that I almost caught Jack Sparrow. Between the rum and peanuts on his breath, any word he may have been trying to say in English was immediately lost. Spanish was barely  any better.

Suddenly, our new pilgrim yells out, “Yack Sparrow!!!”

And now I see it. The gold teeth. The long straggly hair. The dark circles under the eyes, and god forbid, the pristine hat he suddenly materializes from the bag in his lap. Dom and I are quite literally in the presence of the great Belizean Jack Sparrow.

Jack never says a single usable word to me but is continually giving me the fist bump to soften the blows of his rum addled breath. Dom is clearly uncomfortable and I am milking it for all it’s worth. Asking him every question I can think of in Spanish, then finally falling back to English. Jack probably wouldn’t notice if I were speaking Aramaic.

Soon, Jack has shown us the houses where his grandmother lives, and the house he shares with his mother and father. Next comes the holy grail.

“tengawaokwatrouparawaeionad;klhjdsfsdsdrhietminnbwharblegarble!”

Yes, you heard it here first. Jack Sparrow has four rooms for rent and he would like us to come stay with him. As a gesture of his undying friendship he offers us the peanuts from his pocket. One of them is clearly moldy.

I’m whipping Jack into a frenzy by this point and he is thrilled, going so far as to give me his number. And here it is for you gentle folk. The telephone number of Jack Sparrow. Though if he is not home, remember to leave a message with his parents, Jesus and Amelia.

501-824-4172

God help me. From the lips of that Unholy Saint to the screen of your computer comes the key to greatness. What you choose to do with it is up to you.

Xunantunich was awesome.The mile walk uphill was a bit much, but the ferryman let Dom and I manejar el pollo (crank the wheel to take the ferry across the river) for a small fee. The ruins:  Truly amazing. When we weren’t discussing the merits of just going back to town and staying with Jack Sparrow to see what happens next, we were agog with the impressive sight before us. This is also the first time I have seen park guides armed with M-16s and 12 gauge shotguns.

The walk down the hill was slightly easier. Whistling is widely accepted as a form of communication in Belize. So we whistle to the ferryman and he returns to pick us up and cart us across, happily informing us that the twice-hourly bus left 5 minutes ago. Looks like it’s time to thumb it.

After about 12 unsuccesful attempts at hitchhiking back into san Ignacio, a battered old Nissan wheels to a stop. The driver is Guatemalan and speaks no English, nor apparently do any of the people in the car with him. Dom and I make full capacity and we roll on through the vast new frontier of Bilingual hitchhiking. The driver deposits the first guy at the edge of town, making the backseat much larger and loosening the tongue of the striking looking young woman in the front seat. Within seconds, Dom, the Australian, and this young girl are discussing Visa laws for her to come to Australia. Unfortunately for Dom, we are getting out of the cab before she asks him to marry her.

Dom manages to negotiate a taxi to take us directly to the border of Guatemala for $15 BZD while I grab my bag from Rosa’s hotel and we are off on the next grand adventure, discussing the merits of swinging by Jack Sparrow’s place to bring him with us.
Ultimately, it is decided that Jack will have to wait. As is customary for Belize, we are descended upon by locals before we are even out of the taxi. I swap all my paper BZD, over to Guatemalan Quetzales save the $37.50 BZD needed to pay the border crossing to Guatemala.

The silent feeling of victory and accomplishment that accompanies a new unique stamp in my passport is indescribable. Guatemala is mine.

Caulker Fo’ Life!

(that one’s for Joe)

The door unlocked for me today. I signed up for the Blue Hole trip, mostly just to dive Blue Hole. Little did I know I would get so much out of it. I woke up around 4 a.m. and was unable to truly sleep afterward as I knew I needed to be at the dive shop, a full 5 minute walk, at 5:30 a.m. Sheri and I arrive at 5:30 exactly with no one else in sight. Daniel, the French Canadian, appears a few minutes later, and the rest come trickling in. Breakfast consists of sweet raisin bread and black coffee. It’s about as close to a full spread continental breakfast as you will find in Belize.

I wander down to the dock because I know the sun will be coming up soon and I like feeling the wind coming off the ocean. A few minutes later all the rest of the divers have come down and we are all sort of standing and conversing, waiting for the arrival of promised Helios. The boat arrives, and we all load our gear on, then the lively Swedish girl starts laughing. I ask her what happened and she points to the horizon and I see that while we were all chatting, the sun came up, unnoticed.

The boat ride out is near glass until we pass the reef. Once we are past the reef the seas get a bit of swell, almost not worth mentioning. About the half way point, we pass by a number of small cayes (islands). One of the cayes, Cockroach Caye, is about 40 x 20 feet with a single tin shed and some trees on it.

After the halfway point of the trip we hit a bit more waves for ab out 30 minutes. The waves are small but consistent. At its worst, the chop today is still the calmest water I have ever seen off the North Carolina coast. The water is brilliant and it becomes clearer by the mile.

Omar is one of the divemasters. His speech couldn’t be more even if it were cut from a machine. He sounds half Jamaican and half metronome. To say Jamaican is a dis-service, because he is easily understood, but has somewhat of that cadence and accent. He explains what we are likely to see, what his hand signals mean, and how we are to behave when exiting and entering the boat.

His tattoos are simple. Primitive. One of them is possibly a brand of some sort that scarred darkly. On his left shoulder are the letters “O.T.” I decide to ask him what his last name is.

“Thomas.”

Omar Thomas. O.T.

“So,” I ask him, “How did you get here?”

And with that simple question, he unfolds a tale that builds a Caribbean divemaster; birthplace, family, education, aspirations, so many details that were lying dormant, just waiting for someone to ask. We talk about his tattoos, what he has seen under the ocean and what HIS vacations are like. It is eye opening; like a magnet. I find myself drug into conversations, telling more about myself, hearing more about others. This continues all day.

I am the first one out of the boat at Blue Hole. I wear board shorts and a simple rash guard, minus the 7 millimeters of wetsuit I wore over this the last time I dove in North Carolina. The water is blue and the depths are black as night. They get blacker as we descend. I wish I had brought my dive light.

At around 130 feet, 40 meters, Omar levels us off. I keep going.  I stop somewhere around 48 meters, 160 feet. The stalagmites are huge. Defying any I have previously seen; swimming between them in unrealistically cool. I imagine they are the giant teeth of some aquatic monster come to chomp me up and I am dodging his evil teeth. After a few minutes, I return to the divemaster and follow him and the rest of the group back up to the higher regions of Blue Hole where the Sharks congregate; where they wait. Circling.

Back on the boat, everyone is in good spirits. The snorkelers are a ways off, so we take the boat to go pick them up after the second set of divers. Now off to Half Moon Caye.

Half Moon Caye is an island near blue hole whose main claim to fame is the Booby sanctuary on it. Yeah, I laughed a little too. Especially when I saw the “Booby Gift Shop” sign. The birds were simply circling in some huge congregation across the island; a mad swarm in a whirlpool of Hitchcock proportions looking for food. Waiting. Circling.

Before we hit the island, we hit the water again. The sea life here is amazing. Sea turtles, gigantic eels, a grouper the size of a taxi. We are only going down to about 60 feet so I decide to chance using my Flip in it’s waterproof case. No dice. It won’t record under the water so I tuck it away and just snap a few pictures. Nearly 40 minutes of unadulterated marine odyssey.

I swing off from the dive instructor for a while and just sit on the floor of the ocean with a ray with at least a 6 foot winspan. He is almost entirely coverd in sand, and all I can see is his outline, eyes, and gills. Watching him sit and stare back and me breathing, I imagine he is wondering just what the hell I am staring at.

Once we all get back to the boat we are tired in general, but in great spirits. Joe, and American from Washington, myself and a few others jump off the boat and enjoy the carribean sea al fresco. Daniel, the French Canadian, climbs up on the back of the boat and starts peeing into the water. The rest of us quietly get back in the boat.

Off to Half Moon Caye. The dive crew unloads a number of containers of food and serves up stew chicken with rice, beans, and coleslaw. Everyone is circling the food as it is dished out on the table. Waiting. Circling.

Everyone descends into their food with gusto. Most of the Europeans segregate themselves, leaving a table composed primarily of Americans, seasoned with a pair of Venezuelans.

Food is devoured. We leave.

The Aquarium, our last dive for the day, is delightful, only about 50 feet deep, so we have plenty of time under the water. The calm waters here mean we use significantly less oxygen and enjoy nearly 45 minutes underwater on cruise control. The Flip camera case, keeps the water out, but at about 20 feet the pressure is so great that none of the buttons work. So the trick is to start the recording before going down, then just keep it running. I have a 45 minute long dive video. Sweet.

The ride back is sleepy. I want a shower. I want a bed. I want, I want, I want.

A nap is not going to happen, but a cold shower and soap does wonders for my aura. I break out my clothesline and clothespins and hang my swim gear out to dry. Joe and I have made plans to meet up and grab dinner and drinks for the evening. I manage to find Joe and a great number of others; some mixed Americans, a pair of girls from Norway that are both named Maria, and a local who is in full swing celebrating Bob Marley’s birthday.

The bad wind that was forecast is rolling in and rain is coming in with it. I head back to the cabin and put the clothes inside to avoid the now nonexistent rain, and lay down for a while. The nap comes, unwelcome.

Between the front and middle streets (there are only 3) on Caye Caulker, near barefoot alley and just north of the cemetery, is a reggae bar called I & I. The sign hangs right over the residence below, so unless you already know to take  the gate to the side of the house to the stairs, you will enter the always unlocked door and most likely meet a young boy watching television. He’ll direct you upstairs to a truly island bar. Bamboo furniture, with hammocks on the patio. The vibe is healthy and the bar is open until 12 oclock. If you take the right streets you’ll walk past a 2 for 1 drink special a few buildings up and can easily pregame. After 12, you only need to follow the crowd back across the island to the Oceanside bar where the party runs on into the night.

9 p.m. arrives and I manage to roust myself from my bed and head out to I & I. no one is here. I’m barely moving and after walking the streets a bit and finding nothing I return to bed for some much needed sleep. It comes in patches, strangely mixed in with vivid dreams, that don’t make much sense but are filled with mission and purpose.

Morning comes again. My clothes aren’t dry. Maybe, I’ll just stay another day until they dry out. Yeah, one more day sounds perfect in the warm sunlit breeze wafting across the porch of my cabin. So does breakfast.

I’ve been waiting for a couple days to try this coffee shop called amore y café. Today is the perfect morning. The menu looks blissfully basic, and a bagel with scrambled eggs onions and tomatoes hits the spot along with some good coffee.

Joe and everyone are in the courtyard of their hotel when I get there and they fill me in on all the great stuff I missed the night before. The local is on the porch smoking weed again and soon begins dropping the knowledge on us about atms, quarks, why Swedish girls travel around the world just to have sex with Swedish guys… etc. wild stuff. Soon he becomes convinced I am a government agent, perhaps a black ops sniper of some sort. This becomes a topic of some conversation and he promises no less than 50 times to keep my secret safe. I’m flattered.

On the water taxi back to Belize city, I start making a plan. Return the sim card to the guest house. Find a bus ticket to San Ignacio. Find a place to sleep.

Seems simple enough, since I think all the bus tickets are sold from the same terminal I land in on the water taxi.

No such luck. The buses I am looking for are on the other end of town. Luckily there is a Jamaican clad man yelling atme from about a block away asking if I need a taxi. Taxi it is. My first taxi ride of the trip. He tosses my bag into the oil stained darkness of his Sentra’s trunk and I jump in the back seat. Someone I can assume is either his girlfriend of his daughter is eating Chinese take out in the front seat.

Taxis in Belize City are not for the faint of heart. I was taken through some of the dodgiest neighborhoods I could possible fathom. To call our rate of travel “unsafe” would be somewhat of an understatement.

The trick to the buses in Belize is just to get on. Find the one you like. Board it. And when you are underway, a young man will come around and ask you for money. Simple as you like. However, two Austrian girls and I were a little uncertain about all of this as it was being explained to us. Fortunately, we all got where we needed to go.

The San Ignacio bus stop is an orange painted brick wall, about 40 feet in length and roughly 2 feet high. That’s it. My favorite city thus far for the simple reason that no one cared that I had arrived. No Huffy weilding Jesus… no Jamaican scare taxis. I feel like i’m finally lost.

Jesus welcomes me to Caye Caulker on his yellow Huffy ten speed. If that doesn’t tell you that you are in for a weird day, i don’t know that will.

jesus and I walk and talk for a while, and it turns out that he is from the same town, Corraza (I think), that jaime in Belize City is from. Jesus tells me of his pastimes on the island which include “helping you so you can help me.” We discuss interesting issues like the presence of hot water, beds, and golf cart taxi lap times on the jaunt down the beach. carrying the 40+ pounds of backpack I have on, doesn’t let me appreciate the near equatorial heat, humidity, and sunshine as much as I would like. Jesus takes me to Ignacio’s that is owned by Rueben, and the fun begins.

The place is perfect. Roughly 12 x 12 feet, my cabin is a wooden stilted construction that might give cavement pause. It has a shower (cold), and a toilet that will not process toilet paper, hence the warning sign directing newcomers to use the trash can. The toilet is lucky, since there is no toilet paper in the bathroom anyway.

I’m a little weirded out today, so I sit in my new cabin for about an hour before I force myself to go mingle. First on the list is booking a scuba trip for the following day to Blue Hole. Success. The owner of Big Fish Dive Company gives me “Special Deal, for you buddy” of $350 BZD, roughly $175, to go on a three tank dive to Blue Hole the following morning. At 5 am.

My main goal for coming to the island paid for, I decide to walk around. I have been walking. Alot. I wrecked my R6 pretty badly about 2 years ago and damaged my ankle pretty sincerely. What with martial arts 4 days a week and more motorcycle crashes since then, it still manages to complain a bit more than it should. Today is one of those days. I’ve walked the length of the caye (20 minutes one way) about 8 times today.

On one particularly ill fated trip to The Split, a segment of the caye where the ocean has cut it in half, i rented a snorkel and fins to go take some underwater footage with my neat HD Flip. So, in the process, I managed to lose my ATM card and my room key in one fell swoop. Not the best start to an adventure on an island.

For those of you keeping track; yes, this IS the ATM card that I cause a near crisis before I left raleigh as it had to be fedexed to me to make it in time. Looks like we are in for some more fedex action. But how does one hit a moving target like me with an international delivery of such delicate nature when not even the moving target knows where it is going to be at any given date?! Not easily, it appears.

Since the cell phone I have for Belize has a limited amount of credit on it, i doubt it will last very long internationally, so when jumping on the WIRELESS INTERNET, god forbid, at my cabin, I have the delightful surprise of seeing my friend Janette online. A quick IM later and she has the schwab guys calling my Belize cell phone, since incoming calls are free, this is a dream come true.

I have to hand it to both Rueben of Ignacio’s and the Schwab guys, neither was fazed by my awesome display today. Rueben just told me to take his key and sent me off to make a copy, and Schwab told me to fax them a release so they can send my card south of the border. Normally, I would scoff at the idea of faxing from the Atlantic Ocean, but I’m the guy using wireless internet and talking on a cellular telephone to a bank in another country. I’ll make it happen.

Gigantazon, my brother in Madrid, is doing what he can to pull strings for me in the upcoming journeys, and a number of other people have sent me contacts to look up folks in countries south of here. Thanks to all of you. Now if I could just stop shooting myself in the foot long enough to actually have a crisis free day.

The single bulb overhead flickers from time to time, but I certainly won’t complain. the windows let in the amazing ocean breezes and after the lights have all gone out on the island the stars are shining overhead in a way that makes me feel like a primitive; like some slack jawed neanderthal imagining what magical beings hang over my head and watch me make an idiot of myself. 🙂

It’s late ande i’ve got an early dive tomorrow. time to sleep.

With what I am hoping will be my final dealing with American Airlines, I am sitting on the patio at the Smokin Balam and awaiting the delivery of my now Dominican bag. The curtain in the window behind me to the left is distracting me. Making me think someone is watching me from behind.

So, with minimal fanfare, I said goodbye to warm showers today, as there appears to only be one water handle that comes out at a single temperature whether in a sink or shower. It’s not as cold as it was in Pamplona, just not anything near comfortable for sustained periods. Rinsing, then turning off the water to soap in the warm air for a bit, then rinsing the soap off again bit by bit seems to be the least uncomfortable way of cleaning off the salt and sweat of the days excursions.

I am constantly surprised when I travel that so many other people are doing the same thing. There is an incessant stream of new backpackers filing into both the guest houses, another monster of a man just checked in to the Balam. Spares barely a word for me and goes to his room. From my vantage on the porch, I have limited visibility of almost everything, but total clarity of nothing, save the upstairs porch across the road; which I can tell you after many hours of intense scrutiny, is a very dull place. I just got my third layugh of the day at the old Chinese man crossing the street in a mesh tank-top that would look out of place on anything but a low rent male stripper. Or Cher.

Man’s search for coffee has ended today at Moon Clusters. This coffee shop is a short walk down Queen Street past the police station. The whole place is hand painter and though the coffee is only fair by USA standards, it bears mention for the paint job.

Still no sign of American Airlines.

I met my first Belizean Couchsurfer today. I feel like I am being spoiled. Everyone here speaks Enlgish. Jaime and I ate lunch at Senor Coconut and it was great. The restaurant is out of chicken today, which does not appear to be an unusual occurrence, and so I had fillet o’ fish with rice and beans. Fresh squeezed orange juice was also provided, though ice was included before I could say ‘sin hielo.’ Let’s hope the whole ”Don’t drink the water” advice doesn’t come in to play here.  Jaime is an administrator at the local hospital and has to get back to work, but offers to swing back by after lunch and pick me up to go out tonight. I accept. This gives me about two more hours to write, think, get my bag, and get hungry again.

I just saw the closest thing to a proper sport bike i’ve witnessed since arriving. A Kawasaki 250R. Shameful. I’ve walked nearly the length and breadth of Belize City and seen mostly battered 125’s or smaller.

Finally, my bag is here. Nothing seems to be missing, but my travel size shower gel has come open in my toiletries bag and slimed a few things. I’m glad I had the presence of mind to separate all the toiletries into smaller groups and put them in different smaller bags inside the larger toiletries bag. Thus the pollution was localized and easily cleaned.

I just rented a simcard from the Balam and added ten dollars to it, Belize dollars, and I’ll have a telephone number for the next few days while I am scuba diving in Caye (pronounced key) Caulker. It’s 011-501-628-2003 if anyone feels like giving a shout. I believe incoming calls are free, but will find out soon enough if people start calling me.

I am in need of a shower again, some 8 hours after my last shower. I was probably in need of a shower about 2 hours after my last one by North American standards.

Somehow, there is a wireless signal, weak though it is, at certain points on the balcony at the Balam. If anyone ever does stay here, it appears to be strongest at the top of the stairs; there is a bench and small table there for easy use. I’ll try and upload this to test it out.

This has been an interesting day. I met G-Money Marlin, the Sprite messenger. I saw the doppleganger of my friend Emma Jean Flynn. I met a man from Chile, by way of Sweden, who told me of how he fell in love with a Cuban hooker about 5 minutes into our first conversation. I went to a coffee shop next to a barber/laboratory. I walked all over the city, again, and saw that some things aren’t so different between Belize and the USA; never walk down a street that has sneakers hanging from the power lines overhead.

In a few minutes, I’m going to re-assemble my backpack  and go grab dinner with Jaime and my new hooker loving friend and find some food and wild conversation. I may stay at Jaime’s place tonight based on his internet and shower situation, as he was kind enough to offer his couch.

Tomorrow, the Hungry Monkey!

So, I finally made it to Belize. And my bag made it to the Dominican Republic. If only we could agree…

The Smokin Balam guest house is clean and small. Everyone I have spoken to is a family member and friendly. they are honest and straightforward and seem to be constantly cleaning or socializing.

There is internet in the lobby of the guest house and it seems to be on par with most slower dsl links from the states with one exception. Skype will not work in Belize.

The local telcom company, BTL, doesn’t feel like letting free telephone calls slip past them, so the internet connections filter out skype calls. I seem to be logged in to skype, but when i try to place a call, it just sits there and will not dial.

I’m about to go out walking through the city, though I am told I should be off the streets by 9 or take a taxi and I need to be back in the Balam by 11 or they lock the doors.

As my bag with all my clothes, tools, computer and tech bits has gone to an entirely different country, I find myself in need of some basics. I’m about to scarf down the last bit of food i got from my AA food vouchers from MIA and go out looking for some things to photograph..

Continued…

Belize City is small. I walked across half of it and back this afternoon in search of American Airlines offices and sights to see. Not much I’m afraid.

I’ve hit couchsurfing.org pretty hard tonight and hope to have some folks to chat with and check out the surrounding area tomorrow. I’m staying at the Smokin Balam guest house right off the river that cuts the city in half and it’s quite nice. I do notice that the guest house across the street seems to be the place of choice for backpackers, though. If I had a backpack (grrr) I would be tempted to go over there.

There has been a story running on the tv in the background for the last hour about how people are getting shot all over Belize City. makes me a little less than thrilled about heading out on the town tonight. It’s been a long day and I think I’m going to stay close to home, as it were.

God has a huge presence here. every person I have spoken to says something about God or prayer, or this or that church. The oldest Anglican Church in Central America is right down the street and I was delighted to see a Japanese Christian marker outside the church very similar to markers I saw all across Japan.

I’m starting to yawn. time to turn in.