Caye Caulker and beyond!

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.