Belize welcomed me with a big shiny white toothed grin and a proper Caribbean accent, mohn.
I’ve crossed borders where I didn’t have the right paperwork, I’ve crossed borders where no one can speak a word of English, I’ve crossed borders with machine guns pointed at me. Crossing into the Czech Republic from Poland, 13 years ago- it was all three.
I made a deal with myself once, that I would never cross a border at night.
And so of course, crossing the border from Mexico to Belize happened at night.
Anything to declare? A bottle of vodka and an apple. You’re fine to go through, Miss. Welcome to Belize.
I spent the first two nights in a place called Corozal. I rocked up to the Sea Breeze Hotel, and was welcomed by Gwyn. The Lonely Planet describes his place “as reminiscent of the kind of cheap and pleasant Key West hotel where Ernest Hemingway might have spent his last years.” The Welsh innkeeper, who used to be a tour manager for The Who and had toured with Queen, instructed me to dump my bags, and come to the bar – we would sort out paperwork in the morning. There were 7 people seated on stools around the bar, where talk was pattering between places, philosophy and the deeply personal.
After a few drinks, a very sweet older American couple drove me around the corner so I could get some Belizean dollars and a feed. We chatted over various meals made from pork, and then they drove me home. I was beat.
I spent the next morning strolling around the sleepy little seaside village with it’s sporadically set out marketplace, a few dinky shops and a couple of quiet restaurants. Not much happening in this here lil place.
I spent the afternoon writing, drinking and sharing easy chat with a well travelled English couple, while avoiding a maybe mad, maybe alcoholic older dude who wanted to talk AT me about union strikes, his family tartan and all manner of things I wasn’t particularly interested in. I had to blank him after he told me to google a religious site.
That night I had dinner with Angelo & Kirsty, and a beautiful interesting older gentle man called Mike, who quietly shared snippets of his life with a self deprecating sense of humor: his divorce, his path from rich to poor, his successful career, his acid taking days, his journey in and out of depression… I could have talked with him forever.
The next morning, Gwyn put on a pot of coffee. He necked a clove of garlic, and then took me to the ferry.
The ride to Caye Ambergris was 2 hours and gentle enough for me to snooze.
I arrived at San Pedro and asked for a room at Ruby’s on the Beach, a very simple wooden guesthouse, not dissimilar to a Queenslander, with sweeping views of the Barrier Reef.
I was immediately transported. A completely different Caribbean from the one I’d just left. More Rastas, reggae and reefers than I’ve ever seen in one place for starters.
My hotel neighbor, Kevin from LA was a highly strung ex alcy who thought too much about everything, offered too much information, asked no questions, and was of the view, he knew all he needed to know about a place after a mere 3 days. He was a high school teacher, who’d completed his Masters in Behavioral Psychology. After doing 2 years of psych at uni, I can categorically tell you empiracle studies have proven that 98.72% of people who undertake studies in psychology are absolute fucking nutbags. I later had an early afternoon dinner with Kevin. He wasn’t altogether uninteresting.
The next morning, I did a couple of dives on the Belizean Barrier Reef, which is home to more than 100 different types of coral and more than 500 different kinds of fish. And the scientists reckon they only know about 10% of what’s out there. Scientists also say that around 40% of the reef is damaged by bleaching, which is caused by rising sea temps. And i saw it with my own eyes.
The exact same thing is happening in Australia. I don’t know about you, and at the risk of sounding like a bourgeois-fucking-hippy, my religion (if i have one at all) is pure immersion into an underwater world, watching the sun explode into a million versions of red, and dancing to a full moon in a faraway forest… I like Nature. She’s pretty. And she makes me feel good. And I want my kids and your kids to see stuff made by Nature. Climate change is real. I should be doing more. We all should.
So it was shallow diving in warm, crystal clear tropical waters – the DM was movin at Belizean pace. Firsts included no wetsuit of any kind, a Spotted Eagle Ray (majestic), a 1:1 dive, and a hooked angle grinder shaped fish, whose name I will remember at 3.33am tomorrow. And then there were the usual suspects of sharks, rays, and ridiculous numbers of brightly colored, “ooh look at me… I’m so pretttteeyyy!!!” tropical fish. Anyways, suffice to say, it was everything you’d want your first dive at one of the world’s most incredible dive sites to be.
We were done by mid morning, so I went and had a second breakfast, and spent the day just mooching about the tiny town. I got my haircut (AUD$10!) and my nails done and treated myself to a new dress and a new pair of pretty panties. Do I miss Westfields Bondi Junction. Fuck no. Do I miss a bit of pampering and a damn good buy. Shit, yes.
Later, as i was having a Belikin at one of the communal wooden tables on the balcony of my hotel… A tall handsome black Belizean man stopped by for a hello. We chatted for a few minutes before I invited him to sit with me. Mr Belize was articulate and spoke in a soft brown velvety voice. At age 32, the youngest boy in a family of 8, he had lived a while in in Los Angeles, and harbored dreams of building a sophisticated camp site on his granddaddy’s land, where he grew up – a place near Crooked Tree. Coincidentally (?) he was a Dive Master at the shop I had dived with, that morning.
He offered to take me around in a boat to a reggae bar by the lagoon, to watch the sunset on the other side of the Caye. The Eat Pray Love chick would say, “some opportunities only come once, right?”. And as much as I loathe saying so, she’d be right.
The bar was perched precariously over the water, thatched roof, simple log stools, music blaring out of a massive sound system. The Belizean flag, a picture of Bob Marley and one of Che Guevara adorned the back wall of the bar where tequila had been replaced by rum. We smoked a spliff with the bartender, and watched alligators bubble up and then bubble back below the water’s surface.
We stayed for the sunset and a second drink and then headed back. Mr Belize wanted to take me to the Chicken Drop. A weekly event on the social calendar, this Belizean form of bingo featuring a chicken who has been primed for pooping, is dropped (kindly) into a pen which has a bunch of numbers of the ground. Tickets are sold for the corresponding numbers, and well – you get the idea.
It was a fun night. I met some of his mates & we shared a few drinks and laughs. I bought a strip of tickets, and a few games later, my number came up! I shared the winnings of BZD$100 with another gringo and the winnings more or less paid for our entire nite. (If I ever run out of things to write about, you can remind me of this potential post, “Why men from tourist towns never seem to have any money, and why women are prepared to pay.”)
We grabbed a burrito in the market square where kids were still up playing. And then he walked me home.
Black men have got THE best lips. That’s all I’m saying.
Fri 5 August