Quinceanera-Crashers!

I was excited to get to San Cristobal. Every single person whom I'd met along the way who had spent time there raved about this place. I had about two weeks left of my trip, so I decided that San Cristobal de las Casas would be my home for about one of those weeks. I was looking forward to, once again, camping out somewhere for a while.

I wasted no time on this morning in my little cabana outside of Palenque and arrived to Palenque, the town, about an hour before the bus was scheduled to leave for San Cristobal. I had learned to love the public transportation system in Guatemala and Mexico, particularly the microbuses (or, collectivos), which were so incredibly convenient--and cheap. In Guatemala, most microbus rides around town would cost about 1.5 quetzales (about $0.20) and I believe this 15-minute ride to town cost about 3 pesos, or about one U.S. quarter. I was dropped off on the corner opposite the bus station and bought my ticket to San Cristobal. Like many of the bus stations I passed through in Mexico, this one had no walls on the sides along the streets since it never really closes. It was just a big, open space with one wall occupied by a ticket counter and one with a bathroom (that, of course, I had to pay about 3 pesos to use). Rows of chairs filled the rest of the space. I left my bags with luggage storage (for 5 pesos per hour) and took off down the street in search of a supermarket so I could find some breakfast and stock up on some snacks. I always liked to have some assortment of food on me at all times--you never know when you'll be stuck somewhere hungry and no access to food. And I don't do well hungry.

I made it back to the bus station with plenty of time to spare, grabbed my bags and drank the liquid strawberry flavored, vitamin fortified yogurt I bought at the store as part of my breakfast. When it was time to board the bus I took my assigned seat a few rows from the very back, on the right side of the bus. A guy about my age, obviously a traveler, took the seat in the row across from mine. We exchanged a greeting, but didn't talk again until we were well into the journey. Our conversation didn't really stray from the typical conversation between to traveling strangers--Where are you from? How long are you traveling? Where are you going? Where have you been? What do you do back home? The usual. Antoine was from Switzerland. He was on a 3-ish week vacation in Mexico, heading to Puerto Escondido next, after San Cristobal. He is more or less some kind of "businessman" back home, maybe in accounting or something. I don't quite remember the details. We didn't speak much the rest of the ride. I tried to take a nap, covering myself up with a cheap sarong I had purchased when I visited the castle near Rio Dulce in Guatemala. These charter buses, albeit quite fancy, were almost always freezing cold from the air conditioning. But, I had prepared myself this time: plenty of layers, a pair of socks to put on (since I was wearing flip flops), long pants and my sarong for a makeshift blanket. I would not freeze on this trip.

The ride was supposed to be about six hours. We stopped half-way through for about 20 minutes to use a bathroom (even though there was one on the bus, but most passengers still preferred to use this one despite having to pay a few pesos) and grab something to eat from the little food stands that carried the usual of little packages of chips or cookies or pastries--all the healthy snacks you could imagine. I grabbed the pack of saltine type crackers that I had bought in the store earlier that day in Palenque and just stood outside watching the world go by in this little town of which I didn't know the name. I was thankful for the sun shining down on me. Antoine was talking with another traveler from our bus who I had not noticed earlier. They were speaking in French and I had no interest in trying to enter the conversation.

Back on the bus.

About 45 minutes before arriving to San Cristobal, a girl from the front of the bus (who I had exchanged smiles with earlier when I walked by her to take my seat after our stop), went to the back to use the toilet. She was an extremely beautiful young Mayan girl. Her skin was a perfect brown with almond eyes and long, sleek black hair pulled back in a low ponytail. She was wearing a long skirt made of Mayan material and a peach cardigan sweater. I wish I had asked to take her picture. When she came out, she stopped in the aisle where I was sitting and said something to me in Spanish--something which I do not recall--but it initiated conversation nonetheless. We maintained a slightly awkward conversation for a little while, asking each other about where we live and how many siblings we have (and other such topics that don't surpass the extent of my limited conversational skills in Spanish). She commented on my pretty sarong, I on her sweater. She asked if I had a husband and when I said no, asked if Antoine was my boyfriend. Another no. She asked me if I had any lipstick and as I pulled out my colorless chapstick she asked what color it was. I am pretty sure I disappointed her with that, I think she really wanted to put on some lipstick. I was delighted to let her use it anyway. She taught me a few things to say in the Mayan language she spoke, Tzotzil. I taught her a few things in English. We talked about how cold it was up there in the mountains. She asked me what I did for work, I asked her if she went to school. No, she didn't go to school. I learned that she was returning to her home in San Cristobal for the first time in five months after having worked somewhere in Palenque, doing what, I do not know. She was 14 years old.

After our conversation was forced to end because my Spanish only went so far, she took the seat behind me. She said she was going to take a nap and asked if I would wake her up when we arrived. I said "si" and gave her a smile, I was so touched by this young girl of fourteen. She seemed much older. I wanted to talk with her more, to learn more about her and find out where she lived and invite her to meet up with me and take her to do something fun, something for her, something that she might enjoy. We never really talked again because she slept until we arrived, and I don't remember her name. When we got off the bus we both waited to retrieve our luggage from underneath the bus, but I ended up in a conversation with Antoine and never saw the girl again.

The other guy who Antoine had been speaking with earlier was Antony, from France. The three of us left the bus station together in search of a popular hostel called The Backpacker's Hostel. I was happy to follow them through the streets and focused instead on my freezing cold feet and heavy backpack. The walk took what seemed like forever, and it didn't help that the boys got us temporarily lost, but finally we found our way and secured some beds for the evening in a four-person dorm room. Three beds on the bottom floor, one bed up above on a little loft. They were kind enough to let me take the bed up top and I was quite pleased to have my own little private space. The evening was mellow and ended nicely with huddling around the hostel's bonfire with the rest of the hostelers. Somebody had even brought marshmallows so I joined in and indulged myself in a nice pastel pink roasted marshmallow. I recall some of the American, Irish and Australian guys sitting around the fire making fun of a Bulgarian girl (who ended up being our fourth roommate) who had never in her life had a roasted marshmallow. Staying in hostels may not always do a great job of integrating one into the local culture, but it doesn't mean there isn't a constant cultural exchange still occurring between travelers who represent all corners of the globe...

Antoine and Antony were my friends for the next three days. However, it was one of the more interesting of group dynamics I had experienced because Antoine was from Switzerland and spoke English and French, but his Spanish was worthless. Antony was from France and spoke Spanish and French, but his English was worthless (and his insecurities in speaking English made it even worse). I spoke minimal Spanish, and definitely no French. So over the course of the three days we spent together, we would function as follows: the two guys would speak French to one another, Antoine and I would speak English to each other, and Antony and myself would speak Spanish to each other. Somehow it worked and we managed to maintain a perfectly normal triad. I even impressed myself with my Spanish-speaking abilities, particularly when Antoine and myself were alone together and actually maintained some more serious conversations.

The next morning the three of us headed off to go on a horseback ride out to a little village about six miles from town. We were joined by three others, two Swedish girls and a Scottish lassie. I hadn't ridden a horse since I was about six years old, but neither had most of the others in the group. And, there's no doubt that these poor horses make the same trek day in and day out and were about as tame as could be. The ride was fun, but not as scenic as we had expected because we actually rode straight through the city for about 15 minutes! Once we got out of the city we just took a long, winding road through the mountains--or hills--until we reached the village. My horse, Principe, kept tripping over his own feet on the downhill parts. I was positive that at any given moment me and Principe were going to go tumbling to the ground and I could envision myself being squashed by this animal who is quite a bit larger than myself...

On the winding road toward the village.

Principe resting in the shade after the long ride into the village.

Me 'n Principe gearing up for the ride back.

The group (Antony, Swede #1, Swede #2, Antoine, me).

The group (Antony, Swede #1, Swede #2, Scottish girl, Antoine).

We spent about an hour walking through the village, mainly sticking to the huge local market. We paid to use some public restrooms and the guys grabbed a few sodas while we all sat around a round plastic table in front of one of the many food stalls. A short old woman approached us, wrinkled, toothless and barefoot, asking for money. "One peso! One peso!" None of us had change, or we didn't give any of the change we did have. She wouldn't leave us alone and stepped right up into our 'personal bubbles,' shoving her hands right in our faces to demand the money from us. It's hard not to give in to some beggars, and like most people I think I am particularly inclined to give in to the children, but I also have a soft spot for old people (go figure). Well, this old woman quickly made my soft spot disappear and the group of us got up to continue on our stroll. She followed us for about 30 yards, along with a brood of young children, also with bare feet, but she eventually gave up on us.

After a long ride back to San Cristobal (sore ass and all), Antoine, the Scottish girl and myself enjoyed a delicious lunch of chicken tacos and beer. The rest of the afternoon and evening entailed strolling through the market and a long walk throughout the city. When Antoine and I left the hostel to go on our walk (which was really just an effort to search for the perfect gift for his mother and girlfriend), we had noticed some loud music coming from a doorway just across the street from the hostel. We peeked through the doorway, but were caught by three young boys and a middle aged woman dancing in the middle of the large room. She waved, we waved back, and then stepped away not wanting to bother them. But the boys came running to the door and waved us back. We peered through once again and now the woman was waving us in. All I could see were about 15 men, women and children dancing to the music--classic Mexicana music. They insisted we come in. We were invited on to the dance floor, but our initial hesitancy was respected and we were instead brought a nice warm cup of coffee and a place of hors d'oeuvres--mini round tortilla chips topped with chopped up tomatoes, onions and what tasted like bologna. Soon enough we gathered the courage to hit the dance floor and spent the next hour or so dancing. I moved my feet up and down, stepping side to side, trying to copy how they were dancing. It was certainly a first for me and far different from any dance I had ever done before, but I had a good time nonetheless. The little girls would run away from Antoine when he tried to dance with them, and the boys stayed far from my reach. At some point it occurred to me that here we were, celebrating a young woman's quinceanera with the entire family! Turns out it was also a party for her younger brother's first communion. We had officially become quinceanera-crashers, sweet! After we'd had our fill of dancing, we gave both kids a small monetary gift and thanked the mother for her kindness and generosity. I was on such a high after that, elated at the fact that I had just spent my evening celebrating a very important moment in the lives of two kids and their family. After leaving, Antoine and I continued our walk, stopping in jewelery stores to search through all of the amber and jade (San Cristobal has an overwhelming amount of amber and every other shop sells it). Despite that it was freezing cold, I indulged in a little dish of gelato before we called it a night.

I spent a lot of the next day on my own, walking around town and taking in the sights, making sure to stop by one of the several bakeries that were lined with shelves full of irresistibly sweet breads and fruit-filled pastries and chocolate donuts and frosted cookies. Mmmm...

A few of the churches and cathedrals scattered throughout the city:

(Me sitting under the large cross out in front of the large yellow cathedral).

At the local market--not the tourist market:

Other pictures taken while walking around:

A view of a main road through San Cristobal, lined with shops and restaurants--and no cars allowed!

The steps I climbed up to get a view of the city...

... and the view from the top.

That evening the three of us had decided we wanted to go to one of the local cinemas, which were known to play some great films and documentaries about the Zapatista movement in the Mexican state of Chiapas, where San Cristobal is located. We asked some woman on the street where we could find one of these cinemas, and she told us to catch a microbus around the corner. We followed her directions and hopped on the next one that came by. Turns out we were heading not toward a nice little independent cinema, but a massive Americanized movie theater inside a massive Americanized shopping mall. If I weren't in such good company I might have been very upset, but hey, gotta roll with the punches. We had time to kill before the show started (an American film with Spanish subtitles--exactly what I wanted to see), so we went in search for dinner. There was nowhere to eat outside of the shopping mall, so we took our various shopping mall dinner options into careful consideration--Domino's, McDonald's, or some sketchy looking Mexican fast food place--and agreed on a large pizza from Domino's. I felt as though I could have been in any given American city that night, walking through the mall with it's bright lights and tile floors and glass store fronts. Even the movie theater served over-sized buckets of popcorn and giant sodas and boxes of Whoppers, Raisinets and Sour Patch Kids. For those few hours that evening I no longer feeling like I was in Mexico...

Antoine had decided to leave the following day and head toward Puerto Escondido--and warmer weather. San Cristobal was cold. And I mean cold. The old colonial city sits at almost 7,000 feet elevation and although it was sunny during the days, once that sun set I couldn't even wear enough clothing to keep me warm. I slept with three wool blankets, my sleeping bag liner and multiple layers of clothing. I bought a wool hat and gloves and scarf at the market to wear in the evenings--and slept with them, too. Antoine, Antony and myself had all planned to stay at least four or five nights, maybe even a week in San Cristobal, but the cold ultimately drove us all away.

That night, my last night (after Antoine left, Antony and I had both decided we'd be leaving the next day), Antony and I went out in search of one of the real cinemas. I had seen earlier that they would be showing a documentary about the Zapatista movement in San Cristobal and Chiapas that occurred in the 90s. Remember, this is the guy whom I communicated almost strictly in Spanish with, so it made for an interesting evening in which I was forced to practice the language. I had no idea just how much I had actually learned until after that night, and I was pleasantly surprised with myself! The film was quite moving, and didn't hold back on showing dead bodies. It was hard to believe that all of this happened in places that I had just recently stepped foot on during my short timer in San Cristobal.

By the time the next afternoon rolled around, I was more than ready to leave this ice-cold city. Had it not been so cold I likely would have stayed longer, but with less than two weeks left of my travels, I wanted to end in a warm place before heading home to the cold and rain back home to the Pacific Northwest. So, at 5pm I said bon voyage to Antony and adios to San Cristobal, taking a night bus to Tulum.

Oh, I left San Cristobal on the evening of Halloween, but didn't leave too soon to see all of the adorable children parading through the central square in their costumes earlier that day. I have never seen so many children dressed in such great Halloween costumes. I only got one picture, but I chose carefully and captured this cute little guy--he was adorable:

A 20-Hour Stint in Palenque, Mexico

Palenque was a quick in-and-out for me; I was settled in my own little bungalow by noon, spent my afternoon at the ruins and was catching a minibus back to town early the next morning so I could head to San Cristobal. I don't usually like going through new places at such warp speed because I know there are things I am missing out on, yet sometimes it's just what has to be done.

It was a long journey here, to the Mexican town of Palenque, which sits in the lower foothills of the Sierra Madre mountain range. I caught a 10 a.m. boat out of Caye Caulker back to Belize city and then a 12:30 p.m. bus up to the Mexican border town of Chetumel (all of my border crossings were rather uneventful; I suppose this is a good thing, but then again I am always looking for adventure...). Arriving to the Chetumel bus station around 4:30 that afternoon, I wasn't quite sure where I wanted my next destination to be or whether to go to the mountains or the beach, but I decided on heading inland to Chiapas. There I could check out the ruins of Palenque and roam the city of San Cristobal de las Casas, a place in which every traveler I had met along my way had raved about. But unfortunately, that meant sitting in the bus station until my midnight bus was scheduled to depart.

What does one do while waiting in a Mexican bus station for 7 1/2 hours? In truth, I can hardly recall what I did. It's similar to when you have a several-hour layover in an airport, and somehow just find ways to pass the time; but then, when it's all over, you can't even remember what you actually did to amuse yourself. There wasn't much town around the station, and it was almost dark so my options were limited. I do know I spent a lot of time snacking. I found that I have a weakness for the numerous little tiendas set up in bus stations, full of eye-catching snacks like salted peanuts with a hint of lime flavoring, or the chocolate sandwich cookies with chocolate filling. Believe me when I say that the most exciting thing that happened to me that day was when the woman behind the counter in one of these tiendas informed me that they were open all night long.

Across the taxi-lined street from the bus station was a row of food stands selling the usual tacos and tortas. I hauled all my stuff over and chose one of the nearest ones with a girl who looked about my age running the show. I ordered three tacos and a Coca Cola, and took a seat at one of the plastic tables as I watched people go in and out of the bus station doors across the street. Something that seemed to happen more often than not in both Mexico and Guatemala (but more often in Guatemala), was that vendors never had change for large bills (unless they were selling things at the tourist market, in which case they would be sure to have all the proper change). This situation forced you venture around the streets until you found someone who did have change, and then buy something from them in order to obtain smaller bills, and then head back to your original spot to pay the patiently waiting vendor. Well, this bus station taco stand was one of those times, so I went through the entire routine and came back to the woman at the taco stand with proper change. She was less than pleased about this but hey, she got her money.

I don't remember much about the bus ride since it took place between the hours of 12-8am. When I got to the Palenque bus station I just sat there for about ten minutes gathering myself and deciding what to do next. In order to pass the time a little, I found a little cafe that advertised having good coffee so that's where I started--a nice cappuccino and some bite-size Mexican pastries. Feeling re-energized, I asked the lady at the cafe where I could find some internet, thinking perhaps I could do a little research about where to stay around Palenque. I settled on most people's advice to not stay in town, but rather a place called El Panchan, which sits up the road closer to the ruins. It had started to rain at this point, and I was less than enthused about my current situation of trying to find a place to stay with all my bags in yet another unfamiliar place in the world. I had read that I just needed to catch a collectivo going toward the ruins and they'd drop you off in El Panchan, so that's what I did. But, not without making a stop in the grocery store to buy some snacks first :)

The sky was a dark gray and I was feeling exhausted from the past 24 hours. I was dropped off on the side of the road and headed down the gravel road off to the side toward this El Panchan place. I wasn't quite clear on what El Panchan was, but turns out it's a little collection of hostels/bungalows and a restaurant and internet cafe that sits somewhat secluded in the Mexican jungle--of sorts. A very endearing, peaceful and attractive place, but after being less than pleased with the price of a bed at the first few places I checked, I went back to the main road and crossed the street to another place called Jungle Palace to see what they could offer me. They offered my own personal bungalow for 100 pesos, or about US$7.50 at the time (the dollar was fairly strong, and getting stronger, against the peso during a lot of my time in Mexico). It took me all of about three seconds to let the man know I'd take it for the night. My room was just a big square space with a thatched roof, screened windows wrapping around the entire room, a bed, a desk and a stool. I couldn't shut my door all the way, nor could I lock it from the inside, but I could keep it shut by putting my backpack or the stool against it and that was good enough for me. The rain was just short of a down-pour at this point so I pulled all the curtains, ate some chocolate sandwich cookies and went to bed. I think it was still pretty early in the day, before noon sometime I think.

I woke up feeling rested--and to the brightly shining sun! I made the quick decision to gather myself and head to the ruins while the sun was out, knowing full well that the rains could--and probably would--be back anytime. But this was just as likely the next day so why not risk it now instead of waiting to take the same exact risk tomorrow? Jumping on the chance of visiting the ruins in the sunshine I started what turned out to be a 45-minute walk (much of it uphill) to the ruins from Jungle Palace. Walking along the road, and faithfully ignoring all of the collectivos beeping their horns at me thinking I'd like a ride, I had reached what I assumed to be the main entrance after about 20 minutes. The sun was hot, beating down on me, and I had definitely developed a nice collection of beads of sweat all over my body, not to mention soaked the back of my tank top. I walked up to the gate, only to find out the main entrance in which one needed to first stop to purchase a ticket into the park was up the road still. The man didn't tell me exactly how far--or maybe he did and I just didn't catch it. All I needed to know was which direction to go on the road. So I continued my walk, my bag getting heavier and heavier since I had filled it with a snack, lots of water, a few books, umbrella, rain coat and my camera. An over-the-shoulder bag like this was nice for some things--convenient to carry while also carrying a large backpack on your back when on the move between destinations--but very inconveniently painful and heavy when carrying just that for hours at a time.

After walking uphill for what seemed like forever and a thousand miles (and hearing what I believed to be the deep roaring of howler monkeys in the distance!) I made it to the entrance. This is how I got my exercise during those three and a half months--unexpected hikes like this one, in addition to roaming new towns and cities by foot for hours and hours. The ruins were, of course, spectacular. I was thankful to be on my own this time and without a group of twenty others, but the downfall is you don't learn as much about what you're looking at and you don't get to share the magic of where you are with anybody else (also one of the main reasons not to travel alone, in my opinion--though there are many reasons to travel alone, also). I was given a very vague map of the area that was meant to help me make my way around the ruins in an efficient manner that made some sense, and despite it's lack of clarity it turned out to be a big help. I followed the pathways around the park, climbed up countless numbers of steps to get as close to a bird's eye view of the surrounding area as possible, and ducked through little openings and doors into dark hallways and connecting rooms. There were few parts of the ruins that were roped off like there were in Tikal and Copan, at least to my memory (which is not usually that reliable). The Palenque ruins were different than both Tikal and Copan; the grandeur of Tikal's huge temples and the detail of the stone carving in Copan were both like nothing I've ever seen. Palenque offered some spectacular temples and, as you can see in the pictures below, a great visual of what the city may have been like when it was thriving. Sitting high atop the temples I would look out over the city and try to imagine life as it was--mostly to no avail, but it was still fun to contemplate my sense of wonder.

Just as I was finishing my walk through the ruins a few hours later the rains started. The dark clouds rolled in and out came my rain jacket and umbrella. I left the park at the same place I first stopped on my way there--the entrance that wasn't really an entrance. Since I knew the walk wouldn't take longer than about 20 minutes, I decided to get some more exercise and forge ahead on foot in the rain. Truthfully, it was rather refreshing. When I returned to my cabana, I took another short nap and then headed across the road back to El Panchan in search of dinner. I ate a big plate of pasta with pesto (an authentic Mexican dish for sure) and drank a glass of lemonade. After dinner I made a quick stop to use the internet and then I read until I went to sleep. It was about 7pm. No doubt about it, I had made the decision to leave Palenque the next morning. There wasn't really anything else for me to do in the area and my travel time was winding down.

Here are several pictures from the ruins:

These were some waterfalls at the end of my walk through the ruins; I can't imagine living in a place so magical...

These were my second pair of flip-flops on the trip (I went through three); I finally left them behing in Palenque after they had broken on me several times for the past weeks and I was forced to re-tape them with duct tape over and over again.

Caye Caulker

My days in Belize were short, but never to be forgotten. I spent three nights here in Caye Caulker, though I could have easily stayed at least a week relaxing in the sun all day and strolling the white-sand streets, dodging golf carts from time to time, and then filling my evenings with seafood, Belikin (locally brewed beer) and reggae and live punta music. This tiny little car-free island is about 5 miles long and less than a mile wide, sitting about 20 miles off the coast of Belize City. There are certain places on the island where you can stand on the shoreline of one side and look all the way down the street several blocks to the shoreline on the other side, it's so narrow.



First arriving to Caye Caulker mid-afternoon, I was immediately intercepted by a local man trying to lead me to a "good" hotel before I even stepped off the boat and onto the dock. I gave in, letting him wheel my bags on a little metal cart, and followed him through the sandy streets for about 10-15 minutes until we reached Loraine's Guesthouse. I was not overly enthused about what I saw, but was even less enthused about turning back to wind my way through the streets to find a place on my own. I gave a final "yes" when she told me that I could have the last upstairs bungalow, complete with a hammock on the balcony, instead of the ground floor room she had shown me first. At that moment it didn't matter to me that I had to pay for two nights on the spot; I realized why she did this almost immediately--it was a dump of a place and far away from town compared to most other places, making it incredible inconvenient and unattractive to anybody staying for more than one night.





I had only left Placencia that morning, which meant sick was fresh on my breath. I was afraid to eat, having eaten next to nothing all day in fear of experiencing another bout of Montezuma's Revenge while on the road in Belizean public transport--despite the fast-acting results of pepto chewables and Imodium. I took a quick nap, or perhaps I read in my hammock (I can't seem to remember what I did), before eventually strolling leisurely into town to check out the Caye Caulker scene. I walked aimlessly on the streets until I decided to head back to my hotel, if you can call it that. On the way I stopped at a supermarket (all of which are owned and operated by Chinese families on the island, interestingly) and bought myself some bread, peanut butter and Gatorade. That bread and peanut butter would become my best friend over the course of the next few days.

An idea of what the streets looked like on the island; I didn't have a picture of my own so I found this one on the internet from http://www.panoramio.com/photo/5018347

"Island life" was fun for the few days it lasted; sunbathing, swimming in crystal clear waters, the laid-back energy of the locals that is immediately absorbed by any non-local that steps foot on the island... On my first morning there I ran into a guy named Harry who takes groups of people out snorkeling and happened to have a group going out in the early afternoon, so after making sure I could snorkel with a life jacket (I didn't want to be stressing about my weak swimming skills and fear of water while trying to admire all the fascinating sea creatures), I agreed to meet back there later to head out into the open waters. Until then, I sat in the sun and read my book at "the split." The Split is between the north and south halves of the island. Back in 1961 Hurricane Hattie created this divide, and since then it's only gotten wider (with the help of people so their boats could pass through). This is the best swimming area, so a lot of people hang out here.





I ended up on my snorkeling tour with an interesting group of people: about 6 middle-aged adults from the Netherlands who were traveling together with their guide, a woman also from the Netherlands, who has been coming to the island year after year for quite some time, a Costa Rican woman about my age, and a guy from France, also about my age. Our guide, Harry, was a friendly, enthusiastic but down to earth man with short sandy colored dreadlocks and often had a cigarette hanging from his lips. The boat made three stops altogether, one of which for the sole purpose was to swim with stingrays! No joke, there were at least 30 of them swimming all around us in the water, darting this way and that. Harry had assured us that they won't sting, as he bent over the edge of the boat and playfully lifted one of them up halfway out of the water, shaking it a little side to side like you might do while playing around with a pet dog. I got my fill after reaching out a few times to allow my fingers to glide over the smooth, rubbery skinned rays as they swam by, but I didn't feel daring enough to take it beyond that. Life under the sea is truly amazing, and I can see why divers and snorkelers become enthusiastically addicted to the sports. One of my favorites, aside from the stingrays, was the brain coral. According to Wikipedia brain corals can grow as high as six feet, but the ones I saw were probably closer to 3-4 feet tall and wide--still very impressive if you ask me. At our last stop, Harry had dove into the water only to surface with a conch from the ocean floor (possible illegally at that time of year, I'm still not quite sure) that was to become dinner later that evening. We all watched as he cut off the meaty, edible part of the creature and discarded the rest--but not before it was passed around first as a plaything on the boat...






At the end of the snorkeling trip we all made plans to meet back up later for dinner and a night out on the island. Harry's friend owned a little stand on the beach called Fran's Grill so we all feasted on barbecued chicken and seafood and listened to live music--and let's not forget our catch of the day, the conch, admittedly a little too chewy for my liking.






Later we headed out to a reggae bar called I&I, a pretty cool place with swings instead of stools at the bar.


That second night was the only time I would really hang out with those people; although, I had a few conversations with Harry when I would run into him on the streets, ended up seeing the Costa Rican girl again before she left to go back home, and ran into the French guy in my hostel in Tulum, Mexico a few weeks later. They were quite the fun group for a night, though.

I spent several hours the next day at the split; being low season still it was nice and not crowded by any means. I was so relaxed and everything was just perfect that what seemed like an hour ended up being several. I had also left Loraine's Guesthouse early that morning, having paid my two night's dues, and found a nice room at a hotel for US$30 (a major splurge) at a place called Rainbow Hotel. It was right in the middle of town, was clean, and had a tv. I hadn't watched any television for nearly my entire trip, and being so close to the upcoming elections in the states I felt the need to indulge myself in some CNN (if you recall, Belize is a predominately English speaking country). And, I had been staying in semi to moderately dumpy--but tolerable--hostels for so long I thought I would just treat myself a room with guaranteed hot water and where I didn't have to worry about what kinds of spiders and other insects I would undoubtedly and unknowingly be encountering on this night. Throughout the day I made a few friends with some personable locals, who, at least on the island, always want to chat and convince you to come on this boat ride or go to that party or buy their artwork that they're selling on the streets. Yet, despite their assertiveness in approaching you and initiating conversation, they still didn't come across as too pushy. Or, rather, I think I just became more assertive and less worried about telling them no--again, and again, and again. Although, I did finally say yes to a man who was willing to chop open a coconut for me and insert a little neon colored straw so I could drink the presumably cleansing and hydrating coconut water, for a few Belize dollars, of course (the exchange rate between US and Belize dollars is set at BZ$2 to US$1).


Sometime in the late afternoon while still relaxing on the split, low and behold, my buddies Sean and Noam came strolling up. I believe by now this was my fourth encounter with them (Rio Dulce, Livingston and Placencia), only to be succeeded by one final encounter in Tulum later down the road. Turns out they also knew an Israeli guy who I had talked with earlier in the day whom I had apparently already spent some time around, although my memory had failed me on this one and I had no idea who this guy was. The three guys, myself, and another girl they had also befriended talked for a while longer at the split, and then walked over to the west side of the island to watch the sunset. As the sun lowered over the Caribbean, the five of us stood on a dock and watched a group of young boys playing in the water, diving off the dock and even off a large fishing boat. They put on quite a show, especially once my camera came out. After the sun went down, we all went back to our respective hotels and hostels, ate our own dinners, and then met back up later at I&I, the reggae bar. It was a chill evening, sitting on hammocks and swings up on the rooftop of the bar, the cool Caribbean breeze blowing against my sticky skin. A group of locals, a few of whom I'd already gotten to know (it doesn't take long on Caye Caulker to make local friends), showed up and we all mingled for a while. A few of them had spent some time in Eugene and raved about their love and appreciation for the city and its people. I am almost positive they were in town for marijuanna related purposes. Just an (educated) guess I will throw out there. The good thing is, when you meet people who are as enthusiastic about a place and its people as these guys were about Eugene, they automatically love you and think you're just as cool and great as the people they base their perceptions on!










I left the next morning at 10am for no real defined reason, against the requests from my new friends Harry and "Big Steve." Even though I could have happily stayed a while longer, I felt that this still wasn't the place I wanted to park myself for the majority of the remainder of my travels. There was still more to see in the next few weeks before heading back to Oregon, and I still carried with me a mild sense of urgency to keep going--in a very laid back, living in the moment kind of way :)