So, Tom and I were up bright and early, groggily walking in the dark down the main road through Livingston toward the dock with the all of the other early risers in town, all of them appearing to be locals heading out for work, or school, or perhaps a day trip into Puerto Barrios for a doctor's appointment, or just passing through to catch a bus heading onward. In front of us two teenagers strolled down the road, one with a backpack and one carrying a small Nike duffel bag over his shoulder, exchanging words in Creole that I didn't understand. With only about a five minute walk from our hotel to the dock, we reached the large ferry early enough to score some decent seats and proceeded to arrange ourselves and our bags accordingly. In other words, we staked out a spot where we could easily situate ourselves in a comfortable enough manner to sleep. I am pretty sure we were both fast asleep before the ferry even started to move...
I don't remember much of the two-hour boat ride. People were quiet, they didn't really speak but instead sat and stared out into the darkness or tried to sleep, their heads bobbing up and down. The children were all sleeping, curled up in any empty corners or spread across piles of luggage. I drifted in and out of sleep, but I do recall watching an old woman whom I had noticed board the boat with who I presume to be her daughter. The woman never said a word from the moment she got on the boat; she sat down where her daughter placed her and stayed put for the duration. To me, she seemed as though she could have some sort of dementia, maybe Alzheimer's. It was in her face and eyes, they looked somewhat confused, maybe a little anxious and slightly empty. She sat the entire time with her hands clasped on her lap, nervously eying the people around her. Yet at the same time, it was obvious that she knew she was in the good hands of her daughter and stayed quietly seated until her daughter helped her off the ferry later that morning. I remember being nervous for this woman while she was stepping off the boat, because it was a large step down, the woman being pretty shaky on her feet, and nobody was really there to offer help to her or her daughter as they stepped down. Thankfully,nothing happened.
After arriving to Puerto Barrios, Tom and I had some time to spare so we grabbed what was to be my last traditional Guatemalan breakfast of beans, eggs, hot sauce, rice, corn tortillas and instant Nescafe coffee with powdered creamer. Then, after being a good friend and walking me to the Immigration office so I could get all legal matters settled before crossing (via water) the border into Belize, it was time to say so long to Tom.
Just as we departed ways, the rains came. Great, just what I wanted to do, take another two-hour boat ride across the ocean during a rainstorm! I sat around by myself at the docks, sheltered from the rain, until it was time to go. A girl, probably about ten, kept sitting next to me before gathering up the nerve to speak with me. I think her dad was working on the docks. Unfortunately, I understood very little of what she was saying and all I ended up getting out of her was that my boat was to leave at 9:30am. After she realized she wouldn't get much out of me, she went on her merry way, skipping around the docks with a few other kids. I watched truck after truck back in to load cargo on the various boats at the dock, until it was finally my turn to go. This boat was no large ferry like the last one I took, but more like a large speedboat that seats about ten with space for luggage in the front. With the rain still pouring down, me sitting on the far left side of the bench seat, and a stream of cold rainwater constantly dripping off the edge of the canopy right into my lap, I was ready to get this trip over with before it even started. Each row got its own tarp that we draped over ourselves to keep us dry, so during the entire boat ride over to Punta Gorda, there I was with a tarp wrapped around my entire body blind to everything around me--including the massive sets of waves that lie ahead--as we crashed our way into the borders of Belize.
My five days in the Caribbean town of Livingston had provided me some insight into what I might expect from Belize and its people, a drastic change in culture from what I had become accustomed to in Guatemala. It was strange, no longer being around only people of Mayan and Spanish descent, but also black Caribs who spoke English and Creole. Truthfully, I was too tired to take much notice of any of it once I arrived to Punta Gorda anyway, and with the help of some friendly locals made my way to a random street corner in town where the bus toward Placencia was supposed to stop. I never would have gotten anywhere throughout this entire journey without the kind assistance from local people; everybody was always willing to help me out when I needed to get somewhere, tell me which bus or boat to take, or when it was supposed to arrive (you cannot necessarily count on punctuality when it comes to public transportation here). Even when these conversations occurred only in Spanish, which almost all of them did, the language barrier didn't seem to affect the interaction in the least bit. And, not one time did anybody seem to be annoyed by yet another confused traveler who couldn't speak Spanish.
I stood on that street corner for about half an hour before the bus finally came. I had rushed there and arrived all sweaty after walking as fast as I could through the streets of Punta Gorda in the direction that I thought the guy sitting outside of Immigration and Customs had told me to go (I was not overly confident that I had understood what he said, but I had become quite used to winding through unfamiliar streets by now, just hoping to reach my intended destination somehow, so I had moved quickly and hoped for the best). He and a woman from the UK (who is now a resident of Punta Gorda) had warned me that the bus I needed to take had just passed and I was likely going to miss it. Well, turned out I beat the bus that day, and I even stopped on my way to withdraw money from an ATM--a absolutely necessary task when arriving to a new country. I figured the Q15 (the equivalent of about US$2) wouldn't get me very far in Belize.
I stood by myself on that corner for a while, watching the gray sky get grayer, hoping that the rains would be forgiving on just this one afternoon. It had been a long day and the last thing I wanted was to get soaking wet--again. It wasn't too long before I was approached by a teenage boy, hand outstretched, looking for money. He was very pushy and it took a long time for me to make him go away. After grabbing a few snacks from down the street (a risky move, given I didn't know what time the bus was to arrive, but necessary nonetheless--I was hungry!), I watched and listened to a tall black man in a business suit standing on the sidewalk across the street singing and whistling all sorts of familiar tunes. It was about noon, and all of the uniform-clad schoolchildren were walking in groups down the sidewalks, or riding their bikes through the streets for their lunch break. The girls were gossiping and giggling, the boys showing off for the girls. A group of four other Mayan woman soon joined me on the corner and were also approached by the same teenage boy looking for money, hand outstretched. One of the younger women wasted no time before quickly turning her back and walking away, another woman who was sitting on the curb ignored him until finally yelling something at him in her Mayan language. He left and walked across the street in search of the next person...
Finally the bus arrived, an old American school bus just like in Guatemala, but this one quite a bit more tame in decor and the driving habits of the man behind the wheel. I spent that bus ride in my own little tired world and arrived to Mango Creek/Independence a few hours later (the place in which I was to now take yet another boat in order to get to Placencia). Once again, I was not sure where on earth I was headed as I got off the bus, but once again, I was not the least bit worried about it. This feeling, which arose in me a fair number of times throughout my trip, was a welcome feeling. It was exciting to not know exactly how I was going to get where I wanted to go next; my Lonely Planet only took me so far and after that I relied the people around me and my own intuition (well, that or good luck and fortune, or maybe just good karma). The novelty of navigating through one new place after another never wore down and remained a thrill to me for the duration.
I started heading down a long stretch of worn down dirt road toward where I was told the boats to Placencia were. It didn't look to be heading in a direction where I'd likely find boats, but I gave it a shot anyway. It was cloudy but hot and muggy outside; bunches of kids were running around and playing in front of their run-down houses, the majority of which had a line or two of drying clothes in the yard. Looking back, I wish I would have taken photos of all the clotheslines I saw throughout my trip because they were everywhere. I know, I could pick something far more interesting than drying clothes but, in my defense, it wasn't so much the actual clothing I would have wanted to capture as the context in which it all existed. Up on the rooftops with half-century old churches and volcanoes in the background, or with small naked children running around with the family's chickens underneath, barefoot and covered in dirt, or in front of a small, square, one-room home made of cement blocks, the rusted metal roofing collapsed on one corner, seemingly ready to fall off completely with the next big storm. Sometimes the same clothes would remain on the lines for days, through all of the afternoon and nighttime rains, until it stayed sunny or dry long enough for them to fully dry.
I got to where I needed to be, the water taxi station, and waited for the next boat. Ten Belize dollars (US$5) and a twenty-minute ride later, I arrived to the dock in Placencia. Long story short, I ended up taking a three person apartment with two Dutch girls named Maaike and Jessica who had been on the bus with me. They had been to Placencia once before and had stayed at this same place during their first visit. These apartments are owned by a guy from L.A. who's been living down in Belize for going on 13 years or so. The town itself was dead due to the combination of it still being the "low season" and a vast amount of rains that had recently passed over the entire country, causing terrible flooding all over. The flood waters in Placencia were beginning to recede by this time, but much of the sidewalks were still underwater and many of the homes still had a pathway of boards lined up from their front doors to dry land. Few of the restaurants and shops were even open yet, holding out for the upcoming "high season," I guess.
Our first afternoon in Placencia, trying to stay dry amidst the rain and flooded sidewalks (with Maaike)
Water from the rains (notice the boards on the right--that's how we got from town to our apartment)
Flooded sidwalk
Serious about dominoes on our first night in the Barefoot (Jessica on the left, Devin on the right)The next day brought long sought after sunshine, which called for none other than... a beach day! After grabbing a late breakfast, we planted ourselves on the empty beach and laid there until late afternoon. Then, after a walk through town and visit to the local internet cafe and supermarket, to Barefoot we went. It was another happening night at the one venue in town that operated as the only restaurant, bar and social gathering place. In actuality, it was a pretty happening night, but by 'low-season-in-a-tourist-country' standards, of course.
Approximately where our afternoon on the beach took place--except in the sun.Our local buddies Devin, Doyle and David (these three names are just too good--and fun to say together) were there again--and with their dominoes ready for some more competition. After playing more rounds of dominoes than I'd like to ever play throughout the rest of my life combined, the guys were headed off to David's apartment for a home cooked meal. Being the 'friendly' local residents that they were, the invited us to come along. We sat in their apartment for the next hour or two, politely declining their food offers as we'd already eaten that evening. I did, however, gladly take the bites of fried Yellow Tail Snapper that were handed to me on a fork three separate times (after all, I didn't know when I'd ever return to Placencia and have the opportunity to eat locally caught and cooked fish). I also had the rare (or maybe not so rare... ?) opportunity to pose with a cop for a picture (well, he didn't exactly know he was going to be in my picture); this cop had unexpectedly let himself into the apartment and completely thrown me off-guard, given that one of the guys had his--um, grass--out in plain sight on the table. But, it ended up that the cop was a friend of theirs and couldn't care less about that. Ha, that's Belize, baby. By about midnight, Maaike, Jessica and myself decided to make our way back to our place. Walking late at night in the dark in Belize was never a concern for me like it was in Guatemala; the places I passed through in Belize didn't present the same risks and potential threats that I was unfortunately warned about during my time in Guatemala.
Me sneaking a picture with the cop; although, it looks like he's on to us...
At David's apartment (clockwise from left: David, Doyle, Maaike, Devin, me).
Doyle holding up one of the Yellow Tail Snappers that was to become their dinner.I had managed to not get very sick throughout all of Guatemala, despite that I had begun eating street food everywhere I went--including deliciously cooked red meat steak tacos cooked directly in front of me, with lettuce, tomatoes and all. I had built up my stomach to handle any food that entered my mouth. Until this night.
WARNING: THE FOLLOWING DESCRIPTION MAY CONTAIN GRAPHIC CONTENT. READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION.
I woke up at about 2am with the worst stomach cramps. I didn't think much of them at first, but as I tossed and turned, curling up in the fetal position, I began to wonder if there wasn't something seriously wrong with my insides. I got up to use the bathroom, and soon found out that there was indeed something wrong with my insides. Everything I had consumed that day came out of me in a matter of seconds. I went back to my backpack and dug out my Pepto chewable tablets. I wasn't ready for the more serious over-the-counter or prescription meds just yet; no, I was way tougher than that, I could handle this. So I took a few small sips of water to help fend of any impending dehydration and went back to sleep. Turns out I was wrong. My alarm went off around 6am so I could catch the first water taxi out of there in order to get myself on the early bus to Belize City. Yes, this was supposed to be a travel day for me and the last thing anybody wants on a travel day is feeling as though they are losing their insides with each stop at the toilet. I got up and headed straight for the bathroom, with whatever had taken over my stomach the previous night not having finished with me just yet. I had no choice but to give in and pop one of the Fred Meyers brand over-the-counter pills I brought along from home. I bought another bottle of water and a Gatorade on my way to the dock and hoped for the best. And, I am pleased to say, got the best (although, I think it helped that I didn't eat or drink anything until about 5pm that day).
*That was for all of you who have asked about whether I ever got sick; this was of course nothing compared to what it could have been and I am happy to say this was my worst encounter. My guess is that it came from either the fish itself or the tap water used to rinse the fish (although, I did only take three small bites... so I really don't know).
The Yellow Tail Snappers, alleged culprit of my intestinal issues in Placencia.I got off the water taxi from Placencia and made the long walk back to where the buses come--a gravel parking lot outside of a restaurant called Sherl's. How wonderfully amusing. Turns out I was misinformed about what time the bus to Belize City was supposed to arrive, so I sat on a small rock not even the size of my left cheek (and I'm not talking about the ones on my face) for about an hour and a half until the bus came. Luckily for me, it was another beautiful day, sin la lluvia (without the rain).
Some more of Placencia...
Waiting for the bus at Sherl's, passing the time...
Finally, the bus came and it was off to Belize City for me and then on to Caye Caulker. I ended up sitting in front of an expat from somewhere in the states. He had lived in Belize for several years, maybe even for a few decades. He was answering all of my questions about the recent flooding that occurred all over the country, which made me feel better about ditching my original plans of also going to several other towns in Belize. It was my understanding that the north and south parts of Belize are, for some reason or another, connected only by a bridge that unfortunately was washed out the previous May during a terrible storm. Since then everybody from the south wanting to get to the north, and everybody from the north wanting to get to the south had to use this make-shift gravel bridge over the water that had to be rebuilt every few days or so because it, too, was continuously washed out.
It was a big to-do when our bus arrived to this river. We sat there for a while, everybody looking out at the scene around us. Buses, cars, trucks, motorcycles, people standing around on foot--all waiting to cross to the other side. Although everything was running relatively smoothly, it was still quite the commotion. Finally, our bus started to move forward toward this gravel bridge, but not without letting on enough other people to fill the bus to its full capacity (and if you recall, this means using up every square inch of space--three to a seat and people standing in the aisle). As we started to slowly cross the bridge, which really only sat a few feet above water level, all I could think about was how heavy a huge bus full of people could be and that it might be just heavy enough to destroy the pile of rocks underneath it, sending us all downstream. Once again, it was my imagination that got the best of me as we made it safely to the other side. All of our temporary guests stepped out and we continued on our way to Belize City.
It was always my encounters with public transportation (mostly in Guatemala) that I feared for my life the most; my life, and the lives of everybody there with me, was in the hands of one or two people and there was ultimately nothing I could do about it. I had heard horror stories about the chicken buses in Guatemala and their crazy drivers, but never can one really know what it's like until one steps onto that bus, takes a seat and hands her life over to the road gods. I once heard from another traveler that the reason so many of the drivers maneuver along the steep, twisting and turning roads the way they do (blindly passing another bus uphill and on a sharp turn, coasting downhill and warp speed in the wrong lane, etc.) is because they are running from the Guatemalan mafia (or something like that, but we'll stick with the use of "mafia" for the sake of the story). This person had heard that often times, the drivers are somehow connected to the mafia (generally owing them money) and it's not unheard of for the mafia to hop on the bus and shoot the driver. Seems like a bit of a stretch, no? Well, I love and respect the country of Guatemala and wish it didn't have such a terrible reputation for some things, but after spending nearly three months there I would not doubt this traveler's tale to hold at least some truth to it.
Back to Belize...
It was a big to-do when our bus arrived to this river. We sat there for a while, everybody looking out at the scene around us. Buses, cars, trucks, motorcycles, people standing around on foot--all waiting to cross to the other side. Although everything was running relatively smoothly, it was still quite the commotion. Finally, our bus started to move forward toward this gravel bridge, but not without letting on enough other people to fill the bus to its full capacity (and if you recall, this means using up every square inch of space--three to a seat and people standing in the aisle). As we started to slowly cross the bridge, which really only sat a few feet above water level, all I could think about was how heavy a huge bus full of people could be and that it might be just heavy enough to destroy the pile of rocks underneath it, sending us all downstream. Once again, it was my imagination that got the best of me as we made it safely to the other side. All of our temporary guests stepped out and we continued on our way to Belize City.
It was always my encounters with public transportation (mostly in Guatemala) that I feared for my life the most; my life, and the lives of everybody there with me, was in the hands of one or two people and there was ultimately nothing I could do about it. I had heard horror stories about the chicken buses in Guatemala and their crazy drivers, but never can one really know what it's like until one steps onto that bus, takes a seat and hands her life over to the road gods. I once heard from another traveler that the reason so many of the drivers maneuver along the steep, twisting and turning roads the way they do (blindly passing another bus uphill and on a sharp turn, coasting downhill and warp speed in the wrong lane, etc.) is because they are running from the Guatemalan mafia (or something like that, but we'll stick with the use of "mafia" for the sake of the story). This person had heard that often times, the drivers are somehow connected to the mafia (generally owing them money) and it's not unheard of for the mafia to hop on the bus and shoot the driver. Seems like a bit of a stretch, no? Well, I love and respect the country of Guatemala and wish it didn't have such a terrible reputation for some things, but after spending nearly three months there I would not doubt this traveler's tale to hold at least some truth to it.
Back to Belize...
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