By Phil FreedomPhotos by Phil Freedom
Placencia Belize. 600 residents and I’m sure the tourists can triple those numbers in the high season. I’m in a closet with internet access and air conditioning, something not very widespread out here. The Carribean sea is to my right, out the window with thatchet roof over a restaurant, smaller tables nearby and some scattered palms in the sand. This is your typical island photo op. I mean it’s fucking gorgeous and the water is as clear as can be. Mostly light-skinned European-descended Americans around, which is not the average residence of Belize.
Tikal was crazy. Hot as shit, with a large galaxy of Mayan ruins, much of which have still to be dug up. We opted for the tents at Jaguar Inn, first, I thought for the ‘back to nature feel,’ and second for it being cheaper, and lastly cause it was all they had left. I would advise against it. We wandered early that evening to catch some of the stuff we thought the tour might miss, and besides the tickets last for 24 hours and there really wasn’t anything else to do. The guy asking about tickets spoke only Spanish and carried an automatic rifle (which can be pretty intimidating), like much of the security in Guatemala. Not sure what to say about the park though. It is mostly made of large step pyramids, in varying degrees of decay and reconstruction, and like I said, much of it is still to be discovered, dug out, or reconstructed. The size of it is most intriguing and then contemplating what the hell they were for. Celebrating the kings, tracking the stars, and the weather, sacrificing animals and people, watching ball games, celebrating the organization of labor, watching nearby temples, touching the heavens, having a good place to throw spears from. I don’t mean to downplay its significance, it just seems like its mostly speculation, like much of anthropology is I suppose.
Here’s the intense part, after a sweltering dinner we headed for the tent. The air mattress and air pillows had that soft fuzzy texture making them seem comfortable at first, but after a few ten minute increments of stand-still sweating, a bit more gross. I imagine quite a number of people had sweated deep into those mattresses years before we had got there. Not that I was too grossed out, but I was just not used to sweating the night through. Me Novia (that’s Espanol for girlfriend) was a bit sick and I could smell her cough in the air. I figured if I was going to get sick it would be now (I didn’t though, phew). So I sweated and sweated and slept for brief intervals wondering how long the night would last if we were to be up at 4am for the morning tour. The fun thing about sharing an air mattress is that every move is felt by both people, and I could feel both the edges of the tent cause of my 6 foot stature. So I tried and tried to stay in dreamland as long as possible and then finally I woke up and wondered how much longer it could be, and damnit! I was close! It was almost four. I delightfully jumped out of bed and headed for the front where we were to meet up with the tour guides. It was very dark still and there was only one other couple from the hotel. Then out of nowhere, three vans and a tour bus full of American and European tourists swarmed to the scene. Our tour guide, Louis, asked for our handwritten “tickets” like all tickets are here, and we began to take to the temple in packs.
It really was gorgeous. We all, I think almost only light skinned except for the tour guides and the other couple from the Inn, marched to the top of temple four, to watch the jungle wake up. I wanted to sleep, holding my head between my legs and hands, thinking that hearing the jungle was just as good as watching. A few birds flew around and one bird seemed to be the main instigator of the whole thing. The monkeys were not howling and the sun was obscured by either mist or smoke or clouds (they all seem to blend at times), but it still was very beautiful. The different trees all jam packed together, the light but cool breeze, and the other temples where mock human sacrifices were being held (kidding, kidding).
The guide Louis, divided us up into language groups and showed us English speakers around. He was native and interested in the development of Mayan understanding so it felt legit. We did end up seeing almost everything on the tour, and he was open for questions, which helps. It was definitely cool and worth it, but damn that tent was hot! Stay in Flores and catch the bus like 90% of the other tourists did. We had breakfast at the Jaguar Inn and my man Freddie burned a disk of my flicks so I can take more! Woohoo! He spoke more English than most, hooked us up with a trip to the border, and had a whole set of gold front frames. Lots of people do down here. Gold teeth but mostly frames.
Off to the sandy beaches of Belize. Our driver, Carlos, didn’t speak any English, but happliy drove us to the border which is only paved about halfway from the main route. The part that was paved had potholes the size of manhole covers every couple meters it seemed. He picked up a few other people along the way and dropped them off without asking for dough. The last guy gave him some though. At the border, another guy gets in and tries to seal the deal on our ride into cities in Belize.
He’s friends with a guy on the other side and they work together for a little kickback. We pay ten Quatzales to leave Guatemala and are then approached by money dealers. Like street hustlers, but they’re just trading money, and I think its all for the same rate. We get some ‘Belize’ and head through to customs, who pay us no mind, except asking where we are to stay. Homies’ homie picks us up and offers to take us anywhere. Of course its more than a bus will be but we need to get somewhere, especially if we will have any luck getting as far as we want. Instead of San Ignacio, we have him take us to the bus at Belmopan. From here, we board an old American school bus that is packed to the hilt with people. 30 seats, 2 to a seat, with about 15 standing in the isle. It looked fairly multiethnic, but as the drive set on, things became more clear. The white people are tourists, the Latinos are few, and the country is predominately black. It was dope really, I like the experience of minority status, but I don’t think I like being of the tourist class. I stood all the way to Dangringa in the Isle, well almost all the way. About an hour and a half.
We got off at Dangringa thinking that we would stay here for the night, and add one more city to our list. It was hot, it still is, its fucking central America, the only country in central America where English is the official language. Which is kinda funny since most people consider the main language, Creole. Now Creole seems to mean different things to different people, just ask someone, then ask someone else. The language sounds a lot like Jamaican English, which it is. Some people will tell you its a hodge-podge of Spanish, French, English, and Garafuna, but I’ve talked with enough locals that stand firm in their assertion that its just broken English. I do like it though. No one teaches it, its just spoken. I think it would have a gang of hyphens, accent marks, and silent letters, as well as accepted expressions. Our tour guide today, Euver, says some people want to teach it and there are dictionaries for Creole now-I might have to pick one up.
I crossed the street, ‘cause it was the closest food source and there was a young boy and his kid sister. He said fish and chicken were ont he menu. I said fish, he called back into the kitchen and they said there was no fish. So I said chicken, and he calls back to the kitchen, comes back to the counter and grabs one of two styro-foam meal boxes that were on display and hands me one. Uh…uh…okaaaay……We walk up to their elevated eating area with the lonely fan oscillating and snack down. It wasn’t bad. The mayonnaise container had some spicy funk inside, and the place looked weathered bad. Hurricanes I guess.
We decide we should just try to make it all the way down to Placencia, where we had reservations. So we wait in the bus stop, where the schedule is handwritten, and the two doors have signs saying gate 1 and gate 2. Back on the bus and we got seats this time. The man from the restaurant was on the bus selling water, ahem, waata, which is why he wasn’t at the restaurant, a boy was selling fried plantains, and then another man was selling meat pies. Meat pies damnit! I almost wish I got one. So the old American school bus with the ‘All American’ sign inside dropped everyone off individually at the house randomly dotting the main road. All the houses are on stilts for the hurricanes, and are relatively spread out. The road cut straight down the edge of the water and was dirt a good percentage of it. The place looks and feels broke, but it maintains. I would have caught some stills but it seemed inappropriate. The bus pulled into Placencia and we still were not sure where we were going. We got to the end of the route and asked the driver if he knew where sea spray was. He thought he did and said he would drop us back off there. It was only a short walk, and we made it.
Visit Belize
http://travelbelize.org
