Belize Please Me

The prospect of leaving Mexico was an exciting one for no matter how much you might like somewhere there's always a bit of a buzz about heading somewhere new. After initially thinking we'd cross the border and head to the wonderfully named Orange Walk Town before making for Ambergris Caye via Belize City, we were delighted to learn that there was a daily ferry from Chetumal directly to San Pedro on Ambergris so it was a no-brainer to opt to travel that way. It would only be a 2 hour journey instead of around 6 or 7 via Belize City, plus we'd get to travel by boat and there's been a distinct lack of those since we set sail (metaphorically speaking) from Exmouth back in April. It's slightly ironic too because when we were putting the plans together for this trip we both thought how fabulous it would be to take a passage on a cargo ship from Europe to the USA and even went as far as selecting our point of origin, destination and pricing it all up before a weekend jaunt from Plymouth to Roscoff firmly turned us off the idea. We were bored stupid on the 7 or so hour sailing back from Roscoff on that Sunday afternoon and the prospect of an 8 day crossing from Tilbury to Philadelphia would have seen us needing to be institutionalised on arrival in the States so we quickly ditched that plan thereafter.

Our last few hours in Chetumal were a comedy of schoolboy errors and naïveté as we sought to ensure our passage to pastures new was as smooth as possible. Firstly we wanted to lighten our load somewhat and had earmarked some items to send back to Mission Control (Kerry's mum - hi Jean) including one of my 2 jumpers (I brought 2 jumpers! Why?), Kerry's high heels (very little opportunity to wear them, it's flip flops all the way), the Mexico Lonely Planet, Kerry's first diary and a couple of "little something's" for people. We purloined a box from a shop, bought some masking tape, fashioned the parcel and labelled it up and took it to the post office where the lady told us we'd need to complete a customs form and this could only be done on weekdays. Our next mission was to get some cash. We'd run our Mexican pesos right down to nothing and then suddenly realised this would present us with a problem in paying our departure tax and we'd also have no money to change on arrival in Belize. As we only planned to spend a few days in Belize we thought we'd rely on American dollars and set about finding some in Chetumal. A bank clerk directed us to her ATM but as far as we could make out it only administered pesos; had we tried the machine next to it, as we did the next morning, we'd have discovered one machine did provide US currency and one machine didn't. The final irritation to befall us was that there were two separate agencies next door to each other offering ferry tickets to San Pedro. We chose the first and as we were entering the shop the guy from next door shouted with a cheery smile that he had half price tickets. We assumed he was just trying to get our business by employing a classic "get them in the door" trick so we ignored him being the worldly-wise and ruse savvy pair that we are. After parting with our near $50 and taking our place in the queue of people making the same journey we found that some had indeed paid about $25. Bugger! The crossing was memorable for the pummelling we took by sitting close to the bow through quite choppy seas. After about 5 minutes of pootling out of the harbour our pilot let rip and we bounced for the next 45 mins in a good impression of Barnes-Wallaces finest. It was quite amusing to begin with but it wore off once you realised that you were experiencing the equivalent of a minor car accident every 2 seconds and then a much more substantial one about every 15 seconds. Each time the boat reared up and glided through the air momentarily you were just waiting for the whiplash inducing crash down into the water and our necks hurt for a couple of days afterwards. The second half of the crossing was a little more sedate and by 1700 hours we were docked at San Pedro and queuing up to go through immigration. This consisted of a guy sitting behind a desk asking "Have you been to Belize before?" The expected negative response was met with a "Well welcome to Belize" and your passport being stamped. My positive retort was dealt with with a "Well welcome back to Belize". San Pedro is a tiny town with ramshackle wooden houses and a curious populace including descendants of the Maya, of mixed European and Maya background, black Caribs and Chinese. If Mexico was a culture shock after the USA then this was again. It's obviously incredibly poor, though there is a large influx of tourists here year round, mainly Americans who come to dive and snorkel the 2nd largest reef in the world after the Great Barrier Reef in Oz. I was very wary about Belize and its inhabitants after my experiences last time I was here and had pretty much convinced Kerry and myself that we would get a fair bit of grief whilst here. The one saving grace is that everybody speaks English, it being a former British colony and actually known as British Honduras until 1981, so should there be any bother or misunderstandings then you at least stood a chance of explaining your point of view. We got a few "hellos" and some "welcome to Belizes" and even a "can I help you?" as we wheeled our cases through the streets looking for the Ruby Hotel. The directions we were given were in total contrast to what the map in my guidebook was telling us and I just thought "typical Belizeans" until I realised we'd landed on the North of the island and not the South resulting in my own orientation being a mirror image of what it actually was. Having finally got our bearings we checked a few hotels out but Ruby's was the best value and even that was quite expensive. After eating out that first night we realised our money wasn't going to go far at all here so we'd better do what we'd come to do and then scarper. Oh, but the joy of speaking English again after 7 weeks of conversational mutedom was wonderful. We chatted to our waiter and the guy behind the shop counter who reminded us of Lurch from The Addams Family. We went into a tour agency and asked for full details of every tour they offered and savoured being able to understand whole sentences and not just 20% of them and we also found a few travellers to have a chinwag with too. One of these was John, a Canadian chap who has been travelling for 18 months now and has no plans to go home. He was late 30s and said his only fear is getting to 55 and wondering where his life went but I told him everyone probably does that so just do what you have to do. One of the most profound things anyone has ever said to me was by a lady at work who, when I told her I was going away said "well, no one lies on their death bed and says that they wish they'd worked more". I love that, so thank you Jane. Having said that (in case you're reading this boss) I love my job too. Ahem! Sunday on Ambergris Caye turned into a bit of a disaster as a spot of hard selling by a pair of persistent tour agency reps saw a dark cloud descend on us. Walking innocently along to hire bicycles for the day, two fellows approached on a golf cart and said they had the deal of a lifetime for us if we would go over to the shade to allow them to explain. I said that there was no point as we didn't want whatever it was they were flogging to which one asked how I knew I didn't want it when I didn't know what it was. With me smarting that he had applied irrefutable logic he proceeded to tell us about a day on a boat; fishing, snorkelling, eating lobster, visiting private beaches and finished off with a sunset cruise. I struggled to get excited because I knew it would cost an arm and a leg and could barely contain my disdain. Kerry however quite liked the sound of it. I suppose it's inevitable that we would need to spend a day apart at some stage or another, the last time we did so was Friday 13 April after all, but I would rather have planned it than felt the need to have one as a result of the aggravating persistence of two pushy gits on a golf cart. As it turned out I had quite a nice day alone, cycling about 25 miles in all and visiting the most southerly point of Ambergris: Kerry's day was somewhat less satisfying it transpired. With white flags flying from both sides next day we were up and out on the water early to go snorkelling on two sites; the Hol-Chan reef and then "Shark Ray Alley". Our party consisted of us two along with 3 Chinese girls in their early 20s and only when we had pounded over the waves for 10 minutes and sat anchored on the reef being briefed did one of them divulge that she couldn't swim. Kerry and I were incredulous. Not only was this a swimming trip but we'd also just sped directly out to sea on a tiny boat and none of us were wearing life jackets. Albeit unlikely, had we been flung out of the boat for any reason we could have waited to be picked up but she probably couldn't. And isn't paying to go snorkelling when you can't swim a bit like hiring a car when you don't drive? In the event she ended up in a rubber ring being towed around by the guide. The reef provided spectacular snorkelling and fabulous visibility. My brother, who is a dive master, would be able to dazzle you with statistics and lists of names of flora and fauna but from me you'll have to make do with the fact that I could see a long way and I saw loads of fish, some humongous and some little tiddlers. One thing I could identify was a huge turtle which swam towards us and then arced away to the right and came up for air. After nigh on an hour on the reef we were back in the boat and a few minutes later were at Shark Ray Alley surrounded by Stingrays and Nurse Sharks. In true fisherman style a couple of the sharks were this big (stretches arms out as wide as they can go) and some of the rays were as big as a king sized bed. Our guide scooped up both a shark and a ray so we got to touch the rubbery ray and gravelly skin of the shark. There was a bit of a current out there of course and as I was about to touch the ray I found myself carried round to its tail area which freaked me out a bit. If Steve Irwin could fall victim to a stray barb then I didn't doubt that my flailing could instigate a similar outcome so I quickly manoeuvred myself to a safe place. Back on dry land we completed our self-tour of San Pedro, posted our box back to Blighty and sheltered from a tropical storm as we wiled away our last few hours on this Caye, so named after the large amounts of Ambergris that were found on the shore by its first settlers, pirates of Spanish, English and, bizarrely, Scottish descent. Scottish pirates? I've never heard of that one before. Yo ho ho and a bottle of Tenents Super perhaps? After wanting to visit Ambergris for so many years I have to say I was a tad disappointed by it. The main reason for this is that there is no beach that you can swim in the sea from due to a plague of sea grass that envelops the island. It is undoubtedly one of the most picturesque places I've ever been to, classic tropical vistas and palms bending over towards the jade ocean but if you can't get in the sea when the sun is beating down on you then what good is that? Sorry Jonny but you and I will have different destinations when we  finally slip our moorings and sail off into our respective retirements. It's also very expensive, as is all of Belize which, if you saw the place and how people live, then you would be amazed at that. This, along with the anticipated trouble we would have on the mainland, made us decide to hotfoot it through the country to the fiscal sanctity of Guatemala where our shekels would afford us much more than in Belize. One thing I did want to do though was spend a night in Belize City, I wanted to see if it was still as horrendous a place as I recalled from 13 years ago. Back then, travelling with 2 tiny tots and a 14 year old we were pushed and shoved, begged at, lewdly gesticulated at and, in the case of Jasmine and me, held up at knife point. We hardly dare go out from our hotel because people would flock around us asking for money and if we did escape their attentions then we would be contending with rats and open sewers. It was a stinking cess pit of humanity but the passing of time had aroused my curiosity again. Would it be the same and if so how would the 42 year old me deal with it compared to the 29 year old me. Plus, everyone we'd met who we told we were headed to Belize City said we were mad, that it's run by the Asian Mafia, that we'd get mugged, have all our possessions stolen or violated in other unspeakable ways and this almost acted as a bit of a challenge to us. Well, we disembarked from the ferry and walked the 600 yards to an hotel we'd earmarked. En route we were spoken to several times by Belizeans but none of it really constituted hassle, we weren't asked for any money and there wasn't a flick knife or a Mafiosi in sight - so far so good. Our room was rudimentary and by drawing back the curtain we had a tremendous view of a large corrugated iron roof but there was a communal balcony which overlooked Haulover Creek, a pleasant place to sit and get gnawed to the bounds of your sanity by mosquitoes. We went out for a walk about, fully expecting to be mobbed but no one took much notice of us. We found a restaurant tucked away on a promontory on the south side of town and shared a dining experience with well-heeled Belizeans and, by the looks of it, several Americans from the cruise ship moored offshore. We walked back towards town afterwards, me still pinching myself that this was Belize City. I didn't want grief but it was somehow an anti-climax that we weren't getting any. We needed to work out our departure for tomorrow so walked through a terribly poor area of town to get to the bus station. Wooden houses on stilts abounded and more often than not groups of men were sitting on the steps or loitering around outside them. We aroused a fair bit of interest and it was, as Sir Alex Ferguson would put it, squeaky bum time, but the most threatening exchange was when one of the guys said "hello". The bus station was like nothing we'd experienced up until now. Seemingly situated in the town rubbish dump it reeked of rotting vegetables and sported vehicles of indeterminate vintage and perceived comfort ranging from "Oh dear god my poor arse" to "G-get m-me o-of t-this b-bloody b-bus NOW". Once we'd sussed things out we were free to take in the rest of the sights of the town but to be honest, there aren't any. There's no museum, no seafront to speak of, nothing in the shops to look at and certain areas are deemed out of bounds, even for locals. We did see a half-crazed individual directing traffic by standing in the road and shouting at it, a white haired Rastafarian with dreadlocks down to the backs of his knees and a female beggar who, on realising we were from England said "Oh, how do you do? I say, could you give me 200 pewnds sterling?" and then cackled like the nutter she undoubtedly was. Dinner that night was notably dire as our first choice had closed at 1700 leaving us with the option of a Chinese or a suspect looking cafe. Having been damaged by an experience in a Chinese restaurant in Exeter before we set out we opted for the cafe and began to peruse the menu. A young chap came over and advised us not to pay too close attention to the menu, they basically had burgers on offer, beef or chicken was the only choice to make. We both went for beef and 2 minutes later, after an audible ping, we were presented with two of the saddest burgers we had ever seen. You know how burger joints show images of fulsome and juicy repasts in their marketing blurb with the actual food presented to you looking like its been sat on by Hattie Jacques? Well, in this joint, if they had had any pictures advertising their wares they would have been of the "Hattie burger" with the actual offering being several steps back down the culinary evolutionary scale. On the balcony of our hotel that evening I listened to a Belizean telling two Yanks how only the English, Spanish and French had felt the need to conquer and colonise over the course of history. He'd overlooked the Dutch and the Portugese of course but it was an interesting point he made. I'd always just thought it was 'white man' but it's a certain sort of white man, or perhaps more to the point, very few who ever attempted it were successful. Anyway, whilst considering what dreadful / accomplished* (*delete as you feel) forebears I had we ate a peculiar breakfast of meat pie and eggs in Dit's the next morning, a restaurant I'd eaten in many years ago, and was surprised and touched to receive a carved wooden napkin holder from the owner by way of memento. With belly full we walked up Orange St to the bus station and boarded the bus to San Ignacio, a town close to the border with Guatemala and the base for many a gringo in these here parts. We weren't the only travellers on the bus to San Ignacio, there were two young American girls too who were on week 2 of their own open-ended odyssey and we had a good chat with them about their plans. The bus hammered along the Western Highway at a tremendous speed to the accompaniment of reggae music. It's very un-Latin American here, it feels much more as though you're on a Caribbean island. At Belmopan, the capital, our driver and conductor disappeared for a bite to eat and a cheerful lady got on who was selling drinks and nibbles. She was beaming with smile and sang through each transaction or to the bus load as a whole. She was hilariously entertaining and I wish we'd recorded her cameo. The second half of the journey, from Belmopan, was a much more stop-start affair with locals getting on and getting off with annoying regularity. On top of that I was reaching the end of my discomfort tether with my knees firmly embedded in the seat in the front and my bum cheeks long since in the land of Nod. It was a mighty relief then to arrive in San Ignacio, although with the bus station being little more than a potholed area with stagnant puddles it was a bit tricky to get to terra firma without fouling our packs. For a town with so many hotels we had a bit of a job finding a satisfactory room. We were accosted by a hotel agent straight away but as soon as he began leading us uphill we told him to sling his hook. I tried a succession of rooms whilst Kerry sat and minded our packs but they were either full, had no air-con, were too expensive or seemingly uninhabited. After a good half hour or more I found one, run by an elderly couple with a large house and a fussy disposition. Having both showed us to the room they then insisted on demonstrating every aspect of it and how it worked. By the time they were done we had the tv on, the air-con, the fan, the light in the mirror in the bathroom, the toilet had been flushed, the bin was pointed out, the balcony door was open and we'd had a 5 minute long explanation about how to lock the outside gate. We were glad to see the back of them but an hour later, as I lay on the bed starkers and Kerry was standing in front of the fan, there was a knock on a door. We weren't sure if it was ours or not but that question was soon answered as our host unlocked it and opened the door. I think he was more surprised to see me in my birthday suit than anything but he beat a hasty retreat and nothing more was said about what was one of the more bizarre episodes thus far. There wasn't much to see in San Ignacio itself, as I say it's more of a base for seeing the sights of the area, but it was a pleasant little town with a pretty river running between it and it's neighbour, Santa Elena. For us it was just a rest stop, a break on the journey into Guatemala and an opportunity to gird our loins for tomorrow's border crossing. So to sum up Belize I'd have to say it was a great 6 days and about 100% better than I thought it might be. Though we only stopped in three different places they were quite diverse and from thinking it was a god-forsaken hell-hole before we went I now think it has a fair bit to offer and the people are friendly too. I was intrigued to discover if my memories of Guatemala would serve me as poorly. We would find out tomorrow.