I left town with more stuff than I came - a shopping bag more, as it turned out, so I had to check in some luggage at the airport, but kept this giant bag filled with merchandise as my carry on.
I sat around the Belize airport for a few hours, because when they tell you to arrive two hours early for an international flight, apparently they are fucking with you - or me - or their own heads - or something.
But my flight to Miami got moving at the right time, and went up well enough.
I landed with two hours plus for my connection, which meant I'd have time to get to the next gate, get lunch, make some calls, maybe do some writing... sky's the limit while on the ground, right?
We in the writerly business call this sort of thing ironic foreshadowing.
I went through customs lines, considered getting some lunch, didn't like the line, picked up my luggage at baggage claim, checked it for my next flight, asked a guard if this was a good place to run through the x-ray scanner, took off my shoes, and started emptying everything into trays.
TSA boiler plate image. I didn't photograph anything at the time.
Something apparently beeped. My shopping bag, including the merch I'd bought in Belize, was apparently causing trouble. I'd shoved a couple of extra items in there. I wondered if there was still something, like over three ounces of sun block, I'd failed to check at the gate.
Unfortunately, a family also had there stuff caught for inspection before mine, so it took maybe ten minutes before my bag got inspected.
The one guy who was looking into the material was very polite. Young. When it came time to look at my package, he explained it just needed to be checked again, but that he also needed me to take off my belt, which hadn't been required the first time.
I shrugged, nodded, took off my belt, and, unsurprisingly, my pants dropped to floor.
Someone in an office behind me called out "Pick up your pants!"
"This is the consequence of having no belt!" I said behind my back.
She repeated herself more forcefully. I repeated myself more giddily.
The gentleman in front of me said, "You can pick up your pants."
I got frisked.
Not my butt being checked - not a photo of TSA during my return home.
All along, it was unclear to me what might have been dinged about the package. It was a big ass plastic bag, after all. It's shape and contents seemed like they'd be easy enough to ascertain. They had my permission to open it up - though I'd asked them to supply me another plastic bag afterwards, so I could continue to carry it to my flight.
Anyway, it all came to nothing. I was eventually given the all-clear and my belt back.
I gave the shouting lady, a TSA authority, the evil eye, and she asked, "Do we have a problem?"
"Oh, yes. I'd say we do."
"Take it outside. You can't dress here."
I looked around. "Every single other person is expected to put themselves back together here -"
"Not if they can't keep their pants up -"
One of the other guard came by, looked at me, said, "Just get yourself together. Take your time," then went into the office, closed the door for a minute, came out again, and reclosed the door.
I was out of there a moment later. When I got to my gate, they had already called my group to board the plane. I wasn't late, yet, but I didn't have loads of time to spare.
The flight from Miami had me watching Infinity War, which is a shocking bummer of an epic film.
This is what I was carrying:
...in all his resplendent glory...
I'd asked Frank Malic, in Belize City to carve a rough likeness of me. We'd only talked for a few minutes, so I didn't expect all the details to be right. I had specified beard and glasses. Oh, well. I can probably buy this guy glasses, and maybe I'll shave my beard.
Maybe we'll end up growing more alike as time goes on, what do you think?
I have no idea why I crashed so early last night (eight o'clock local time, ten pm Eastern), but I didn't got out to the free concert down the block. I think I could hear it - there's a nightclub just downstairs, so I'm unclear what sounds I was hearing. I woke up around dawn, listened to a podcast that recommended solo international travel, went to free breakfast, scheduled my shuttle to the airport, and went for a little walk by the water.
This is not actually water.
I took the remains of the bottle of blackberry wine I'd purchased and brought it to the club where Tony was staying. I had meant to go out and share it with him one of the nights, but I never got around to it, and last night, just cracked it open - which, come to think, might be why I never made it out of the room. I dropped the third dead bottle on his side of the club, hoping he'd find it when he eventually woke up.
Still no view of the water, but very near it.
I got back to the room somewhat wet - again. I'd scheduled an early afternoon flight out, but didn't anticipate how much time would be involved in traveling. Today will be mostly taken up by getting from place to place, as well as waiting around in places, for them to take me to other places. Such is the way of the itinerant. I'm packed up now, mostly, and waiting for my ride. I've got five dollars Belize left, which'll go towards a room tip. I've got more stuff leaving than I had coming, including memories, and a secret item, which looks very much like this:
Secret Secret - I've got a secret!
Final thoughts? If I've learned one thing from all of this, it's that my tour guide's name was Richard Lord. If I learned two things, it's that the place I went to on my second complete day was pronounced zoo-Nan-too-nitch. If I learned three things, I probably shouldn't have started in this format, huh?
I woke up unclear what to do with my day. I had one small mission I had to accomplish, and everything else was up for grabs. So:
Free breakfast. Took my time.
Decided to saunter on over to my mission - the market stalls near the ferries, where I hooked Frank would be waiting. He was not. Maybe later. On my way back to the hotel to come up with some other plans, who did I see but Richard, waiting with other drivers for the ferries to come in.
"Hey, let's do something!" he said.
I had no specific plans, and one of the things left on my bucket list? The zoo.
"The zoo?" I said.
"The zoo!"
We got in his ride.
He quoted one fifty American, but I tried to finesse.
"I heard another guy say he could do it for ninety."
"But that probably didn't include all the fees."
"Do you think you could do a hundred?" I asked.
"If you cover the charge for the zoo."
He took me to the bank, so I could get the cash.
Richard Lord in the Wild, awaiting payment
On the drive out to the zoo, he repeated some of the facts I'd heard before. I shan't repeat, so I'll catch up on facts I've previously missed:
The main road we drove down is two lanes, no lights. Occasional speed bumps, but that's it.
There are two stop lights in Belize City. Otherwise, everything's Stop signs and traffic circles.
The highway travels along the path of the river, which, because the country is so much lowland, often overflows, which means the highway is surrounded by swamp.
With so much swampy land, lots of properties end up abandoned, or never finished.
Here's one I'm gonna buy:
Or... maybe not.
Sigh... Someday soon.
Very pretty land. I keep getting the feel from The Road Warrior, though. I'll retire out here, some old geezer, and then this old gang of young turks come through, taking whatever they want, until I transform into young Mel Gibson. Maybe it's not that bad, after all. But a lonely life, is what I'm saying, and isolated. The islands seem better.
It takes maybe forty five minutes to reach the Belize Zoo, which I pay the fifteen bucks entrance for.
Because of the rep Belize has as eco friendly, and that so many of these animals have been saved from bad situations, I'm surprised that they're mostly in cages.
A Pelican
Another Pelican - really nearby
A couple of Tapirs, which I had absolutely totally heard of before today
A spider monkey, not in the least bit showing off
Same Spider Monkey from before, same smug attitude
Oh, keep it up, Spider Monkey. At this rate, you may even get your own MCU franchise.
What do you say about a zoo? Animals are cute. They had deer there. So what? They had gibnut there. Apparently, it's only available for the eating come Easter. Why Richard hadn't mentioned that more forcefully the other day is beyond me. Maybe he thought there was a chance? Whatever.
The monkeys aren't really contained; they can go where they want. The gibnut, too. The pumas and jaguars can stay the fuck where they're supposed to, though. A lot of them aren't allowed to comingle, even within species, because some were born in captivity, some born wild. So lots of Offspring have to be (ahem) kept separated.
Wait. I can do that better. Gimme more time.
There were crocodiles, too.
Snore fest...
Good zoo. Best I've been to in ten years, I'll bet.
Yeah... whatevs.
On the way back into town, I asked Richard to stop by the markets, so I could see Frank. He was there, and he had made something more me. He wrapped it up while I ran to the bank to take out money for him. I'll unveil it later. It's a surprise!
Two major islands: Ambergris and Caulker. Yesterday was Ambergris and its city of San Pedro. Today will be the. smaller, more sedate charms of Caye Caulker. I keep forgetting that Caye is pronounced "key." Bob had given me two coupon codes, so after another speedy breakfast (inclusive with my hotel accommodations; have I not mentioned that?), I dash off to the ferry terminal, this time on foot, and arrive with time to spare. Caye Caulker is an earlier stop than Caye Ambergris, so I'm off the boat before nine o'clock, onto another tropical paradise. I felt that yesterday, I did San Pedro somewhat wrong, so today, I rent a bike pretty quickly. It's a smaller island, so I hope I can bike it in an hour, start to finish, and get the lay of the land. Nope. The northern properties are pretty isolated, and pretty pretty, but they mostly have For Sale signs on them. One was palatial, but looked almost abandoned, except for what I assumed was a caretaker. I was sweating too much to take pictures, but later on in the day...
Ah...
And...
I know, right...?
This is the island they say you go to to relax. So after my circumnavigation, looking around at the properties and water, I found places to sit, and places to drink, and places to find wifi, and I looked.
It was nice.
In between. I kept consulting Fodor's, looking for places to eat. Places were closed and street signs were indistinct, and the storefronts I saw were less interesting than the ones in the book, and... I ended up just buying alcoholic beverages at bars and soft drinks at markets. Cool, though.
It was a low key day. I talked to a german couple for a second. I think that was it for interactions.
A... house? I don't know what I'm doing anymore.
In the last hour, I ended up at a restaurant bar called Bamboozle and got Coconut Curry Fish. The curry ended up on my shirt, the bill came as the boat arrived, and I rushed off, leaving a tip about the size of the bill - guy didn't even give me my garlic bread. I give the place half the stars.
It was a hot day. It was a cool place. Maybe I could be there.
When I got back to Belize, Richard was at the front gate. "Hey, man!" I said, as we shook, "I was out on Caye Caulker today. I think I'm just gonna walk back. You have a good one!" I took the long way back to the hotel. And, uh, FYI, this is the place I still haven't gone to. Worth a look, though, huh?
About ten paces after the last entry, I hear another call: "Hey! My friend!" It takes me a second, but it's Richard - not Long, as I misnamed him previously, but RichardLord. He's wearing a vest which has the company logo of Bob and Whiz's org on it. I ask what he's doing around. "I'm working as a driver for them today." "This is what you do when you don't get a private job?" He nods. "Where are you going? Your hotel is the other way?" "I'm heading to Nerie's. These people I just met say that's my best bet for gibnut." "Gibnot?" He looks doubtful. "Well, is there a better place to go?" We had tried to get it on the road to Xunantunich, but they'd been out. He shakes his head. "No, but I don't think..." "Well, I'll give it a shot." "Do you know where to go?" "It's near the police station, right?" I gesture behind me, pretty sure I'm in the right general direction. I'll figure it out eventually. "I'll take you there," he says. "All right." We hop in his car. Most of the people from the ferry have already left, so there probably weren't any other fares for him anyway. The ride is maybe three blocks, which seems ridiculous, but I say, "What do I owe you?"He says "Nothing," which I think is really nice.
I didn't take this shot of Nerie's II, where Richard took me. Trip Advisor did. Use their services - or not. Who cares?
He even takes me in to negotiate; see if they have the rodent of my dreams. They do not. They do have lobster stew, though, which sounds good. Richard tells me to take a seat, which I dutifully do - but not before shaking his hand, thanking him for his help, and seeing him off. The waitress asks if I want anything to drink, and I go for watermelon juice. The stew isn't so much stew as it is fried lobster meat on top of rice and beans - and I say "lobster" advisedly, since I know far too many places up north that use some sort of fishy substitute for lobster. But I can't tell the difference, so what do I care? It's good. I skip the potato salad, like always. I notice I'm running low on cash, but I do have enough left for this kind of operation. I worry, a little, that I won't be able to take money out from the bank. I'd tried the other day, and I couldn't complete the operation. Maybe it was a temporary malfunction. Maybe something was seriously wrong. A worry for another day. It's getting dark, and I've got almost a mile to go before I can sleep. I leave a tip - which I'm told isn't an absolute necessity here, but I've been doing, just in case.
The sun hasn't completely set, but it's getting there, and I'm already pretty tired. I'm hoping there won't be any trouble tonight -
"Hey, there!"
Richard's outside, still, waiting for me.
"What the hell!"
"It's getting dark. Let me take you back to the Ramada."
In New York there'd be a fight, or at least a sneer. In New York there'd be a "No. I'm fine. Bye." with a snide laugh afterwards of "Who the fuck did he think I was?" But this ain't New York, and I don't know that I know the rules yet.
"Why not?"I say, and jump in again.
I wonder if we're friends. I wonder if he feels guilty for taking me for so much during the Xunantunich expedition, particularly when we took his family and had car repairs. I didn't complain, but it was not a professional tour experience. Maybe he's making it up to me. Maybe he wants to see if there's any other tours we can go on together. We'd chatted previously about the Belize Zoo. Maybe I can feed more monkeys!
What's going on?
It's less than five minutes to get me to the hotel, and I say, again, "All right: I've got to owe you something or this, right?"
"Oh, I don't know. You can pay me what you want..."
I pull out ten dollars, Belize, which is what it should cost to get from the center of town to the hotel, according to the last time I took that trip. I thank him again, and I go up to my room.
But I wonder. He really went above and beyond, not only taking me, but waiting around for me, like a chauffeur? No, he wasn't commissioned to do that. No, I didn't owe him anything. Yes, he overcharged me by maybe $100 US for our earlier outing.
I dunno. I really don't like being involved in the service economy,
When I go to the front desk, I ask about a massage, and schedule one in fifteen minutes.
It's not bad.
There are over two hundred islands sitting out on the water, lazily laughing at the mainland of Belize. They're called Cayes (pronounced "keys," like the flyover stuff south of Miami on my way down here?), and lots are privately owned. The two tourist destinations are Caye Caulker and Caye Ambergris. Main city on Ambergris: San Pedro.
Team Madonna presumes that San Pedro is Spanish-speaking. I presumed it was English speaking. We're all right and wrong at once. The languages in this mixed bag of a nations is really the salad metaphor that some talk about up North: with different items of different cultures maintaining their flavor instead of all joining together into one heterogeneous stew. I can't understand most of what people say to one another, and I sure ain't heard no Spanish lullabies.
Relaxing, huh?
Ambergris is the bigger island. What several people said is, "You go to San Pedro to party; you go to Caye Caulker to relax."
I feel like I've been doing a lot of running around on this holiday, but how else do I get my money's worth? In any case, I've heard that the scuba opportunities are more plentiful on the larger island, so I picked up one of the coupons that Bob gave me and, after a quick free breakfast (now with french toast!), I asked a cab to jet me to the ferry station.
We arrived just at eight, the scheduled departure time for the ferry. The ferry departed immediately after my arrival.
It's a fairly long ride, forty five minutes to Caye Caulker, where half the crowd disembarked, then another half hour before we reached Ambergris.
Tropical island breeze. This is where I long to be...
This is what I was thinking of.
As I've said before, I had not done the best of research before the trip, but I kind of figured this land would be wild and woolly, and a lot less dingy than Belize City proved to be. Obviously, a foreigner who doesn't know where he's going can only learn so much, but it seemed like some small demi-industrial town that didn't speech my language.
San Pedro still didn't speak my language, and everybody at the boat terminal is trying to get st those of us fresh off the boat, but this seemed closer.
Bono, you can stop the soundtrack. Maybe I've found what I'm looking for.
On the boat-trip over, I decided that maybe scuba wasn't my thing. It looked like real scuba requires three days training, or I could do a two hour video training, which would allow me a shallow dive. It seemed kind of lame. Had I started the prep earlier - or maybe in New York... hindsight bullshit. Whatever.
I decided to go on walkabout. This island paradise, perhaps, could be my home. Maybe I should get to know its streets.
Its streets were hot.
Not a huge amount of shade in San Pedro, not first thing in the morning. The roads are small, and packed sand. The rains I experienced on Sunday are still here as puddles. Not too many people have cars. Most people travel by bike, or by golf cart. I opted to go the people's way: by foot.
It doesn't take long to find a fruit stand. I looked for the exotic. I point and asked, innocently, "What is that?"
He searched for the word, then said "Papaya."
Do y'see her?
Goddamnit. I should know that. I eat at Gray's Papaya like nine times a week. I had to maintain ignorance in the conversation, though, not all of it feigned.
"What do I do with this?"
He cut it open, pitted it, bagged it. Four dollars. I'd show a picture of the fruit, if I hadn't eaten it all. Instead, here's the three-month-old bitch resting behind him while he cuts.
NOW d'y'see her?
Y'like that?
"She's the only one that survived," the fruitman explained, "her mother was eat by a crocodile, and all her brothers and sisters died."
"Damn."
The calico cat sitting nearby was slightly bigger. She didn't seem too pleased to share space.
The fruitman (name withheld due to faulty memory) has had the stand for thirty years. Rather, his mother, who ran to get me change - and handed me a tiny banana - has had it thirty. He's had it for less. He said it was the first on the island, but that made no fucking sense.
They seem to be Spanish speakers, rather than Kriol. They had English, of course, but heavily accented. I took my ton of papaya and went on my way.
The view from a cantina
There didn't seem to be much in the direction I was going but heat and bad roads. Buildings were on stilts. The cayes were going to get the brunt of hurricanes far more than the mainland would - and storm season was just beginning.
The roads, nothing but packed sand, remember, proved dusty, especially as golf carts passed, and the residences got fewer and further between. Sometimes, when they appeared, they were fated, impressive.
Sometimes they were shantytowns.
In the lower rent districts, there were storefronts, often empty, peppered amongst the residences. Tiny restaurants or coffee shops or fruit stands like my friend, Fruitman.
I didn't really understand the culture. People actually seemed friendlier in the City, which felt counter-intuitive. I didn't mind having to be polite to less people.
I walked on, absent-minded and directionless.
At some point, a couple of crackers in a golf cart came up to my drenched and lost form and asked for guidance. I shook my head, wide-eyed.
Hitchin' a Ride...
"I don't know nothing! I wish you luck finding what you're looking for."
As they drove off, it occurred to me I could have asked for a ride. I had no planned path; I could go there faster.
Soon after, a local in a golf cart approach me for a second time, offering me a ride. I rejected her again.
By three or so, I was blasted by the heat and kind of ready to go, but the boat back to Belize City looked kind of crowded, so I opted to find a shaded bar to sit, got a creamy drink, and waited.
The water was beautiful. Oh! I tossed my dad into the sea. Some of him blew back into the sand. Ashes to... sand? Seems legit.
Before the game 4.30 last ferry to the City, I tried to chat up some québécois. It didn't get very far.
I got off the boat to a series of catcalls, voices of men (and some women), all trying to get my attention, seeking only one thing from me: my sweet American dollars. The objectification was difficult, but I ignored them, and plowed ahead, in the direction of home. I did hear the call of "Big guy! Big guy!" repeatedly. I assumed a middle-aged, chubby white boy might be the great white whale, and maybe it's so, but as I continued with my hasty pace, the caller reached me, and said "Bobby was looking for you all day!"It took me a second to make the connection to Bob, my fixer, who'd given me the flyers for the very ferry I had just gotten off of. "He kept on hoping to see you," this guy, wearing the same shirt from the same company as Bob, said, "he said he was waiting for 'Round Two.'" Continuing our talks from the prior night, no doubt. "I'd told him I was planning on going out to the islands today," I said. "Well, he's gone home for the night, so it's too late." I shrugged. I wasn't seriously considering whoring. It was a flight of fancy. A spur of the moment consideration. The kind of thing I'd have to be talked into. If Bob wasn't around, it was totally out of mind. Right? "Well, if you talk to Bobby, apologize to him, right? I'm Jon." "Whiz." "Hey, Whiz, maybe you can give some advice: you know where I can get some gibnut?" "GibNOT? It's not everywhere, man." Gibnot is a local dish. It's a rodent that Queen Elizabeth tried on one of her Grand Tours, so now it's got another name: Royal Rat. It's on the Belize Bucket List. Whiz consulted with his lady, who said that the best bet for gibnut was at Nerie's, a place I'd seen recommended in the guidebooks. They gave me directions which, like all directions since GPS, go right over my head, and said, "if it doesn't work out, we'll be hanging out on the bridge." I make friends so easily. I shook hands, thanked them, and started walking in the general direction of the rat.
She asked why I had gone to Belize and I explained, "My motivation was perhaps ill-advised.
"I don't expect to be able to live in New York forever."
"Nobody lives forever, Jon."
"Pipe down, you. At some point, I'll be priced out. Or run out of town on a rail. I'm not sure. In any case: contingencies."
"So: Belize? Why not Hoboken?"
"I'm pretty sure the dollar's gonna go a lot further out of the country. And I didn't know it at the time, but Belize is incredibly welcoming to expats. They want foreigners to retire here.
I'd gotten a bug in my brain about retiring to Belize - retire from what? I don't know - maybe ten years ago. I never knew too much about it; mostly that it's the only Central American country where they speak English. It's the official language."
"You could learn another language, Jon."
"Maybe you don't know this about me: I speak English good. It's like, one of the things I'm best at. I'd hate to end up where my area of eloquence is... I got no word to end the sentence. Sorry."
"Oh. So... why now?"
"My Therapist has been telling me to go on a vacation. I don't do anything, but he tells me to go on a vacation. I haven't earned a vacation, but he tells me to go on one. A vacation from unemployment.
"I'd been planning a different trip - a bigger one, with my mother, but that fell through. On the day that those plans collapsed, I just bit the bullet on this plan, to fact-find on the place I thought I might relocate to someday, in a pinch."
