Last Full Day - Winding Downall

Portrait of the Artist in a Foreign Land

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!

It's Pronounced "Key."

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? 

It doesn't LOOK famous...

Feeling Bad About Richard

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 Richard Lord. 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.

Island Life

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. 

Why Belize?

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."

"And what do you think?"

"..."

"...?"

"..."

Poppa in the Cayes

I was fairly certain they stole my dad.

I couldn't find him among any of the tiny pockets of my two bags - and between them, there were over a baker's dozen (maybe even a quilter's dozen) - and though I had limited the housekeeping visits and leaving locked up what I could, it occurred to me that my father could have just disappeared with the cleaning staff after they had gone through my room. 

I shrugged. There were worse fates. I had more of my dad back home, and he had never expressed any attachment, or even knowledge of Belize, so I'd this mission failed, no great loss. I just thought he might have gotten a kick out of having s little bit of him taken on whatever voyages I might take. When he was younger, he liked to travel. I think he'd appreciate being down south, a little, even if it was snorted by some foreign maids. 

But eventually, there was a pocket I hadn't checked, and there he was, the little tin that contained a thimbleful of ashes from 2014. 

I didn't spend much time on it, but I found it interesting, at airport security, that I had to dump my sun tan lotion because it had more than three ounces of liquid and had to empty my water bottle, but no one paid attention to the small container of unnamed powder I was carrying between countries. Wrong direction? Whatever.

The Tools of a Trip

Takin' It Easy - like Sunday Mornin' (or Belize Wants Me Laid)

I saw daylight before daylight and said, "Fuck! Not this again," and opted to remain asleep.
After sun's breakout, I opened eyes for a second and said, "please."
Around seven, I got to the computer and started making sense of the last day or so. I looked over some of my blog posts, and realized how loopy some of my sentences had become. I'm not the best editor of my own writing (because how can you conscribe genius such as mine {maybe first by using words that actually exist in the current language, genius?}!), and have clearly been running myself ragged these last few days. I did some writing, did some editing, and two hour were gone. Did I miss free breakfast? I rushed downstairs.
They had fry jack. I ate a little bit lighter than I have lately.
After, I lolled around the lobby for a little bit. A window out on the water, much like out my window, but at lower elevation. There's a white baby grand down there; fuck if I know what to do with it. I was thinking about a massage. I was wondering if I should head out to the islands. I wasn't sure what to do.
Back up to the room for an air conditioned view, and a few more hours of sleep.
By the afternoon, I was ready to do... something, I guess, but I'd lost so much of the day. I was paying for all of this, and to just sleep away the morning? Fuck. This late, I assumed it would be a waste of a day to take a ferry out to one of the cayes, so I thought I'd head downtown on foot in daylight, and get a better look at more of the city.
Tuesday is the first day of the week that the cruise ships come in, and it was the first day I was going to the southern part of town, where the ships land. First, I checked out the Golden Bay store, home to the largest amount of cheap crap I'd seen to date. Lots of tourist stuff, but also loads of 99 cent store detritus, at higher prices. Nothing I needed.

This is not Golden Bay, but is very near to it. 

I reached the stalls of tourist goods, and saw much better stuff than I expected. I bought a couple of things, just like I had on the first day at Actun Ha. My cash reserves were going low, but I had some more in my shoe. I was glancing at a cool wooden shark when the salesman came up. Six years old.
"We doing the negotiation?" I asked.
He nodded. His name was. Jeroy, son of Leroy, and he didn't get me to buy his wears, but I said I'd come later. I'd been advised after the ships had left town the markets prices might go down - though I as the one that made it into a rhyme.
Another woodworker, Frank, took out his machete, and claimed to do all his own pieces. I was really taken with a manatee so we negotiated down to fifteen, US. Then we talked about a possible commission piece. Intriguing...
I left the little shopping village, and a guy with a wooden cock in his hand stopped me. "What you need? Drink? Weed? Woman?"
He moved me over to a couple of plump ladies who offered to give me a massage, or to go back to my room for something more.
"Thanks, but I feel really nasty. I couldn't."
"No problem," one of the ladies said, "You take a shower, it be all right."
"Yeah, I guess you've experienced worse," I said. "Thanks. I'm off!"
Somewhere in my travels, I think crossing between the official north and south sections of Belize City, there was a bridge. It was there on that bridge that Bob handed me a flyer.
"Where you from?"
"New York City." (That's me speaking. I'm the one from NYC.)
"I spent some time in Harlem. 123rd Street, with some Jamaicans. They still got a lot of Jamaicans up there, man?"
"Maybe. It's always been more about the Puerto Ricans in New York, though."
His name, as foreshadowed, was Bob, though I didn't hear it until much later on. He worked for one of the tour companies, giving out flyers, but he was clearly a fixer.
"What you need?" he asked, "Weed, white stuff, women?"
"I'm good, I'm good."
"You don't do anything?"
"Well, you can get medications here...?"
He took me to a Brodie's pharmacy, where a couple of pills cost a couple of dollars.
Bob started showing me around, said he could introduce me to some girls.
"How would that even work?" I asked, knowing full well I would never, not in a million years, ever ever ever, do such a thing.
"You just tell me what you like," he said, "we meet up, you take her to your hotel - you've got your own room, right?"
"Yeah!"
" - You do whatever you want - she be down for anything, this girl - she clean - and it cost you, like, one hundred, US."
"I dunno," I said.
It's skeevy. It's demeaning to all involved. It's sexist and illegal (whatever) and probably dangerous...
We got into to a bar.
I didn't know if he knew anybody in there. I mean, obviously, Bob knew people everywhere. That's kind of his job. As we walked the streets, he called out to people everywhere, shooed certain folks away from me, clasped hands with others, it was a whole thing. He'd suggested another bar, where he could talk to ladies and make some connections, but he hadn't said anything about this place...

The Streets (How's that for a useful caption?) 

But no. We had solitude, and talked politics.
"Trump's crazy, man, but what do you think about him?"
I told him, but my last travel blog is still up close to twenty years later, so this one doesn't need to present to the Virtuously Elected, Respected Mentor, Intellectually Normal, Democratically Official Governor what I think of him.
Bob kept offering to hook me up, any way he could, but it was the subject of girls that was most prevalent, maybe because he felt that there was the most give. "I'm not trying to force you into anything."
"Right, I just don't think I could do it."
I wasn't prepared for the danger. For the creepiness. For the judgment from everyone (mostly myself, even with properly purchased pills).
"You think you'd be taking advantage," said Bob, "but you'd really be helping some girl, who needs money for her family."
"I could see that," I said. That appeals to me, a lot, but it's bothersome that it almost certainly feeds into some kind of chivalrous syndrome that a street corner dude could find the notes to play. This is something I'm going to have to address with my therapist (who is, interestingly, also named Bob).
Finally, I think, Bob could sense he wasn't getting anywhere. He told me where to get the best Fry Chicken and walked me over to Fibber's. I got some for him and his eight kids (a detail he mentioned close to when we were parting company, no doubt, so I could help some friend who needs money for his family).

Bob.

He took me to a cab. All through the streets, with Bob and without, in this neighborhood on ship day, the people are needy. The people are hungry. They want my money, and this ain't a part of the experience that's much fun. He delivered me and my precious chicken cargo to a cab, and, as I got in, he asked me for something for his trouble. I handed him a twenty. He'd invested an hour or two in my safekeeping, and while I kept him from a bigger sale, I figured he should get something other than a couple of chicken dinners.
The conversation back to the hotel with Bruno was fine. He suggested I go to San Pedro the next day; better chances for scuba. I give him my last twenty Belize, and go back into my hotel, unlaid, despite multiple local opportunities.
The fry chicken isn't too bad. Tastes just like chicken.

Fibber's Fry Chicken - at home (such as it is).

A Tony Life

After my Long Day's journey into an early evening, I knew I needed to get some food. Though Richard and his family stopped for lunch, I hadn't been very hungry. They introduced me to Fry Jack, which is a fried dough that basically reminds me of poori, and I had some refried beans with it, but I knew that wouldn't be enough until morning. I had to have further adventures, but I also needed a lot of decompression. I just needed to sit for a bit.
The country's kind of depressing. Traveling alone has me keeping my guard up, worrying what dangers might be coming and who's going to try to take advantage. I don't want to be a victim, but I don't want to shelter myself from danger, either. I'm feeling tense and anxious on this adventure. It's not torture, but I'm not writhing in anything close to pleasure. 
I'm not getting what I wanted out of this - not that I had well-planned goals. What am I doing here? What was I looking for? Why are you in Belize Jon Berger? 
I need to decompress. 
I don't really take vacations, because I don't live much of a life where I have anything to vacate from. I live frugally, so. I can afford not to have much in the way of jobs, but that means I can't justify going off and going away, even if I have the money to do so. Who knows how long I'll have to make due with pennies until the next windfall comes along? So enjoying myself while away is... not something I have experience with. Not while I'm paying. Not beyond borders. Not in a while. Not in Belize. 
It had gotten dark. I wasn't sure how far afield I wanted to wander tonight - so I decided to check the guidebooks in advance and look for a specific place (not the Celebrity) that could be local and open - and that I could GPS while on wifi, mapping out specifically.
Hour Bar & Grill got good marks Lonely Planet (I've got three print guidebooks and like three other digital ones, all from the city library system), so I put some cash in my pocket, some more in my sock, locked up my valuables in the safe, and headed out of my room.
The Hour is about a quarter mile from my place. I'm not worried for my safety. Not only is nobody out, but I'm aware of this particular parcel of land. It's near the expat community; not where the scoundrels would be hanging out. I feel safe.
When I arrive at the Hour, there are two or three other groups dining, by the open windows, looking out on the sea. There's a breeze and it's lovely, despite some trash blowing around. It's not like New York litter, but there's a little bit of crap everywhere.
The menu's kind of generic. They have little of everything, but none of the Caribbean specialities I've been reading about: no royal rat, no fry chicken. The closest I see to something I haven't tried that seems interesting is curry chicken. Nothing new to me, but new to me here. Maybe it's different.
The waitress tries to engage me after I take my order, but I'm really tired. I ask her which Caye I should consider in the next couple of days: Caulker or San Pedro. We agree San Pedro. I crack a couple of jokes; each time, I'm fairly certain they're not gonna go over. The language divide is small, but extant. Eventually she leaves me alone.
Wifi isn't everywhere, and my data plan is disengaged, so I've been disconnected from the world, except from when I'm at the hotel, so I can't go to the my phone with the same frequency as I do in my regular life. I can, however, in down times, play games on my phone. While waiting for food, this is the first time I do so in days.
More groups come to the restaurant. They have happy conversations. I can hear no english, though I'm certain everybody could accommodate me.
One of my firmer memories in Brazil was my weekend in Rio, where I lay out on a beach, recognizing some ridiculous sorority girls lounging about, having their dumb conversation. I just stayed in their presence for forty five minutes, soaking in the glorious unaccented English. I heard Spanish, and, I assumed Kriol. There are like four other active languages, beyond English. The Hour could've been filled with all of them.
There was a movie on the TV, something with Ed Burns and Paul Giamatti. I glanced at that while eating alone.

Yep: Flotsam. Jetsam. Me. That's about the size of it. 

Maybe I could have engaged the waitress better if I wasn't so tired, if I didn't feel kind of down, but I couldn't help but feel the strings of the interaction: her politeness as staff, looking for a tip, but politeness as an interloper, not quite knowing the island ways (though, I know, this was the mainland). I felt stupid and contagious, and unable to entertain.
I left the place, with half my food in a doggie bag.
On the way back to my hotel, there's a little park, with a mall of mostly shuttered food kiosks. It was my first stop, the first day, and I thought I'd look for a desert, before going back upstairs. I glanced at what was still open, but couldn't tell if they served any sweets.
"They got good food there," one of the few guys sitting said.
"LIke... what?" I asked.
"Curry. Good chicken curry."
I laughed, gestured to my bag. "Got that right here. You think they got desert?"
"They probably got desert."
"I'll go check it. Thanks."
They did have desert. Carrot Cake. They asked if I wanted icing with that. What kind of a crazy cultural divide question is that?
I pulled two spoons for the carrot cake, and went back to the guy who nudged me towards that place.
"You want some?" I asked.
He accepted.
I cut the piece in half, and we talked for a bit.
Turns out, dude had been in America for 36 years. Born in UK, but been on the shipping lines for lots of years before ending up in Chicago and LA. Tony has a heavy island accent, and strongly believes in god.
Everyone in Belize seems to believe in god. It looks like only half their churches have crosses on them, but they all got them some Jesus.
So Tony and me go into it on god for quite some time, and he's accepting of differing opinions - maybe because he's drunk, maybe because he's lived a very lucky life. If Tony's to be believed, the US arrested him over 360 times for a variety (obviously) of charges, and nothing ever stuck. He doesn't ever plan on coming back to the States, especially in the current climate, so he'll while away the rest of his years in the paradise his mother came from.
Tony and I talked for some hours. I was really punch drunk tired, so I don't know how much sense I was making, but I saw no reason to think he was trying to game me in any way. I was suspicious when he invited me across the street to the Nightclub that he lives in, as a custodian/night guard, but Tony's in his sixties. Even after I glanced at his knife, I figured I could take care of myself.
Dude said he killed a man, but he also said he saw a guy walk through concrete to go fuck his wife, so I dunno.
Tony made me feel a lot better about my day, a lot less lonely. There're freaks to talk to everywhere, even in English. Even in Belize.

The Long Day

I haven't been taking many pictures - though I've taken more than I ever have before. I'm not an overly visual guy -  I have, on average, one working eye, and, while I'm a concrete thinker, I tend to consider things more from a descriptive point of view. Still, my favorite form of storytelling is the comic book, and there's that shit about a thousand words and pictures, right?

pretty country, huh?

I hadn't made plans for my second full day in Belize City, though my conversations the prior night with former tour guide and raconteur Prince Charles had convinced me of the value of going off to see Xunantunich - and though I'd hoped to contract Richard Long, the prior day's tour guide, I hadn't actually followed through. 
Down at the front desk, I called him around seven thirty, asked if he was available. I'd told him we previously we didn't need to go through the agency, if that could get him a few extra bucks, so he'd given me his number. He came by around eight, and I got into his car. He quoted me a rate of two forty American for the long drive. I talked him down to two hundred, then added ten. I was pretty sure I was being screwed, remembering the agency rates for Xunantunich seemed to be in the hundred plus range, but I'm not used to negotiations - plus, I wonder how entitled I am to money anyway. I don't like being cheated, but if I agree to being cheated... 
He asked if his family can go with us, which sounds both unprofessional and a much better human experience all at once. I agreed, so we went to pick up his two kids and wife. 

This tree in the center of this image is actually in the left of the image above.  

I still don't know how to pronounce Xunantunich, though I know it's a Z-sound up front. It means "Stone Lady," and it's named for the beautiful apparition that people saw in the 19th century that led to them uncovering the huge Mayan religious site near the Guatemalan border. It's like sixty miles away from Belize City, but even on dry days like now, the roads are not direct or super-fast, so we had a couple of hours ahead of us. Luckily, Richard a guide, so he can pepper conversation with useless facts. 

The ferry we haven't quite reached in the narrative yet. 

Richard's kids are eighteen months and seven years. His wife is pretty snarky. Their first language is Kriol. Everyone's first language seems to be Kriol.

"Everyone's first language is Kriol, right?" I asked, "English is the official language -"

"- because of the British, yes -" 

"But really, but people..."

"In their homes, most people speak Broken English."

That's what Richard calls Kriol to me,  I assume, so that I understand what he's talking about. I'm guessing it's a colonial term. I nodded.

The Long Family (they all have names, but I don't remember Richard's wife's).

He drove, the wife and kids in the back of the Odyssey. I'm in the passenger seat. The conversation on both days got mildly political. 

There's a fair amount of foreign investment in Belize. Since the fifties, there's been an increasing Mennonite presence in the country. Since independence in the eighties, more and more expatriate retirees are coming through - more to the cayes and the mountains than the city, but a lot of the country is being bought up by foreign interests. The politicians seem all right with that. 

"I guess a revolution's coming," I suggested, "once people get angry enough." 

The Countryside.

But it's the Caribbean. I said, feeling racist, "Maybe it'll take a lot to angry enough. With great weather, and not bad conditions, maybe people have it all right, so even though things aren't fair here, it's not enough for people to change things?"

Most of this conversation is while the family is asleep. 

Sometimes I'm asleep, too. Hopefully, Richard is never asleep while he drives, but I really can't say for sure.

Near the capital, Belmopan, Richard buys break pads, and goes to a junk shop to have them replaced in his minivan. I took the time to wander the countryside.
I spied a latin-looking guy hacking away with a machete, and I asked to take his picture. He didn't speak English, but we communicated enough for him to refuse. Richard later confirms that he's probably in the country illegally.

I don't know what the fuck this is. 

As we finally approached Xunantunich, there's a ferry, handcranked, that affords access across a tiny river. Horses were drifting on the ferry as we waited for it. 

Ferry cross the river.

I cranked us across myself, thanked the ferryman for the privilege, pointedly did not sing any Chris De Burgh, and we went to climb the final ascent to this Mayan settlement. 
We'd crossed pretty much the width of Belize, which isn't saying much, but we're all the way on the Guatemalan side, so, to defend against potential out-of-country vandals (or, you know, just vandals), there's military subtly patrolling this site (unlike Altun Ha the previous day). 
Unlike most of Belize, which is under sea level, we've arrived at a somewhat mountainous region, so there's some climbing ahead.

Climbing up in Xunantunich

Results of climbing in Xunantunicz

The actual ruins are fairly similar to what I'd experienced the prior day at Actun Ha (a location whose name I found much easier to pronounce - get it together, Xunantunich!): an open field for a violent ball game like soccer/football, great heights from which to worship the moon god, the sun god, ritual bathing... the whole nine yards. There's more construction, more still left standing, and the biggest temple is much bigger here, and when you finally stop climbing it and get to the top...

Behold,, I am Jonny Mandias, Destroyer of Worlds

... you're motherfucking high. The scale is tough to describe, and maybe it's more about lack of proper cordons around the edges, but you're on top of small mountain, on top of substantial temple, looking without any buildings in the vicinity. It's a breathtaking natural view of two nations, and it's scary. Scary for me. After the picture series was taken, I leapt back to the wall and took many breaths. 

Meh.

There's some natural phenomena around the temples. A male black howler monkey was hanging out. They're the second loudest mammal in the world, I'm told, next to the lion, and while Richard was obnoxiously trying to get a rise out of it (I did not encourage this behavior), soon after we moved away, some other tourists came by with a dog, which set him off. The monkey roared. The dog barked. That made the monkey roar more, which flustered the dog, which got the monkey riled, which frustrated the pup, which - we got moving. 

Another Howler Monkey - only this one closer to Guatemala

The trip back to Belize City was quieter, but faster. I noted that Richard traveled as high as 80 MPH. The highway is never more than two lanes, and there seem to be almost no lights in the country - there are apparently only two stoplights in the main city of 50,000. So many of the roads get submerged in the light weather we had yesterday. When real storms come, how do they cope? 

As we drove, I saw some livestock on the side of the road. Horses, for the most part, were not penned. They were, Richard noted, always tied up, but the ropes were so long and loose, I could almost never see it. There was a metaphor in there that a better artist could maybe grasp: the horses' bondage was subtle, but they could live contentedly, and few could easily see their chains. It was only when they needed to practice freedom that they would realize it wasn't theirs. Or something like that. 

Richard dropped me off around five. It had been a long day - more for him than for me. But I was wrecked. 

I needed to decompress. I needed to write. I needed to eat.

ADDENDUM: I may have needed to write, but I clearly didn't need to research. Turns out Richard's last name is Lord, not Long, so the whole central title of this is false. Lord, why have I wasted all of our time?

Stepping Out with Royalty

Pretty sure I disappointed Prince Charles. 

I needed to wind down after bowling storms and howler monkeys, but after dark, I needed to eat. All the chats I'd had, all the sentences I'd read, discouraged a tourist from going out alone at night. "Be advised," they said, "be smart."

They also said the risk wasn't terribly great, and that my tourist dollars were safe - the industry needed my kind too much to risk me, they said. 

It was hard for me to read between the lines. 

I'd gone out last night, conquering fears, and survived, but had done more reading and had more conversations since. I didn't feel any more clearly informed. 
Twenty five years ago, despite warnings, I roamed the night time south side of Chicago, just to say I did. I hadn't been raped or killed once (or any other number of times - just to be clear); I guess that would be my model. I took to the streets, which had names, but I didn't look for them. I wouldn't consult my map at night, fearing being targeted as a target.

It was Sunday. The night was quiet. Nothing seemed open. The place that earlier I thought I'd be able to pick up some fry chicken looked closed up tight - as did every other establishment I passed. Begrudgingly, I headed to the water, and to Celebrity Restaurant. 

On the final approach to the place, I spied one of the few other bodies on the road. I'd been wary, but he looked old, carried a bucket, and I felt sure, with all my fighting prowess, I could take him. 

From a distance, he called, "Welcome to beautiful country!" and I yelled back, "Thank you very much, sir!" and then he closed the gap. 

He was old. You're a cracked, black Caribbean male, you could conceivably be anywhere between forty five and a thousand forty five, especially when viewed from ignorant American eyes, of which I have four. 

But wherever he was on the old spectrum, he was right there, definitely, on the old spectrum. 

"You are a good man," he said, "for talking to me. I shall make you an honorary ambassador to Belize."

He introduced himself as Prince Charles Perez, and said I could look him up later. He was one of those chatty street people and I was fully prepared to be picked up. 

He said I was a very special sort, because I was willing to engage him, but really, I was happy to have a companion, especially when he said he was "a professor, a tour guide, an entertainer, and one of god's children."

"Excellent!" I replied, "maybe you can help me figure out what I should do next."

I didn't take any pictures of Prince Charles, but there's this thing called the internet...?  (earlydocbird.com)

I took him to dinner - he said not to go to Celebrity, it was too "fancy" which was fine, since I'd overshot it anyhow. Prince Charles suggested a pizza place by the water, as he regaled with tales of the etymology of Belize, the history of its citizens, and whether or not I should take a drive out to Xunantunich the next day.
Web searches do seem to support that Prince Charles is the very personable personality he appears to be; some kind of huckster flim-flam touristy man (with a bucket available to wash windows, if he needed to make some real money). His speech was well-performed, well-reasoned, and he'd explained repeatedly that all he was asking for was alms, but when our time reached its end, and I paid for our meal and gave him my cash, he was disappointed. 
He wanted more. 
Of course, when I went out for walkabout, I had brought only a certain amount of money, so if I were harassed, I could only look so much. I gave him all the money I had left, which amount to about thirty dollars, Belize.
"That is small cheese, indeed," Prince Charles said sadly, "for the service I have offered, I would normally have gotten one hundred dollars."
"Oh, come on," I replied, "When you primed the pump, earlier, you described the the exaggerated price. You told me that one man gave you a whole sixty dollars American. That was to give the high end of what you wanted me to pay."
"No, no..." he said.
"Then why did you subtly mention that an hour ago?" I was feeling defensive. I wasn't going to get to an ATM to provide him more cash, but I felt bad that he felt cheated. On the other hand, I don't think the Prince would have found anyone else that late in the empty evening to regale with tales of Belize. The money and meal I provided were unlikely to have been offered by anyone else.
I did, in fact, have more money stored in my sock - but if I admitted that, we would have entered into a whole 'nother argument.
We parted, the Prince and I, on far less happy terms than we had met, but he had offered me a blessing - or maybe a curse. He said the woman I would marry would come from Massachusetts - or Louisiana - and we would be together, if I offered her this special compliment, and I should remember it exactly:
oh, shit.