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.