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.

Have 'em Eating Out of Your Hands...

I got to sleep early last night (because I slept very little the night before) and Belize is two hours later than New York (they don't obey Daylight Savings, which means nothing to me, but might make sense to someone else out there, who respects the sun's power). So I passed out, I think, around eleven my time, nine local time
and woke up around five thirty in the morning. Apparently that's all the sleep I need.
Sunday morning, however, does not have very many services available in Belize City Princess Casino, the classier name the Ramada throws around. I stumbled downstairs around six to discover the continental breakfast (I go only to classy hotels) didn't begin for another hour, and the tour service for the hotel didn't open for another two.
I went on walkabout, retracing some of my steps from the night before, seeing a little bit in daylight and recognizing some things a little better.
People fish on the Caribbean Sea.
I asked a guy about the Celebrity Restaurant, trying to get his opinion on something more authentic, but how do you ask for something authentic? "I want food, but not food that everybody says is good. I want something that's real."
He told me the Celebrity would be fine.
The streets were not packed. It was Sunday. I was in the wealthier part of town. It was early. Tourist season ended a month ago. Storm season started around the same time.
I could have done more research on my trip before boarding the plane. Something to consider for the next trip.

uh... Belize?

The free breakfast was fine. Nothing great - nothing I really needed to eat, now that I'm seeking sveltitude, or whatever it is a fat guy calls being slightly less fat. What was listed under the buffet label as Sausage looked like a hot dog to me. They made me a simple omelette to order; that was nice.
A little after eight, I went to the tourist office to talk about what I could do today, and what I should consider for the rest of my time in town.
Turns out, there was a long list of options available within an hour's planning, so I opted for a couple of things that had looked good in the guide books.

The Sun God's Temple at Altun Ha

Around ten o'clock, I met Richard, who would be my personal tour guide, and would drive me to the locations I'd selected. First up: Altun Ha, one of the more excavated Mayan temple compounds near Belize City. Composing of six or eight mostl-maintained structures dating back to the ninth century, Altun Ha took over an hour to get to, an hour which comprised on several rainstorms and a variety of conversations about what makes Belize Belize. 

There's a multiple cultures in Belize. Not with the breadth of diversity like in NYC, but there doesn't seem to be the kind of racist rhetoric that's tearing my country apart. At least, not according to my tour guide.
Tons of expatriates moving to Belize. Tax rates are pretty good. If they live in Belize City, they're housed right around my hotel. They come from North America, but also Australia, the UK, other Commonwealth nations.
Belize is part of the British Commonwealth.
Richard's a nice guy, and when we're in the car, the conversation seems comfortable, but when we reach a site, he becomes more of a Tour Guide, and sounds a bit more officious. I'm not positive how deeply knowledgeable about his material he is, but he surely knows orders of magnitude more than me, so we're good.

All of Altun Ha, if you approve of my panorama filming abilities

Richard left me to climb the heights of the religious altars on my own. Almost no one else is around, so I have each temple top to myself. At the end, I finished up at the bathroom and hit the gift shops. 

I'd been warned about the gift shops, and I normally don't get suckered in by mindless tchotchkes, but the price on the ancient Mayan hot sauce was too good to miss out on. By the time I was done, I'd squandered all my cash. 

Next up: roadside lunch, which Richard paid for (I later looked over the itinerary; it turns out that was included in the deal I'd bought - he was obliged to buy me lunch, like we were friends), and then a rainy trip through bumpy roads that I may or may not have kept my eyes opened for. It's too soon to tell. Following that? A jaunt over to the Black Howler Monkey Conservancy. 

Look: up, in the sky. Are those sacks in the tree?

It was all right. 

Richard and I waited for a Conervancy guide, Robert, to come around, and sing a bit, to let the monkeys know we were on the way. The rains had only recently stopped. It was unclear how frightened of the moisture they were.

Me & a Monkey

They weren't too frightened by moisture. In fact...

I just guess the monkey likes bald guys

Though signs up front at the Conservancy says don't feed the monkeys, I was handled a small bit of banana, after Robert made proper introductions, and this young boy (Robert showed me his dick) came on down and dined away.

The father figure yells out, to play out some long-established social war against his enemies, and also, maybe, to maintain his alpha status. That's the Howler part of the Howler Monkey. I had his son feeding out of the palm of my hand.

After my time with the monkeys, I was pretty worn out, but we had to get back into Belize City, and there, Richard showed me a little bit more about what there was to see. He reminded me repeatedly that the yout's in the south side might take advantage of someone like me, at night, if I travel alone, but that I shouldn't worry, because nothing'll ever happen to me.

What you are seeing is not what you are seeing. 

Some of the houses in the southern part of Belize City are better than shantytowns, certainly, but maybe not by much. It's very different than where the expats live. Because of the rains we had traveled through earlier, some streets were mostl submerged. Still, families roamed the streets.
I was warned repeatedly, not to walk the dirty streets alone.

I got home exhausted, and it was only the late afternoon. When could I allow myself to get to sleep now?

Long Day's Saunter into Night

I started off shaky. I didn't know where I was going, and more important, didn't want to look like I didn't know where I was going. My color, I feared, made me a target in this foreign land. Had anyone ever felt quite so vulnerable?

So though I had a guide book on hand, I was reticent to use it. I walked into a nearby park where a couple of stalls were open, and I bought a little coconut tart. I misunderstood the exchange rate, but the girl behind the counter was kind, treated me like an idiot, and gave me the right change back.  

I walked past kids fishing on the Caribbean Sea, as the winds jumped the waves excitedly onto our shirts. 

The winds picked up and I picked up steam. 

I took out my map/book, sneaked a peak, and decided to head south, where there were more restaurants. The book quickly went back into the bag, and I walked away from the water, into the interior of town. 

People said hello in the street - or I did. I'm not sure who initiated. We were all being friendly, is the upshot. 

As the sun setted, I bought donuts, and prescription-meds, and some fruit that has been pretty much disproven to be lychee or longan. I paid everybody cash, like I do in the states, too. 

The streets were not that active, but the streets were certainly not hostile to me. 

I was doing all right.

Taken later in the story.

I asked at the pharmacy (she gave me an extra pill - for free!) where to eat, and she said Celebrity, which is in the guide books, but... it's called Celebrity. That sounded like a place for tourists, which is why I was being sent there. 

Instead, I found a street vendor, and asked what she had. She served me styrofoam filled with rice and beans and chicken - nothing I didn't know - and potato salad - something I didn't like. 

I paid a dollar too much (she claimed she didn't have the right change) and I went with my bag and my box of street food, along with a spoon. 

When the humidity got too much, a block or two later, the skies opened up and all god's tears came out to cry. 

I sat under an empty awning, took out my plastic spoon, and ate dinner. 

The dogs aren't wild in Belize, though they look it. Collars aren't required, so no dog need be identified, or come home at night. They roam where they wish. 

I didn't know all this when I finished my food. 

I just saw a mid-sized dog in the rain, sans collar, coming close, as my meal is shoveled speedily into my gullet. 

When the rains stop, I throw my abandoned potato salad at him, pass the police checkpoint, and stride back to the gates of my hotel to get some sleep. 

It was enough for day one.