BELIZE – THE GARIFUNA COAST

 

 

The necessity of leaving Caye Caulker eventually prompts that “fork in the road” quandary faced by every traveler who doesn’t have each day segment pre-ticketed and scripted out for them.  And that is, “Where to now?  And what is the best way?”  Mine at this turn of the stage involves heading east and diving at Belize’s famous “Blue Hole” or heading due west and accessing the Mayan Archeological ruins of Tikal – among the most famous in the world, prompting its own board game.  A third choice is to head south via Belize’s sparse roads and visit the relatively unknown and unvisited Garifuna District.

 

The Garifuna people are of Black Caribbean ancestry, the descendants of slaves brought to the new world.  They emigrated to portions of the Caribbean coast from Belize to Nicaragua, spreading out from the island of Roatan in Honduras (now known as a major cruise ship destination and scuba diving heaven).  The distinct ethnic group was forcibly settled there by the British, following a slave revolt on the island of St. Vincent in 1795.  After intermarrying with pirates, shipwrecked sailors, Caribs, Mayans, and other races, these Rostafarian look-alikes have developed their own ethnic customs, culture, language, and cities/villages along the isolated southern half of Belize.  They are specially known for their rhythmic drumming and talent with percussion instruments.

 

It is this pursuit of “something new under the sun” that compels me to follow the Road Less Traveled and make a circuitous back door approach to Tikal – the ultimate prize in this region – by going further south still via the Rio Dulce through Guatemala and its adjacent northbound back door to the famous Mayan Temple Complex.  But first, Belize.  And the Garifuna.

 

The Caribbean coast of Belize is largely inaccessible.  Too many mangrove swamps.  And the tiny nation is the only one in Central America without a Pacific Ocean coastline.  To get south from Belize City, one must detour 50 miles to the west and the capital of Belmopan before zigzagging south once again for Dangriga.  The country is close to 200 miles from tip to tip, or about the size of Massachussetts.  Total population is about 325,000.  The racial fabric of the country (besides Garifuna) consists of European whites, Mayans, majority Caribs, Latinos, and Chinese.  The predominate language is English however, the result of a long British Colonial heritage.

 

I am leaving Belize City relatively late, and forced to rely upon “The Chicken Bus.”  Yes, the public one that stops every 50 feet if necessary, picks up locals with up to 50 personal items each (including chickens), and is so overcrowded that if it rolled, it would simply right itself like a kayak returning to upright position via an “Eskimo Roll.”  This frequently means standing in the aisles, until somebody nearby finally leaves and you get to take over their seat.  I give up mine often to older women, and pregnant women, or women with small children.  That is an oddity here and even grown men dive in to take my seat before I am half out of it before I can give them a shoulder nudge to make way for the women.

 

Dangriga is the largest town in southern Belize, at about 11,000 population.  The most interesting part to me is the immediate coalescing of the racial makeup.  Very few whites are found in this part of the coast.  Colorful Caribbean dress and sandals predominate.  Along with Johnny Depp type “Pirates of The Caribbean” beards and head scarves.  Nobody dresses like a dullard in Garifuna territory.  There seems to be an open competition as to who can pack the most color into their wardrobe.  This is definitely not the universal European uniform of black, grey, and black and then more black.

 

I retreat to a fine establishment on the edge of town called The Pelican Bay Resort to blog and post pictures.  The wait staff is among the friendliest and most service oriented I’ve ever encountered.  My objective was to utilize wi-fi, have a beer, and be near the water underneath soft breezes and swaying palms.   They exceed that, providing a seaside table and chair, constant attention, a Bloody Mary on the house, and an extension cord to make sure my computer remains charged.  I become completely absorbed in the setting and lose track of both time and any consciousness of  hunger.  I’d loved to have stayed.

 

But Dangriga is still too large.  A decision is made to travel an hour further south to the Garifuna fishing village of Hopkins, population of 1800.  This is the drumming center of their culture.   The four mile road in from the main highway was wiped out by a hurricane in 2008, and so the ride is rough.  I rather relish this, as it keeps lookie-lous away.  Only those who really want to be in Hopkins bother with the washboard road in.

 

My taxi driver, Gatsby Chaplin (NO, I am not making this up) has spent much time in New York and Los Angeles and fills me in on the local culture.  As much as one can, in an hour’s worth of driving.  His demeanor of calmness at all times is a compelling trait.  He kept an objective and realistic tone, yet still managed to convey enthusiasm for his people.  We focus on his economic concerns, and the fact many jobs are being taken from locals by ethnic groups both north and south who are willing to work for substantially less than Belizeans.

 

Finding sleeping space is difficult.  Both the hostals and low-rent local hotels are occupied.  The drum center – a primary objective in coming this far south – is quiet for the night.  Maybe.  “It might start up again,” I am told.  Who knows though?  There are no schedules.  It is all pretty much word of mouth. A place to stay is finally found for $30 Belize, which is $16 US.  It is pretty damn scout camp basic.  No South American type bargains to be found in Hopkins.  Even the hostels wanted $20 US minimum. Gatsby has been very patient and previewed the entire town by auto.  He has been paid only to get me there.  The add-on portion to help search for a room is gratis.  I have noticed you always get this for free in this country, if you merely bother to engage with the locals.

 

But my Garifuna host family, even if a little slow to answer about pricing and actual schedules like the rest of the town, is terribly friendly. The oldest son Emile is a rare college student in this sector.  His three year-old sister, Arise, flirts with me endlessly and can’t have her photo taken enough.  Mama Rosie is initially quiet, but warms up when she sees me cottoning to her kids.  We have a lengthy discussion that was more about lingering and exercising a friendliness quotient than pursuing any particular avenue of curiosity.  It is the drums and reason for a Garifuna exodus to this isolated portion of Belize that makes me curious.  Not the culture.

 

The best part of Hopkins in my estimation is the dining.  Authentic Garifuna food is readily available, along with the usual assortment of English, American, and continental foods.  The local favorite, which of course is a must sample, is called hudutu.  I am dining on this a little early, taking in the dish as a late breakfast rather than heavy mid-day lunch as intended.  It consists of sliced whole local whitefish, grilled and then immersed in a coconut milk broth with spices.  It is plated with casaba bread (with a texture and taste much as if pressed into rice cakes) and a dough ball from mashed green plantans (banana cousin) and potato bits.   The fish is particularly tasty but the combination is not my cup of tea.  Back to omelets or bacon ‘n eggs next time at this hour for me.

 

Immediately afterward that morning (Thursday) I am treated finally to a drumming ceremony.  Of sorts.  It is a”bum’s rush” performance with the taxi still running and me on my way out of the washboard leading out of town.  The young drummers are very talented.  They frequently take first place in Garifuna drum competitions taking place throughout the Caribbean.  But they are bored and underwhelmed at such a small audience.  Upon leaving, I am asked to make a donation.  They don’t offer a clue as to what is normal, or expected.

 

When I underpay, they effect a sneer and virtually demand more.  When the money is offered, they don’t even look me in the eye but reach out a hand backward and walk away.  That is what happens when too much money chases too little talent.  Or people get elevated above their pay grade by transient demand.   Needless to say, Hopkins does not impress.  Drumming center or not.  I think the place to be largely friendly though, and very appealing to backpackers.

 

Next stop is Placencia, on its own peninsula that has in recent years received its first road.  This is a beautiful Creole town, and not Garifuna.  The people are equally friendly.  The town is larger, more modern, more colorful, and more commercial.  I spend an afternoon at The Barefoot Café (a most delightful spot with a full drink and food menu) catching up on e-mails and blogging before deciding to move on.  Initially the possibility of excellent scuba diving here had provided an enticing lure, but the weather is not cooperating.  It is raining sideways at times.  I learn under very lucky circumstances that the ONLY boat leaving Belize for Guatemala leaves the next morning, and then not again until the following Tuesday.  It is necessary to get two hours further south to Punta Gorda to achieve this crossing.

 

Instead of retracing the looping peninsula road back out – backtracking being a cardinal sin in my travels – a local water taxi is taken across Placencia Bay to the small village of Independence.   From there, due to the lateness of the hour once again, I am forced to “Chicken Bus” it out to Punta Gorda.  Another Garifuna town.  But a little rougher around the edges.

 

Many businesses are closed, including most of the restaurants advertised in the many guide books pertaining to Central America.  The only way to find out what is open is to hoof it around town and execute a two-legged inquiry.  Which is a more pleasing approach anyway.  I am one of those who do not mind reading multiple menus, or shopping at length for a pair of shoes, knowing I will eventually find just the right one.

 

Eventually a mediocre dining establishment is found.  It is late.  They are out of many things, Punta Gorda being the end of the road for Belize.  Transportation and supply are major issues here.  You can’t get across the border to Guatemala via auto or bus.  There is no rail service.  Instead, you take an overloaded, bouncy panga (often without sunshield) out for a 45-minute crossing in a looping trajectory over to Livingston, in Guatemala.

 

The crossing next morning is without fanfare.  The customs folks are efficient and, as usual, very agreeable.  It is the old British colonial residue of “friendliness first.”  Primarily they just want your money.  An exit tax of $37.50 just for the privilege of leaving Belize.  But their fare is reasonable compared to most, and I know I will be returning some day, to catch the missed scuba highlights, experience true hospitality, and visit Caye Caulker once again.  If not more than once.