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.
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