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.

SAN PEDRO -- AMBERGRIS CAYE

 

 

On a lark, a decision is made to head to San Pedro on neighboring Ambergris Caye the next morning to start the New Year.  Caulker Caye is too perfect and I wanted a contrasting isle by which to measure my newfound BIF (Best Island Forever). This is the most popular tourist spot in all of Belize.  The boat journey (again by Caye Caulker Water Taxi) costs about $25 Belize dollars round-trip, or half that in American dollars.  It takes 30 minutes for the crossing, which is almost due north.

 

The first thing one notices is the businesses are more formal.  They don’t do receipts by hand.  They have swipe card mechanisms.  Waiters wear formal costumes.  The streets are paved.  There are more cars.  There is more formality, and less revelry.  The only thing in common with Caulker is that the locals are once again, incredibly friendly and superbly helpful.

 

There is much noted about activity available on Ambergris Caye.  It is huge compared to Caulker, and extends up to within yards of a Mexican peninsula to the north.  But the reality is, since the ferry schedule for return to Caulker is so restrictive, what what one can really do is eat and drink.  Or combine the two.

 

I retreat to The Blue Water Grill.  The hostess offers to send running bowl game scores from American gridiron contests taking place much further to the north.  They offer great drink specials.  But, they are busy, and food will take an hour.  Isn’t that what bars are for?  I order a Horny Monkey (some type of coconut elixir) and another Caipirinha and wait out the delay.

 

My Cobb salad and small red snapper sandwich arrive ahead of time. The food is outstanding, along with the service.  I am indifferent to scores.  Though happy to see Stanford beating up on Wisconsin.  Big Ten teams bore the living pee-wodden out of me.  You would think one of these years, they might discover modern passing offenses produce three times as much yardage as running offenses do.  “No, we’re going to wait for the single wing to return,” seems to be their coaching attitude and offensive plan, for the largest part.

 

After exploring the streets of San Pedro for nearly three hours, I am secretly relieved when the ferry – last of the day for some strange reason despite the early hour -- returns to Caye Caulker at 3:30 PM.  It appears time for a nap upon arrival.  Largely due to the unaccustomed sun, the alcohol, and the lack of ambition this combo seduces you.  But no, Caulker is good for surprises.  Our waiter from the previous night, Kevin, meets up with me on the street.  He is shocked that I remember him.  He advises me it is his birthday. “I thought you said last night was your birthday?” I challenge. 

“Oh yes, but my birth began at 11:57 and didn’t finish until 12:07.  I am a New Year’s Baby.  Get to have it both ways, Mon” he explains.  He offers to take our small group shopping.  I want a quick-drying, nylon, Guayabara type jersey that will be much like the locals wear.  We can’t find one in anything other than odor absorbing and slow drying cotton.  But the search is fun in any case.  There are many frivolous items to admire prior to leaving empty handed.

 

From there we advance to the Lazy Lizard once again.  This time for a Bailey’s Colada, a Hemingway lemon Daiquiri without sugar, beers, and a Panty Ripper  (correctly referred to hereafter as a Panty Dropper).   Kevin and I become fast if not particularly deep friends.  We appreciate each other immensely.  I am only here for a couple days.  He doesn’t have e-mail.  It doesn’t matter.  It is a moment we are sharing, the only thing available to us really if one is aware of or working at maintaining presence.

 

I exult in his completely positive outlook, his Rastafarian dreadlocks and scruffy beard, his love for everybody on the street – Kevin is very well known by all -- and his complete enthusiasm for virtually everything.  We sway back and forth to his rhythms from the second floor balcony of the Lazy Lizard.  His agreeability to and for all things is contagious.  But suddenly he makes a grave error.  He starts mistaking me for a sage.

 

“What are the most important things you have learned, Mon?” he asks me.  I am a little stumped by this.  I’ve never been mistaken for a sage, clairvoyant, soothsayer, medicine chief, tribal elder, or wise man before.   I take time to ponder.  Should I have a rapid answer?  Immediate answers can be impressive, but a mile wide and an inch deep.  I contemplate for a moment.

 

“Well, Kevin, I am not a wise man.  The smartest play I am aware of is to not be afraid to make mistakes.  And to hop back up quickly from those you do make.  I try to pass this on to my sons all the time.  Of course, they are both more intelligent than me.  Occasionally even smarter.  But if an answer is really necessary I’d say this:

 

“Be in the moment.  Have a measure of gratitude for all things given you – including the experiences that look ugly at first.  And simply allow.  Don’t try to control your life.  Let things happen.  Go with the flow.  See where it leads you.  Your plan is not as grand as you think it is compared to what is being laid out before you, if only you get out of your own way enough to notice.”

 

We saunter south once again.  Kevin encounters his Home Boys, a reggae band, alongside the dirt path some might call a road.  He starts dancing with me.  For the first time in my life, I start dancing unabashedly, not caring if I’m the first one out or the only one.  Who is watching, or who might be snickering.  It is pulled out of me, and then just slides.  And rolls.  And rocks.  Kevin stands back in admiration.  “You got it going on, Mon,” he beams.  Well, yes, probably.  For  a white man, anyway.

 

Then to dinner, at a place he has picked out called Mama’s Little Kitchen.  A four-story hovel you can’t find without a guide.  They have no advertising signs.  The place is nearly surrounded with dilapidated plywood tenements.  This is where the locals eat.  We are not even sure it is occupied this night, at first.

 

We talk more.  Kevin is like the perfect electrical component.  Warm and conductive as hell, but ice cold as a piece of circuitry.  Which is to say, he offers absolutely no resistance.  He doesn’t disagree with anything.  Current courses through him like shit through a goose.  He is delightfully happy to be alive at 34, absorbs life like a sponge, and wants nothing more than to play his music, grow new friends, learn, and experience more and more.

 

We run into a vacationing family from Georgia.  He is intrigued by the way I engage with them and learn about them, by asking a lot of questions.  Those include being both intensely observational, and making fun of them at the same time.  “I see how you do that, Mon” he plays it back to me.  “You personalize the situation and they let you do anything you want.”

 

Soon (and I have no idea how we got here), Dave & Kelly & Brandon & Breanna and I have turned the tables and are making fun of Kevin.  He takes it all in good naturedly and yet carefully.  He is a wide-eyed novice at this stuff.  Then suddenly we notice he is being left behind.  They only get an 8^th grade mandatory education in Belize.  Kevin doesn’t understand time zone differences, the rotation of the earth, and the possibility of it being 8 pm while in Seattle and yet 7 AM in Moscow.

 

We take turns explaining this to him in great detail.  Just when he begins to get it, we torture him with explanations of Daylight Savings Time.  And to really pile on, we insinuate that “when you smoke the really good stuff, Kevin, it all turns around and reverses immediately.”  I am immune.  American tort laws for libel, slander, intentional acts, and personal injury don’t apply here.

 

Soon, however, it is too much temptation once more.  The astrology lesson ends.  The joking returns.  With Kevin as the butt, then Dave, then Kelly, then Brandon, and finally Breanna.  Only I escape being a target.  I feel left out.  And due to the late hour we have run out of time for addressing the imbalance.  Kevin doesn’t have e-mail or a phone.  Knowing this is the last time I will see him, I feel cheated for the second time this evening.  But we part on perfect terms.

 

 

 

BELIZE -- CAYE CAULKER

 

 

There is absolutely no reason to stick around Cancun.  So it is straight from the plane, to the all-night bus headed south along the Yucatan to the Belize border.  Luckily, it is not crowded. Sleeping conditions are still difficult.  I befriend a young man from Belize City returning to open his grandparents home for refurbishment.  Litz requires the use of arm braces to walk, having been nearly crippled in a car accident seven years previously.

 

I trade my strong back and weak mind for his scouting reports, guide services, and stories about home.  So he gets his bags carried, and I get through customs when I would ordinarily get stopped and questioned.  All is well.  Among many others, Litz directs me to Caye Caulkner – an island not far off the coast of Belize City.  “I live in Belize City, man, but you don’t want to stay there.  They have guns.  It has the 5^th highest murder rate per capita in the world.” 

 

The road south is actually very high quality.  The bus is air conditioned and has an airplane style lavatory and is as good as any found in Seattle.  The driver is not overly careful, and despite what seems like thousands of speed bumps, we make excellent progress and excellent time.  By 4 AM, the Belize border awaits.  The crossing is casual.  Guards see me carrying water for Litz, and merely wave me through.  We are however, held up by a Mexican couple coming south for three days without luggage that trips the interest of border authorities on the Belize side.

 

Mexico is of course completely hypocritical about immigration.  They expect their citizens to be able to pass north or south without complication.  But should citizens from points south transit through Mexico (let alone without luggage), let us just say our amigos below the Rio Grande do not extend the welcome of health care, housing assistance, welfare benefits, birthright citizenship, jobs, and so forth to their temporary guests that they expect of us.  Jail or a detention center is more like it.

 

Having said this, I recognize that history wouldn’t be history without mass migrations, trans-Pacific exploration, conquest and envelopment, DNA mixing, and movement of peoples to new locales as a constant in life.  Mountains thrust up from tectonic plates and then degrade into hills.  Streams work their way to rivers and then to the sea.  Herds work in a similar fashion, thinning as they migrate.  Imbalances are evened out.  Life finds a way.

 

The main highway into Belize strikes me as if it is a B road leading to an unheard of resort far out on a lonely peninsula.  Speed bumps sprout like Parrot Heads at a Jimmy Buffet concert.  The landscape is flat, the housing roughly colorful Caribbean, and most of the buildings are on stilts.   Scrub vegetation and mangrove swamps appear as if a flattop marine haircut to either side.  We arrive by 8 AM, and go to breakfast immediately at a diner close to Litz’s home.  I can order bacon and eggs!  It is the first time in nearly two weeks that rice and beans has not been a staple of my meal.

 

Belize – formerly British Honduras -- is highlighted on its Caribbean side by Cayes (prounounced Keys), islands and islets that provide R & R opportunities in the most relaxed of settings.  It is known primarily for its world class diving and tourist industry.  Just outside the north-south arc of Cayes, is the world’s second longest reef.  The breakers cresting over this protective barrier show up as an endless white foamy line and are visible from space. The passage over takes approximately 45 minutes on the Caye Caulkner Water Taxi.  “No worries, Mate” telepathically streams through your head.

 

Overnight space is limited, this being the perfect weather season for tourists tired of northern snowstorms and driving sleet.  So it is difficult to find housing.  I am lucky to land at the Plaza Hotel on Caye Caulkner.  The island itself is about five miles long, up to 1.5 miles wide in spots, and has no name for its primary habitation.  There are also no street signs.  As if in Dublin (Ireland), one navigates by the “corner pub” or “corner store” system.  If you are not visually oriented, there will be many, many course corrections!  Every single one of them is fun.

 

Within thirty minutes of arrival, I am situated at the far north end of the island, happily parked at a favorite local bar  called “The Lazy Lizard” with a rum based elixir called the Green Lizard (makes the tongue green) and then a similarly concocted Panty Ripper.  The bartenders are informed that further north, these coconut and rum delights are known as “Panty Droppers.”  They think that to be a better name.

 

On the way back to the hotel, streets are criss-crossed to gain knowledge of all the best spots to drink, dine, and enjoy music.  Along the way, some transplant name Charles with a Rastafarian hairdo and beard from New York is cooking right out ont he beach chicken curry, lobster bisque, and several other seafood delicacies in large Dutch oven pots.  The price is unbelievably cheap.  Approximately $3 for a full lunch (including rice and beans) -- but sans salad.

 

An election is made instead for ceviche.  Something every beach in the world seems to offer in variation.  Finely diced white fish, mixed in with lobster and conch, then bits of cucumber and tomatoes and celery and marinated in lime juice.  Eaten at a beach chair with the sun overhead, feet nearly tickling the surf, this is one of those zen moments.  Not a cloud mars the sky.  There are few dishes in this world that – no matter the preparation or the locale – are so wonderfully and consistently pleasing as this.

 

Of course, no ceviche is worth its salt without accompaniment from local libations.  Mine consist of a mixed fruit daiquiri, and a Caipirinha.  Some of you may remember the latter as that penultimate-moment Brazilian national drink that earned my hefty accolades as “lending grace to my days.”  Sounds like a lot of alcohol.  But this is, after all, Caye Caulkner.  And the heat makes it pour right through you.  .  My situation purposefully mirrors that of a famous Corona beer commercial, where the liquor is hoisted, glasses clinked, the setting is pure Hollywood, but not a single word need be uttered.

 

Also along the way, a young local obviously recruiting diners lures a group of us in with a pitch to help him celebrate his birthday later in the evening.  He offers up a combination plate of whatever we want to eat – lobster, conch, shrimp, pork, chicken … you name it.  So I point out that this is very generous for the number of people being invited. He ignores me.  So I go on to clarify further.  “Can you make a combination plate?  And what will it cost?”

 

“Of course,” Terry replies, ignoring the full implication of the query.  “I need you here to help me celebrate my birthday.  I’m forty-one years old today.”  I ask again: “Are you sure beer is all I need to bring?”  He indicates once more just to bring beer, or another alcohol of choice.  “This is to help me celebrate my birthday,” he affirms.  “That is all.”  I sense a vague pattern.  My memory is tripped.  This tv screen is wavy.  Seen this play before.  But, what the hell … this is Caye Caulker and it is already clear, THIS is a very special place.

 

There really are no “streets” on Caye Caulker.  There are pathways of varying widths, made up of clay, sand, and dirt.  They roughly intersect at right angles, as if aspiring to streetdom.  Nothing is paved.  Exploring these byways is a pure joy.  Instead of cars, we get golf carts.  Our civilization has evolved, from the majestic horse culture of the American plains to the auto culture of American suburbia to the golf cart culture of the Caribbean Keys.

 

Now, it has long been rumored that Americans – and men particularly – use their vehicle for the same purpose that wolves piss over a wide range of turf.  They do it to establish dominion.  They are marking their territory.  It is widely observed as a corollary then, that the French use their motorized deployment as an aide in their sexuality.   The Italians use their vehicle, as an extension of their penis for the same purpose.  The British, of course, are said to use their vehicle as a complete substitute for their member.

 

Where is all this purely scientific observation going?

 

Quite simply, that  men used to dominate driving.  Controlling the steering wheel was their birthright.  Almost like controlling the remote control switch on the family TV used to be (before kids learned how to counter-program it behind your back).  Being behind the wheel of a 360 horsepower Dodge Charger meant power, privilege, and esteem.  You ruled the roost.  “Roll on, Britannia!”  Or “Damn the torpedoes and full steam ahead!”  Or"Go ahead, catch me copper, if you can!"

 

But on these islands, nobody gives a rip.  There are next to zero cars.  You can’t wave your hose around or rev your engine and pretend to be a man.  Families ride these things like it is the sleep inducing Alice in Wonderland Ride at Disneyland.  Frequently, they let the kids drive.  They seem to be so laid back as if to be soporific.  You have to take their pulse to see if they are truly operating their 1- cylinder gas powered … uh … vehicles. Only the smiles on their faces give them away.     

 

Prior to New Year’s Eve celebrations late, I circumnavigate the island.  In flip flops.  My journey is perhaps ten miles in length.  I take in the charming commercial district, the makeshift cooking pods along the eastern beach areas, the poverty-stricken shanty town close to the island’s power generating station, and the “no fly zone” tony residential area at the southern tip of the island where residents have four-story castles and spend perhaps ten days a year in residence.

 

Along the way I see countless riotously contented musicians, cooks offering every permutation of seafood and pork, a set of pigs being roasted on a spit turned by an auto steering wheel, a large group of domesticated tarpon fish, and tourists from half the western countries in the world.  Only the Chinese it seems are absent.  But they run the local business scene irregardless of this.

 

My cell phone charger has bitten the dust.  My God, how will I replace it here? Verizon can’t even replace it back at home in the US!  “Too out of date,” I am told.  But damned if the Chinese in a store specializing in low-cost food for backpackers, can’t come up with a solution.  It costs me $12 in US currency, about $24 in Belize dollars.  Who would have predicted this?  [ I think about going to the Chinese after this for investment advice, also ].

 

Later on, we stop in again at Terry’s place.  He has forgotten our names already.  But he is still polite as an English butler.  He luckily remembers faces.  That suffices for the moment.  It is New Year’s Eve and there is a high level of anticipation.  We sit and watch old Bob Marley retrospectives on TV.  The food is slow in coming.  We drink the beer he asked us to bring earlier in the evening.  And watch more Bob Marley.  Again.  Occasionally the host appears.  Finally, some food follows.

 

I am doing the “horse trading” thing, where plates are shared.  The jerk chicken is out of this world.  The combination seafood plate is passable, but cold.  The conch is almost tasteless and is rubbery in texture because it has cooled too much.  No more of that.   Despite the numerous shortcomings of the meal, Terry presents us with a bill.  So much for the alleged birthday party.  Suspicions confirmed.  Next time, I will clarify with even more insistence.  Perhaps even in writing.  There is n such thing as a free lunch (or dinner) in Central America.  Also.

 

Pressing on, we all retreat once again to the Lazy Lizard.  It has a full bar, natural dance floor, a shallow water adjacent sit area with drinking slides and teeter totters, and a fractured breakwater that looks like the dance spotlight circle on the old American Bandstand program hosted by Dick Clark in years gone by.  The troubled concrete breakwater is a lawyer’s wet dream.

 

It has exposed rusted rebar in the ultimate stabbing position in about twelve different areas.  It is tilted madly.  There are missing chunks.  Miss your step, and you are in the surf.  Or have twelve broken bones.  But it is a superb platform for riding the razor’s edge while dancing.  You really get to heighten the moment while trying to boogy on such an exposed and perilous stage.  And so I did.  Never had that much fun dancing on New Year’s Eve, ever.

 

2013 is reined in quietly.  I am back at my hotel room before midnight, and watching the local fireworks from the hotel’s 4^th floor roof.  Missing so much sleep from the Mexico crossing from the night previous, I am gone in seconds once my head hits the pillow.  Don’t think I even got to watch the ball drop in New York, even if the TV was on for awhile.  Much the same as when I missed all the American football bowl games the following day, I remain good with it.  Things change.