TIKAL

 

What separates majestic Tikal from the count of over 40,000 temples and settlements built by the Mayans during the height of their Central-America cultural supremacy from other top archeological ruins is the supreme verticality of the site, and its distinct remoteness.   The limestone city that housed 100,000 people at its peak around 1200 BC (when it was mysteriously abandoned, 300 years prior to the arrival of the Spanish Conquistadores) is nearly 36 miles from Flores, in Guatemala’s remote Peten Province.

 

There is very little in between.  Interestingly, just as the peak of pyramid and temple building was taking place in the Mayan empire, English castle and cathedral construction was just beginning in earnest.  We owe much to each other, in this progression of musical chairs that plays out in the sharing of and transmission of knowledge.  Even if it is unconscious.   

 

Once you arrive at this hallowed site, you realize why the Mayans had to “go big, or stay home.”  They were astrologically tremendously astute people.  They counted heavily on precise sightings of the sun to plan their crops and validate their 23 different calendars.  To do this, however, they had to surmount the high jungle canopy that surrounded them here.  Only by reaching above the treetops, could Mayan priests and astronomers get accurate summer and winter solstice or spring and autumn equinox readings.  Their culture depending on this entirely.

 

So “go big” they did.  Many of the unique design temples approach 200 foot in height, towering above the landscape in ways that is very suggestive of strong male energy.   All of the monuments at Tikal are solid.  Few have hollow interiors, only a few having burial chambers secreted between their four classic walls and corresponding steep stairways on each face.

 

Over 4000 known buildings make up the 570 square kilometer site.   Only 20% have been restored or partially excavated.  Excavations began in 1956.  Those that have been are widely separated and can take from ten to thirty minutes to reach via remote hiking loops.  The lengthy walking contributes to a sense of remoteness here -- along with the overhead canopy which shades you as one traverses from spot to spot, and the sweet jungle rot which permeates the surroundings.  Contributing are the relatively constant sounds of native howler monkeys, parrots, and toucans.

 

As usual, I hire a professional guide to direct my attentions while making the visit.  Mine was Abel Luzero, a native Guatemalan who had been giving tours locally for over 20 years.  As we hike the 1.5 kilometers toward the main plaza at Tikal from our parking lot, he immediately points out two sets of monkeys thriving there.  Spider monkeys, quiet white-haired fellows that grow up to 12 pounds, and the noisier howler monkeys, which can reach up to 25 pounds.

 

He quickly points out the latter group takes special delight in defecating on tourist heads from their lofty perches amidst the treetops.  Particularly on Americans.  “So move along quickly,” he advises in excellent English.  I soon learn however, had I been Canadian or German, for example, then that group would have been the favored targets.  Just part of Abel’s sense of humor.

 

Our next object of reference is the Ceiba tree – absolutely sacred to the Maya.  They display massive smoothbore trunks that are mindful of a green onion stalk, arching delicate branches like those found beyond the reach of giraffes and elephants on the African Serengeti, and deep root systems.

 

Our first stop is at a place called Complex Q.  Here, a partially uncovered pyramid that you can still walk to the top of towers over nine Stilas – or standing stones with stucco and plaster bass relief representations of Mayan Gods.  Next to each is a sacrificial stone used for both animals and humans.  This is a singularly important monument at Tikal, since pyramids commemorate human calendar or astrological events.  This one honors the accession of the 29^th Mayan King, Xax Num Aim, or “Josh Num Eye-Eeem” in 741 AD.

 

After a 20 minute walk, the next stop is at the tallest of the monuments in Tikal, Temple IV.  This complex was built in 741 AD.  It can also be ascended to the top.  It has the best views of the other temples in the complex as they pierce the jungle canopy (almost as if to reach up and affirm the heavens).  The dressed limestone – carved by obsidian flint chisels naturally found on the site – is mortared together with limestone mortar fired in kilns.  It is massive in appearance, and is characterized by a steep open-air altar at the top which is suggestive of a rooster comb.

 

Besides the presence of plentiful flint, the reason Tikal was sited where it is was due to the abundance of fresh water, and its position on the crown of a hill which made it more easily defended from enemies.  Evidence of habitation by other tribes – the Olmecs preceded the Maya in most of their domain – is clear at this and many other Mayan constructs.  One depended on the other to build a foundation for greater works to follow.  Just as in Europe, China, South America, and virtually everywhere else on this generationally interdependent planet.

 

From Temple IV, you can look out over – and I do mean OVER, without use of ziplines – the jungle canopy at other nearby stone monuments which pierce the sky.  That includes the Temple of the Jaguar Priests straight ahead, the Great Pyramid to our right, and the Temple of the Masks in the background.  Our elevation is about 700 feet above sea level.

 

Next stop is “El Mundo Perdido,” The Lost World, or the Gran Piramide.  This massive mound dates back to 600 BC.  The nearby plaza demonstrates an unusual style of arches not usually found in the Mayan world, evidence of communication with contact with Teotihiticlan in Mexico, nearly 1000 kilometers away.  The pyramid itself is the oldest building in Tikal and much more of a classic Mexican or Egyptian style step pyramid.  It is massive in its base, very symmetrical, and with a flat top lacks the summit comb that is so much more representative of the gravity-defying uniqueness of Tikal.

 

I ask Abel what support services were necessary to conduct this level of construction over a 2000 year period?  He guesstimates from his knowledge, training and experience that about 20% of the population was devoted to agriculture.  Much time also had to be devoted to the gathering of firewood, for both food preparation and to keep the fires which turned the omnipresent limestone into mortar.

 

Then there was the masons for dressing stone into squares and rectangles (even if soft stone).  Also necessary was the conveyance of water, which was stored almost religiously by the Maya in a large enclosure nearly a mile long close to Temple IV.  It had a high earthen enclosed damn at one end of a natural v-shaped depression – a massive piece of engineering in itself.

 

Along the way, I witness the Plaza of The Seven Temples.  Here is found a very tranquil and pleasant public square bounded by seven small temples, and a triple ballfield (jai alai is the closest modern equivalent) that is unique to the Mayan world.  

 

Beyond is the massive South Acropolis, unexcavated, but higher still than Temple IV.  It reaches so high that at times the summit is lost in the mist.  What mystery lies beneath its tangled vines and slanted trees can only be imagined.  Temple V, very close to this among the excavated mounds at Tikal, is second only to Temple IV in height.

 

Adjacent to this is the Central Acropolis, where royalty lived.  While the Maya were excellent masons (but nowhere in the league of the Incas), their engineering necessarily required wooden headers and beams on occasion for structural support.  There is evidence in this area (dating to about 700 AD) of  wooden beams dating back to this same time period.  They remain solid.

 

The thing one notices most about this enclave for the exalted ones, is how bombproof it is, for such tiny living quarters.  Here are essentially “homes” as it were, for perhaps three to four people.  The largest number of stone platformed bed chambers I noticed in any given domicile was six.  Beyond that, there was no apparent living room, family room, kitchen, or bathroom.  Just sleeping quarters, and minor storage bins built in at the head of each bed platform (typically covered with feathers and jaguar skins).

 

The supporting sidewall structure and overhead mass is sufficient to be a nuclear blast redoubt.  It all seems so … disproportionate.  Are there secret channels inside?  Secret chambers?  Areas yet remaining to be explored, if only one learned the right access?  Rather like learning to play some Mario Brothers computer games.  If I hit the right mushroom or intuit the right combination, will the secret door panel slide open?  You have to play repeatedly to learn the trick.  What is being hidden from us?  How could this much energy and material, be devoted to so little purpose?

 

Oddly, in all the elegance and strength demonstrated at Tikal, there is absolutely no evidence of banos (bathrooms) or concinas (kitchens).

 

There are many areas that are merely skimmed in passing.  Almost all of them are unexcavated. My tour officially ends after three hours.  Abel directs me out, still a half an hour’s walk away.  I elect the long way, to be able to catch Temple VI on the way out.  It is 25 meters high, about 40% of the height of the highest temples.  This complex is differentiated in Tikal by its huge crest, the largest hieroglyphic in all of Tikal at nearly 13 meters tall.

 

Pouring rain dims my enthusiasm for any more viewing.  It becomes necessary to make the long trek out to the entry and the collective vans which will take our constantly changing day alliances back to Flores.  I slip frequently on the sloped and occasionally steep limestone roads, which when wet degrade into something approximating clay.  This is compounded by rotting vegetable matter on the top, such that one is often walking on a slip-n’-slide.  Hiking boots with waffle treads are definitely recommended in Tikal!

 

This night, I celebrate a long-awaited bucket list objective being met with a special dinner in Flores.  Spaghetti, con camarones (shrimp).  And my now favorites libation, the magical Brrazilian caipirinha.  It is the relaxed end, to a long and momentous day.  In celebration, I pen a little dity.  It is as follows:

 

No matter how twisted the road

Or dire the troubles de jour

Just hoping what I’m told bears out

An elusive pursuit for sure.

 

Yet I am redeemed by fermented cane

And welcome come what may

For the playful limon elixir

Helps me find my way.

 

So let’s lift our glasses often

And let me hear you say

That you too are in agreement

The caipirinha adds grace to your day.

 

 

 

FROM  LIVINGSTON TO TIKAL

 

You know you are leaving Belize and approaching Guatemala when Polynesian type huts start lining the shore.  The atmosphere becomes more casual, and perhaps in a contradictory sort of way more orderly as well.  Before being prepared, our Panga lands in Livingston – a small port town of 25,000 smack in the middle of what little coastline Guatemala shares with Honduras and Belize on the Caribbean side of that narrow stripe known as Central America. There are no roads leading to Livingston.  One can only access the Garifuna town by water.

 

Livingston is also the mouth or gateway to the Rio Dulce River.  Cruises leaving Livingston and headed upriver to the town of Rio Dulce encounter an “Adventureland” type atmosphere similar to that at Disneyland, with a spectacular gorge, tropical jungle sidewalls, and thatch roofed Polynesian huts lining the watercourse.  Most of these huts are custom homes or very large secondary homes.  Many are accompanied by expensive yachts and motorsailers, which seem out of place under the circumstances.  Since the cruise is on freshwater the entire distance, it is one of immense relaxation and perfectly smooth sailing conditions.  The sun never fails to show itself throughout.

 

Once ashore, and having passports checked, dining becomes the order of the day.  There are no shortage of suggestions.  Once off the boat, you are swarmed with suitors guiding you to a hotel, taxi, restaurant, souvenir shop, cambio booth, or … as they say … “Whatever you want.”  These pack hounds press in on you, until you either have to shove them away, or choose one just to get the others off your back.  They are worse than the guide wannabes in Tangiers.  Some pick up your bag through misplaced presumption, and have to be repeatedly scolded to “Let Go.”

 

Now at this point it is probably best to say something about Traveler Alliances.  They are frequent, necessary, fun, and build a sense of camaraderie on the road.  They last from 15 minutes to days.  Some turn into relationships, from all the stories traded over meals and drinks in various locales.  Sometimes, you sit and talk awaiting a bus or a ferry.  Sometimes you dine together.  Sometimes you share necessary scouting information.

 

Sometimes you stay at the same hotel or hostel, and then having established a comfort level, accompany each other to the day’s star attraction.  Places like Machu Picchu or Tikal or Chichen Itza.  Or Caulker Caye.  Sometimes you amicably part company, only to encounter each other once again further along your chosen path.  So even though you are flying solo, it does not mean you are without company.  Far from it, most of the time.

 

I walk outside the grab bagging porters’ sphere of influence close to the docks and seek out my own guide.  It is a brilliant find.  Joshua Trammell, fluent in both English and Spanish and close in several other languages, is a US Army disability retiree who came to Guatemala to stretch his dollar, then fell in love with the place.  When he doesn’t speak, he is virtually indistinguishable from any Garifuna along the Belize coastline just left behind.  He first directs me to the cash machine, then the bus line for subsequent tickets to Tikal, and finally a suitable eating place.  We avoid the waterfront.  At least the immediate waterfront where tourists are harvested by the locals like fish on a conveyor belt.

 

He directs  a group of us to Casa Nostra, run by Arizona expatriate Stuart Winand.  The small waterside restaurant specializes in fresh fish caught that day, and Italian style pizza.  After preparing the best pico de gallo and guacamole I’ve ever had and tostadas for a table of six (accompanied of course by the best mojito I have ever tasted), he told us the travails he must navigate to get his real mozzarella cheese from Guatemala City.  First, he must call in the order and check on supply levels.  Then he had to prepay the shipment via his bank, and include specific numbers such as weight, volume, and brand specificity.

 

Then he had to go to his bank and send a money transfer.  Then, back to his business to e-mail over a copy of the check paid to the bank, and the money transfer confirmation number receipt received from the bank.  The shipment could take anywhere from 3 to 5 days.  The ordering process could take 6 hours.  And the lure of theft is immense.  Said blocks can be worth half a month’s salary for the average Guatemalan, so security concerns and tracking are paramount in whatever arrangements are made.  All this, to serve up the finest pizza in all of Rio Dulce.

 

Many of us are going to Tikal through the southern back door.  So it is off to the local bus line for tickets.  Their timeline is off.  There is only one bus remaining.  It is not an express line with guaranteed seating.  It is a local bus.  But one that will still make the four hour journey to Flores (the gateway to Tikal).  Three hours yet to wait.  The time is spent at The Sun Dog, a seaside bar, one of many in these parts with a port to recharge the computer and wi-fi for internet access.  As long as you buy a beer occasionally, the proprietor remains quite happy with your patronage.

 

Finally, the bus arrives.  Only it is already full.  And people are not getting off.  I stand in line, to ensure my spot should space become available.  It does not.  Suddenly a middle aged woman in a native skirt dodges past my arm and tries to sneak past.  I sweep her backward.  Not on my watch!  “Esperando para tres horas,” I tell her.  (I am waiting three hours).  “Debe esperar tambien.”  (You must wait also).  The interior of the bus ingests a bit, leaving a hole in the bus vestibule.  I am able to get my foot inside the door.  Suddenly this same woman dives underneath me, then rocks her hips to maneuver me out of the way.

 

Then she reaches back for three children (I find momentarily they are not even hers), and places them on the window mantle in front of the bus driver.  I am left on one of the steps next to the exit door, with no handholds, and her occupying prime real estate.  Several others are still between me and the door.  One bus employee who collects payment from those leaving the bus, has his bum sticking out into traffic.  Overall, twelve of us are stuck between the driver and the doorway.  This is what you get, with the Chicken Bus.  Nobody is refused. Worst that can happen to you is simply that the driver won’t stop for you at roadside.

 

This condition is endured for two and one-half hours.  Each time the bus stops to let a passenger off, those of us in the vestibule must depart.  Then grapple our way back onto the bus, making sure to avoid letting new interlopers push us aside and get to our hard-won spots ahead of us.  So we develop another alliance of sorts, settling into a customary pecking order, about who got there first, and what step they belong on now, and who has earned the right to stand in a flat spot and not have to perch themselves storch-like on one leg.  The lady on the dress routingly uses my feet as launching pads.

 

At Poptun, halfway into the trip, a large number of passengers depart.  But the aisles are so crowded with standing room only folk, these are quickly snapped up.  I interview those near the front, as to who will depart, and when, and how many seats they will vacate.  As a result of this, I am finally positioned to let a couple mothers with small children deboard, but avoid letting others slide in from behind to take my new seat.  Not that they don’t try.  But they don’t stand a chance again somebody who played regularly in pads for 14 years and once played professionally for the Denver Broncos for one week.  I have effectively won the Chicken Bus lottery …

 

Our bus arrives in Flores at 11 PM.  It is a lovely city of 30,000 that is spectacularly located on an island at the end of a 500 meter causeway into the middle of Lago de Peten Itza.  You can walk around the whole island in less than an hour.  It is about 36 miles from Tikal. There are more hotels and restaurants here than hookers at a political convention.  Almost all of them ring the water, and every single one is inviting.  But there will be no dinner this night.  Just a catchup on much needed sleep.  The big prize awaits those of us who have allied for the day, to visit Tikal.

 

We are set upon by a hustler named … what else but …  Larry.  He assures us in mixed English and Spanish that the people he will set us up with will take us direct, provide the lowest cost round trip, have buses with bathrooms, and provide an English speaking guide for a minimum of at least eight visitors.  He doesn’t realize most of us have already consulted one or more of the numerous guidebooks that give proprietary details about major spots like Tikal.  He quotes a price of about 150 quetzels (just short of 20 dollars, the Q exchanging at about 8:1 to the dollar).  It is another $150 quetzels to gain admittance to the park.

 

He seems too eager, too anxious to close the deal.  Very mindful of Rene, my slick airport handler back in Cancun who sent me to Cuba with nearly the last of my cash, knowing full well I’d have a difficult time accessing additional money in Cuba.  Won’t let me out of his sight.  I tell him I will do some research and let him know my decision in the morning. And the others can make their own decisions.

 

In the morning, a local tourist office around the corner from my modest hotel provides round-trip tickets for 60 quetzels.  I will get my own guide.  Larry counter offers, throwing in transport as part of a package deal to Palenque the following day for 260 additional quetzels.  This time he assures me not only is it the best price, but the only outfit going to Palenque at all.  And that only three tickets are left.  That would include the bus to the Mexican border, river trip across the border, and bus trip beyond to the next major Mayan Temple and archeological ruin on my bucket list.

 

By now, once burned and twice shy, I know this number is inflated and will be at the top of the food chain.  There is nowhere to go but down in price.  Larry is the ceiling.  I will find my floor.  And muse in the meantime just how this hideously transparent man manages to have such up-to-date information at all times about exactly what the art of the possible is here at any given moment.      

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.