This is a series of posts about Belize that starts here.

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Our last full day in Belize.  The plan was, as the itinerary stated, to “Visit the famed Cockscomb Basin Jaguar Preserve for a guided tour of the jungle. Run by the Belize Audubon Society, the Cockscomb Basin is one of the last refuges for the Jaguar, as well as many other species of birds and animals.”

But first, Mark wanted to go to the nearest large town to get cash, since Jeanie had informed us there was no ATM in Hopkins.  Trudy, Stan, Mark and I went along for the ride to Dandriga, which was half an hour north on very smooth, new roads.

We passed Mennonites in horse-drawn buggies.  They had established farms along the route, and I feel bad saying this but their houses were perfectly tidy, without a board out of place nor a rusty awning in sight.  By contrast, the other houses all appeared to be in advanced states of decay.  Siding was missing, windows were boarded up, anything metal was rusty.  Was this due to the Mennonites having more money? The Mennonites came voluntarily, whereas other Belizeans were brought as slaves or at the very best, subjugated.  Did the Mennonites have some sort of uber pioneer protestant work ethic?

I was about to write “natives” vs. Mennonites, then realized the current Mennonites are just as “native” as anyone else, since their forebears emigrated from Holland in the 17^th Century.

We pulled over on the side of the road to watch flocks of birds in the wetlands.  Trudy kicked off her shoes and squashed through the mud.

In Dandriga, Mark reminded us to get $40.00 cash for the airport exit fee.  Mike had some trouble using his card and went inside.

“The teller said we could have gone to their Hopkins branch,” he said when he emerged.  “It’s in a place called Trinnie’s that rents kayaks.”

We decided to wander around Dandriga for an hour. Trudy went back to the van to get her shoes and returned, frantically pointing at her feet.  Without Emily, we had no way of knowing what was wrong.  Mark dug a notepad and pen out of the glovebox.

“One of my shoes is gone!”  Trudy wrote.

“It must have fallen out of the van when we stopped,” Stan suggested.

So Trudy sat in the van.

The first thing you would notice about Dandriga, unless you were Trudy, were the missionaries on the main corner with megaphones, shouting that we are all going to hell if we drank alcohol or fornicated.

Once I heard them pronounce “out” and “about,” I knew they were American, not Canadian.  They were blond and plump and extremely sun burned. If someone did this on my street, I would be seriously annoyed and demand that the police shut them down.  But no one in Dandriga seemed to mind, they just smiled and nodded and kept walking.

All the shops were Chinese owned, with the exception of one Indian place called Jai.

I went into a store called The Price is Right, bought a bag of pecans labeled “For Sale at Costco Only,” and munched on them while I looked around.

There was a large section of glucose products.  Was it cheaper and easier to consume glucose than real food?  The thought made me queasy.

Belizeans apparently inherited a love of beans from their days as a British colony.  These were one-gallon cans.

And in case you spilled beans on yourself, there was a large selection of bleaches.

The prices were marked by hand. Couldn’t they afford one of those price label makers?  I wondered where Koleston Hair Color came from.  The name sounded too close to colon for me.

My favorite item was the Mouse Glue. So many questions….can you also use it to catch elephants?  How does it “kill rat & mouse without poison”?  Do you have to dispatch the poor rodent yourself once it’s helplessly mired in the glue?  What is mocosity and just how strong is it?  How would I avoid stepping in this goo myself in the middle of the night?  And where do dragon hunters fit into the picture?

This is a series of posts about Belize that starts here.

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We stopped at Guanacaste National Park to eat our picnic lunch, hike, and have a swim.

It was a sweet but sad place.  Like any state park in the US, it had an interpretive center.

The lone park ranger, Uriah, seemed pleased to have visitors. We used the bathroom, which was worse than the one at the gas station, then politely looked at the home-made displays.  There were no lights except for the sun coming in the window.  No lights, but there was a pay phone.

“You can hike,” Uriah said hesitatingly, “But many snakes have come up from the river banks since the rains.  It’s very muddy, and they hide in the mud.  Most of them won’t attack … unless you step on her, then she will bite.”

Our group was silent, for once. Then Jan asked, “Most of them?”

“Some, they are very aggressive, like the Yellow Jaw.  And she is very toxic.  There are many species of snake, but only eight are poisonous.”

“Only eight….” Stan repeated pensively.

“And where is the swimming?” ventured Mark, the eternal optimist.  I was wearing my swim suit under my clothes, dripping with sweat, and couldn’t wait to jump into the water.

“Ahh … I would not try swimming today,” Uriah answered. “The river is too flooded; the currents too strong.  It’s so muddy you can’t see the crocodiles.”

I’ve traveled a lot.  I’ve encountered many local guides who tell horror stories about venomous snakes, giant spiders, and large carnivores that will tear off your arm. Usually it’s just BS.  But Uriah was a serious guy, like a lot of park rangers.  If he was telling us not to hike or swim, I was heeding his advice.

People do get dragged away by crocodiles in Belize; this is an excerpt from an article in a Belizean newspaper about a croc attack.

“Dr. Mario Estradaban conducted a post mortem examination on the body on Tuesday, September 19th, which certified the cause of death to be exsanguination traumatic amputation of the upper limbs due to crocodile syndrome.”
Mark, being young, male, and probably believing he was invincible, tried to rally us. “I’m game for a little hike, if anyone wants to join me.”  The three men in our group disappeared into the jungle behind him, if for no other reason than to not look like wimps.

We womenfolk laid out the lunch.  News of the health benefits of whole grains and unprocessed food has apparently not yet reached Belize.  We were going to feast on sandwiches of soft white bread, cheese food slices, some kind of pork bologna imported from Germany, and tomatoes and cucumbers.  My sandwich, minus the bologna, was delicious.  That’s one of the things I enjoy about traveling; I give myself permission to just eat whatever is put in front of me, never mind how fatty, sugary, or processed it is.  We also had dried plantain chips flavored with cayenne which were delicious.

The men returned after about 10 minutes. “It’s too muddy,” Mark reported.  “It’s like, six inches deep.”  Mike, Stan, and Jessie, coming up behind him, looked relieved.

“Look! Monkeys!” exclaimed Inga.  Not more than a few yards away, a group of big black monkeys were swinging in the tree tops.  Everyone ran over to the clearing among the trees to watch the show.

“Yes, this is our family,” narrated Uriah.  “The mother, the baby, and six others who hang around.  They are Howler Monkeys but we call them baboons.”

I stood next to Uriah.  He was tall and thin, his skin greyish, his face drawn but with remarkable iridescent, olive-colored eyes.  He appeared to be about 45; he seemed weary, not the vigorous, outdoorsy type.  I asked if he lived nearby and he laughed ruefully.

“Oh yes, I live in the office,” he said.  “I sleep under the desk.  My family lives in the far north, in Santa Elena on the Mexican border but my job is here.  I only go home once a month.  My wife, she is sick ….”

We drove off, leaving Uriah to sleep alone in the dark with the snakes.

This is a series of posts about Belize and Guatemala that starts here.

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We had left Guatemala and were driving to Hopkins, Belize. On the way we would stop for a picnic and a hike around Guanacaste National Park, with the promise of a swim in the Roaring Creek waterfalls.

We stopped for gas and to use the bathroom.  I wondered about this cigarette brand:

I can’t imagine this brand going down well in Nairobi or Mumbai.  Belizeans must have a more laid back attitude toward their colonial past.

The bathroom had no light, no water, and no toilet seat.  There was a sign with detailed hand-written instructions posted over the sink that you could see if the door was open.  Since there was a line of people waiting to use the loo I didn’t want to hold them up so I only saw enough of the sign to know that it was kind of like an algorithm: If you were a man you followed the instructions on the left, women on the right.  Women were instructed to sit on the nonexistent toilet seat, not squat over it, which would result in pee all over the place.

The smell told me there had been many women who had not read the instructions.  It’s all about perspective, though.  I can say with confidence that this roadside bathroom was better than a similar one I used in Cuba, which had the added feature of an old woman who stood there while you peed, then poured a bucket of water down the toilet because it didn’t flush, and then asked you for a dollar.

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There was more spine-crunching driving, but how can you complain when you’re sailing along the Hummingbird Highway through the Mayan Mountains?  The scenery was spectacular. It rained off and on and became more humid.  I love humidity.  Despite the fact that it makes my Restless Legs worse, it makes my skin soft and my hair wavier.  And looking good is what matters, right?

I was sitting next to Liz.  This was Day Three, and the first time I noticed that she nattered on nonstop about everything and nothing.  She had a curious way of repeating each observation.  For instance she would say, “I’ve never seen anything like that,” followed immediately by, “That’s something I’ve never seen.”  This was all in a southern drawl, because she was originally from somewhere further south than Cincinnati; Alabama, I think. The volume of her speech was also more suited to a noisy barroom than a quiet van.

What is it that makes someone need to talk—compulsively?  At first I nodded in acknowledgement at everything she said.  Once I noticed she was basically talking about nothing but just because she couldn’t help herself, I turned my head to the window to gaze at the scenery.  It felt rude.  But wasn’t she being rude by yammering nonstop while everyone else was trying to enjoy the peaceful views?  I fought the urge to turn my head back to her and start nodding again.

She kept talking, and talking, and talking.  She even said at one point, to no one, “Ah know ah talk too much!” followed by a forced, too-long laugh. This was when I remembered that—in my experience—people who talk too much know it, and they aren’t overly sensitive when people ignore them.

I stopped feeling rude.  I also avoided sitting next to Liz for the rest of the trip.

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We stopped and shopped for lunch in a Chinese-owned store.  I didn’t take an official census, but I would estimate that 75% of the businesses in Belize are Chinese owned. Here are some items I found amusing, mysterious, or revolting:

Cashew wine!?  Industrial-sized cans of jalapenos?  Ramen, possibly containing real men?

Sadly, I was going to be home when the National Domino Playoffs took place:

I blame the power of advertising; the men and I bought Belikins and drank them while we waited for others to check out.  I jokingly asked Mark, “Okay if we finish these in the van?” and he said, nonchalantly, “Sure.” I have a feeling this was not official policy, but I didn’t ask twice.