There's no place like...home?
January 13, 2002: Island Adventures
Mace: And then there were the Cayes.
The Cayes (pronounced 'keys') which dot the barrier reef
along the coast of Belize are where most tourists headed here wind up sooner or
later. From the cosmopolitan city of San Pedro on Ambergris Caye in the
north ('Temptation Island' was filmed at Captain Morgan's resort there...), to
the remote camping on the Cayes of Glovers reef to the south; there is quite
possibly something for everyone seeking vacation.
After picking up Heather on the 3rd, and spending a little time in the 'mountains', everyone was ready for a little trip out to sea. James, Ally, Heather and Marth opted for a trip out to Glover's reef; where they would camp on a remote island away from all the hustle and bustle of the tourists. Clark and I decided to take a trip to somewhere with a few more service amenities.
Our first stop was to Tobacco Caye, with Sharon and Star. We arranged to stay at a place which claimed dogs were okay, but when we arrived we were urged to find another place. This was a bit of a put out at the beginning, but we quickly found a spot 30 yards away which was happy to have Star as a guest. That seemed a bit humorous to us, given the previous fellow was mostly concerned about Star chasing his cat. Not to mention the other 5 or so dogs running loose on the island as it was. The accommodations were fine, but there just wasn't any place to get a snack if you wanted one. The food we were served was tasty and very satisfying, but Clark and I felt limited in our restricted dining schedule. We did find one excellent opportunity while there, a night dive! That evening, after supper, we were treated to a 'drift in' dive just off the shore of the island, in the dark. I think the coolest thing we saw was little translucent jellyfish that shown blue on their own, yet seemed to disappear when you shown your dive light on them. Very cool. The rest of the dive was just so-so, but Sharon saw an octopus or two near the end when Clark and I had already exited the water. Se la vi. After that one day, we were ready to head back to land, and find a more accommodating spot in which to spend the next few days.
That boat ride in, I will remember
for a long time. Our water taxi back to the mainland was little
more than a row boat with an outboard motor attached. In the normally calm
conditions found on the reef's interior, that would have been fine. What
we had,
however, were
nice winds and actual swells which made me wonder if we really were inside the
protective break of the reef...Thinking to stay drier, I chose to ride in the
front part of the boat. To that effect, I can say my strategy worked quite
well. What I didn't count on, was the beating my ass would take during the
ride. Every little wave our boat plunged over/through gave me what
basically equates to a minor spanking. For an hour. All ended well,
and we were off to find our way to Caye Caulker, sans Sharon as
traveling there with Star was looking to be a problem. So Clark and I
arranged a flight out that afternoon, and Sharon graciously taxied us to the
local airfield.
Before that trip, the smallest plane I'd ever flown on had jet engines. I was interested to see what the little prop planes had to offer in the way of rides, and I can't say my expectations were failed. We piled into that little eight seat sardine can, our luggage in the compartment right behind our seats, and we were off...I hoped. There was definitely a time during the 10 seconds our take off lasted that I wondered if we were going to get to a speed to generate enough lift. Happily, we did; and after one more stop and plane change we arrived at Caulker a mere two hours or so later.
Our
three day stay on Caulker was exactly what I wanted. There were many
things to do, but it wasn't busy; or really even very crowded. The entire
beach along the town was beautiful white sand, as were all the 'roads'.
The only cars on the island aside from construction vehicles were electric
powered carts, and you could see the reef break from shore.
Paradise. We had several little adventures on the island in our three
days, but I'd more like to just highlight some of the memorable people we met
and spent time with.
Explorer instincts took over for us, and in touring the
sights on the island we eventually wound up on the north end of town where you
find the 'split'.
Caye
Caulker is actually two islands now, hurricanes have made a narrow channel in
the island separating the southern piece with the town and beaches from the
mostly mangrove ridden north half. As we neared this dead end, we began
seeing signs for a place called 'The Lazy Lizard'. Advertising itself as a
'cool place for shady people', Clark and I approached; our curiosity in full
swing. We weren't sure what we should expect, but as we came around to the
front, we knew we were in for a treat when we read the bartender's shirt.
A man after my own heart!!!
Kenny turned out to be quite the character. Originally from Canada, and of Scottish decent, he had just recently purchased the place, and was non-stop fun to hang out with. The rum punch they serve there was made from 190+ proof run, pineapple juice and a little bit of water. Potent were they...And during happy hour, they were two for $5!!! We spent a little time there getting to know the old guy, and later that night we ended up doing a bit of partying with him. Clark took to him like a brother, and ended up splitting off with him to close the night out. I wound up looking for them later on, and found them sitting on top of his bar drinking beers! So, I had to join them, even just for one... Many additional hours were spent in the company of Kenny, who was happy to drink right along with you as he tended bar. He even was so kind as to give Clark a Belikin Beer calendar (yes, the kind with swim suit models...) as a sort of parting gift on our last day. He'll be remembered as a friend, and we're going to be sure to return to visit him the next chance we get! Cheers, Kenny!!!
The
next people of journal note we ran across were two sisters on holiday from
London. Francesca and Marie (wow, I really hope I spelled those names
right!) were quite the pair. We met up with them on our last night on the
island, lounging at the I&I bar. A cute little place with a bit of a
jungle motif. It had three levels, the seats were all swings, and there
was a rope bridge to a separate little area as well. A few beers spent
getting to know each other, and learning to understand Marie's accent, and we
all decided to head off for dinner. We found a little place and had
lobster-kabobs, shells and all. Thanks to Clark's ingenuity, we were able
to extract the meat from the shells with little effort. As dinner wound
down, our waiter gave all four of us free drink tickets at the 'Sunset Disco and
Lounge', so we decided to check it out. We spent a little time there,
drinking more rum punches, playing a bit of pool, and we even dared a short bit
of dancing to the wacko tunes that were being played. I can only describe
it as an odd sort of Latin-House. Don't know if that's the best way to put
it, but it was definitely odd. The gals were definitely good company, and
kept us on our toes for the better part of the night with their own crazy senses
of humor. We hope to sometime visit them in their home town, and see what
that's all about.
Three days were up, and it was time once more to go diving.
Glover's Reef was the site of our next diving foray, once more with Second Nature. We arranged a two day dive trip with them, with an over night stay on the same island the others had been out on for some six days. The first day had three dives, and the second two. All of which were quite frankly the most beautiful dives of our trip. If you're ever diving down in Belize, make sure you get out to Glover's. The sights had everything from large sea turtles, enormous schools of fish, and even a rather large moray eel! We managed to rescue Marth from the island to come along with us for the second day of diving. She'd managed to get all the way through advanced diver certification in the previous five days, and was ready to rejoin us under the big blue of the sea. That, and she got a much faster ride back to town from that crazy island. I'm not even going to comment on it, as I think James has put it best below here.
Glover's Reef, Belize
Glover's Reef Atoll 'Resort'
James As far as euphemisms go,
calling where we stayed for a week out at Glover's Reef 'a resort' is a doozy.
Truth has never been embroidered better. This place was to a resort what a taco vendor is to a five-star
restaurant. Granted, after being re-sorted by Hurricanes Mitch (1998) and
Iris (2001), it is remarkable there is anything out there at all, other than
black flies, hermit crabs and the loony landlords, the Lomont family.
Glover's
Reef lies about 12 miles east of Belize's Barrier Reef. About as far out
into the Caribbean as you can get and still be within Belize's territory.
The atoll encompasses an area 18 miles long and 6 miles wide and is,
essentially, an enormous swimming pool with no depth greater than 16 and a half
feet deep. The atoll is dotted with 700 reef 'patches' and is, therefore,
an ideal setting for sea kayaks and snorkeling. Consequently, for our
seven-day stay on Northeast Caye we lugged two sit-on-tops onto the Christmas
Bird. The Christmas Bird is a 30' sailboat which belongs to the
Lomont family and which transported Marth, Heather, Ally, Benjamin and I, along
with thirteen Italians and ten other guests like the slowest boat on the slowest route to
China. In addition, it carried our piles of gear, food, water
jugs and miscellaneous stuff. I am not a sailor, but allowing one linear
foot per person, along with their stuff, sounds questionable, at the very least.
The Lomont family is, to put it politely, notorious. The opinions of them run the gamut from crazy to unpredictable, and practically everyone making a living off the cayes has an opinion of them. One local opines they are the embodiment of the old television series Addams Family. Another believes they have been 'in the bush way too long'. (Thirty plus years, to be exact.) Someone else refuses to broach the subject and just scoffs dismissively. One of the dive services describe them as "on again, off again". Friend one day, antagonist the next. As I have mentioned previously, Belize is tiny. The business of one is the business of many, and in the tourism industry the circle is microscopic.
I landed at
this 'resort' expecting the fewest amenities imaginable and planning to keep my
distance from the proprietors. I mean, for $120 dollars American, which
included the round trip transportation and a place to camp, what could you
expect? Little in Belize is cheap, and, if we had learned anything in our
brief stay, the cayes were the most expensive aspect to Belize. To be able
to park ourselves on a tropical paradise for a week for under $20 a night was an
incredible deal. If it meant enduring the zaniest cast of characters since
Eddie and Uncle Fester and Morticia, so be it.
The sanest of the zany cast, Becky, the mid-30's daughter, gave us our orientation tour of the island. She appeared to be in charge of customer relations and activities which mainly consisted of dive lessons. After hauling 27 people's worth of stuff from the boat, along with fresh water for the week for the guests, the six family members, the three Mayan employees and four German Shepherds, we were given our whirlwind introduction of the island's special highlights. The highlights included the pit toilets, the enclosures for showering, the sulfurous-smelling well sump, the kerosene stoves, the battered kitchen ware, the sunset viewing area and a couple of snorkel sites adjacent to the island.
Following our hasty circumnavigation of the island, we were herded into the rickety dive shop/food service area/child's playpen where we were warned (I was needlessly warned --- believe me) not to 'ride the turtles, manta rays or nurse sharks', to watch out for fire coral and jellyfish, not to wear gloves while snorkeling because it meant you were up to no good and that barracudas were menacing and would 'stalk you' but were easily scared off. Every bit of it necessary with an international crowd about to be set loose in a marine reserve. And every bit of it good, useful advice.
Her
speech concluded with a run-down of all the possible add-on expenses ---
fresh-baked bread on Mondays and Thursdays, extra five-gallon water jugs, kayak
and snorkel mask and fin rental, dive lessons, sailboat rental, etcetera.
It was now apparent how they generated the real income. I imagine few
guests could possibly tolerate seven full days of unstructured time. One
hundred and sixty-eight hours being on a caye as barren as the set of Castaway,
without Tom Hanks or Wilson for company. Days with the only entertainment
being hermit crab races and ducking a face-to-face meeting with grandma, who was
the kookiest of them all. She would wander about the island in a
voluminous Hawaiian shirt and her underwear and do her utmost to ignore any
greeting from one of her guests, should any of them be so bold as to attempt a
greeting.
Ally, Heather and I settled in for the long
haul. We were long-distance hammock loungers and book readers, exerting
ourselves one day by paddling 12 miles to the Southeast Cayes and back, but
otherwise sticking our noses in novels in the breeziest parts of the island in
an ongoing effort to outfox the black flies. Fortunately, the wind blew
continuously from the north, and then the west, and then the easterly trade winds
set in and then the breezes shifted back from the north again. One of the
week's previous guests had ominously warned us as we unloaded gear from the
sailboat on that first day 
--- "Pray the wind never
stops."
Marth, on the other hand, belonged to the group who would have gone buggy without an outlet. She promptly signed up to become PADI certified (Motto, according to Mace and Clark's Seattle instructor: "Don't let time or money stand in your way.") which would consume most of her week studying the Go, Dive manual and two or three dives a day. Of course, she couldn't have selected a better place to learn to dive than the physical location of Glover's Reef. As for the 'resort's' instruction techniques --- who can say? At least grandma wasn't instructing.
As the week wore on, (and I mean, literally, wore on) guests began to
drop out like we were a condensed version of 'Survivor' without the fatuous
navel-gazing and back-biting. The thirteen Italians arranged for a two-day
visit, but everyone else booked for the week. (Supposedly a week was your
only option with the Christmas Bird, piloted by the uncommunicative
Gilbert Lomont, crazy granny's estranged husband, arriving and departing each
Sunday.) The weather the first few days was uncooperative for those trying
to generate their own entertainment. The wind blew ferociously and
perpetually which made snorkeling or kayaking less than appealing. The
island-bound couples and individuals wove figure-eights around the coconut and
palm tree studded
caye, or huddled in their driftwood, palm-thatched,
single-room 'cabanas'. Occasionally, a brave soul or two would venture
forth into the water only to return within twenty minutes with goose bumps, mask
marks and salt water sculpted hairdos.
A guy with platinum-blond hair and a streak of Robinson Crusoe named Bay organized a Belizean luau the second or third night in a vain attempt to manufacture some nightlife. Apparently, he was the manager of a nightclub in New York City who had vowed to create some space between himself and humanity as a means of maintaining his equilibrium. And here he was in one of the quietest locations in the western hemisphere trying to generate some excitement. He confided that his bowels had been doing somersaults since he arrived and it turned out that the Lomonts had sold him a jug of river water ear-marked for their dogs. I think the idea of the possible parasites he might have ingested pushed him over the edge. He became desperate to find a way off the island.
A couple on
their honeymoon also 'lost it' as the wind never let up, the Lomonts meals never
got better and the family got stranger with each passing day. By mid-week,
they were dropping like fly balls around the Bad News Bears. By week's end,
only three 
boys from Cornell University and our hearty, sloth-mannered group remained. And
the boys from Ithaca seriously thought about fleeing on Saturday once their ten dives were used
up. Only time and money stood in their way, as in --- all the time in the
world, and not enough money.
Heather, Ally and I decided we were the true survivors. Even Marth left early Sunday morning with Mace, Clark and Second Nature Dive Excursions who had come out to Glover's for a two-day dive trip.
But I was beginning to get rummy toward the end. My last night consisted of nightmares and waking visions of being stranded with the Lomonts on their bug-infested caye. My worst fears were momentarily resurrected when the Christmas Bird died enroute to the mainland and not even out-of-sight of Northeast Caye. A half-hour later (and only moments after Heather prophetically remarked 'I have a feeling this has happened once or twice before'), the scrawny, white-haired Gilbert had tinkered with it until it roared back to life.
In retrospect, I enjoyed my week as a castaway. I learned
the proper method of opening coconuts from getting them out of their husks to
precisely cracking their shells. I learned how to handle cantankerous
kerosene stoves. I read four novels. Paddled and snorkeled every day
but one and every time I snorkeled I encountered something new. I even came
nose-to-nose with a nurse shark, which, admittedly, scared the living daylights
out of me, since I am a child of the 'Jaws'-syndrome. I mastered recipes
with 'cow-in-the-can' as the featured ingredient. What more could you ask
for?
But, as a reminder to ourselves, and any future Glover's Reef Atoll Sanitarium visitors: We were wise to bring our own food. We were wise to bring our kayaks. We were wise to bring our tents. We were wise to bring our first-round of water. We should have brought two more. We were very wise to limit our contact with the Lomonts. And we were very wise to have brought an ample number of books that were worth reading. But what we have learned about Belize and its cayes is that the best way to experience them and to explore them would be by chartered boat. Next time. . .
January 15, 2002
Belize Zoo (between Belize City and Belmopan)
"Something tells me it's all happening at the zoo,
I do believe it, I do believe it's true,
Ooooh, oooh, oooh, wooo. Oooh, oooh, oooh, oooh, wooo.
Whoa, oh, oh, oh. Oooh, oooh, oooh, wooo. . . . "
James
Sadly, we were forced out of the nest of Sharon's incredible hospitality.
In fact, the hospitality of the entire communities of Sittee River (which
consisted largely of Andrews siblings and their offspring) and (what we knew of)
Hopkins Village was remarkable. We arrived as welcomed strangers at the
Jabiru Bar, and one month later, it felt as if we had been a part of this
community for a long while. If anything can be said
about Belize, it is
this --- it's people are proud and generous and accepting.
A Belizean barbecue was organized by Sharon and the Andrews brothers on our next to the last night, and David Andrews laid to rest the guidebook notion that Belize does not have a distinctive culinary style or dish. It's barbecue fixings --- a variety of meats and potato salad. (The beans and coconut-scented rice have been well recognized by the guidebooks. It's our theory that guidebook writers are not actually 'on the clock' by the time they reach Belize. They are too worn out from Mexico. So, they gloss over the details of Belize. Or guess. Or speculate. Anything but pick up the phone and talk to someone, or take a visit. I imagine they stay the whole time out on the water or at Captain Morgan's on Ambergris Caye --- the site of a fatuous American 'reality' television show.)
In any case, the flavor of the charcoal-seared chicken exceeded expectations and, of course, David was coy about revealing his sauce's ingredients. I wouldn't be surprised, however if habaneros and Marie Sharp's hot sauces were involved.
~~~
From Sittee River, we drove the Hummingbird Highway toward Belmopan, the capitol, and then turned east on the Western Highway toward Belize City. Do not ask us about Belize City. We know absolutely zero about it --- except --- that everyone who said anything about it talked about it negatively. From descriptions, you would imagine a lawless Wild West shantytown cobbled together on the Mosquito Coast. We decided to avoid it like we would an outbreak of emboli and give it the widest margin of avoidance possible.
Belize City had once been the capitol of Belize, but government workers and officials vacated after being ransacked one too many times by hurricanes. Belizeans wisely moved their government toward the interior. Survivors, those too stubborn to leave and those too poor to leave cling to the remnants.
But we weren't going to the city, we were going to the Zoo which was built 30 miles west.
The Belize Zoo rates as a worthy highlight because it's animals were indigenous to Belize --- orphan animals, injured animals and 'pets' that had been abandoned. The woman who founded it arrived in Belize as an animal handler for a documentary about the country's wildlife. When the filming ended, some of the animals starring in the film were homeless. (I suppose the wildlife documentary included animals in human captivity due to trapping or quasi-domestication.) She decided to stay and provide the animals a home while simultaneously providing an educational opportunity to the citizens, and especially the children, of Belize.
Inhabitants of the zoo include:
Baird's
Tapirs. . . these gentle-appearing creatures look like a cross between a pig and
an elephant with an abbreviated trunk, but are relatives of the horse and the
rhino. . . go figure. We were warned that they will spray you with urine
and that the signal for this behavior was circular pacing like the way Winnie
used to circle before settling into one of her 'heffalump holes'. . . none of us
got sprayed but our reflexes around the tapirs were cat-like.
Jaguarundis. . . large household cats trying to imitate otters. . . with lush, velvety coats.
Coatimundis.
. . the zoo looked to have a population issue with the playful coatimundis and,
sure enough, two of them were wrestling or fornicating in the higher reaches of
a denuded fig tree the whole time we watched. . .raccoons, draped upon a crotch
of a separate tree sleeping, shared the enclosure with the rambunctious
coatimundis.
Jaguars, pumas, ocelots and a collection of other small cats. . .
most were in the midst of their mid-day siesta but we got a couple of good
looks.
Spider monkeys and black howlers. . . surprisingly, the enclosures for
the monkeys did not appear capable of containing acrobatic monkeys bent on
escaping, but, there were no breakouts of monkeys while we were there that we
noticed.
(We did, however, note a loose crocodile, grey fox, a
few partridge-type birds and a rodent similar to a gibnut, which is a delicacy
in Hopkins and most Belizean towns, I'd imagine. The grey fox, the rodent
and the birds were humorous animals to have away-without-leave, but I wondered
about the smallish crocodile floating placidly in the first pond we
encountered. Nothing but an surmountable bank and a slatted railing meant
for observing, not containing, stood between us.)
Jabiru storks. . .
gangly, five-feet tall, with a beak as long as a cotton-candy cone, but twice as
big and black, not white. . .definitely capable of delivering babies in a linen
bundle. . .I had hoped to see one of these guys in the wild at Crooked Tree
Sanctuary.
Scarlet macaws. . . the national bird, endangered along the
Macal River due to the proposed hydroelectric dam being built by a Canadian
construction company out of Newfoundland (see savebiogems.com). . .brilliantly
plumed in red and blue and yellow and white with tail feathers two feet in
length.
In addition, there were curassows (think turkey/peacock), peccaries --- white-lipped and spotted (think wild boar and stinky), king vultures, a hawk-eagle with a feather headdress more comical than a Shriner's hat, toucans and an assortment of parrots.
If ever in Belize, check out the zoo.
January 16, 2002
Bermudian Landing, Belize
Community Baboon Sanctuary
James Where does the time go?
I am inside the bus, near dawn, tapping out these words, as I await Fallet, the Community Baboon Sanctuary manager, who will escort us around his 'neighborhood'. The coffee is gently perking in the back, the bug goop seems to be holding the bugs at bay, a cloud cover dampens the sounds of the jungle. I am listening for 'baboons'. But, right now, all that I hear are roosters.
The baboons are, in reality, black howler monkeys. Their howls are unworldly. Intense, guttural, ferocious and feline. They make me think of a lion who must have a toothache when I hear them howl.
The tour, or walk, comes
with the entry fee --- a modest $10 Belizean. Fallet reminds me of my
friend, Greg Lunz. Small and in charge, with a face that wouldn't launch a
thousand ships, but might have built a thousand ships, and genuinely interested in seeing whether or not he can help. The
sanctuary is comprised of several villages and a large number of willing landowners who
have agreed to protect the howlers and their habitat. In exchange, the
community must endure some tourism, but judging by our reception yesterday they
prefer free-swinging howlers and dim-witted tourists to whatever the alternative
might be.
Fallet, it turns out, is too preoccupied with other duties this morning and has assigned the lean and tall and grandfatherly, Ivan, to lead our party of four. Ivan speaks an almost sing-song sort of English that reminds me of the colonial English you hear Indians speaking. Since he is obviously old enough to have been a long-time citizen of British Honduras, this shouldn't be too unusual. We haven't heard many Belizeans speak in this fashion. I like his melodious, deep voice. He can express wonder and reverence and authoritativeness easily with his brassy baritone.
We followed Ivan into a patch of woods an eighth of a mile from where we stayed, which was barely a hop, skip and a jump from the Visitor Center, and began to wander the crisscrossing trails. The trails appeared to be randomly generated and crossed ravines, muddy creeks and little-used roads. He pointed out fig trees, cashew trees, the blossoms of the 'hot lips' plants, mahogany and iguana burrows. It was beginning to look like the howlers were not going to make an appearance. Finally Ivan sauntered off into the dense woods, instructing us to stay where we were, and we joked that he was going to cue the mechanical howlers, or mimic their howl while out-of-sight.
Instead, a few moments later he returned with a coco palm leaf and announced that he had determined where the howler family that patrolled this three acres was hanging out. A family of six gradually materialized from the canopy of leaves over our heads, drawn, in part, by the coco palm leaves in Ivan's outstretched hands. The coco palm leaves are a rare delicacy for the howlers probably because they must come to the ground or close to the ground to reach them. Ivan saved them the trouble and, in the true wilds, would have saved them from exposure to a lurking, hungry jaguar.
In the Community Baboon Sanctuary, which comprises approximately 20 square miles, biologists have identified a hundred or more separate howler family units. I believe, Ivan said there were families of as many as 12 or 15 and that there were more than a thousand black howler monkeys. This was the 'School Group' because they lived in the woods beside the elementary school of Bermudian Landing. The 'School Group' was an alpha male, three females and two adolescent males.
Half of the group descended through the trees for the leaves, and though they acted unconcerned about our presence and tugged on the leaves with impunity, they were not so tame as to venture onto one of our backs or shoulders. I was pleased they demonstrated their casual wariness of humans.
January 20, 2002
Outside Ciudad Victoria, Tamaulipas, Mexico
James Add the wafting stench of a very happy pig to the list of prerequisites for a guerilla campsite.
Last night, near Nautla, Mexico, down the Gulf Coast from Tampico, we selected a roadside diner ('la cocina economica') along a stretch of road that hugs the shoreline. The family run cafe, set amidst a stand of coconut palms, featured turkeys, chickens and pigs wandering around their property. As the evening unfolded, the fragrance of eau de swine was unmistakable, caught occasionally in the coastal breezes penetrating the palms to where we had parked the bus.
When Mace or Ally go to negotiate our camping
with restaurateurs, I jokingly remind them to ask if the restaurant turns into
a disco later because we always seem to find a location near the driving beat of
a bass. Disco, trucks applying their jake brakes,
yapping dogs,
proprietors watching soap operas until all hours of the night, and the telltale
smell of diesel are the prerequisites for our guerilla camps. Or so it
seems.
On our first night on our return trip through Mexico, we camped beside the restaurant/hotel Mirador Maya. Mace and Clark sprung for cabanas, while the rest of us camped in front of the Mirador in Greg. I worried the cafe would transform into a Mayan dance hall but, instead, the waitresses and the manager spent a slow evening watching hours and hours and hours of melodramatic soap operas.
Meanwhile, truckers rumbled by liberally applying their jake brakes because they were just entering whatever little village we were in and were slowing for the inevitable speed bumps. If you haven't had the pleasure of hearing a multi-ton truck being slowed by the exhaust of its engine, you haven't lived. Imagine the worst muffler offender possible, and that will give you a slight approximation of the sound of jake brakes. It's quite understandable why communities around the U.S. have banned their usage within city limits. They can rattle glass out a window frame and fillings out of molars. Their noise drowns all other noise within a quarter mile radius.
I can sleep through the trains on the Deschutes, and I can sleep through just about everything we encounter in our travels, but, I have to admit, blaring exhaust brakes are the most difficult to block out.
January 21, 2002 - $12.00 Parking in Mexico.
Mace
Yesterday I had one of the most interesting experiences of the trip so far.
We stopped in the city of Poza Rica to pick up various odds and ends from a
supermarket there, myself still wanting a squeegee, Greg's windows get mighty
dirty down here on the Mexican 'highways'. I was unsuccessful once more,
however, so I returned to the bus while everyone else kept shopping. And
there came a knocking from the door. A local police officer had decided to
pay us a visit.
Now, we parked around the corner from the store, where we believed the parking attendant had told us to, and there was literally nothing there. No store entrances, no fire hydrants, no driveways, no nothing. Just the back of the supermarket building. Seemed like a great parking spot. Or so we thought.
Mr. Piggy quickly informed me that I could not park my bus there. I tried to explain to him that I didn't have the keys, and that my friends would be back from shopping in 10 minutes, mas o menos. Our exchange drug on for a good five minutes, making sure we weren't terrorists (which I initially mistook for him saying tourists; OOPS!), where were we going, where were we from, checking to make sure we had a vehicle permit, etc. Then, he decided he was going to give me a ticket, and explained to me that he was going to 'hold our vehicle permit' at the wherever the hell he was working from, until we came and paid it. That sounded like a bad idea, so I asked him if it would be possible just to pay the ticket there...he smiled, and asked what I thought it should cost...
The fee was settled to be 100 pesos, and I went to get it from my pockets. No, no, no, I was informed. I needed to take my registration back to the bus, put the money in with the papers, and then return and give it back to him. Apparently, all so no one could see a money exchange. I followed his instructions, and as I handed it back to him, he looked over the permit once more; allowing the money to drop into his lap. Then, he handed it back to me and said, "Todo es bien." And drove off. Heh. My first bribe, and it went off like a hitch. I think I'll shoot for a lower price next time though!
James I was steamed yesterday.
The bribe in Poza Rica, which is such a pathetic excuse for a town that Fodor's does not even mention it, was the last straw between me and Mexico. . .this time around. I need time to forget the ugliness of this country --- the inconsequential honking, the god-awful roads, the most confusing highway signage known to mankind, pay toilets, toll roads (even when the roads are in such poor condition you should be paid to patronize them), trash, trash and more trash, topes, topes and more topes, the ubiquitous inspection stops, toilets without toilet lids.
I could go on. I didn't even mention the border hassles and inefficiencies.
To be fair, Mexico has its charm and beauty as well. The lovely roadside stands, the central plazas, the relaxed pace, the incessant celebrations and holidays, the casual attitude about carry-out beer, the friendly, helpful people.
Passing into Texas turned out to be just as infuriating as any other border. The only consolations were that the facilities were clean and spacious, and the bureaucrats spoke our native tongue. First, we were shunted out of the main line of border traffic into the 'big-rig' section. Two chatty, but officious, border agents climbed aboard giving us the once-over, tapping on the roof, poking into the cupboards ('cubbies') and asking innocuous questions. Just to hear us talk. Just like you want to do in the game of Mafia when smoking out the prevaricators.
We made the mistake of admitting to a paltry few vegetables which alerted them that we would need to stop in at 'Secondary' after we pulled forward and had the entire bus 'x-rayed'! It would have been helpful if they had referred to 'Secondary' as 'Agriculture' because then we might have saved twenty or thirty minutes.
I drove Greg under the x-ray shed and we clambered out with all of our electronic devices and film. The two border agents at X-ray were all business, barely speaking to us, other than directing us to have a seat. They did not want us to watch their computer screens as they irradiated Greg. Twice they caught us trying to sneak a peek, and twice they upbraided us for interfering with their top-secret work.
Greg passed and they sent us along to 'Secondary' (what appeared to be loading docks) with a vague wave of our initialized inspection paper. I backed Greg up to the loading platform expecting someone to greet us or direct us. No such luck. I walked up to the offices associated with the loading dock (no signs made anything clear) and, after pulling fruitlessly on a couple of likely doors, I was told by a guy in civilian clothes with a plastic clip-on ID card that I should stand in line with the other truck drivers.
Of course, it wasn't a line. It was a gaggle of Mexican truck drivers standing around shooting the shit, yet waiting to go one-by-one into one of the likely offices. I waited. And waited. And waited. I went to the bathroom and Ally and Marth waited. I came back and waited. Finally, my turn arrived and I entered the office only to discover that I was in the wrong place --- can you imagine that? I needed the unmarked door two doors down --- Agriculture.
But the guy was pleasant enough and he led me to the office I should have been standing in. Guess what? No one was there at a quarter to five past midday. So, he called someone to come inspect our small tupperware container of dangerous fruits and vegetables. I returned to the bus for more waiting.
While waiting I decided to call my father with someone's handy cellphone. My stepmother, Carolyn, answered and after exchanging greetings and just getting into the flow of a conversation, two border agents, one man, one woman, came across the loading dock and before I got a 'how-do-you-do?', the guy with the Napoleon-complex wanted me off the phone. (I seem to elicit these kinds of reactions from men with badges, guns and authority. They often want to demonstrate the power they have granted to them by a government job because my mere presence threatens them.)
I put up a mild protest suggesting any of the six of us could show him around the bus and he got testy, puffing up like the male turkey we watched strutting his stuff in Nautla in defense of his female. He wanted me off the phone --- Now! Besides, he said, no cellphone usage was allowed in this highly sophisticated and defended border. (No signs were posted restricting cellphone usage in English or Espanol.) So, I hastily hung up and stepped back into the bus to wait for the bastard to come to me.
Meanwhile, he continues with his personal conversation with his female cohort --- discussing what time they were getting off, movies, restaurants, how many donuts he liked to eat while working, how much he could benchpress (stuff chicks really dig, you know?), whatever. They finally got around to the entrance of the bus and asked for the fruits and veggies and the one piece of paperwork that showed we had cleared Steps One and Two. I gave them the paper without a word. I wished I could flatten this guy with a running in-the-numbers tackle from about 20 yards. Nothing would have been more satisfying at that moment.
Fortunately, the moment passed.
He ignored the fruits and persisted trying to woo and impress his partner. She casually fingered through the plastic container and, after selecting the tangerines and limes, handed the onions, peppers and mushrooms back to us. America would be safe from those deadly agricultural products thanks to the obnoxious Officer Mata (about 5'6", Saddam mustache, a bit of a paunch, condom size - microscopic) and his potential date in a uniform.
And I was reminded that shiny, new, spacious and English-speaking does not necessarily translate into friendly or efficient.
Wednesday, January 23, 2002.
Heading Home.
Mace The adventure is not quite over, yet it seems that our days as travelers are coming to an end. We're passing west through Texas now; headed toward Carlsbad, New Mexico for a quick visit to the Carlsbad Caverns national park. We spent the last two nights camped outside the house of James' brother Mike and his wife Eleanor. Once more, the hospitality of folks has helped ease the burden of bus living. We all had the chance to rest up, get a little laundry done, see some movies, and James had the chance to visit with some of his family. Thank you much, Mike and Eleanor! I just wish we had a picture of you two to put up here.
The next update will likely be the final entry to the website. That should happen sometime today, maybe tomorrow. All depends on when we find a spot to do it. I'll have to make sure everyone gets a last entry put on the website. On that note, Clark's page finally has something on it!!!
January 24, 2002
White's City, New Mexico
James Someone named White parked themselves outside the entrance of Carlsbad Caverns, bought a plot of land and decided to refer to the property as a 'city'. There is no city here. Lots of tourist attractions, traps and lures, however. (It turns out Mr. White was the cowboy who tripped over the entrance to Carlsbad Caverns and started lowering folks in a guano bucket into the hole-in-the-ground for some sightseeing.)
We parked at the RV campground for the night for the 'little' amenities we could do without, but it sure is nice sometimes to have them. Toilet and showers. If we are lucky, the bathrooms will have some heat included because the weather has turned to winter. I awoke to icy flakes pelting the two-person sleeping bag Ally and I scrunched ourselves down inside like a couple of squirrels in the knothole of a tree.
The good news is --- we are officially bug-free. The bad news might be --- we may need our bus chains sooner than we imagined.
Today is Marth's birthday. Other than oohing and ahhing over the 'mites and tites' of Carlsbad for her fifth visit, she will celebrate it driving Greg across the remaining portion of west Texas and various sections of Arizona and New Mexico. Perhaps we will stop at a Chuck E. Cheeses and give her the full American birthday treatment.
I managed to strong-arm the bus dwellers into an extremely abbreviated visit of Austin and a few members of the Moore clan --- my brother, Mike, his wife, Eleanor, my father and his wife, Carolyn. (I apologize to other family members living in Texas for not visiting, but Austin wasn't too far out of the way when you cross the border at Matamoros/Brownsville. It was easy to put it on the itinerary.) Everyone appeared healthy and in good spirits, and I made certain we ate at Rudy's for barbecue and Chuy's (where one of the Bush daughters tried to pawn off a fake ID in order to drink) for Tex-Mex food. We waddled to bed that night.
For Marth's Big Day, we toured Carlsbad Caverns. It was her fifth visit and my third, but no one else had been there. Four of us signed on for the self-guided audio tour, so we were equipped with high-tech gadgetry where we could hear running commentary on the caves. It wasn't a great deal more information than the signs, or we might have been moving at a slightly faster clip than your normal Cavern visitor because occasionally the audio would abruptly stop and sometimes it was behind in telling us about what we were looking at.
Carlsbad tidbits: they hired a theatrical lighting director in 1974 after a visitor, who was a theatrical lighting director, said he could do a much better job with the lighting; stalactites cling 'tight' to the ceiling, stalagmites 'might' someday reach the ceiling from the ground --- both are known as speleothems; only 5% of the speleothems are active; they range from 150,000 to 600,000 years old.
I wished the audio program had continued to operate at the rest facilities 800 feet below the surface. The rest facilities included flush toilets, running water, a cafeteria and a small curio stand. I was curious about the engineering of the waste system.
January 27, 2002
Lessons You Shouldn't Have to Learn On Your Own (About traveling south of the border)
1) Bring your own toilet lid! (I have no good idea why there are no toilet lids on the public toilets but, interestingly enough, the supermercados have huge sections selling every kind of toilet seat imaginable.)
2) Never traipse off to 'el bano' without --- at least --- two pesos in your pocket. (No free lunches. No free bowel movements.)
3) If you are not traveling alone, a navi-guesser is essential. (An extra set of eyes is crucial when driving through or around Mexican cities. The driver should be concentrating on the guy on the burro, the kid breathing fire, the vehicles doing the 'four-man weave' in two lanes ahead and behind, the parade of bicycles celebrating some saint and all the other usual traffic hazards.)
4) Do not attempt to take beer INTO Belize. (It is no secret it will be confiscated and utilized by the border employees under the guise of protecting Belize's Belikin beer monopoly.)
5) Do not attempt to bring rice, veggies or fruits OUT of Belize and into Mexico. (I had been hoping to eat that juicy-looking red delicious.)
6) If driving, when in doubt about which way to go, choose straight ahead. (This is regardless of what the signs might say. Ninety-nine times out of one hundred you will be correct.)
7) A corollary to #6: Pay more attention, if driving across Mexico, to what city the sign is directing you toward, than the highway number on the sign and on your map.
8) Wash your hands constantly. Drink liquid yogurts liberally. (They are called 'licuados' and are sold at all the little groceries and mini-marts. They help build those essential cultures you need in your lower intestines.)
9) Don't kid yourself. In Belize, the bugs are serious and undeterred by anything but the most deadly nerve toxins known to mankind. Save yourself the short-term agony, use the DEET.