Asheville to Argentina

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I looked up and saw a tall, lanky gringo with a helmet and motorcycle jacket lope into the relative calm of the Belize City water taxi station. He had that haggard and crazed look of someone that had just navigated unknown, too small streets on a too big bike, arriving late but hopeful. As it turns out he was right on time. Recognizing Shannon, he walked over and we all shook hands.

We had been trying to coordinate connecting with Mike for a few weeks. The plan was to ride as a group through the more infamous areas of Guatemala. Safety in numbers. But we didn’t expect him here. In his last email he’d said he would be staying at a friends resort on Ambergris Caye and there would be room for us too if we wanted. We immediately scrapped our plans for a decidedly downscale few days on Caye Caulker, opting instead for his offer of a highbrow resort with a homeboy discount.

Mike was already supposed to be out there though. His plan was to put his bike on a produce boat out of Chetumal Mexico and ferry it to the island. The boat captain said he wanted to sail at night when it was cooler, so be ready to leave at 9 p.m. That afternoon the rain started and leaving got pushed back, and back again. After spending a wet night under a shed with the crew as they smoked joint after joint, he realized there was no way his 700 pound behemoth was going to get safely from the dock onto the little banana boat and across the gulf. There was nothing to do but get on it and ride the two and a half hours down. And as luck held, there we were in the taxi station on our way to meet him.

After greetings all around we took Mike to the guesthouse where we had left the bikes parked in the safety of the courtyard. The Caribbean Palms Hotel was across the bridge in what might have been considered the “wrong” side of town, but I have the feeling that town went a lot more wrong in places I’ll never see. On the “right” side of town Belize City feels like what I imagine the nicer towns in Jamaica to be like, with rundown colonial houses and shops packed tightly together and painted in bright pinks, teals, yellows and blues. On the street there’s people walking, biking, street vendors hawking in Creole and reggae blaring from shops keeping rhythm to it all as cars and motorcycles thread the chaos. Cross the bridge to our side and dust kicked up by the cars and busses honking their way down unpaved streets makes it almost impossible is see more than four or five blocks. Shop wares spill out onto the narrow raised sidewalks and chalkboard signs announce new arrivals. At street level, open gutters with standing water are bridged by concrete walks. People and dogs are everywhere. Kids in clean school uniforms, officers in blue or tan or white, and the ubiquitous no-tooth Reggae Zombie trying to sell you something and failing that, asking for a cash donation. Yes, it’s a mess, but it pulses with a life the other side lacks. The three of us weave back through the bazaar to the Tourist Village and catch the boat to Ambergris.

It’s actually two boats. The taxi only goes to the main dock and from there we had to bargain for a ride about fourteen miles up the island to Tranquility Bay.  Never really sure of what I’m getting myself into, I was a little doubtful and concerned when the captain said he wanted to stop by his house to pick up his family for the ride. They’d never been that far up the island and he wanted them to see it. If his family turned out to be a dock full of club-wielding Reggae Zombies I was going in the water and going deep, heading for the mangroves.

Pulling up to the dock, two of sweetest little girls jumped up and ran into the house when Captain Chris yelled “Go get your mama”. Mom came out with a little boy in diapers and the four of them climbed aboard. We speed into the azure blue of the gulf with the girls singing little songs in unison. Four O’clock and all’s well.

Tranquility Bay was a small cluster of blue and white cottages with a teal dock house bar. The last on the northern end of the island, it was very private, and very closed.  Harrison and Bill, the caretakers were unaware of any arrangement, so I walked over to Captain Chris, letting Mike have room to work, and quietly suggested that he hold the boat until we figure out how this was going to play. It took a few calls back to the mainland by Bill, the manager, but we got the OK. Grabbing beers from behind the bar, Mike, Shannon and I jumped into the ocean and stood shoulder deep in the water until we got hungry.

We passed two cozy nights at the Bay in soft beds with thick cotton sheets, snorkeling, drinking beer and laying around in hammocks slung low from palms. For a closed resort there was a lot of activity. The “nieces” were out for a weekend visit and were a welcome oasis of femininity. Raul and El Salvador Joe hung around fishing off the dock and arguing. Dive Master Joe came out with his wife and young son. There were also about three or four young men coming and going as well as a white guy on a four-wheeler riding up and down the beach. I say “white guy” because outside of him, we were the only white faces out there.

On our last night El Salvador Joe said he’d teach me how to make Belizean Cevache if I could get some conches. Sunday morning I was up and out early, borrowing a mask and snorkel from the dive shack. Kayla, one of the nieces, and I swam around for about an hour, returning with ten big shells. The Joes showed me how to clean them and add cucumber, carrot, tomato, chile, cilantro and a lot of lime to make the traditional raw seafood salad. They also showed me this little clear tube that protrudes from the freshly shelled mollusk. Raul held the snail above his head, took the clear bit in his teeth, pulled it from the snail and chewed it up. I took this as a challenge, cleaned a shell and ate one too. It was good, so I did it again. I called Shannon and Mike over and made then eat one too. After plates of cevache we all got on Dive Master Joes boat and rode back to San Pedro and on to Belize City.

Leaving the city wasn’t as easy as I’d hoped. Shannon came down with a terrible fever and we spent a day recuperating. The next day, at the police check point exiting the city, we were asked for proof of insurance. Mike didn’t have his and we were threatened with nights in jail. The problem was easily solved with $50 Belize, about $25 American.

We’re now in Flores, Guatemala, a beautiful island on a lake near the Maya site of Tikal. Guatemala is green and lush and the people friendly. It feels good to be back in a Spanish speaking country. There are some warnings of bandits on certain roads and we plan to avoid those, but from here things look bright (green).