“Am I in Africa or the Americas?” It was a question I asked myself often
during the African heritage pride festivals that I attended in Belize, Central
America. Commonly known as the Settlement Day Festivals, the Garifuna
(gah-REE-foo-nah) people of Belize commemorate their arrival on the southern
Caribbean shores of Belize every November 19th.
The celebration starts at dawn with a ritual re-enactment of their ancestors’
arrival from the Honduras in 1823. Dozens of Garifuna people come to designated
shores in canoes loaded with drums, utensils and samplings of cassava and
banana, much like their ancestors did 181 years ago. This event is followed by a
drumming procession, program, feast, parade and a massive bacchanal.
So how did the Garifuna people get to Honduras, what was the significance of
their journey and why such big celebrations? It’s a story shrouded in myth,
legend and conflicting historical facts. The general consensus seems to be that
in 1665, two slave ships filled with primarily Nigerian captives, shipwrecked
off the coast of the British colonial Caribbean island of St. Vincent. Some say
that the shipwreck was the result of a mutiny by the Africans. They swam to
freedom and rapidly became an integral part of the Arawakan Indian society. The
merging of races, cultures and languages resulted in a new population of black
Caribs, known today as the Garifuna people. By the mid 1700’s the Garifunas were
thriving in their new home, as evidenced by their increasing population and
wealth.
Witnessing their success, the British tried to obtain by trick, persuasion or
purchase, the fertile lands belonging to the Garifunas, which they planned to
use for the harvesting of sugar cane. The Garifunas refused to give up their
land, so in 1763 the British launched a war against them that lasted for 33
years. The British ultimately won in 1796 and proceeded to destroy the homes,
canoes and crops of the Garifuna. The remaining 4,300 Garifuna were shipped to a
neighboring island, Balliceaux, where half of them died of yellow fever. In
1797, the surviving Caribs were shipped to Roatan Island off the coast of
Honduras. Many of the Garifuna people found the Honduras to be inhospitable and
decided to migrate to Belize. On November 19th, 1823, the first large group of
Garifuna from Roatan Island landed at the mouth of the North Stann Creek,
located in the town of Dangriga. The date of this mass landing has been
celebrated every year since 1941, when entrepreneur and civil rights activist,
Thomas Vincent Ramos, launched the commemoration.
As the largest group of people in the African Diaspora that was never
enslaved, the Garifuna have retained much of their African heritage. One of the
most striking examples of the retention of the culture is evidenced in their
language. Their language a mixture of Indian and African words and idioms that
evolved during the time they lived on St. Vincent amongst the Arawak people.
Unlike any other group in the African Diaspora, their language is completely
devoid of European words. Listening to it for the first time almost startled me.
The cadence, the tone and the lilt were distinctly West African and I found
myself thinking again, “Am I in Africa or the Americas?” Most Belizean Garifuna
people speak their native tongue as well as English, Belize’s official language.
There are also communities of Garifuna people in Honduras, Guatemala and
Nicaragua that speak the traditional language as well. (Their current Central
American population is estimated to be between 200,000 and 400,000).
When I told a fellow travel writer friend of mine that I was interested in
traveling to Central America, she enthusiastically encouraged me to time my
visit to coincide with the Belizean Settlement Day festivities. Following her
advice, on November 17, 2003, I made my way via plane, bus and taxi to Hopkins
Village, one of the rural hubs of Belizean Garifuna society. On route I
encountered numerous Garifuna, Afro-Belizeans as well as European tourists
embarking on the same migration. Part homecoming, part ceremonial ritual, and
part frivolity, the Settlement festivities give family, friend, communities and
visitors the opportunity to delve into the rich authentic cultural experience of
the world according to Garifuna.
On Tuesday night, November 18th, I joined in the village’s opening
ceremonies, which were held under and around a large thatched roof open-air
pavilion located on a sandy beach just south of the main road that leads to the
village. When I arrived, community members were schlepping ice for the makeshift
beverage and snack bar and bustling chairs from the nearby church and school,
while the staff from the regional radio station was busily dragging cables and
speakers to set up their sound system. They were eager to broadcast the part of
the event that would feature the participation of Paranda musical legend and
traditional religious leader, Paul Nabor, 80, who was on route from the
neighboring coastal village of Punta Gorda. Paranda is a genre of Garifuna
music, which combines traditional African drumming styles interlaced with a
touch of Latin/Spanish rhythms. Its instrumentation is totally acoustic,
primarily consisting of wooden drums, shakers, scrapers, turtle shell percussion
and guitar.
The evening’s festivities were launched by a cadre of drummers pulsing out
their powerful rhythms from their crudely constructed drums. The pulse, momentum
and intensity of the music steadily heightened as people readied themselves to
welcome and honor their Garifuna royalty. A group of 8 elder women join in a
circle dance, the tempo and sinuous undulation of which had distinctive African
origins. The dancers, as well as most of the other women present, wore
traditional style African garb made of printed cotton material, long skirts,
short sleeved hip length tops with a cinched waist, accompanied by cloth head
wraps.
When the car drove up carrying Paul Nabor, the crowd erupted in jubilation.
Surprisingly, there was no speech, no introductions, nor an official welcome. He
walked through the circled crowd of about 100, as if parting the Red Sea, sat
down amidst the drummers and began playing his guitar and singing. I could see
the pride, pleasure and reverence in the eyes of the spirited onlookers. Most of
the locals enthusiastically and loudly joined him in song and vigorous rhythmic
hand clapping, relying heavily on traditional African call and response
patterns. Witnessing this kaleidoscope of colors, movement and rhythms was
completely captivating, so foreign, and yet so familiar. Flashing back to
memories of similar scenes in rural parts of Africa, the Caribbean and
Mississippi, I found myself thinking again, “Am I in Africa or the Americas?”
I was startled from my reverie by a gracious young woman who discreetly
handed me one of the evening’s programs. I noticed that she and the other young
women distributors were dressed in yellow, white and black, the colors of the
Garifuna flags, which were planted and hoisted around the pavilion. The
evening’s program had 13 entries, foretelling of an evening of storytelling, a
beauty pageant, a state of the village address, a speech on the history of
Settlement Day, political campaigning and much much more. By the look of things,
I figured the event would probably last until the wee hours.
It was becoming increasingly difficult to tear myself away, but I knew I
would have to leave within the hour if I going to meet up with John Rodriguez,
the proprietor of the guesthouse where I was staying. He had offered to let me
tag along with him to attend the Punta music and dance festival in the
neighboring city of Dangriga. I hated to miss out on the remainder of the
Hopkins village extravaganza, but I couldn’t dare pass up the opportunity to see
how the city folks launched their Settlement Day festivities.
Only 16 miles away but worlds apart, the Dangriga event was a massive
open-air festival that was held in a fenced field/stadium, nestled between the
town’s farmer’s market and the Stann Creek River. There was a huge stage, sound
system, stage lights, food booths, music vendors and bleachers. The $10.00 entry
fee seemed somewhat steep for the average Dangrian, but nonetheless there were
at least a 1,000 people there. The scene actually reminded me of dozens of
outdoor concerts I had attended around the United States…that was until the
music, singing and dancing started. It was at that moment I knew, “I was not in
Kansas anymore”. Punta music, Belize’s national music, is said to be a mixture
of Garifuna percussion, pop, salsa, calypso and reggae blended into a highly
danceable idiom. Stylistically, it reminded me of a fusion of merengue, calypso
and Caribbean zouk. It was the most engaging and unique mixture of African,
Latin and Caribbean music I have ever heard.
I was soon blessed with the opportunity of seeing a performance by Honduran
singer/songwriter/dancer Aurelio Martinez, who I suspect from the crowd’s
spirited response, to be the reigning Punta king. His astonishing dancing
prowess, his remarkably strong, textured and melodious voice, his radiant smile
and his amazing stamina were unparalleled. He sang with such joyous exuberance
and danced with such speed and precision that he had every eye in the place
locked on him in blissful mesmerism. For entire length of his 90 minute set, he
showed no signs of windedness or fatigue. It was truly mind-boggling. Punta
style of dancing is amazingly erotic. It embodies the simulation of sexual
seduction without the crassness you see in music video popular among American
teens. It is a primordial celebration of life, where gyrating hips move in
circular motions in such a deep connection with the highly poly-rhythmic
drumbeats that the dancer actually appears to be forcefully entwined and
propelled by them. With Aurelio and other skilled dancers I saw, their movements
were so silken and sharp that it was as if they had ball bearing in their hips.
Toward the end of his performance, Aurelio was joined on stage by the late
Andy Palacio, Belize’s most popular Punta rock musician and performing artist
for a dynamic display of authentic Neo Garifuna culture. Andy Palacio recently
died in 2008 at the age of 47. In addition to being accomplished performers,
Martinez is and Palacio was the leading cultural activists with a deep
commitment to preserving the values of his Garifuna culture. They traveled
extensively throughout Garifuna communities, recording the music and stories of
elder Paranda masters.
After leaving the concert, Mr. Rodriguez and I visited several neighborhood
street parties, each of which was replete with live drumming, dancing and
drunken celebrants. He referred to almost everybody that he introduced me to, as
his cousin. I was welcomed warmly. Most people assumed that I was a Belizean
visiting from the United States.
Making our way back to Hopkins Village, I sat in the car joyfully savoring
the reverberations of the rich cultural smorgasbord of experiences I had
indulged in that evening. That was until we hit our first of many big potholes
on the last stretch of the dirt road leading to Hopkins Village. The suddenness
of it jerked me out of my exhaustion laced stupor and back to the reality of my
next big challenge, how I was going to get myself up in only 3 hours to witness
and hopefully participate in the Settlement Day festivities, which were
scheduled to begin at 6:00 a.m.
Luckily, at the appointed hour, the sounds of the other guests stirring,
combined with my muffled travel alarm and the nearby ocean waves, corralled me
to wakefulness. I caught up with several tourists from Austria who had gathered
behind the guesthouse as we staggered blurry eyed along the beach to return to
the place of last night festivities, where we were told we would see the
ceremonial reenactment of the arrival of the Garifuna people to Belize almost
200 years ago. Watching the sunrise, we basked in the pride of having dragged
ourselves there on time. Squeezing ourselves into the small school desk/chair
combinations that were strewn about the pavilion, we started our vigil. One hour
passed, then another, as I fiddled with my new digital camera between nods.
Slowly but surely the townspeople began to gather. It became clear that
everybody in the village except the tourists and a few clueless locals knew the
event would start on “cp” (colored people’s) time, i.e., that 6. a.m. really
meant 8 a.m.
At last, a crowd of about 60 people collected themselves near the shore,
surrounding the drummers who began pounding out their rhythms. The singing and
chanting started shortly thereafter. About ½ hour later, three boats came to
shore, its occupants wrapped in huge ivy leaves and vines. They waved palm
fronds and banana leaves to symbolize the cassava that sustained their ancestors
during the boat trips from St. Vincent to Honduras as well as Honduras to
Belize. As they docked the boats, the drummers and flag bearers led the
“settlers” in a lively procession, singing and dancing their way from the beach
to a nearby Catholic church. Many of the celebrants attended mass, others
gathered under the in the open air pavilion and a large group of women scurried
off to a nearby hut to complete the preparation of the free village feast that
would be provided after the church service.
I approached a fellow, who displayed a modicum of leadership behavior, to get
help figuring out more about what was going on. In addition to explaining to me
about the historical underpinnings of the event, he pointed out some of the key
players as well as he took me to the place where the food was being prepared.
The large structure appeared to be an abandoned or partially constructed house.
There were no doors at the entryways or screens on the windows. Several women
were making charcoal and wood fires on the cement floor, on which they would
heat the food and grill the fish. Others were working on makeshift tables to
prepare and serve Dani (cassava root grated, boiled and sweetened and wrapped
plantain leaf), beans cooked in coconut milk, Falmoa (a dish made with boiled
vegetables, tubers, fish and coconut milk), green banana fritters, Sere (Fish
Soup) and Hudut (mashed plantains). On the other side of the “house” they were
organizing the coffee, bush tea, cakes, puddings and tableta (a dessert made of
coconut, ginger, and brown sugar). We were given a sampling of the Dani, grilled
fish and fritters, which we ate, with our fingers. My newfound guide, Chris,
explained in detail about ingredients and preparation of the foods we were
eating, which of course looked and tasted completely West African.
Hearing loud singing coming the church, I noticed a long line of church
attendees emerging from the doorway singing, swaying and marching around the
pavilion. Many of the people wore clothes that were the traditional Garifuna
colors of white, black and yellow.
The marchers joined in with other community people for a community forum
where many of the attendees discussed the history, present conditions and future
plans for the Garifuna people of Hopkins village, greater Belize and neighboring
countries. Afterwards, the celebrants peacefully lined up in front of the
makeshift kitchen and received copious plates of food. All of the food and there
was no charge. People clustered under the pavilion, on the steps of the nearby
abandoned schoolhouse and on the beach to enjoy their meals. After second
helpings and deserts, the crowd slowly dispersed without fanfare to ready
themselves for the afternoon parade.
Unfortunately the parade was a major letdown, due to the threat of rain and
mechanical problems with the lead truck’s sound system. The parade was several
hours late getting started and the crowd dwindled in size from about 150 people
to about 20 adults and 30 children. They marched, sang and danced behind the big
sound truck throughout the village of 1,000 inhabitants. There were no costumes,
floats or pageantry of any kind, making me wish I had jumped ship again and fled
to Dangriga where the festivities were supposedly on a much grander scale,
better organized and well attended. I thought that the rural setting of Hopkins
Village would lend itself to a more authentic and traditional celebration, which
it did in some respects, but the infrastructure and organization was sorely
lacking. In retrospect I think I should have divided my time more evenly.
Later that evening, I met a Garifuna couple at the guesthouse that had
recently arrived completely exhausted from the Dangriga festivities. They told
me that they were heading to the island of Caye Caulker the next morning in
order to get back to work. I later learned that the Austrian tourists were
heading there also. I had been torn about whether my next stop should be
Ambergris Caye, the larger, more beautiful and upscale island or Caye Caulker;
the more laid back, backpacker and party scene. I decided to ride the horse in
the direction it was going and joined the caravan to Caye Caulker. We were up
again at 6:00 a.m. readying ourselves to walk to the center of the village to
catch the 7:00 a.m. bus to Dangriga, the 8:00 a.m. express bus to Belize City
and the noon water taxi to Caye Caulker. It turned out that everybody else had
the same idea, so the 7:00 a.m. bus was full. There we sat in front of the pool
hall-cum-bus stop, in a collective stupor, propped up against our backpacks
dreaming of steaming hot coffee and the next bus.
We made it to Caye Caulker a bit behind schedule but no worse for the wear.
Caye Caulker is a tiny, quaint island only four miles long and less than a mile
wide. It has no cars or paved roads; the main means of transportation are
bicycles and an occasional golf cart. Its main drag is a waterfront promenade
lined with lovely restaurants, outdoor adventure outfitters, gift shops and all
manner of lodging. Being a long distance swimmer, I opted for a motel on what
the guidebooks and fellow travelers called, the “beach side” of the island.
After settling in, I decided that laying on a sandy beach, snorkeling and
swimming would be the perfect antidote for a half-day of traveling and two
back-to-back days of Settlement Day festivities. As I sauntered to land’s end,
what a rude awakening awaited me…I saw sun seekers sprawled out on their towels
atop broken cement piers that jetted up from the shoreline. Not my idea of a
beach! I saw a small patch of sand next to a bar and wondered why no one was
sitting on it. As I started to squat down, I soon learned why it had been
abandoned by humans…it was fully inhabited by nipping little sand flies, as were
most of the beaches I visited in Belize. The sea floor of the shallow area was
covered with sea grass, which I hate. I managed to swim out past it only to find
that the current was too strong for me, so I sulked back to my room, unpacked
and moved on to Plan B; exploring the island.
As I walked along the main drag, in the distance I noticed a brown Belizean
man grilling over a half steel drum. As I drew closer, I could see a dozen or so
lobsters sizzling away over the coals. After greeting him, I asked him how much
they were and he said, “Free”. I asked him again and he said, “free” again…so I
asked him how I could go about getting one, and he told me to go across the
street to inquire inside the club. Peering into its cavernous interior, I did
not spot anyone, so I decided he was just joking with me. I proceeded to go to a
nearby Internet café to check my email, but I couldn’t get the lobster off of my
mind. About an hour later, I made my way back to the lobster fest, and it turned
out that all but ½ of one was left and that they really were free. The owner of
the club was in one of his regular generous moods and was simply sharing his
bounty with the community. He offered me a free drink to enjoy with my piece of
lobster, potatoes and veggies.
Later that evening, he confided in me that he was making a lot of money in
real estate in Arizona and enjoyed sharing his good fortune, particularly with
solo travelers. He was a gregarious, friendly young man who never charged me for
another drink for the remainder of my 3 days in Caye Caulker. Within hours, I
was an honorary member of the Oceanview Bar and Grill family. I was behind the
bar helping serve drinks and popcorn and schmoozing with the locals and
tourists. It turned out that the Oceanview was the liveliest spot in town, which
is no surprise considering their brand of hospitality and penchant for creating
instant communities. During that evening, I met the island’s mayor, several
local business owners as well as people I had met in Hopkins Village. My days
were filled with sea adventures in and around Belize’s huge barrier reef (the
second largest in the world). We swam with stingrays and sharks, snorkeled,
visited neighboring islands as well as a manatee reserve. My evenings were
filled with majestic sunsets, dancing, partying, karaoke, bar hopping and
helping out at the Oceanside Bar and Grill.
Whenever I travel I always corral fellow travelers and locals into helping me
plan the next leg of my journey. I informally tally the polls and make my plans.
The consensus in this case was that my next stop needed to be the Cayo District
of the western mountain region of Belize. It was there, I was assured, that I
would see a wide array of Mayan ruins, jungles and rivers. Additionally, I was
also advised to visit the Tikkal ruins in Guatemala, the largest uncovered Mayan
city in Central America, which was only an hour’s drive from San Ignacio, the
capital of the Cayo District.
After taking the water taxi to the mainland, I traversed 72 miles across the
small country of Belize by bus in search of San Ignacio. We had a mid-way rest
stop in the town of Belmopan and I coyly followed a couple of locals to a group
of food vendors peddling their products on the side of the road. I followed suit
and bought some lusciously moist and custardy tamales that were stuffed with
chicken, onions and green peppers. An hour or so later, as we approached the
city limits of San Ignacio, a young schoolboy, about 8 years old, ventured back
to my seat and asked me if I needed help finding a place to stay and I said yes.
He offered to help me. Upon disembarking the bus, a friendly rotund gentleman
approached me to ask if I needed help finding a place to stay and the young boy
looked at me and nodded. Interpreting his gesture as a green light, I said yes.
After a couple of stall outs, he whisked me away in his raggedy circa 1975
Toyota station wagon to E & J guesthouse, whose proprietors, John and Helen
Lamb, warmly and eagerly greeted me.
After shuttling my things into my room and feeding me a snack, John whipped
out a stack of brochures, spread them on the table and enthusiastically
proceeded to tell me, in his challenged English, the “must do” adventures to
experience during my stay in San Ignacio. He said that the favorite spots for
most of his guests were Actun Tunichil Muknal, Tikkal and Xunantunich. Other
than Tikkal, I had never heard of the places before, so I got the name and
prices and decided to do a bit of research on my own. I grabbed my day pack and
my faithful guidebook and made my way to Eva’s, which was supposedly THE
adventurers’ hub. Chocked full of hardy travelers and local travel info, I read
up on dozens of excursions Eva had mapped out on her walls as well as talked to
other travelers, including several guys I had met in Caye Caulker. Afterwards I
came to the conclusion that Mr. Lamb had the best suggestions and the best
deals. After wandering around the uneventful town, I headed back to the
guesthouse to make my excursion arrangements.
The next morning at 7:00 a.m., I was on route to Actun Tunichil Muknal, i.e.,
the Cave of the Crystal Sepulcher, a sacred cave that the ancient Mayans used
for human and food sacrifices to the gods of the underworld from 900-1200 A.D.
The Lonely Planet guidebook described it as “the most adventurous and incredible
tour you can take in Belize.” I found it to be one of the most exhilarating,
fascinating and physically demanding adventures of my life.
After a 90-minute drive on the freeway, down dirt roads, through a factory
farm and over a corn field, (i.e., no road), we arrived at the edge of the Tapir
Mountain Nature Reserve to park the truck, drenched ourselves in bug spray and
launched our journey. I was a guest of Pacz Tours, one of only two companies
allowed by the government to take people into the cave. The cave was
rediscovered in the 1970’s but not fully explored until Belizean archeologist,
Jaime Awe, led an expedition there in the early 90’s. Actun has only been open
to tourists since 1998 and I wonder how much longer it will remain that way,
considering the fragile nature of the artifacts in the caves as well as the
arduous and potentially dangerous journey required to access its inner recesses.
The 45-minute hike to the cave’s entrance took our motley crew of 8 through
jungle trails and three thigh-high creeks. After arriving at “boot camp” we had
our lunch, were given an informational lecture and were fitted for our
head-lamped hard hats. Much to my surprise, we had to swim through a 25-foot
pool of water to get to the actual entrance of the cave. It was an ideal
precursor of the unusual events that were to unfold. It turns out that the
2-mile “hike” to the sacred chambers was a trek through an intricate labyrinth
of trails, pools and streams. On several occasions we had to climb up narrow
passageways, pretzel our bodies through remarkably small openings and scurry
over yards of broken boulders. This trip was not for the faint of heart or weak
of body. To add to the drama our guide, Ramon, instructed us at one point to
turn off our headlamps and he guided us hand in hand for 20 yards in the
pitch-blackness through one of the few flat-bottomed creeks.
Through much of our inner earth journey, we were surrounded by enormous
shimmering rock formations jutting up from the ground and hanging from the
ceiling. The magnificent stalactites and stalagmites ranged in length from 1- 20
feet. The most spectacular display was located in a huge, circular,
cathedral-like area right below the entrance to the hallowed chambers.
After climbing up a long narrow metal ladder to the upper ledges, we were
instructed to remove our shoes. Slowly we proceeded along an extremely narrow
rocky path behind Ramon. We came into a huge open flat area strewn with dozens
of broken ceramic pots. We had to be careful not to step on them because many
were right next to the path. Further ahead we saw what appeared to be skeletons.
One of our group members stated in a rebellious voice, “I will go no further –
this is holy ground, not designed for gawking tourists.” I suggested that we
stop and say a prayer for the people whose lives were sacrificed here. Ramon led
us in a quick acknowledgement (he had obviously encountered this before) and
onward we proceeded on our journey. Our concerned comrade remained behind. I
thought it probably wasn’t a coincidence that my camera stopped working at that
point.
As we snaked our way around another corner, we came to another open area with
more pots and even more skeletons. I counted 14, appearing to range from infants
to adults, some with flattened foreheads and some with teeth filled with jade
plugs; signs of Mayan beauty. There were remnants of hundreds of pots, mostly
shards but many partial pots and a few whole ones. The researchers and tour
operators had been very careful not to move or reposition things. It was like
walking into a living museum.
Ramon told us of the mythology and rituals practiced in that exact spot over
800 years ago, opening a window into the lives and deaths of his ancestors. It
was truly unforgettable experience to behold this slice of history. To preserve
the memory, I hope to locate a copy of the 1993 National Geographic Explorer
documentary film titled, "Journey through the Underworld,” about an expedition
team that explored Actun Tunichil Muknal.
On day two in the Cayo District, Mr. Lamb made all the arrangements for me
and 2 other guesthouse dwellers to take a day trip to Tikkal, Guatemala. While
we were waiting for his son to take us to the border to meet the tour van
driver, he instructed us to leave all of our jewelry and valuables with him due
to the recent flurry of tour van hijackings. Guatemala’s stark poverty propelled
many young men into a life of crime, finding tourists to be easy targets because
most do not have guns and the vans are easy to overtake. The dirt road portion
of the highway to Tikkal is full of enormous potholes, which require drivers to
slow down to maneuver around them. When they slowed down the bandits could make
their move.
So there I stood at the precipice of a major decision; do I leave my deceased
parent’s wedding band and my personalized cartouche from Egypt with a virtual
stranger or take the change of losing it possible thief? I had two minutes to
decide. My fellow travelers and I turned our valuables over to Mr. Lamb and his
son, Emil, carted us away.
When we got to the border, Emil pointed out our van driver, who was waiting
for us on the Guatemalan side. Once we made eye contact and waved, Emil told us
to meet him back here at 5 p.m. and he would drive us to the guesthouse. No
sooner did Emil leave the parking lot than moneychangers swarmed us, pleading
for us to change our American money for Guatemalan quetzals. . They were sorely
disappointed to learn we only had Belizean dollars. Despite my noblest effort,
neither my currency converter nor I could figure out the exchange rate from
Belizean dollars to Guatemalan quetzals. I was so nervous and flabbergasted from
the commotion, I couldn’t think straight and neither could my travel companions.
So we finally gathered ourselves together and decided to exchange only a few
Belizean dollars. We estimated the amount we would need to get through customs
and figured we would worry about the rest later.
By the time we made our way through the interminable Belizean and Guatemalan
customs lines, we felt completely overwrought and it was only 8:00 a.m. We
looked with envy at the groups of well-heeled tourists who were being sheparded
past us by their high-priced tour guides. We finally met up with our driver, who
we discovered could not speak a lick of English and I, only a lick of Spanish.
Somehow we managed to get our plans together and headed off for Tikkal. The road
appeared to be recently paved and we felt relieved as we jetted down the
highway. About an hour later the highway ran out and the infamous dirt road
appeared. Even though Tikkal was only 90 miles away, it took us almost 3 hours
to get there because the poor road conditions. Luckily we made it to the nearby
city of Flores, robber-free to pick up a paved road again as well as our tour
guide who was waiting at a bus stop with his young daughter. Mario was short,
thin, wiry Belizean of African and Indian descent who spoke impeccable English
at a remarkably fast clip. My brain could barely keep up with the non-stop
flurry of words. He was so full of facts and figures that within an hour we all
had a glazed looks on our faces from being on overload. He said a short day trip
was not enough time to fully appreciate Tikkal, so he had to talk and move fast
in order for us to get the basics.
The scooplet on Tikkal is that it is an ancient Mayan city, built and
inhabited from 700 B.C. until 900 A.D. and stretched over 2 ½ million acres.
During its heyday, in the 6th century, it had over 100,000 inhabitants. We
actually visited Tikkal National Park, which encompasses 222 square miles of the
city and is home to its most striking palaces, temples and pyramids; the tallest
of which is over 144 feet high. Most of the structures are adorned with steps,
making it easy to access them. The massive abandoned city is nestled in a
rainforest, replete with not only hordes of tourists but also with wildlife such
as, howler monkeys, wild turkeys (which had glorious iridescent feathers),
parrots and toucans. It was a truly remarkable experience and well worth the
inconvenience of getting there. As agreed, Emil was there waiting for us when we
traipsed across the border and happily Mr. Lamb graciously returned our
treasured valuables when we returned to the guest house.
My last day in the Cayo Region was less of a blockbuster adventure than my
previous two days but most interesting nonetheless. I got a chance to hike to
the Xunantunich, the Stone Maiden, one of Belize’s most impressive Mayan sites.
It is home to 25 temples and palaces, including the second tallest Mayan
structure in Belize, the pyramid El Castillo, which measures 130 feet high. I
was struck by the intricacy and cubism of the carvings, many of which were
clearly telling a story. During its zenith period from 600 to 1,000 A.D.,
Xunantunich had over 10,000 residents. It is located 8 miles outside the city
limits of San Ignacio.
After visiting there, Mr. Lamb took me into the mountains to visit a gallery
and workshop of a friend of his who makes traditional clay Mayan jewelry, plates
and pots. I particularly liked his merchandise because so many of the patterns
he used reminded me of African art. I bought lots of necklaces for my friends.
Afterwards, I picked up lunch, jumped on the bus and headed back across the
country to Belize City’s Airport for my flight to El Salvador and Costa Rica.
During my 10 amazing days in Belize, I managed to manifest one of the most
culturally rich, exciting, affordable and action-packed escapades I’d ever
created. Belize provides the traveler with a wide array of choices from cultural
immersion, history, nature, adventure, photography and volunteerism to just
being a party animal or lounge lizard.
If you would like more information about travel to
Belize, contact the Belize Tourist board (
www.travelbelize.org),
www.Belizefirst.com, an informative website where the webmaster freely doles out
prompt travel advice and/or Lonely Planet’s Belize Guidebook.
Written by Elaine Lee, Esq. (copyright 2004).
