With Canada now so cold that our sweaters are in need of sweaters, I’m desperately longing for a parrots and palms kind of place. So with our wives still focused on work, my buddy Greg (a.k.a. the MOP) is joining me for a little ‘manventure’ in the Central American country of Belize; formerly known as British Honduras.
Understanding Belize City is not exactly a contentment-creator we waste little before venturing 114 km southwest to the small town of San Ignacio. Just twenty minutes shy of the Guatemala border we arrive at our rustic lodging in a village called Bullet Tree Falls.
Cradling a few beers with the gruff Brit owner we learn of his troubled environs including robbers from Guatemala, fer-de-lance snakes, a guy from a bar fight threatening to shoot him, scorpions, property damage from the rain-swollen Mopan River, a wife who has left, Dengue Fever deaths in the area, and the place currently up for sale. Hell’s bells; this crusty old coot ain’t exactly a plethora of positivity!
As for our remote accommodation, Architectural Digest is not likely to be planning a photoshoot any time soon, as mirroring its owner, the shabby hut is worn and forlorn. The only positive takeaway is that after engaging in some petting and behind-the-ears-scratching of his huge German Shephard, I seem to have gained its trust. The formidable looking guard dog now has his tail in a full wag, and seems focused on exuberantly trying to lick the epidermal layer from his new best friend’s face; the big lug, like the rest of us, just needing to be shown a little kindness.
After hiking the Mayan ruins of Cahel Pech we head into town to book for tomorrow what looks like an exciting excursion to the cave of Actun Tunichil Muknal; the reason we’ve made the long commute to San Ignacio. We’re informed there are only two requirements for those wishing to explore the cave – being physically fit and mentally prepared for the tragedies that lie within.
Actun Tunichil Muknal translates to ‘Cave of the Stone Sepulcher’ and is a relatively unknown jungle cave discovered in 1989 and opened to the public in 1998. It is a spectacular subterranean space where 1000 to 2000 years ago the Maya, who were really into caves, ventured three miles down into the earth for religious ceremonies, including grisly human sacrifices.
Greg and I, along with guide Renan, drive from San Ignacio to Tapir Mountain Nature Reserve, abandon the car, and lather on bug repellent before fording the river. Renan recounts a previous encounter on this same trail when he almost took the eternal dirt-nap after being bitten by a deadly fer-de-lance. Not packing anti-venom serum, we vigilantly stick to Renan like a wet T-shirt to avoid any coffin-measuring encounter with the camouflaged vipers!
Forty-five minutes of hiking and three river crossings later, we emerge from beneath the jungle’s canopy and spot the gaping mouth of the ATM cave. It is shaped like an hour-glass and has emerald water spilling out from within. The cave was believed by Mayans to be ‘Xibalba’, the Place of Fright, and was considered a portal to another world. Donning safety helmets and securing water-proof head lamps we stuff our cameras and clothes into a dry-sack, ready for the adventure that lies beyond.
With a deep inhale we plunge into a tranquil pool and enter through the portal of the cave, and just minutes later, I’m attacked by a denizen of the deep. One of the many little fish apparently fancying themselves as guardians of this Mayan underworld makes his bold move. The naughty nibbler has the outright audacity to nip me right on my nipple!
Immersed in the blackness of the cave we bid farewell to the light of day for the next three hours, relying only on small helmet lights as we shake hands with the abyss! Along the spooky subterranean creek bed we gulp down claustrophobia while descending deeper and deeper into the bowels of darkness. As headlamps illuminate the mysteries ahead in the forbidding environment the only signs of life are a few eerie jumping-spiders big enough to trip over. Lights, don’t fail us now!
After dealing with massive boulders and tight passages we climb out of the water and scramble up the cold limestone rocks into an underground chamber. Glossy stalactites and stalagmites that resemble a mouthful of teeth from Hell frame the Mayan ceremonial chamber and place of sacrifice.
Dusty ceramic vessels dating between 700 and 900 AD litter the floor; some delicately pierced with ‘kill holes’ to release the spirits within. Human skulls with flattened foreheads and blank eye sockets lay scattered about, and our senses are alive with visions of ritual sacrifices made a thousand years ago. Being half a mile underground is claustrophobic, and the ominous silence is so complete one could hear a fly fart.
Living our best Tomb Raider life and prowling further into the cavern our eagerness is upgraded to elation. Clambering up an old wood ladder onto the ledge of a limestone wall, Greg and I come to the highlight of our adventure. Lying before us is the startling spectacle of the ‘Crystal Maiden’.
The perfectly preserved skeletal remains of a teenage girl have been cemented into place with a sparkling crystalline coating created by hundreds of years of water running over the bones. As one of many sacrificial victims, her unwelcomed fate was being clubbed to death to try and appease the gods and bring an onset of rain in times of drought. The setting is so beyond surreal I feel almost total paralysis in trying to describe it.
Feeling privileged for our exhilarating journey into the ancient Mayan underworld, we retrace our path back out of the cave of graves, and end our time as troglodytes by happily re-emerging into the dappled daylight of the jungle and back into the known world where we belong.
With the ATM cave currently in the process of becoming a World Heritage Site, we feel fortunate to have seen it before this happens, as surely things will change. Driving back after our commendation-worthy day we realize it’s ‘beer o’clock’; and fixated on congregating with a couple of Belikan beers, me and the MOP stop, shop, pop a top, and turn a couple of the headless browns upside down!
Back at Bullet Tree Falls we’re regretting our tragic lodging. Marooned 5 km outside of town with no cooking facilities or car means an inconvenient hike for meals. Sleep at night is broken due to a cacophony of canines participating in a nightly bark-mitzvah, and mummified insects suspended in cobwebs indicate housekeeping is not a priority. It is dark and dank, and combined with a busted shower, no air con, no soap, and no hot water, the hovel has all the amenities of a Soviet Gulag!
After a couple of nights behind enemy lines, the savaging mosquitoes have taken things to a whole new level of suck and make it a no-brainer for Greg and I to terminate, rather than tolerate, our soured relationship with the Satan inspired hut. We drive back to Belize City and hop a plane to Ambergris Caye.
Bumping along in a golf cart taxi over giant nautical ropes strung across the beach as speed bumps, we find lodging at the Blue Tang Inn. All is good until we learn through the ‘coconut telegraph’ that the small island may be in the direct path of Hurricane Richard now barreling in our direction!
The island is a comfy change from the humid jungle. Long wooden wharfs extend across bone white sands out into a shallow aquamarine sea, and Belizean fishermen stand in the gin-clear water gutting fish and lobster while stingrays swirl around their feet optimistically searching for the off-cuts.
One of the locals informs us the best way to catch lobster is by using a mop. He recommends dangling it in the water in front of the rocks, and when a lobster comes out to attack, you simply flip it into a sack. A Cheshire cat grin moves into my face as I inform him that I am, indeed, travelling with a MOP! But for some strange reason when I unveil my ambitious plan to Greg that we’re going lobster fishing on the reef and going to use his dangly bits for bait, an apparent phobia of ‘emasculation by lobster’ has the Mop in a mope. He has taken a vow of silence and suddenly found something of great interest on top of his shoes!
Exploring Ambergris Caye by bike we come to a pre-school surrounded by a fence looking like pencils; most appropriate since I’ve brought along bags of pencils from home as little gifts. After reaching agreement with the teacher that it’s OK, she escorts outside a class of ragtag little inmates hand in hand and I quickly get the lead out and distribute the pencils in front of the colorful pencil fence.
Over the next two days we embrace the ’go slow’ motto of the island and book an upcoming snorkeling trip to swim with the sharks and rays. Unfortunately, dark foreboding clouds smudging out the sky begin to harsh our mellow, and during the night we’re awoken by kamikaze raindrops attacking the widows with such force that we wonder if the animals are starting to pair up!
Calling the airport about the weather situation we are informed that tomorrow is the last day that planes will be able to fly out. It has been confirmed that the island is now smack dab in the path of a mighty hurricane about to roar ashore within 24-48 hours. Regrettably it’s time for us to depart, as the island is flatter than frog road kill and offers virtually zero protection from what is sure to be one Hell of a blow job!
Our farewell feast is a lobster dinner at a little hole in the wall joint called Waragumas. The crustacean sensations are superb, and just for the record, I’m pleased to report that no parts of the MOP were harmed during the procurement of said lobster! With dinner done we pack for tomorrow’s evacuation.
The airport is frantic with people scrambling to vacate the island. Airlines have now abandoned regular schedules and are making continuous flights back and forth from the mainland every 15-20 minutes trying their utmost to get everybody off the island. And so begins an arduous day of travel as we bounce through the skies via Belize City, El Salvador, San Francisco, Vancouver, and finally home to Victoria.
The tiny island/nation of Belize certainly punches well above its weight, and though we’re bummed by having our holiday truncated, we did enjoy our brilliant but all too brief adventure. Now, we just have to explain to the wives why it’s mandatory that we be allowed to go again!
Mark Colegrave 2010