We left a few days ago for Belize, a small Caribbean country "owned" and uncared for by Queen Elizabeth of England. The country itself is independent but tied to the United Kingdom, like Canada. The land mass is rather small, rectangular, and diversified: swampy regions in the north, mountains in the south, predatory Guatemala in the west. and a coastal border in the east. We are staying in Caye Caulker, a small island of the archipelago, an hour's boat ride from Belize City.
Our adventure started with a rather crazy drive from the Belize airport to the taxi boat. Our hotel had booked a driver to pick us up at the terminal and drive us to the docks. Our man was ready and waiting, and we jumped in, he a the helm and us in the backseat, flying vertiginously through the streets of the capital. The scenery was mostly a blur: Destroyed areas--a hurricane came through in the beginning of August--road repairs, a lack of street signals, and lots of bicycles. I mean, A LOT.
The driver was undaunted by the fact that we had exactly 20 minutes to make a 25-minute ride to the marina, as the boat was about to leave and the following was not expected for another two hours. Therefore, he wisely used the third lane; the one that does not exist; the one that is normally the dotted pavement line. separating the other two. I saw my life flash two or three times, disco-style, but we squeezed in-between trucks and cars alike and we made it. Deliver us he did, in more than one way! Amen!
The exciting boat ride almost didn't happen; we had to get our tickets before embarking, another two minutes worth of lost time. Good news: our man was on the phone delaying the inevitable, and we jumped in as the 150-passenger moved away from the quay. Some serious movie shots, people, but my camera was ensconced in my purse. We sat on the only two seats left vacant, at the front of the boat welcoming the speed and the spray.
The ensuing boat ride was about an hour long. Salty water and torrential winds accompanied us on our journey "home." My hair received a beating and rivaled only with Medusa's snake tresses in appeal. Our peripeteia was not over, though; we still had to find the Iguana Reef where we would be staying. Our driver had given us instructions: "It's by the football stadium." Looking for a grandiose, Olympic-worthy field was our first mistake, which prompted us to walk pretty much all of the island in search of refuge. It's only after what seemed to be an hour walk that I spotted an abandoned terrain, freshly decorated by puddles of gray mud and forsaken coke bottles. In the midst of this ungainly area, our hotel stood proudly, a phoenix born of ashes.
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| The Iguana Reef Inn, Caye Caulker |
