Crocodile Dundee Dave

Of Crocodiles, Gun Fights and Friendship

Packing up and traveling halfway around the world tends to leaves one with mountains of questions.  Not the least of these is, what will the people be like? The answer has proven to be far more curious than we would have guessed.  These people have carved a life from the Jungles of the tropics.  They have survived among crocodiles, jaguars, tarantulas, and the climate.

David and Daphne are a couple who have befriended us and we have come to love time spent in their company.  Daphne is the no nonsense math teacher with a heart for her students as big as the hills she lives in.  David on the other hand is a rugged, character with a dark swarthy look from working under the tropical sun.  When he pulled up to the Gilmour’s house one evening to show us a couple of six foot snakes he’d burned out of the grass my image of him as the Crocodile Dundee of Blue Creek was again reinforced. 

David instructs in the way of coconuts

Kerianne, Dave and Daphne's daughter, chops
coconuts with a machete.

Nikki is brave with the dead snakes

This is Paul trying to tease out the croc

David has lots of stories about crocks although it’s his brother Paul who called us to come see the nine footer he caught in the rice fields one Sunday afternoon.  Paul had taken some friends and the kids to look for ducklings. Instead he found this old crock and decided to catch it.  When we arrived all 300 pounds of it was still tied to a tree along his driveway and Paul wanted to get his rope back before turning the beast loose into the swamp.  This meant at one point I was holding the end of said rope with the crock still tied to the other end while Paul casually threw chunks of trees into the lizards jaw to distract it.  Unfortunately the powerful jaws crushed the wood easily while I haplessly held the end of the line which was to keep the crock from charging Paul.  I couldn’t help but wonder what made this rope so valuable as there was nothing stopping the crock from reversing its direction and charging back towards me.  Finally freeing the crock Paul left him on the edge of his driveway to find his own way into the swamp below.

Paul just left the crock to find his own way home

One of David’s crock encounters was from when he was a kid.  Green lake is a big lagoon at the bottom of the hills which also serves as a popular swimming spot for teenagers.  We drove our 4x4 out there once, almost throwing the Gilmour kids from the box as we bounced through the muddy ruts or catching them on the tree branches and vines that hung down from the canopy above and into the truck box.  We arrived to find two of Kevin’s high school boys trying to impress a couple girls by climbing a 25 foot rope from the water into a tree and then leaping back in.  As the water goes almost strait down with no beach, it’s not really suitable for the kids, so we packed up and left the boys to continue their exhibition unhindered by their teachers.

Boys trying to impress girls at Green lake.  We left so they
could proceed unhindered by their teachers. 

David tells us that he and friends often swam across the lake.  As the beach on the other side is often cluttered with weeds and debris, getting back into the water requires a good run and a diving leap from the shore.  On one such occasion, David’s leap ended up on the back of a crocodile that was hidden in the weeds.  While he calmly assured us that a three or four footer doesn’t usually represent much danger to people, this was a hand to tooth encounter that the crocodile hadn’t expected and couldn’t avoid.  His nearby friends saw the commotion and quickly identified the crock in the water but were powerless to do much as David negotiated this unexpected meeting.  As quickly as the encounter began the crock had extricated himself from the bout and had disappeared into the depths of the lake, at which point the other kids continued into the water and swam back across the lake. It’s not next thing I might have done but it’s sort or response that seems fairly typical here. 

Gunfight at the O.K. Coral

The next tale from David’s earlier days made us wonder that he was here to tell it at all.  No, this wasn’t the story where he lept from his 30 ton bulldozer as it tumbled down the steep side of a hill, crushing the cab and almost taking his life.  Nor is this the story of his panic-stricken sprint alone through the jungle.  For over two desperate miles he prayed he would reach the lifesaving shelter of his pickup as a cloud of killer bees stung him again and again.  It was a near miss.   No, this was a story from when he was still a kid and in the dark of a moonlit night he was asked to enter a life and death struggle to protect his community.

Back in the early years of the Blue Creek, they had established a community owned co-op store and a basic communication system between homes based on short wave radio.  Late one night David’s father, David Sr. woke him from a deep sleep. “The store is being robbed.  Get up quick and grab your hunting rifle.”

The community store had been set upon by three fortune seeking Mexicans from across the Rio Hondo.    Their downfall was that their covert activity had been picked up by the intercom radio in the store.  Within minutes the community was aware of their presence and had sprung into action.  The message had travelled via radio waves down to the village on the plain below the hills of Blue Creek.  The Belizean police constable had been woken and alerted.  Knowing that he needed to catch the thieves red handed to get any kind of conviction in court, he ordered the men to allow the robbery to proceed and set in motion a plan for their capture. 

Down on the plains, the only road in and out of Blue Creek was blocked with a tractor placed just in front of the bridge crossing a creek.  The tractor bristled with men, armed with hunting weapons who would cover the constable as he confronted and arrested the thieves.  Back up the hills by the store, David and his brothers stood in the back of their fathers pickup. Hidden within the darkness of the trees, they watched the unknowing thieves load their getaway car under the light of the full moon.  These men were to follow the thieves and trap them with their pickup from behind, forcing a quick surrender.  A sound plan until it completely fell apart and David would find himself in the fight of his life.

As the time ticked by tension built.  David nervously watched for the thieves to finish their work.  Finally loaded the criminals jumped into the car and were off.  David Sr. and two other pursuers started their trucks and slowly pulled out from the protection of the darkness but left their headlights off, driving by only the light of the moon.  As the thieves wound their way down the Blue Creek hills, thinking themselves safe they turned on their lights and the car accelerated to freedom.  David held on tight as his dad kept pace in the darkness, bracing himself for springing the trap waiting below.

The getaway car shot out of the hills onto the quiet plain.  Within minutes however, the driver noticed something in the road ahead, David watched the car slow, then finally stop as the car light illuminated the blockade and the thieves realized their freedom might be short-lived.  While a sudden heated discussion erupted in the car ahead, David Sr. drove the truck forward until it bumped the rear of the car, trapping it.  The thieves discussion was cut short by the realization they were trapped.  The driver franticly pulled ahead then threw it in reverse and slammed down the gas ramming the pickup.  This lasted for minutes until the car became completely wedged between the tractor and truck.  Springing into action the constable led the approach to apprehend the criminals.

Rather than going quietly however, the criminals decided to fight and quickly complete mayhem seized the scene.  As the constable approached the driver’s door he attempted to flee.  He was immediately caught in a struggle with the constable, who began screaming “Fire!  Fire! Shoot them!” as he fought.  David’s father was covering the back door with a pistol and likewise suddenly found himself struggling hand to hand with a shotgun pointed directly into his face by a desperate Mexican man.  Now gunshots were going off everywhere as David tried to get a shot at the man fighting his father. 

David Sr. grabbed the Mexican’s gun barrel gripped tightly in his hand and a fierce struggle ensued.  As he struggled to keep the gun pointed away from himself he managed to squeeze off a shot with his own pistol.  The bullet glanced off his opponent’s shotgun severing his fingers that were wrapped around the weapon.  The fight only increased in intensity.  Then suddenly David Sr. felt a piercing pain in his ankle.  David heard his father cry out “I’ve been shot!” as he continued to fight. Suddenly his opponent disengaged and made a mad dash for the nearby cornfields.  In the darkness and chaos the runaway was a tricky target for David and his brothers shooting from the back of the pickup truck.  The man managed to escape, though not unwounded.

In the mean time the third man had been laid out by gun fire.  He rolled in the grass writhing in pain.  The driver had also run and escaped over the distance to the cornfield apparently dodging shots from the Blue Creek posy. David rushed to his father fearing he may be mortally wounded as he sat bleeding on the ground by the car.  It was quickly discovered that the ‘shot’ was a broken ankle.  The struggle had been so fierce that David Sr.’s ankle had snapped beneath him, allowing the distraction for the criminal to get away.

In the aftermath of the struggle the constable decided the wounded thief and David Sr. needed to be taken for immediate medical attention.  David Jr. and others were left to stand guard because although the other two criminals had escaped they were clearly wounded and not able to go far.  Their cries of pain carried through the darkness to the road.  As the night wound on towards day break one of the men surrendered themselves and was also taken for medical attention.  The third escaped and was not caught.  He managed to struggle his way through the fields and across the river to Mexico.

Of course this story just furthered my image of David as a fearless pioneer in this rugged wilderness.  David on the other hand will readily admit that the experience terrified him.  I guess that walking the line so close to life and death makes one ask certain questions.  David who was not a religious man at that time says the experience led him to the Lord.  Maybe that’s the supernatural protection that has carried him through the many dangers that made him into Blue Creeks very own Crocodile Dundee.  In my mind anyway.

Dave shares the coconut of friendship

Fighting Montezaum

So as our quest continues to conquer seeing as much of the Mayan countryside as possible it seems that we have come up against a force  who’s hand is moving against us in rather insidious ways.  It’s true that Montezuma was an Aztec from further north, and I wouldn’t say our actions in any way mirror his adversary Cortez but our luck has been too poor not to begin pondering its possible source.

Belize, being located in the heart of the ancient Mayan nation is covered with ruins, buildings, tombs and artifacts.  One Blue Creeker, David, whom I’ve dubbed the “Crocodile Dundee of Blue Creek” (I’ll tell you why later) claims that given any five acre plot in Belize you will find some Mayan ruins.  He’s a road builder and has uncovered countless numbers of these as he clears bush and hills with his equipment.

In Search of El Dorado

Entering Lamaini

So one more bright Saturday morning found the six Canadian conquistadors loaded up in our trusty old Ford Explorer, roaming the bad back roads Belize in search of the Mayan legacy.  Lamanai is an ancient city of the Maya, only an hour from Blue Creek.  The Maya here offered strong resistance to the Spanish, burning the two churches there throwing off the yoke of Spanish oppression; clearly they are not fond of intruders.  The first part of the trip was easy enough and after finding the site we immediately began our archeological examination these massive stone monoliths, hidden in the dense jungles, set alongside the shores of a crocodile infested blue, green lake. 

Approaching the temple

The Jaguar temple was first with two 15 foot Jaguar faces at the bottom it eked with antiquity.  We scurried up all twenty-five meters for a Gilmour family photo under the sprawling tree at the top.  After exploring the palace where Erica pictured herself playing soccer in the ancient ball court, some silly planking pics and the realization that those huge black balls on the trees are termite nests, we accidentally stumbled into a troop of Howler Monkeys traversing this section of Jungle.

Jaguar Temple

The Jaguar

Howler monkey is after me

One minute I was happily clamouring over an ancient mountain of rock, trying not to lose my footing.  The next I had an uncanny sensation travel down my spine as I realized I was being watched from not too far away.  It started with a loud snap from the nearby trees which didn’t sound at all like the wind. Then there in the tree over my head was a big black shape slowly creeping through the upper branches of the trees.  He stopped, and just stared at me trespassing on his domain.  Hearing more noises I quickly looked around only to notice a whole troop of big black apes traversing this section of the jungle, just a little way above my head.  Thrilled and excited to be this close to such a local migration I pulled out my camera completely oblivious to how heavily they outnumbered me.  Unfortunately the monkeys weren't interested in obliging me by posing for photos.  They wouldn't even humour me with one of their famous howls which have them cataloged as one of the loudest animals on earth.  They continued on their trek like we conquistadors were of no real consequence to their daily life.

High Temple

Discovering the High Temple we began a fantastic climb right out of the Jungle canopy, of thirty-three meters, about 11 stories, into the sky.  From here we could actually see the distant hills of Blue Creek which were much less than an hour away as the crow flies.  There are no guard rails or ropes here so it was up to the Gilmours to keep intrepid four year old Sadie from falling off the precipitous edges she was so intent on climbing along.  The view was spectacular.

Making our way down

View from the top

A Clean Escape

Well we wrapped up our exploration, apparently without upsetting any old, dead Mayan kings, by climbing the last temples, taking pics with our head in the mouth of an ancient Mayan god, and taking an essential stop at the market to re-hydrate after hours of climbing and sweating in forty degree heat.  With a quick tour of the little educational museum it looked like we might get away from this Mayan city state uncursed and unharmed.  In the Belizean village nearby our explorations continued to be rewarded as we uncovered the best empanadas and grenachas we had eaten so far.

Basking in the glories of all we had discovered that day we picked up a hitch hiker from our restaurant who was looking for a ride to shipyard, a nearby Mennonite farming community that lives in the old ways of horses, buggies and old fashioned clothes.  We had been meaning to check out this neighborhood anyway.  The thing is that buggies and cars don’t need the same quality of roads so in checking out some of the farms our Explorer was having some interesting encounters with the road, some of which left us a little nervous.  But it was out on the wide open road with the sun starting to fall to the western horizon when disaster finally struck.  As with many misadventures they may appear rather innocent at first so we had no idea how deep Montezuma’s anger against us would run.

Stranded in a Foreign Land

As we were soaking in the sights of old fashioned farmsteads along the road our trusty Explorer died.  It just died; no grunts, pops or whistles, just dead on the road.  So here we were, an hour from home, in the middle of a dirt road, in the middle of a German speaking  wilderness, in a foreign country, without CAA, without gas stations or tow trucks, without any of the usual ways one might solve this problem at home.  What to do.  Well over the course of the next two hours we tried many things.  Our hitchhiker caught a ride on a passing motor bike with a promise of sending help; nothing came of that.  The local farmer had no gasoline (of course) or ideas but told us the community store was five miles further down the road.  Finally, a pick up full of teenagers from Belize City who were working on a local mission project to grow crops to feed the homeless, stopped to save us.  After several failed plans they tied our truck to theirs and dragged us to the Mennonite community store.

We found no help there but what a sight that was.  Five to fifteen buggies were lined up at any given time, coming and going.  Men in the overalls and hats wandered into the chaos surrounding a central counter and proceeded to buy groceries, share gossip and drink Coke.  Their wives and daughters stayed put in the buggies waiting for their Men to return.  While they all stared at us from under the brims of their bonnets and hats, we stood in stark contrast to their ankle length dresses and jackets, scantily clad in our tank tops and shorts.  We discovered that another eight miles down the road was a shop which had a, glory be, computer to diagnose what our problem was.  A Spanish speaking, non-Mennonite, haggard looking, worker who stopped to buy gas for his rusty old pickup offered to pull us there.  So off were again.

Our Explorer getting a lift

As the sun was setting we arrive at a yard completely out of place for this traditional, religious enclave as it was covered with automobiles.  We wheeled the truck through the barbed wire fence and onto the lot.  One of the Mennonites at work there showed us where to park at which point they all proceeded to ignore us.  After fifteen or more minutes of this we realized we were not going to get help unless we got it ourselves.  Erica, who was uncomfortably shoved into the role of translator as she has the only knowledge of low-German in any form discovered that they were too busy now and would look at the vehicle on Monday.  Not happy with this I, through Erica and some broken English persuaded them to look at the vehicle right away.

Centro de Diagnosticos

Another hour and a half later with real darkness setting in, the mechanic stole an electronic part from his father’s Explorer and made our hearts jump with relief as the engine finally roared back to life.  $170 later we were finally, safely back on the road home; but it seems that good old Monty wasn’t finished with us yet.

Cruising along, out on the main road our headlights were picking up all kinds of bats and other night life when the engine decided to die again, leaving us completely stranded the same way as before.  Now this was getting scary; out of options to look after ourselves we finally picked up the phone to beg someone to come out to our rescue.  Once again it fell to my amazing host Annie and her family to save us.  Apparently leaving a car on the road overnight means it will be stripped to the frame by morning.  So, her husband John rounded up a vehicle trailer, found a helper and headed out to find us.  This left us marooned on the road in the dark for the better part of two hours.

In the Still of the Night

As we sat in the heat of the night, sweaty, hot and exhausted from the exertions of the day, the sounds of the fields and jungle began encroach on our feeling of relative safety within the vehicle.  Trucks would roar past sending clouds of dust through the windows, yet we were glad the drivers didn’t stop to begin the process of absconding with our vehicle while holding us at gunpoint.  The distant chatter of bandits plotting our demise materialized out of the darkness in the form of two locals travelling between villages on bicycle.  A pee brake at the side of the road became a probable encounter with rattle snakes on account of stories told previously by Crocodile Dundee Dave.  At long last lights coming over the distant hill proved friendly as the familiar sound of John’s diesel 4x4 drew closer.   Several attempts and sometime later we had the Explorer loaded on the trailer without breaking the wooden planks we used as ramps. 

As the wee hours of the night found eight of us huddled into John’s pickup, slugging up the infamous hill that climbs into Blue Creek proper; I’d like to say that Montezuma; or whichever of his Mayan compatriots was having his way with us, was finally through.  This was not to be the case.  However for one night at least our hosts in Blue Creek were able to rescue us and bring us home safely from the challenges of facing foreign adversaries in the wilds of the tropical Mayan wilderness in Belize

Teaching in the Tropics

All Hail the Mighty Paperweight?

Moments after Kevin and I dismissed our high school gym class the air was filled with a thunder that rivaled the starting line-up at the Indy 500.  As one motorbike ripped between standing students, Scooters dove between concrete posts and other pupils, and finally a stone whizzed by from a spray of gravel kicked up by a leaving ATV, which is strictly against the rules; Kevin and I half grinned at each other, shaking our heads once again with an expression saying “It’s just not like Canada here”.

Sure, grade eights still learn science and math but when was the last time your student proposed an Alligator dissection as his science fair project.  “Do it” I said, “That would be a fantastic project.  But where do you find the alligator?”

“I’ll just go out to the rice field and club one” he says.

Here's my little classroom

Still skeptical, but hopeful, I did a little further investigation and apparently finding a harmless, three to four foot crocodile should be a simple exercise as long as one doesn’t venture into the “tall grass” as that’s where the 10 to 12 footers live.  They can hurt you.

Yet amid all this novelty one of the greatest challenges is that of simply holding onto what’s important, i.e. papers.  The wind is always blowing; hopefully, because if it stops, your sweat is immediately flowing.  We gave up trying to stay dry after two days.  It was surprising how quickly our comfort increased the moment we submitted to always being a little sticky.  This makes the wind your friend until you are trying to keep your text book open to a certain page, have notes available on your podium, or you are trying to mark a pile of tests on the desk in front of you.

Just outside my door looking
across at the elementary school

The building we teach in is a pleasant if simple two story concrete structure.  My room has windows on each side which are louvered to let the air through.  I’ve tried closing them to maintain my mental sanity after what feels like a ten round battle royal with the elements.  Each window I close however increases the temperature by approximately five degrees; so, the question then becomes; by which means do I wish to go crazy?

I remember sitting back home in air conditioned comfort thinking, “a paperweight might be one of the most useless inventions on planet earth.” Now I am forced to clip, clamp and pin, both elbows frequently engaged, each and every piece of paper that I’d like to maintain control over; then I can work.

Here's the high school, I'm the middle room on the bottom,
up the stairs is the church building

The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round

The first day we arrive, Margret gave the tour of Blue Creek, showing where to buy the freshest vegetables for example.  Their freezer section is literally, a freezer; probably not as big as yours at home.  Three miles down the road is a woman who sells milk and cream.  To get chicken there is a farm all the way at the back of the reserve, a drive of ten to fifteen minutes.  If you want the best produce and good deals not available in Belize, you can pay $2 and take a boat across the nearby Hondo River to Mexico.  While technically illegal to import these goods, the border guy allows the locals to carry household groceries across.  Suffice to say, this all makes the checkout lines at home look express.

Chillin on the step 

These distances also make getting to school interesting.  As the entire community is private property though, there are no rules about driving, so everyone does.  Before and after school the parking lot becomes like downtown Winnipeg after a jets game, except that carpooling here is at a premium.  One scooter holds three kids easily.  Nicki says she’s seen five, and if the oldest child is seven years old, they drive.  One day after gym class up at the park, I stopped at the store and beside me pulled in a little car without a driver.  Shocked, I looked closer to see there was a driver but he must be looking through the steering wheel to see; he was ten years old max.  The passenger seat held two and the back seat another four.  One of these jumped out to pick up something for mom at home.  Further research from Nicki indicates that they boy is not in her level at school, which starts at grade four.  This puts the driver at no older than eight years old.  Apparently one of the passengers is eleven but it’s not her parents car so she can’t drive.

The first day of school Erica, like any good mother, went with the kids to be sure they found their way into their new surroundings.  Thinking she would chat it up with some of the other moms hanging about she quickly discovered that there were none.  Blue Creek kids are independent and for better or worse; in some ways, kids seem to grow up fast here.

Teacher, Leave Them Kids Alone

You might be surprised how much drama transpires within the four walls of my little grade eight classroom.  In the first number of weeks I’ve already had one of the girls crying, discovered an aspiring Hollywood actor and had to assert control over a mob style ring leader with Gestapo style classroom management.

These three pull off looking studious rather well, no?

I've got a group of ten interesting characters in grade eight that’s for sure.  Carlos would much rather spend his class time running to the top of the hill, in 38 degree heat,  to fill the ubiquitous water jugs than spend an extra five minutes getting his grammar quiz right.  Lets face it most of their parents didn’t finish grade twelve and they are running successful farms, business and trades across the community. 

I'm not always a dictator

The Getaway

So we survived the first round with Montezuma and his infamous revenge; however, not only were the flies still a plague on the Gilmours, frogs the size of footballs were leaving monster sized poop all over their balcony.  Kevin and I spent our first week in teacher training, and ended it brain dead from new people and places, new curriculum and climate, new homes and phones; it was time for a vacation.  So we loaded up the Explorer to trek through coastal wilderness and mountainous jungle in search of the sprawling beaches of Hopkins Belize. 

So that bright Saturday morning the sun broke through the towering clouds on the dark horizon, mother nature leaving us unsure of what to expect that day.  We loaded up and headed toward the Northern Highway.  No sooner did we take a right off the sugar cane road onto the highway than we met our first highway speed bump with vendor. Kevin couldn’t resist some peanuts an old colony Mennonite guy was selling from a sack.  He proceeded to get ripped off buying two tiny bags of unshelled nuts for $2 each.  But in his words “he was happy to help out the locals”. 

The Lost Home of the Mystical Manatee

Two hours later we were through Belize city, running low on gas, (well the gage didn’t work so we weren’t sure) and searching for the Coastal ‘highway’.  It’s hard to explain how loosely they use the word highway here.  There was supposed to be a gas station at the turn off but as we approached a gang of Rastafarian looking black guys were approaching on bicycles and since we are all white people, this was scary.  So rather than gas up Gilmour put down the pedal and away we went down a muddy potholed red clay road into the mountains of costal Belize, sans fuel, the rain clouds finally breaking open upon us, yet knowing that somewhere ahead lay a mystical lagoon where the Manatee are.

After several hours of bouncing through spectacular jungle covered hills, crossing jade green rivers on unrailed wooden bridges, passing countless orange groves, but virtually no people we arrived at the turn off for Gales Point Manatee.  This road led to a peninsula stretching way out into a brackish lagoon where the Manatee live. 

As we crept down this lonely point into the one road village with ramshackle houses lining either side, it became clear these lost people hadn’t seen better times.  This lonely arm of civilization with broken stilted houses and a handful of brightly painted shanties, which catered to manatee hunters like us, clearly didn’t see many outsiders; and unfortunately for us the Manatee boat was out to sea. 

Not all was lost however as we found Gentiles Cool Spot, serving chicken, beans, rice and opportunities. Another one of those bike riding, smooth talking, Rastafarians, called Garifuna as we learned, was at the café.  We were less afraid by now, and after all there was only one of them.  Good thing for us because he was selling golden opportunities in the form of an island, out in the lagoon, for the incredibly low asking price of $20,000 US.  Unfortunately we didn’t have the cash on hand so one day we may yet live to regret packing back into our Explorer and driving away from that golden egg opportunity; not to mention the manatee.

Gotta Conch in the bucket

We finally made it through the Jungle clad mountains, didn’t run out of gas and checked into our stilted beachfront cabana.  The next morning we decided to stick around our local patch of palm treed beach to try out our new snorkeling gear.  While the Gilmours continued to mock me for paying literally ten times what they paid for a snorkel and mask I went about the business of exploring our tropical undersea paradise.  Amid the stretches of sand were these eerie patches of seaweed where of course all the good stuff was.  Not a coral reef but good enough for practice. 

Sadie holds our catch

Nikki and I were busy disturbing a couple waterlogged coconuts, laying on the bottom, with our bamboo sticks when suddenly I spotted a conch shell laying half buried in the sand.  (Pronounced conk not the way that sounds like crotch).  Now even though it was inert I didn’t want to touch it because I was sure it was poisonous and it would certainly stab me with its stinger leaving a bloody mess of my hand.  I bravely overcame all this fictional paranoia to finally dive down and pick it up.  I had it in my hand when suddenly it struck out and slashed me!  Or maybe I imagined that part which is what made me drop it to the bottom again.  What actually happened was, it very aggressively sucked its tail and body into the shell which, of course, scared the crap out of me; and who knows, maybe that is how it kills things. 

Two conch in a bucket and a Starfish

Well 9 year old Nikki finally goaded me into bravely diving to pick it up again and carry it to the shore. Through the rest of the day we found another bigger conch, a brilliantly red and orange starfish and almost swam into a tiny white translucent jelly fish.  I kept my treasures in a bucket on the beach and made plans to cook up the conch and save the starfish skeleton as a lifelong memento of our adventures.  Both these plans turned out very badly; however, I was clearly ready for a real excursion out to the reef.  Oh ya, and the snorkel was definitely worth it.

Paradise and the poor

Real Paradise has trash

We whiled away our two days in this palm tree studded beach land.  Hopkins is a curious mix of classes.  The usual potholed roads bring you into the town.  Way down, at the far south end of the beach we wandered through rich, well-appointed resorts with pools and swim up bars.  Just north of our cabanas however the beach gets really dirty and full of trash.  The paradise from the photos is obviously well maintained.  It was funny seeing palm trees surrounded by garbage.  The village felt like an authentic Caribbean village. 

Kevin poses with Tina

We visited Tina’s kitchen for lunchtime tacos where Tina was sweating over a simple grill right next to the dining area.  She was more than happy to pose for a pic outside her shack though.  We discovered the Garifuna drummers at dinner time where they taught the Gilmour girls to work the shakers and drum the turtle shell.  At the same time Gilmour was mastering a very tricky dance move called the donkey, which required a particular kick repeated strait out to the side.  He’s really quite good; you should ask him to see it sometime. 

Dark Caves and Cool Water

Driving home the next day we chose the easier route down the Butterfly highway.  In a word it was breathtaking.  There were Green, green mountains and blue green rivers and finally some decent highway.  On our way home we stopped at St Herman’s cave and the Blue Hole underground river.   Thus, our adventures ended with a little spelunking slowed down by only a couple head whacks on the cave roof as Kevin and I went “sneaky, sneaky”(ask our guide) a little further into the blackness.  The blue hole was a pleasantly frosty river that traveled into yet another low roofed cave mouth where of course we had to carry the girls for a look.  Although neck deep in a flowing current we didn’t lose anyone and the 6 second echo, in the black as night river cave, was well worth the risk.

Into the Wild

Just Another Day in Paradise?

Pinch me!  Am I really living in the tropics?  Will I really spend the next year here soaking in the zen?  My first night in paradise I watched the full moon rise, just after sunset, out over the plains below.  Very zen.  After a hot muggy night learning to sleep with a breeze wafting through my window rather than climate controlled a/c I woke to the 5:30 sun breaking the horizon in perfect alignment with my eyeballs.  It’s become far more reliable than any alarm clock.  Stepping out my bedroom door onto the veranda, last night’s full moon was hanging in a purple morning sky over the jungle covered horizon getting ready to slip out of sight.  It was sort of spooky spectacular.

But just as Adam so rudely discovered, no paradise lasts forever.  So, sure the heat is like swimming in hot soup and we’ve all lost pounds sweating into our clothes, which leaves one sticky and dampish almost all the time.  But by the end of the first day my body was waging full scale war against our environment.  To be perfectly honest every one of us had digestive challenges one way or the other.  Mine turned into a full scale flush so I spent day two in paradise passed out, sweating and starving in bed.  The Gilmour’s trouble was more of a ’lord of the flies’ variety.  By day two Kevin’s legs looked like the crater pocked face of the moon, only bright red.   He claims over two hundred sand fly bites and two weeks later they are still a scabby disgusting mess.  Not one of the Gilmours escaped the sand flies which made Erica a little mad at me because I guess I just don’t taste as good to bugs.  Dying from Montezuma’s revenge but I don’t taste good to bugs.

Water in the Wilderness

So by day three, with none of us eating much we decided to seek some relief from the sun.  On the way in Rodney mentioned the in-ground pool his grandpa recently built.  Curiously however, he built in right in the middle of a cow pasture.  Not as crazy as it sound once you realize it’s sitting right on top of a natural fresh water spring. Show up, cover the drain, let it fill.  Minutes later full sized, cool blue, cow pasture refreshment awaits you.  It has been a good place to meet the community.  This was also the location of subsequent encounters of the strangest kind.  But that was later.

Getting Out of Dodge, Take one. 

Well, we were still sickly and slightly unwell but we didn’t come here to sit around and fester so we made plans to find Orange Walk, our local ‘metropolis’ and see what there was to see.  The Gilmour’s had an Explorer on loan but no insurance so they can’t leave the ‘reserve’.  We debated the merits of going without insurance and we were glad we didn’t as my host Annie came through for us and found a Toyota 4x4 rental pickup. 

Strangest rental experience ever.  We pulled up and Peter asks me if I want it cleaned as the archeologists just used it in the deep bush.  No, I’m good so what ID or paper work does he need.  “Nothing, just bring it back here when you’re done.  We’ll call you if we need it sooner.”  And I’m off.

So we threw a sponge in the back and six intrepid explorers set out down the spine crushing 35 miles to town.  The locals would have laughed at us but half way there we were forced to stop for a breather to fend off motion sickness.  The three girls who were thrilled to sit in the box at departure were now petitioning to crowd the tiny bench seat inside. 

Now, according to the tour book, Orange Walk has a couple historic churches, an impressive town square, and a charming commemorative park to explore.  We think we saw the churches somewhere under a pile of rubble, a market in the closing hours of business might have been the town square and a little, dusty, heavily littered green space was most probably the infamous park.  Not much to write home about, even though that’s what I’m doing right now.  We did manage to find the famous chicken taco stand and those of us with our guts under control had our fill of, 3 for $1, tacos and enchiladas.

I Shot the Sherriff

Satisfied that we had seen what we could, our adventures seemed over and we braced ourselves for ‘the road’ home.  Little did we know what was waiting for us just out of town.  Cursing merrily down the road, vigorously debating whether a pot hole is better taken at full speed or slowly, getting the full scale slam in slow motion, we rounded the corner to see the police check point.  There were officers with shot gun slung over their shoulders, barricades and a line of drivers being arrested, complete with vehicles bound for impounding.  We quickly rehearsed the facts of our story as we nervously pulled up to the Belizean officer who glared at me threateningly his shotgun swinging in the air.  As I was starting to blurt out why my drivers license wasn’t Belizean he took a glance at the insurance stickers on the window and waved us through without a word.  They take insurance at least, very seriously here.  So, we survived our first foray into the wilds of Belize.  We’ve had some closer calls since then but one successful adventure at least was done.

You'd Better Belize It!

This is the tale of One Spenst and five Gilmours (Kevin, Erica, Nikki-9, Neve-7, Sadie-4) who traveled to the far reaches of civilization seeking high adventure.

From Ice Box to Frying Pan

And We're off!

The freezing Winnipeg winter weather that drove Erica to discover a little village school in the hills of Belize has suddenly transformed from a vague notion into an intense reality before us.  Just getting here we have discovered sleepiness, pain, adventure, heat, people and sights.  As with all good adventures this one started with its share of problems.  3:30 AM on our first morning Kevin was loading two taxis with all his family’s worldly belongings, when he tripped and dropped two steps with a 49 pound bag in his hand and landed on the concrete, bleeding with a badly twisted ankle.    As it turned out pushing Kevin around in wheel chairs helped us jump the queues (leave it Gilmour to find a way).   However, we caught two planes only to miss our third.  While the airport dude was wheeling Gilmour around, mocking him for faking his ankle to pick up girls, the valve on the airplane broke and they had to find a new plane.  This actually worked out well as we enjoyed a mini vacation in Huston compliments of United airlines.  We were all happy to catch a breather because no one slept well the night before.  The next morning we started with a Starbucks breakfast picnic on the airport terminal floor due to Kevin’s mobility issues.  It only cost us $45 for our airport coffee and muffins but luckily the airline was paying.

The Belize River looms large below as we come in for landing

Through the Looking Glass

So one day later than planned but feeling much more rested we made the last leg of our trip out over the Gulf of Mexico and finally the tropical rain forests of Mexico and Central America.  Who knew what all the research, stories and expectations would finally turn into?  The couple next to me on the plane said to be sure your car insurance is always good because there are police checks everywhere and no insurance means you go to jail.  This latter proved to be a fact.  Our first authentic experience came no later than our customs check where the guy decided that our 16 bags were worthy of a random search.  The end of this painstaking half-hearted process came up clean but then we were required to surrender our baggage carts and pay the porters, a minimum of 2$ according to the sign, to reload them on new carts and take them from there.  This translated into a ten meter walk through the next room to the curb  where the bags were dumped outside the airport so we could wait for our pick up.  Oh, and the 2$ was per bag not total.   Kevin ended up paying the grumpy porter something in the middle of his expectations and ours.  We had only minutes to take in the wall of heat now descending upon us, the mix of people, the sounds and smells before our hosts found us and welcomed us to Belize.  Rodney and Margaret from Blue Creek helped us load those 16 bags into two vehicles and we were off.

A Tale of Two Cities

It quickly became clear that we not in Kansas anymore as we drove past the racial mix of people living in everything from stilted hurricane shacks to charming tile roofed castles.  Taking the Northern Highway, which happens to be the only highway, road or path, Rodney frequently slowed his little pickup to a crawl for the non-stop speed bumps in every village and town we passed through.  This annoyed Rodney because his A/C only really works well when he has the truck up to 70 miles an hour.  I wasn’t sure that the speed bumps were as much for safety as to aid the local vendors in selling their wares.  They set up ramshackle huts selling everything from roadside tacos to a fine collection of well used clothing.  Vendors and hitchhikers.  Every other speed bump had a scruffy looking dude or dude with his family looking for a ride.

The Gilmour's front porch

John and Annie's coconut trees

A quick stop for lunch in Orange Walk, 2 hours quick, we’re on Caribbean time now, and we were heading down the last stretch to Blue Creek.  This road was awful.  But potholed, wash boarded and narrow, didn’t stop Rodney from flying down it to keep his A/C going, as he explained that the European Union has provided a grant to pave it but corruption has stalled the project with a lawsuit.  One hour, fifty kilometers, five poverty ridden Spanish villages and one sore spine later the undeveloped flatland savannah opened up to the lush cultivated hills of Blue Creek Belize.  To say the transition was dramatic would be an understatement.  First the pavement started.  The community paves its own roads.   As we climbed, climbed, climbed the escarpment we passed the mini hydro dam made by one of the farmers from the engine of a crashed airplane.  It used to be the only electricity in town.  School, church, a general store and many homes sit atop the hills to catch the breeze that rises from the plains below.   These neat white homes may not have been much in Canada but after what we’d just seen they looked the essence of civilization.  My hosts Annie and John live in a two storey home with a veranda wrapped around the second floor.  The view from the balcony outside my bedroom is nothing short of spectacular as the lights of San Fillipe and the Mexican village L’Union,  across the river, glow in the darkness down on the valley floor.  The biggest disappointment about Blue Creek might have been that, no, there isn’t so much as a puddle actually named Blue Creek?!!!

Ahhh, serenity.  The view from the veranda of my host family

ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND

Planes, trains, automobiles and bicycles

Waiting for my plane in London

So if getting there is any indication of what's to come I'm in trouble.  First plane to TO landed 5 minutes after I was supposed to be boarding the first one to London.  I made it but doubt my luggage did.  Oh well who needs clean underwear anyway.  Second plane left London 3 hours late cause the original plane was struck by lightning and they had to replace it.  Finally get to Amsterdam, luggage too, guess that was lucky; however, the train into town isn't running because the other day there was a big train crash that killed people.  Okay, I'll take the bus.  Sounds safer anyway.  Hop off the bus only to be attacked by, wait for it, bicycles.  Yup, they're everywhere.  After being "rung" off the path twice I realized the third lane is not an extra sidewalk.  It's a bike lane.  Finally some big dude actually manhandles me from behind, right off the path as he slams on the brakes so he doesn't crush me.  Gotta stop walking around like a tourist and look where I'm going.  Finally by 8pm on my second day of travel I've found a Hostel.  Sure it's in the middle of the red light district but it's cheap.  And close to the sights right?  After I settle in it's time to head out and see what there is to see.

Me just before being run down by bikes

Roxanne! Put on the red light.

So sure I'm nervous.  Maybe it's jet lag, or no sleep, or a new strange city, or maybe it's cause I'm in the middle of sin city central!  But then, I've never been one to shirk from adventure before.  So here goes...

Red lit windows like this all over central Amsterdam

Central Amsterdam is great.  Tall ancient brick buildings standing wall to wall, canals lined with boats, bridges and sidewalks packed with people.  Sure there's red lit windows with scantily clad girls lining every other block, pimps standing in the streets watching ominously, lots of coffee shops that sell, well more than coffee.  So since I'm sure I stand out as a tourist I keep my hand on my wallet, but then I stop and take a look around me.  Walking through the streets are tourists pulling suitcases, couples holding hands, couples pushing prams with babies, ya babies, and lots of them.  What am I worried about?  Also there are seniors tour groups, trying to take pictures of the girls in windows.   It makes the girls mad and they knock on the windows and frown all angry like.  They they notice you staring and laughing so they turn all seductive and knock the window again while waving you in.  It was really too much to take in.  Finally I stumbles my exhausted way back to the hostel and although a bunch of girls in the 30 person room were yakkity yakking for hours I slept like a rock.  Welcome to Amsterdam

Canals of Amsterdam

It's got a head the size of a freakin planet.
Made from water right out or the Amstel
 River.  Hence the name.

Leaving on a jet plane

This is it. The moment of commitment. I've made arrangement with work, been accepted to a job in Belize and I'm about to book a plane ticket. I'm on the threshold of final decision. It's fantastic.