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.