Big Rock Falls

“If the border crossing was any indication of the climate of this country, I’m going to HATE it,” was my short tempered exclamation following the two hour fiasco entering Belize.  We approached the border with high hopes, no one hanging from the van or banging on the windows to “help” us.  A seamless departure from Guatemala, in minutes, and we were entering an English speaking country, how hard could it be?  Never ask that question unless you’re prepared to test the limits of the answer.

Mennonites in Belize

Two hours, no exaggeration, to move twenty feet across an imaginary line.  It began with the usual paperwork, times six.  We noted the paper registry books used to record entrances and exits; considerably lower-tech than even Guatemala’s ancient computer system.  The girls behind the desk didn’t smile, even at my most winsome flattery of their country.  Never a good sign.  My Dad says that getting a female border guard is a sure sign of trouble, in this case, he was absolutely right: we had two.

“Ow long ah you ‘ere foh,” she asked in her heavily accented English.  “Three weeks at most.”  “I see… and do you have any luggage in da van?” she continued, one eyebrow raised at the four children standing against the wall.  “Of course,” I answered, reluctantly.  “Bring it in please.”  “All of it?”  She looked at me like I was an idiot.  “Bring in every-ting in da van, ma’am.”  Gabe looked at me sideways and whispered, “EVERYTHING?”  “You heard the lady.”  And so it began, the marathon unpacking of three months worth of gear, acquired souvenirs, school supplies, toys, books, computers, dirty laundry, two pair of crocs we forgot to leave in the camper, a pair of good winter mittens that had stowed away beneath the back seat, about 16 bottles of vanilla (that had me highly concerned as their alcohol content is about 60%) not to mention the two machetes, multiple knives of various sizes, and a calla lily Tony bought me on the roadside three days ago.  The only thing left in the van were my Muslim prayer beads, which I was nearly desperate enough to use.  Naturally, Ezra kicked over the half bottle of wine on the tile floor of the immigration office giving the whole place the “eau de alcoholic” one tries desperately to avoid at international border crossings.

Road into Barton Creek Outpost

They looked through every single box.  Only the kids’ toy boxes were left unsearched.  There were casualties:  the chapulines (the fried grasshoppers Gabe was taking home to freak out his friends)  the cocoa beans, every lime, one wrinkly old cucumber we won’t miss, the remaining two cans of Tony’s beer (but not the good rum, or the sketchy mezcal) and, most sadly, my mother’s garlic, the best stuff on the planet, grown in the island soil that fed me for most of my life and which we’ve conserved carefully through three countries.  Evidently Canadian garlic is dangerous stuff.  The take home message:  before the next border crossing all of the contraband goes in the toy boxes.  The vanilla made it.

We’ve heard that Belize is “more civilized” which we take to mean has better services, roads and access to international goods.  We have seen almost no evidence of that.  What it certainly is, is more expensive.

Rope swing over Barton Creek

In spite of our miserable introduction we’ve had a fabulous first twenty four hours.  We turned off of the reasonably paved road onto a gravel road that was passable.  It quickly turned into a one lane track comparable to our driveway on Fern Hill after a particularly rainy spring.  Then we made a left onto a wagon track (literally, as the whole area is inhabited by a conservative sect of German Mennonites).  The wagon track forded a quick flowing creek about thirty feet across before continuing into the jungle.  We’d long since left power lines behind.  “I don’t think we’re going to have internet,” I quipped to my husband.

Wild pineapple plant where we ate lunch

Barton Creek Outpost lies on the shore of Barton Creek, hemmed in by orange trees and Mennonite farms.  We heard the kids before we saw the house and found Jacqueline laying in a hammock reading A Prayer For Owen Meaney.  “HOW did you find us?!” she asked with a huge smile.  “Well, we crossed the river and kept on coming,” the only answer I could imagine.  She showed us around the outpost, introduced us to her army of college aged volunteers who come here to work for two or more weeks in exchange for room and board and the novelty of bathing in the creek and watching toucans at breakfast, or being stung in their beds by scorpions, as happened to Marianne this morning.  “We have electricity sometimes,” she announced brightly, “If we turn on the generator!”  Maybe Belize is going to turn out to be alright after all.

We were reluctant to leave this morning, but did, hand drawn map in hand.  We spent all day on the dusty dirt roads, dodging logging trucks and Mennonite buggies, alternately.  We swam in a series of pools connected by waterfalls and the children leapt from high cliffs into pools too deep to find the bottom of at the foot of roaring falls with enough enthusiasm to make the handful of other bathers gasp.  Ezra, full of his usual moxie, hollered “Geronimo!!” before plunging thirty feet or so into the rushing water, coming up and fighting the current across a fifty feet of bottomless water to climb out and sit next to the guy with dreadlocks hanging to his knees.  He looked up at the heavily tattooed fellow, “Be careful if you jump the water is fast and it’s kinda hard to swim over here.”   This is the same kid I had to PAY to swim across Grammy’s tiny pond last summer.

We’re camped tonight next to a horse paddock in the yard of some random guy from northern New York state.  We saw a sign that said, “Rooms and wi-fi,” so we pulled in.  Tony hopped out and asked if there really was wi-fi and if we could camp.  “Will I have to do anything?” the guy asked with a smile.  “Nope, we just need a flat place and internet access.”  He pointed us to the only flat place, beside the barn and here we are.  “Come on up to the house when you’re ready for the internet, I have to turn it on and it’s run off of the batteries.”  No electricity here either.   The kids are hung like possums in their hammocks again, at their happiest.  “Are there howler monkeys here, Mom?” asked Ez as Hannah was poking him into his nest through the bottom of his hammock.  “Yes, I’m sure there are.”  “OH GREAT,” he groaned with extra drama, “I HATE howler monkeys!!”