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The trip to Belize was conceived from a decree: every year on his birthday, Mom decided that she would try to take Dad to a place he has never been; somewhere more adventurous and wilder than the year before. So for Dad’s 56th birthday we all packed our bags and converged on the small tropical country in search of the adventure that Mom was hoping for.
A Grand Beginning:
It was 1 a.m. when I left the tarmac but I hardly slept on my flight from LA to Minneapolis. I had spent the last couple of days in LA and I was kept up by some combination of reminiscence of the prior week, excitement for the trip ahead of me, and the elbow of the man next to me jostling my ribcage. When the wheels touched the Minneapolis tarmac I was both dazed from the lack of sleep and relieved that that leg was over until I discovered what was in store during my connection.
The first sign of trouble presented itself when I noticed that my checked bag tag and ticket were only for the trip from LA to Minneapolis. I asked one of the workers guarding gate A23 and she printed another boarding pass but when I asked about the bag she shrugged her shoulders and told me “I think it will make it, but if you want to check baggage claim that’s up to you…” To confirm that I would have a second pair of underwear for the next two weeks in Belize, I decided to walk out of the terminal, past the security line to the check baggage kiosk. Lo and behold, my bag was already making laps around the carousel when I arrived and surely not making it onto the plane without my help. Also awaiting me was one of the longest airport lines I’ve ever seen, extending from the check-in desk, across the airport, and out a set of double doors at the far end of the terminal. I asked one of the workers and he said it would take at least 2 hours to drop my bag.
Minneapolis was our family meeting point and, while I tapped my foot with increasing impatience, the knot in my stomach growing as it became increasingly obvious that we were going to miss our flight, Aidan, Mom, and Dad were deboarding unaware of the line that awaited them. Without exaggeration, at the rate the line was progressing the plane would be landing in Belize City at approximately the same time we would arrive at our departure gate.
I called Mom and told her the news and, in her typical form, she found the manager of Sun country and convinced him to allow us to skip the line. We made it to our gate with minutes to spare. Once the stress was over, we had a Gans family hug -1 and boarded the plane destined for two weeks of adventures.
A New World to Explore:
The plane skipped down the runway and taxied for several minutes before the flight attendants opened the aircraft doors. Dad, Mom Aidan, and I grabbed our bags and walked down the stairs onto the tarmac to get our first glimpse of the tropical oasis that we had ventured so far to see. The rays of the winter sun, filtered by the humidity of the atmosphere, shone down upon us warming our faces. I breathed deeply, filling my lungs with the warm, sweet tropical air reminiscent of our family trips to Puerto Vierta, Costa Ric, and the Jungle of Peru. As if to aid in the tropical mood, a band began to play traditional Garifuna tunes as we walked down the steps that led from the plane to the tarmac, women and men came up to welcome us to their country offering gifts and leis. In the moment, we felt special; all this for us? We later learned that the grand welcome was not because they had heard the news of the Gans family’s arrival, but because we were aboard the first sun country flight from Minneapolis, and the airport staff was celebrating a new stream of money entering their country. Regardless, for us, it was a celebration marking the beginning of the Gans Family’s Belize Adventure.
Jordan’s flight landed a couple of hours after ours which gave us some time to find the car rental and eat our first meal. While there weren’t any exciting stories to tell from the car rental, the first meal was prophetic, not by its taste but from a small bottle of hot sauce that would come to represent our culinary experience and an adventure to find the woman who made it; the name on the bottle was Marie Sharp.
We watched as Jordan’s plane touched down and gathered our things to meet him. There was another Gans family hug, this time all-encompassing, before we packed our things in the car and started the drive south to the small town of Hopkins.
The drive from Belize City to Hopkins took us through about a fourth of the country and offered a great preface to the land. Belize City was the largest metropolitan in the country with a population of about 60,000 people, comparable to Hoboken NJ. It felt strangely empty as we drove through what I believe to be a small town in the “suburbs”. The houses were modest, many a single room propped up on concrete stilts to prevent flood damage. Some were well kept, but the vast majority were in disarray: holes in the roof patched with tarps and scraps, and a collection of metals and plastic scraps accumulating in the yard. The restaurant signs were all handwritten, some delarcing “Dis da Ze Fini chicken” and others asking “Yuh hungry? Make we eat Ceviche” in the Belizean Kriol dialect.
On the outskirts of town, the houses thinned from a couple of lots every quarter mile in town to one every mile or so. As we drove we began to see the natural world take over. The scenery looked like a savanna, with its small scraggly trees separated from one another by grassy expanses, except the green was not grasses, but thickly knitted shrubbery that extended for miles in all directions. In the distance we passed karst mountains that jutted ominous from the flat plans that surrounded them, their limestone face covered by a thick jungle blanket.
We hadn’t spent long in the car when Dad pointed out a sign: “Belize Zoo, 1 ⅓ mile”, an enticing call to the Gans family.
Trip to Glover:
Things move quickly on Gans family trips. By the second day, we had seen many of the land animals of Belize (in a zoo, but still) and traveled over 100 miles (mostly by dirt road). Today, we planned to change gears entirely, not in pace, but in scenery. This meant meeting at one of the piers in Hopkins to catch a ride to Glovers Reef where we would spend the next couple of days. While on this small atoll in the Atlantic, we hoped to spend our days snorkeling and our nights lulled into a gentle sleep by the sound of the ocean. But first, we had to make it!
Our reservation said to arrive at the dock no later than 9 am. It warned that any stragglers would be left behind, and the trip expenses would not be refunded. Mom was not going to let this happen. She fed us quickly and booted us out the door at 8:30 to ensure on-time arrival. We were told that the drive to the dock should take 5 minutes or more depending on road conditions, which translated to “everything will be fine unless there is severe and unpredictable flooding”, a surprisingly common event. Lucky for us the trip was smooth and we got to the dock, paid for parking, and had all our bags unloaded at 8:40 sharp. And then we waited.
An hour passed, and the group of tourists eying the lopsided catamaran destined for Glover reef had grown. We asked one of the locals where the captain was and he told us, “he’ll be here”. Another hour passed and the group divided into the people who accepted Belize time for “it will happen when it does” and those restlessly clinging to the hope that timeliness and order still existed; our mom was a member of the latter.
Not long after 11, our captain arrived: a man by the name of Warren. He was slow-moving with a demeanor to match, but with quiet confidence like this wasn’t his first rodeo. He watched as passengers loaded the boat, and he waited patiently for everyone to find a spot. Once loaded, we set sail… or rather, we turned on the motor and started our trip.
The ride to the island was eventful. After wandering through a river with mangroves lining both shores, we came to the inlet of the channel and found a storm awaiting. Warren pointed our boat offshore and we headed full speed into the gale. As we sailed, the storm’s force slowly built.
The rain started as a light, refreshing drizzle with wind nothing more than a warm breeze, but soon the clouds around us grew darker and the wind and rain grew stronger until the boat and its crew were soaked. The sheltered portion of the catamaran contained a large pile of luggage and offered little space for the passengers, who instead lined the back and front of the boat, allowing their legs to dangle a couple of feet from the waves. Despite the storm, the waves were relatively mellow on the first part of our trip, but as we passed the first chain of islands that sheltered the inland, the size of the swells grew and waves began to dump on the front of the boat. Warren had everyone move from the front of the boat to the back, which was a tall order as the boat rolled from side to side with every wave. It was, evidently, a good idea as the boat pitched steeply and a large wave splashed over the place where the passengers previously sat. The storm continued for our entire trip, shifting quickly between drizzles and sleet.
After a little more than 2 hours on the rocking seas, a beam of sunlight appeared from the heavens and shined on the island we traveled so far to reach. As we drifted toward the dock, we could see a series of hexagonal huts with thatched roofs resting on stilts that raised them a couple of feet out of the water. The huts stood a hundred or so feet out from shore, connected to the White Island sand by long, wobbly decks constructed of 2-inch by 8-inch wood planks of varying lengths. We sailed towards the dock of the largest of the huts and could see the construction in better detail. Wood planks lined the outside, and the stilts were decaying at the water line, some appearing to be rotten all the way through. From the angle we approached, the hut looked to be stable, but as the boat slowly swung around to a new vantage point, we could see the support beams stood about 10 degrees from vertical. As we slowly drifted towards the dock, the island inhabitants saw the boat and, recognizing it as a fresh group of friendly faces, lined the pier to meet the newcomers, their tails wagging in unison.
The passengers unloaded the boat full of food, water, and luggage by employing a tactic that resembled a chaotic fire line wherein each member would stand in one place and pass items to the next person in line. It was at this juncture that we met Becky, the proud owner and manager of the island, and her daughter, Jacky. After the ship was empty, Becky gave us a tour of the island. “Over here… the bathroom. This here’s the kitchen. Snorkel here… And here is the coconut cracking station,” she narrated. This portion of the tour came with a demonstration: Jackey found a coconut on the ground and pried it open using a metal crowbar embedded in the ground. Then, tapping the inner nut with a piece of coral, she exposed the liquid and meat inside.
The tour concluded and we were sent to our cabin. As we carried our bags across the long plank that connected our living quarters to the land, we thought about the sea-bearing adventure in store: the sun at our backs warming our skin through the light blue Caribbean water and the moon sending us to a tranquil sleep among the waves. As I walked, lost in thought, I bumped into Jordan, who pointed at a shape in the water. It was an eagle ray slowly gliding below our deck, seemingly beckoning to us as it continued, disappearing in the reef just beyond our view.
Snorkeling at Glover:
As one would think, it is hard to articulate a snorkeling experience. The challenge is amplified by the fact that the reefs we saw in Belize were unique and diverse, and every time we ventured out, the experience was special in a different way, leaving me with something new to conjure into words.
To paint a better picture, I will try and capture what I remember most vividly, or perhaps what I believed to be the most wonderful parts of snorkeling in Glovers Reef.
Shapes:
Glovers Reef is not a continuous reef, but a syndicate of nearly 600 “patch reefs” spread throughout a protected atoll. Each patch reef, in turn, is separated from the others by large expanses of white sand and underwater fields of turtle grass. While swimming between reefs, white patches of sand dominate the seascape which, from the surface, seem void of all life—save the transparent fish or wandering ray. In between the reefs, there is a feeling of danger and our eyes are fixed on the horizon where the sea fades to deep turquoise. It is hard to quell the feeling that there is something just beyond the blue haze, and our eyes strain to pick up an alarming silhouette.
When a reef is spotted in the distance, it takes the form of a dark black cloud against a deep blue backdrop. It is impossible to make out any details of the mass when it is first spotted, but the dark bubbly shape preludes what’s to come. Upon approach, and almost all at once, the different forms of the reef come into focus. Fish, coral, and a variety of other organisms transform from a dark mass to distinct individuals darting, flashing, and swaying in the water.
The first to capture attention is the fishes, their motion drawing the observer’s attention from one species to another. The variety of these creatures is so incredible that, after an initial adjustment to the range of possibilities, creatures of any odd shape or structure would fit well into the expected. A few of these creatures struck me as the strangest of them all.
First, the eels, with long slender bodies wedged into holes among the coral and with mouths lined with teeth that lie ajar as if panting. Then, the flounders, whose bodies are compressed, and the face of a deranged Pablo Picasso creation. Finally, the cuttlefish, which hovers in place by undulating the fins that surround their elongated body, tentacles wiggling and skin flashing a variety of colors.
While these were the most striking, the other inhabitants appear fish-like but, upon closer inspection, are unique; their features are elongated, misshapen, pronounced, or distorted.
After Spending some time observing the forms darting about in the foreground, the motion of the background begins to draw attention. These are the soft coral whose flexible structures allow them to sway in perfect harmony, coordinated by the ebb and flow of the waves. The variety is, again, incredible. Most prominent is the fan coral, with purple branches that radiate outward, connected by a coarse mesh to resemble their namesake. Also distinguished, the sea plumes, with bush-like arms, dance whimsically to the melody of the shifting currents. The more rigged soft corals put on less of a show but still catch the eye as they sway with the tide. These corals often stand alone, their circular, branching arms extending towards the surface to resemble the fingers of a thousand hands.
Once the observer is in tune with the melody of the waving branches, the final layer appears, steadfast and still. These are the hard coral and sponges that give the reef its structure. The brain and boulder coral create magnificent dome-like foundations which act as anchors for the reef. They grow in size, meshing and connecting to build large forms exceeding 20 feet in height. The coral shows its age by its shape: young brain and boulder coral create almost perfect domes with impurities that look like divots on the surface. The more massive the coral gets, the more it shows evidence of damage. Large scars appear in place of the integrated maze that covers the living portion. These impurities grow with the coral and the most massive of the boulders fracture – as a rock might split when it hits the ground- opening to reveal its seemingly solid core.
While the mesmerizing patterns that cover the surface of the brain coral are unique, it is only one of the many rigid structures that give the coral reef its beauty. Others include the stag and elkhorn coral, with antler-like branches that are covered in small bumps, and the fire coral that comes in a variety of shapes—the most elegant of which extends from the floor to resemble fungi climbing up a tree. The sponges fall into another category all to their own, with organic shapes that captivate the eye. Most are porous with holes on their surface that vary greatly in size. Some have large oval mouths, while others extend a foot or so in length into like long, circular chimney stacks. The forms do not seem of natural design, but instead by the careful hands of a master sculptor.
Breathing deeply and diving to become intimate with the coral reveals another world that can be so easily overlooked. Whether it is the translucent shrimp who peaks out of his hole to reveal arms that are elongated and spider-like or the fan-like tentacles of a fan worm that likely inspired many sci-fi creations, this vantage should not be missed.
Colors/patterns:
The colors of the reef boast the same splendor as the shapes and materialize similarly. Each creature has its colorful attire which, from afar, blends in a brilliant medley and, upon closer inspection, reveals carefully painted lines and patterns used to confuse, warn and impress.
Beyond the veil:
As we spend time immersed, rather than becoming dull, familiarity allowed us to look beyond its brilliant facade and observe the intricacies of the reef. Each creature has a distinct purpose in constructing the reef’s splendor and the interactions between them are fascinating. There are several categories of fish that I noticed. There are the defenders, who stake their claim and defend it with all their might, the grazers, who travel between batches to nibble on the reef’s best offerings, the loiterers, who meander aimlessly through the reef, and the travelers, who dart between the empty spaces that separate the reefs. There is a predatory branch of the reef as well, which also seems to have distinct tactics. Many of the predators are snatchers who lie in wait, perfectly camouflaged into the surrounding, for a small fish to wander too close. There are also true hunters that chase their prey through the nooks and crannies of the reef before they can feast.
As we begin to learn the fish’s behaviors, an elaborate web emerges. The cleaning stations are perfect examples of how complex the interactions between animals can be. Here, larger fish sit motionlessly and allow smaller ones to pick them clean of parasites. The preditors, too have relationships with one another. One of the most surprising is the comradery between the moray eel and the grouper, who hunt as a team to scare fish into and out of their hiding holes.
No two patches are the same. Swimming to another patch, the variation of age, light, and size becomes apparent. This uniqueness gives the reef a personality and traveling between them is like traveling between distant cities: each has a standard template and basic set of needs, but with a unique and diverse set of inhabitants that give it its flavor.
Scale:
On our second to last day in Glovers, In an attempt to distance ourselves from a horde of mosquitoes, we ate lunch in ankle-deep water a couple of hundred yards away from the island next to ours. As we did, Dad picked up a handful of sand and let it filter through his hands. “Incredible isn’t it? The entire sea floor, as far as you can see in any direction, is coral.” The scale he was describing is truly magnificent. It is the story of the atoll, million years in the making. The story of a sinking island and the underwater cities that replaced it.
A Poem:
Long ago we bought a book of poems written by Shel Silverstein. My favorite was always about the blenny:
There are uglier fish than the blenny,
Just not many.
-Shel Silverstein
We searched the reef, far and wide, and found a fish deserving of a poem to commemorate its discovery:
Ode to the Batfish
I saw a strange fish far off from shore.
It looked like a creature written in lore.
With a pointed front snout,
And a permanent pout,
It’s the ugliest fish, look no more.
Back to Hopkins:
Jungle: cockscomb reserve jaguar preserve
The day began early… There was a jungle to explore. The plan was to travel to the Cockscomb reserve, located a short distance out of Hopkins, and hike in the area’s extensive jungle. We selected the location because it was one of the larger reserves in Belize and because of a Jaguar sighting the day before. While not optimistic about our chances of spotting the elusive cats, everyone kept their gaze out the window, scanning the thick jungle in hopes of spotting a pair of eyes or a silhouette. It was a short drive from the park entrance to the visitor center and, judging from the parking lot, we were one of the first to the park. It didn’t take long to get our bags packed and begin our voyage on the first of three loops within the park.
We began our walk down a well-traveled path that led from the visitor center into the jungle. On the first section of this hike there was little to see—a thick wall of plant mass lines both sides of the trail, obscuring all but the occasional hole bored by a wandering creature traveling along the jungle floor. While there was a lot to admire, including the blossoming flowers, we were all excited by the change of scenery when the path veered into the dense forest. Suddenly our surroundings felt like a true jungle: a thick canopy developed above us, straining out most of the sunlight, and humidity began to develop in the air. On either side of us, the thick wall of leaves that lined the first part of the trail was replaced with tree trunks and vines sent down by abiotic plants that dangle from high on their trunks. These philodendrons and bromeliads stretched for the nutrients of the soil below. We hiked for several miles, marveling at the shapes and colors of the jungle before our bellies told us it was time to eat.
A small waterfall offered an agreeable resting and refueling point. We stopped for a while to listen to the water trickle down the path it etched for itself through the jungle. “Take a second to recognize where we are at this moment. A small family from Palo Alto enjoying a snack in a remote jaguar sanctuary in Belize.” Mom said, breathing in the air as she reflected. “Who are you calling small?” Jordan responds, flexing his noodle arms.
With our stomachs filled for the moment, we continued up a small hill. As I reached the plateau at the top, I saw mom sniffing the air: “I smell cat pee, anyone else?” There was a faint acidic smell that occasionally caught my nostrils. I nodded, agreeing. There was little time to process the discovery before we heard a visceral grunting from the bushes nearby. The group, excluding dad who had wandered off, clumped together while the noise was identified. The bushes rustle and a family of five peccaries appears, sniffing the trail. They quickly recognized the smell of the foreign bodies on their typical rooting grounds and disappeared into the jungle, producing a loud clicking sound that I recognized from the amazon jungle of Peru where hordes of the creatures wandered. After the sighting, there was a communal sigh of relief.
On the next portion of the trail, the sound and smell of the peckers were frequent. To get a sense of how many there were, we would occasionally throw a branch into the woods and listen as the mass of peccaries answered, scurrying away from the crashing noise and gnashing their teeth as they went. Occasionally, we would get a glimpse of them as they crossed the trail. Startled by our presence, they would flee, grunting and clicking as they went. In their absence, a foul, musty smell would linger.
When we emerged from the trail, it was time for lunch.
The bugs along the trail were ferocious and pestered us at every stop. For lunch, we decided to grab the ingredients from the car and seek out much-needed relief. To soothe our itching, we found the cold water of a slow-moving stream. As our feet hit the water, the building frustration caused by the bugs and the heat of the day subsided and, after submerging, it was washed away completely. We stayed in the water for some time, darting out to make a sandwich before returning to the safety of the stream. The much-needed relief was short-lived and we were soon back on the trail for the second hike of the day.
Although there was little wildlife on the hike to Ben’s Bluff (as the hike was called), it did provide a drastic change of scenery. We hiked the first part of the trail in shrubbery similar to the first trial. Then, about halfway to the bluff as we began to gain elevation, the palm trees, vines, and other flora transformed into pines and ferns. The view at the top was incredible—there were few clouds in the sky and we could see for miles in every direction. In the distance, we could see the thick jungle canopy and two jagged mountains, Outlier and Victoria, some of the tallest in Belize at 3,500 ft.
As we hiked back, first through the pine forest and then the jungle, I had a chance to listen to the sounds of the forest. Beyond the crunching of the leaves and branches underfoot, the sound of the birds was most vivid. Beyond them came the pattern of leaves falling from the canopy, the occasional whistle of the wind, and the ever-present pulsing of katydids whose sounds pay homage to the ever-present and ever-working insects of the forest. The sounds were only disrupted by the screams of people at the waterfall on the trail below us. Meditations broken, we decided to go investigate the commotion.
The trail down was steep and slippery, but we were able to make it to the waterfall unscathed. The trail ended at the anticipated waterfall and, lucky for us, the group that occupied the area before us was packing up to continue down the road. For half an hour we swam under and around the falls, allowing the water to pelt down on us from above. The cold shower once again washed away the heat and itching, rejuvenating our sense of adventure before moving on.
The waterfall was near the end of the trail, and it didn’t take long for us to emerge from the jungle. The day was almost done but on the drive out we saw the sign for a plane wreck that piqued our interest. The brothers hopped out of the car and ran the .1 km to find the decaying remains of a small prop plane. A placard told the story of Dr. Allen who lost control of his plane, crashing into a nearby wood tree. Lucky for Allen and his cameraman, no one was severely hurt, but they certainly didn’t recover the plane.
The sun began to set low in the sky when we departed the park. We were sad to leave without a jaguar spotting (no pun intended), but perhaps it was best that the mysterious beast remains just out of sight.
Dinner that night was a bountiful collection of chicken from a small shack owned by Mr. D, and, as the family sat and ate, we reminisced on the adventure so far.
Caving and the Blue Hole:
Late the previous day, we decided to spend our last day in the Hopkins area exploring the much-acclaimed caves located just outside the city. In a last-minute scramble, we were able to book a tour of St. Hermit – a cave known for its clear water, stalactites, stalagmites, and ancient Mayan ruins.
We arrived at the entrance of St. Hermit early that morning to find our guide waiting for us. “My name’s Vida, like living La Vida Loca,” he said, introducing himself to the group. He was a stout Guatemalan man with a good disposition and enough enthusiasm for the whole group. Before we ventured to the cave, he gave us a little background about his own life. He told us that he moved to Belize when he was young in search of financial opportunities which were not available in his home country, and he has lived in a small town up the road ever since. For the last 12 years, he was a tour guide, helping tourists like us explore the variety of local caves.
Vida told us that the tour was separated into two parts. During the first, we would scramble through the cave to see the many natural and human-made treasures it hid. Then, we would glide slowly down the river at the bottom of the cave by the inner tube. We gathered our belongings, put on our hard hats, hoisted our life vests over one shoulder, and picked out an inner tube from the dozen sprawled on the ground of the parking lot. Vida then led us from our car, through the jungle, to the cave entrance.
He stopped us at the mouth of the cave and pointed to the stalagmites and stalactites that lined its mouth. He told us how, long ago, the Mayan people believed the caves were enormous living beasts—crocodiles and jaguars and other jungle animals—and the rock formations were the teeth lining their giant mouths. “We go there,” he said, pointing into the mouth of the cave where there was nothing but darkness.
We turned on our headlamps and descended into the cave, following the path that so many others had trodden on before us. As we did, a story began to materialize in my head – a story of a Mayan priest who lived in a village close by a long time ago.
The priest’s name was Ocopotomo and the village where he lived was suffering greatly from the teeth of a large jaguar. So far that year, the jaguar had eaten 3 members of the village, and fear and paranoia began to take hold. The villagers lived in peace with the jungle and no one could remember a time when a jaguar ate a man, let alone three. They worried that their village had upset the gods who had unleashed a beast in retaliation. They turned to the priest for help, believing that only he could determine what the gods wanted.
After several days of fasting, he began to meditate. While raptured in a dream-like state, he searched the spirit world for the answer that would satisfy the gods and bring his village peace. After several days, he awoke with a start; the gods had spoken, telling of the sacrifice he must make. He woke his son and told him to pack; the boy was 18, trained in priesthood, and trained by his father to take his place when the old man’s time came. The man did not tell the boy of the dream nor of the sacrifice to be made but urged him to hurry. It didn’t take long for them to trek through the jungle that they knew so well to the entrance of the cave. The father ordered the boy to light the torch, and they prepared their descent into the mouth of the jaguar God.
We descended into the cave and found find a slow-moving river at the bottom. Even from the low light of our headlamps, we could see the clear cool water that snaked its way through the darkness. Our inner tubes rested on our shoulders in anticipation, but we had to scramble further into the cave before drifting down.
Close to the cave’s entrance, the path was well-worn and easy to traverse. This allowed us to look around to see the rock formations lining the cave wall. Over millions of years, the slow-moving river had carved caves deep into the limestone mountain. As it did, water that condensates on the rooftop drops to the floor and brings mineral-rich deposits with it. This created the stalactites on the ceiling and stalagmites on the floor, building slowly – perhaps an inch or so every 800 thousand years – which meant that we were looking at the equivalent of an ancient hourglass. Most of the formations protruding from the ceiling or up from the ground were small—several inches to a foot—but some were able to grow until the floor and roof connected, creating massive pillars that marked a matrimony millions upon millions of years in the making. We were careful not to touch anything as we walked deeper into the cave, for fear of harming such old creations.
Torches in hand, the boy and his father carefully climbed into the cave. They had both been there before but were still struck with a mixture of fear and awe at the beast before them. They stepped between its lower teeth and, as they did, they sang to the jaguar, pleading with it not to close its mouth. When they reached the plateau
a short distance from the entrance, they looked back to see the silhouette of the jaguar’s jaws against the bright morning sky.
They walked further into the cave, sounds of water dripping from the ceiling into the stream below filled their ears. Steadily the man’s voice began to rise until it overpowered the sound of the water and reverberated through the chamber, bouncing off the wall in an enchanting harmony. He sang the song of life, joy, and celebration. The boy joined in but was unsure how the song fit the time and place. Their voices rose and fell in harmony and brought the cave to life.
It didn’t take long for us to reach the inner tube drop-off point. Vida told us to pile our tubes, life jackets, and other belongings off the path and follow him. He proceeded to scamper further into the cave where we found a knotted rope dangling down a steeply sloped rock pile. Taking hold of the rope, he climbed upwards to a space just out of sight, and we followed, gracefully. The path then continued through a very narrow crevice between two large rocks before opening up into a large cavern.
When we all made it through the claustrophobia-inducing squeeze, we had a chance to look around. Along the roof, hundreds of stalactites were forming, each streaked with a unique color: red from iron oxide, sparkling silver from aluminum oxide, and speckles of gold from sulfur. Scattered along the floor of the cave were stalagmites, some appearing as stacks of elongated crackers of various sizes and others resembling large coral sculptures sprouting from the ground. My favorite among the variety of shapes were the jellyfish stalactites that hung from the ceiling, forming a large dome with tentacle-like ridges twisting down into a point. The scene before us was truly amazing.
Ocopotomo and his son came to a place in the cave where the water covered the floor. Even in the torchlight, they could see the reflection of the clear water and happily waded into its inviting embrace. The water was cold yet refreshing and, as they splashed it over their body, they felt its cleansing power. Ocopotomo moved to a place where the water dripped quickly from the roof and stood underneath it. He was told by his father, and his before that, that it was good fortune to bath in this water— and good fortune was what he and his village needed. His son moved towards him and followed his father’s actions, accepting the good fortune for himself. They then waded to the opposite side of the river where the path continued.
Guided by the light of the flames, they scrambled up the steep rock pile and then through a small crevasse between two boulders. They emerged in a large cavern, where a slight breeze cooled their faces. They had reached the stomach of the beast.
We climbed until we reached a vantage point where we could all stand and admire the cavern. Vida told us to stay put for a moment, and we all switched off our headlamps to truly feel the darkness of the cave. It was absolute. Occasionally, I would think I saw something: my brothers’ silhouette or a rock formation, but they were mere fabrications. It didn’t matter if my eyes were open or closed, or how far in front of my face I waved my hand, I could see nothing. We sat in the dark for several minutes, taking in the sensation before turning our lights back on to continue the tour.
We scrambled further up the trail and noticed a slight breeze on our faces. When our eyes weren’t on the path in front of us, calculating our next step, they were scanning the cave walls to marvel at its structures. At several points during the walk, we stopped to examine small black forms hanging from the cave wall. On closer inspection, we saw they were bats. It was hard to believe that these little creatures were able to find their way into and out of the cave, but they had.
Ocopotomo and his son ventured further into the cavern and, as they did, the light from their flame danced throughout the cave. Where their light struck the walls, faces began to appear then slowly vanish as the light flickered. The boy and his father did not recognize the faces at first, but as they walked further new, familiar faces appeared, then faded. The first to catch their eye was the face of the Ocopotomo great-grandfather, appearing noble and strong. Then Ocopotomo’s father appeared on the wall, smiling as they passed. Next was Ocopotomo’s wife who had died a year ago that day. As they continued, the flames revealed other loved ones that they had lost, and Ocopotomo and his son remembered each of them fondly. The boy heard his father’s voice begin to sing, slowly and faint at first but as it picked up in strength, he recognized it as the song of life once more. Again the song seemed out of place, but again the young man joined his father. They continued until Ocopotomo came to an abrupt stop. The son turned back to see his father staring at the wall in front of him. Ocopotomo held his torch in place and from its light, the faces of the three villagers consumed by the jaguars shone clear and bright. From his waist, Ocopotomo drew his blade.
Without us knowing it, Vida led us in a loop and after quite a bit of scrambling, we arrived back at the narrow entrance of the cavern. We slipped through it and repelled down the rope we had climbed a short while before. At the base, we were reunited with our inner tubes and Vida told us to hop in. We followed him upstream against the water’s slow-moving current and before long we had reached the cave’s end. We stacked our inner tubes and walked to where the cave narrowed and the flow reached its zenith. The wall in front of us would not allow us to go any further, but the river continued, etching a new path.
The son watched as his father pressed the blade into his chest, puncturing his heart and collapsing to the ground. The boy ran to his father, but life had already left him. A flood of emotions enter the boy’s mind but they were interrupted by the sound of his father’s voice echoing through the chamber; it started as little more than a whisper but it slowly built until the song of life again reached every corner of the chamber. The boy slowly lifted his head and wiped his tears. As he did, he saw the faces of the three dead villagers fade, and an image of his dad standing in a grassy field replaced them. At first, Ocopotomo stood alone on the wall of the cave, but from the darkness just beyond the boy’s lantern, a massive jaguar walked into the scene. The boy watched as Ocopotomo knelt and extended his arm to the cat, slowly placing his fingers in front of its nose. The cat sniffed the man’s hand with great curiosity, paused, and took a step forward to rub his cheek against the man’s outstretched fingers. With that, the image faded and the room was silent. The boy looked down to see a smile on his father’s face and knew he had found peace for himself and the village. Deep within the boy, a voice began to grow and grow until reverberated throughout the cavern. His voice carried hope, joy, celebration, and, most importantly life.
The rest of the tour was downhill, so to speak, as we floated downstream in our innertubes. There was the occasional cave battle, where the tubes were used as bumper cars, but for the most part, our eyes were darting through the cave to take in all its grandeur. Floating down the river provided a very different perspective than walking through it and from our new vantage point we could better see the structures of the cave. As we floated, we would hear the occasional drip from a prolific stalactite and we would race over to collect the good fortune it supposedly brought. It didn’t take long to reach the cave entrance where we collected our things and departed the cave. We were all swept away by the experience and discussed the experience back to the car.
The boy moved his father from the path to a place where he could watch over the cave and the spirits that danced within its walls. He then began the torch-lit journey back to the entrance, all the while singing the same hopeful tune. When he emerged from the cave he noticed the forest had changed; it looked happy and inviting. He slowly walked back to the village to tell his neighbors that there was no longer anything to fear and that the jaguar would now look over them and protect them from the evils of the world.
Our day ended with a quick dip in the blue hole, a collapsed portion of the cave that had been filled with water, then down the road to sample chocolate from a coco facility.
Paddle down the Moho River:
The adventure began early in the morning on our 11th day of travel. We packed two sets of bags—one set to stay in the car, and the other to take with us on our final adventure, a paddle down the Moho river. Our guide told us to pack everything in dry bags, saying there is a chance that things get wet, and meet him at a small preserve that contained Mayan ruins. As we pulled onto the dirt road where we were instructed to meet the group, we were greeted by an interesting assortment of characters: a Mayan man Named Izadoro, an Indian Canadian named Ajinder (or AJ), and a Montreal native named Sarah. AJ limped over to us as we exited the car and introduced himself as our fearless leader for the next portion of the trip. Izadaro was declared his right-hand man and Sarah, an extra set of hands.
As part of the non-boating section of the trip, we followed Izadaro up a small hill to a courtyard containing piles of rocks in varying stages of decay. Izadaro spoke passionately about the ruins that his people had created many years ago but, unfortunately, I couldn’t understand much of what he said. From what I could gather, the tour first led us through an ancient Mayan ball court where teams were gathered to play a game of Sacrifice Ball. Izadaro told us that if a team was able to put a 10-pound rubber ball through a small hoop using only their shoulders, knees, and hips they were pronounced victorious and had the honor of being sacrificed to the gods. The losers, I suppose, were given the disgraceful title of survivors. Next Izadaro talked about the relationship between the Mayans and the sun and moon, walking us through complex sundials composed of large pillars that surrounded a central pillar that somehow either designated a time of day or a day of the year. It was brief, but there was some mention of how the sundial worked in coordination with the game of sacrifice ball but I could quite catch it.
The tour ended at an ancient Mayan water talk that held some sort of secret, but again I was unable to fully understand its significance (guess I will never find the crystal skull). While the story of the Mayans will remain a mystery, it was fun to start the trip with some history of the area, and indulge a very proud Mayan as he tells a group of gringos about his people in his 5th most native tongue.
After the tour, AJ hopped in his van and we followed him down a windy road until we arrived at a small house erected from what could easily have been leftover scraps from a construction project. We parked the car in the yard and as we exited the car to unpack, Izadaro proudly welcomed us to his house. He smiled as Dad complimented him on his shiny roof made of corrugated aluminum, explaining that he just finished construction this year, and laughed as Dad asked about the noise during the rain.
We loaded our equipment into AJ’s van and noted the creak in the suspension as we climbed aboard. While AJ didn’t strike us as a real leader, especially when he nearly backed into a ditch as he reversed out of his parking spot, we were in good spirits as we departed.
We hit our first complication no more than 100 feet from Izadaro’s house; Izadaro’s brother, who AJ had asked to drive the van back, was nowhere to be found. AJ then turns to the 12-year-old boy standing next to Izadaro and asked if he could drive the van back. They decided that that plan would do and we departed.
Trouble hit, once again, another 100 feet up the road when we hit the first of perhaps 2 thousand potholes and heard a loud scraping noise below the van. We didn’t stop, but I found great pleasure in watching AJs face grimace during every bump and frantically try and diagnose the problem: It’s the hitch, or the wheels, or the suspension he postulated. The sound kept getting worse until we were traveling a few miles per hour and walking the hills.
The ride was a little over an hour and the conversation kept waxing and waning by the severity of the harsh scraping noise underneath the car. The whole ride felt tense as we put bets on if/when we would break down. Finally, on an unsuspecting portion of the road, AJ turns to Izadaro and points to a small out-cropping in the dense shrubbery that lined both sides of the road “is that our trail?” It was and we spent the next half an hour unpacking the boats, clothes, tents, and food and transporting them to the river. The boats we had commissioned to take us down the river were blow-up kayaks made of the same material as river rafts and we spent some time pumping them up. We loosely strapped in our bags and set off.
At our launch, a series of beautiful waterfalls cascaded from a pool 5 feet above the one we launched from. Jordan said in a joking tone: “Mom, you ready to go down that?”. Mom smirked, incredulously as AJ pulled up behind our boats and said “that’s nothing”.
For the next 2 days we traveled the Moho river, camping in clearings cut from the thick jungle and paddling for a couple of hours downstream. What began as a joke from Jordan became the norm as we threw our boats, us included, down waterfalls up to 10 feet tall. The adrenaline followed by the cool rush of water kept smiles on our faces as our clothing and equipment refused to dry.
Summary:
The driving force behind the trip was mom, she organized the tours, booked the hotels, and planned out the itinerary. Her goal for our stay in Belize was to spend Dad’s birthday in a place that he had never been, in as remote a setting as possible. There is little doubt in my mind that, from the two-hour ride to glovers reef to the remote put-in on the Moho, she was successful. The memories of this trip will be everlasting and for this, we all owe her a debt of gratitude.
Sayings in Belizean Kriol
- Wahnti wahnti kyah geti an geti geti nuh wahnti. — You always want what you can’t have.
- Dah no so, dah naily so. — Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.
- Wait bruk down bridge. — Don’t make me wait too long.
- Sleep wit’ yo’ own eye. — Only rely on what you know, not what others tell you.
- One one craboo fill barrel. — Every little bit counts (craboo is a Belizean fruit).
- Ah wah know who seh Kriol noh gat no kulcha? — Who said the Creole don’t have any culture? (A phrase coined by renown Belizean Creole artist and performer, Leela Vernon).