Honeymoon Chronicles, Part 4

June 27, 2002

We stumble sleepy- eyed but prepared to an early breakfast of papaya juice, eggs and the always present bean mash and delicious sweet bread. Jeronie loads both George and I and the Canadians into a large tan and red diesel van whose floor is littered with books, towels, framed pictures and air freshener cans. He plows down the road like a madman, churning dust and we are on the main road before I can blink.

Right before we reach the border, the countryside begins to change- pastoral fields framed by low green mountains and dotted with trees.It is scarcely twenty minutes before we reach the Belize- Guatemala border and utter chaos sets in.

As soon as we set foot from the van at the ramshackle building with attached shack and muddy, rickety gateway that serves as the Belize custom building, we are beset withe men offering to change money. Confused and unsure, we refuse and begin fishing around and searching for some indication of where to go next. We are directed to a window where we pay our departure tax, an amount required to be in Belizean dollars. Prepared for this, we comply and proceed to the customs window where our passports are inspected and we are unexpectedly asked to pay another fee called and "environmental fee." Not possessing the correct change, we offer a $50 Belizean, the lowest denomination we have. The customs office refuses, claiming to have no change and stares at us.I run back outside and approach the same men who had solicited us for changing money previously. One man shakes his head and the other sticks his hands in his pockets, looks at me blankly and says "I seem to have lost my money." Rebuffed I return and the customs officer is persuaded to accept US dollars instead. Once again, the greenback is KING.

Passing through to the other side, we are introduced to our guide and driver for the tour, both named Ugo with dark skin, sharp eyes and a friendly manner. We wait at Guatemala's customs window while our guides negotiate with the officers, present our passports, and pay our fees. As in Belize, this process seems haphazard and confusing and has twice as many people waiting in throngs, loitering about or hustling changing money. There are also a few buses waiting, engine running to add to the noise and chaos.

The ugos have apparently safely navigated our passage into Guatemala. Stamped and approved, we get our passports back when we have been arranged in a fairly clean, white, air conditioned van- the Canadians up front and George and I in the back. The ugos sit up front and chat in Mexican the entire way- our guide only stopping to add tidbits of info on the Guatemalan countryside unrolling past our window.

Our first stop is, not surprisingly, the gas station where the Canadians attempt to figure the price of gas and fail utterly. The exchange rate Guatemalan to US is 7.4:1 and the green stuff is accepted almost everywhere. Outside the gas station on a picnic table sit two men with bottles of hard liquor and paper cups. They are swigging away. It is barely 8:30am.

We are off. The roads in Guatemala, though they sport the occasional random speed bump and impassable pothole, are fairly smooth, paved, and well trimmed. The countryside, more pastoral and lush green than Belize, is beautiful and while the rural villages seem devastatingly poor, they look quite self sufficient. Most include a clapboard shack with thatched roof, painted windowsills, flowers and a yard or attached field with farm life of every sort and colorful clothes swaying in the breeze. People- children, soldiers, old women with wizened, tanned faces and farm animals share the roadside alike. Unlike Belize along the main highway, people here smile and wave and are engaged in productive work of all sorts from mending fences, cooking, doing laundry or walking woven baskets on their sturdy heads to unknown destinations.

Guatemala does not seem to have been besieged by the recent flooding and with exception of a few pieces of pasture land here an there, is mostly dry. Small and large lakes approach and recede along the way and our guide explains the statistics and significance of each. We pass a military installation which during the Guatemalan Civil war of 36 years would have been a hotbed of activity. Today it is only a training camp and baby faced boys in jerseys are collecting on the soccer field to engage in games for a sports day. They stare curiously as we pass, but pretend to be too important and aloof to wave.

Our two hour drives continues quite uneventfully this way through such similar countryside villages. Besides dodging the occasional bump or rough spot, the road is quite good. Guatemalans, however, seem to have a disregard for penning their animals and we are obliged to slow for horses, pigs, chickens, dogs and cats in the way.

On schedule, we stop at the gates of the national park containing Tikal where we are solicited to buy a guide book for $10 US containing information and maps compiled by the Pennsylvania University who originally excavated this site in the 1960's. Intrigued, we purchase one and our van rolls into the small cluster of restaurant shacks that are a precursor to the ruins. Our guide puts in our order for lunch, the driver suddenly disappears, and we find ourselves at the entrance to the trail. To my disappointment, I discover Tikal, like most American tourist sites, sports a gift shop, snack bar and t shirt shop at the entrance. Some things, apparently, really are universal.

George and our guide get into a somewhat length discussion of the Guatemalan Civil War and while the details seem complicated, the essence is this. The military and the liberals fought in the form of paramilitary groups for 36 years in a war that was hardest on the poor, rural communities, as war always is, and turned into an ethnic cleansing rather than a battle over land reform. It began to wind down in the late 80's but wasn't really over until 1996. Apparently, unbeknown to us stupid, uneducated gringos, just last week paramilitary groups took over strategic spots in Guatemala, held hostages and shut down roads and airports as well as Tikal until their demands of money previously promised from the Guatemalan government were met.

Our guide points out the medicinal and useful purposes of the flora and fauna along the way and directly across from the post that seems to serve as a checkpoint, where soldiers with guns loiter and laugh, there is an enormous tree whose vastly skyward branches were covered with a brown- orange moss that made the tree look furry. "Ceibas" the Mayans call this sacred tree and I find it easy to be awestruck by the size and the way it dominates the forest canopy.

After a short jaunt on a well worn dirt trail, mildly muddy, we are suddenly in complex R & Q. To our left, a fairly impressive flat topped tower with limestone steps in front of which 9 stones aligned in a row with a circular altar carved with hieroglyphics at the foot of each.Our guide explains about the Mayan calendar, most of which becomes a jumble of confusion and numbers to me. But this structure, which is solid like all Mayan towers, was built to commemorate the passage of 20 years and the human sacrifice that consecrated this place is retold by the hieroglyphics of a scared stone contained in a small chamber to the left of the tower, Intrigued. we bustle along, knowing there is much left to go.

Our trail leads on a trek that seems rather lengthy through dense rain forest. Sunlight barely reaches the floor and while we can hear the pelt of raindrops, they never really reach us under the canopy of the enormous, protecting trees. All at once we emerge into a clearing where Mayan roads meet, still hard with stone and barely concealed by a layer of dirt, at the foot of Tower 4. It's height is dizzying and we crane our necks to see it's stone top breaking out above the canopy of forest that has grown up around it for thousand of years. The access to this tower, the highest yet discovered ion this Mayan city, is by a set of sturdy mahogany ladders that steeply ascend the right side of the structure.

The ascent is quite an athletic task and though we are gasping with the effort, the view alone is well wroth it. You can see far across the lush, swaying ceiling of the forest to the limestone tops of the other Mayan towers, peaking their heads in triumph towards the heavens. It is a view seen perhaps thousands of years ago by a conquering Mayan king from his perch as he offered sacrifices to the Gods. It is hard not to tingle a bit with a sense of history and human passage. We encircle the tower, surveying the view from 360 degrees, and then descend, hesitantly picking our steps down the unbelievably steep sections of ladder.

At the bottom, George and I loiter, waiting for the Canadians. There is a stand supplying water, soda and snacks to weary, hot tourists run by a group of Guatemalans who are chatting with guides and soldiers. They speak loudly in Spanish about other tourists, including myself, assuming no one can understand them. From my limited knowledge of Spanish I can derive a decent amount of understanding about the derogatory comments and try not to smile.

Next we stop into the lost world and while it doesn't look like Spielberg's idea of dinosaur paradise, it certainly seems like something out of a movie. The ancient ball court, overgrown with jungle foliage and flowers, is ironically beautiful. It is strange to think of the rituals performed here and the savagery of a culture that seems so distant from today and yet still resides at the core of human nature. The buildings in this plaza are the oldest in the city and were abandoned for 130 years when the Mayans were overthrown by neighboring tribes. When the royal family returned, they never re inhabited this plaza.

In the middle of the the lost world is a structure called the Great Pyramid, a flat topped tower with a formidable amount of steps that a great many people are panting and pawing up. We take a deep breath and undertake the climb. The steps, quite uneven, crumbling and steep, prove to be a challenge. At the top a reward of swaying, gorgeous green canopy and another view of Tower 4, whose topside tourists look like ants in the distance. We linger to admire but the crowds quickly drive us away.

Back on the ground, our last stop is the Main Plaza, a group of two towers facing each otheand an extensive maze of rooms, presumed for the royal family, as well as carved limestone masks of immense proportions of the Rain God. A crowd of hundreds are milling about the plaza of a strange mix- Americans, archeology students. Guatemalans., Europeans and a scattering of Asians. We join them, scrambling over ledges and outcroppings and exploring the deserted heart of a Mayan City.

Ravenous and exhausted, it is only the thought of food and drink that buoys us an carries us down the path and back to the restaurant. The fare, mushroom chicken, vegetables and rice, is simple and good but we hardly taste it in our hunger. Refueled and quiet, we pile into the van and the Canadians' girl is promptly asleep before we even leave the park it seems.

The road back seems long, but I am unable to sleep, tossed about by the evasive maneuvers the driver performs. At one point, he has to come to almost a screeching halt due to a group of horses in the road. The male has mounted the female and seems reluctant to move, despite the fact that she is scurrying away from him to avoid oncoming traffic. Several other horses, bystanders, seem to be simply watching the barnyard hijinks.

We have almost reached the border but the Canadians, eager for their gift shop tourist fix, have been promised a stop for dirt cheap "authentic" Guatemalan goods. George and I enter reluctantly and though we initially avoid being sucked in, we end up attracted to a colorful hammock. The Guatemalans have expressed a willingness to barter and I talk her down to 20 dollars below price for the hammock and 5 dollars below price for a purse. Content with our bargains, we make our escape before we become drawn in by rain sticks, funky woven placements and napkins, and eccentric cabinets and carvings. It seems fitting justice that later, when the Canadians attempt to leave, the shop keepers little boy latches onto the girl and bites her in th leg. I can see them trying not to smile as they wave and apologize from their doorway. They may need your money but they certainly don't have to like you for it.

Customs, this time through, seems a much calmer affair and our guide, who was snoring away in the front seat all the way back has suddenly disappeared into thin air. The driver escorts us through to Belize where Jeronie, not surprisingly, is nowhere to be found. We shuffle our feet for half an hour before he materializes with no explanation or apology. He carts us back for dinner. Like father, like son.

Dinner is a crowded affair, as we have three new sets of guests: a pair of weathered, mild mannered travelers from the Netherlands, a couple from Oklahoma who seems a bit rough around the edges and slightly obnoxious, and a wealthy, free spirited family from Florida who have sailed through the Carribean and are simply passing by on the way to Guatemala. The fare, simple and far too normal for my tastes and expectations is spaghetti with meat sauce and tossed salad. George adn i opt for washing it down with Belikin beer and dessert, while disappointingly Duncan Hines yellow cake mix ungarnished by frosting, is sweet and moist enough to satisfy.

We play a short but fairly competitive game of chess right up until the end, when I give up all hope completely. Finishing off our night with a feisty fame of strip sex gin rummi, we sleep hard but still plagued by restlessness, bugs and nightmares.

Honeymoon Chronicles, Part 3

June 26, 2002

George and I have wisely opted to begin our day with an enormous breakfast ala room service. Since Mr. Tut will come for us at 10 and cart us away on his Mountain Pine Ridge tour, we are uncertain if we will lunch late or at all.

After a feast of fragrant french toast, a yummy, nearly greasy diner style cheese omelet, and a plethora of fresh fruit including papaya and freshly squeezed orange juice, we top ourselves off with little cinnamon buns and biscuits with jam. Packing goes quickly and we opt to forego showers in favor of sipping more fresh brewed coffee.

At ten, having paid our extravagant bill, we plunk down at Blancaneaux's gate in the alternating sun and clouds, playing "I Spy" and scanning the lane for our ride. He is forty five minutes late when he rumbles up, laugh lines crinkling around his eyes. No apologies are made and we don't really question, adding it up to local charm.

We turn up the road and venture deeper into Mountain Pine Ridge. Mr Tut tells jaguar stories from when he used to work in the bush here and points out where he and some of his guests once spotted a jaguar hunting deer. As we have become used to his broken English and accent, he is easier to understand. After forty minutes we pull into a dusty camp of perhaps a dozen shacks where workers are hauling and hacking away at the sparse fields and gardens. Mr. Tut says this once was a camp for the workers who tended the reserve but since the destruction of the trees it has mostly been abandoned.

We turn into a small, rutted side lane with signs pointing to Rio Frio Cave and all at once we are immersed in a dense jungle. The plants, deep green and dense, twist their brown vines around mahogany and gum trees, whose bark carries the mark of what locals call "chicaros," the men who climb these trees and cut and run off the sap to make gum. The noise of jungle birds grows loud around us and the air is moist. Only a few minutes later we pull up to where another car from Blancaneaux is parked and descend the trail to the stairway leading to Rio Frio.

Climbing the stairway through the jungle foliage with the muddy green river gurgling below seems pretty enough. But as you take several more steps, the enormous cave mouth falls open before you and it becomes awesome. Initially inside the cave it is cool and still lit from the nearby mouth. We walk on a wide, rocky ledge that runs 20 feet above the foot of the cave covered with the calm, meandering water of the river that carved it. The ceiling arches far above to a height of fifty or a hundred feet and though dark, stalagmites are visible hanging from the rock. We tiptoe carefully, finding our footing in the dim light around the ledge as it narrows and the cave bends to the right. The opposite opening is in the distance and as we step forward to investigate, the guide from Blancaneaux warns us of the yawning, porous rocks just a few steps ahead where the ledge falls away dangerously. We turn back and descend the ledge in a more manageable spot to the beach below, where you can stand in the dark on the sandy floor of the cave and dip your toes into the cool river waters that carved such a huge chasm through this rock. We linger for a moment and then turn back, pausing to admire the strange formation of holes that have been permeated into the rock by the slow drip of water over hundreds and thousands of years from the cave ceiling above.

Back in the van, we discuss our options and rather than go onto to the Hidden Valley Falls we opt for lunch and a look at some Mayan ruins in San Ignacio. Hunger begins to set in and by the time we approach the city, we are quite eager for lunch.

The bridge on one side has been unusable because of the flood waters and so all traffic must go over a one lane steel bridge to enter San Ignacio. The town and outskirts are a muddled, dirty confusion of narrow streets, shacks and roadside stands and staring locals or biking pedestrians. Mr. Tut navigates us to a side street and the small office of Crystal Paradise. From there, dodging traffic, we trudge up the dirt streets past fruit vendors in traditional Indian dress and loitering, dark skinned taxi and truck drivers to small hole in the wall restaurant that serves delightful Sri Lankan food. Wolfing down curried chicken and yellow rice with Mr. Tut, we compliment his dining choice and he explains that his son is friends with the owner's son, the entire family natives of Sri Lanka. This does not surprise us in a country with so many people of muddled cultural descent where Asians, Mayans, Indians, Mennonites and Spanish are neighbors.

After our lunch we are invited to explore the city a little bit while Mr.Tut runs errands. It is a strange experience and a bit uncomfortable to be so obviously out of place, avoiding traffic in the narrow streets and ignoring the stares of passerbys. The taxi drivers are not shy and we are solicited several times for rides. Avoiding eye contact, we politely refuse. After a chat with Gladys, a surprisingly young girl, dark skinned and dressed in chunky heels. tight jeans and a revealing shirt and lots of jewelry at the office, Mr. Tut returns. As he drives us up into the hills of San Ignacio to the ruins, I remark to George that most of the women, both in the cities and the villages, seem to be always dressed to the nines as if they are on their way to a disco or formal dance. It is strange to see a girl in chunky heels with a flowered skirt and tons of makeup, plodding through the muddy roadside gutter or staring from the porch of a shack. As there were no obvious clothing stores in San Ignacio, we began to wonder where all the name brand duds came from.

Soon we were at Cal Pech, translated to mean "plate of ticks," where a small Mayan city had been discovered. Mr. Tut pawns us off on a young guide and runs off to do errands in town. I glance worriedly at the gray, angry heavens and hope the heavy rain will hold off.

Our young guide, whose name I can not recall now, leads us through a small museum complete with a model (however incorrect, as he explains), of the site and a few of the artifacts and murals. At the entrance we are plagued by vendors, brothers and cousins of our guide, who have carved Mayan symbols into wood to make plaques, figurines and necklaces. With promises to buy later, we extract ourselves and escape up the path.

After paying a small entrance fee, he leads us around the site. We seem to be the only ones, besides archaeologists, on the grounds. Fairly large but simple structures, carved and made from limestone now turned white with age, have been unearthed from the jungle floor and several large mounds of trees and dirt nearby promise more. The central plaza has a large tower with front steps and the royal family dwellings behind, where cool windowless rooms and short beds were carved from the stone. The guide also takes us to the "ball court" and explains the ancient Mayan game in which prisoners of war played to win death with honor for days on end with a ball, set on fire, that must be bounced from side to side. The rules of the game seem vague, but the purpose of human sacrifice to appease the gods is very clear.

We meander back up the path to where our guide introduces us to all spice and other natural, wild Belizean spices. The boys accost us at the entrance again, plying wares, and I give in to a Mayan necklace with sign of my birth month, November, to appease them. Mr. Tut is waiting and as we get back to the van to descend into San Ignacio, it finally begins to rain fat drops. Mr. Tut professes to have held the sky off with his bare hands and we laughingly agree.

At the foot of the hill is what looks to be the town's soccer field, the most popular sport in Belize as well as in all of Meso and South America. A Cuban circus is setting up entitled Circus Del Mundo. The motor homes and trucks are unloading, while San Ignacio sits and watches form their porches, apparently awestruck.

It is a short drive back through the confusion of San Ignacio and the traffic waiting at the bridge to Cristo Ray Village and Crystal Paradise. At the foot of the hill leading to the village, Mr. Tut picks up a mother and her children that he knows. After he drops them about a mile up at a square, stucco house, Mr. Tut explains that she used to work for their family, cleaning houses, and that she recently became a widow. He tries to help with money, food and transportation whenever he can.

It isn't long until we enter Cristo Rey, a small cluster of houses in the same stucco style with meager roofs. I can see most doors open, with people on couches in the flickering light of the television. We turn into Crystal Paradise and the lane is small and runs through an exotic, tree flowered garden with a pasture and a pond on the left where several horses and ponies are grazing. Crystal Paradise is a cluster of thatched roof cabanas with a large thatched roof dining room and kitchen that has a mahogany porch and swing. We choose the cabana furthest away from the cluster and it is clean and simple, with a cement floored shower, Indian woven red bedspreads and a red tiled floor. The ceiling fan, attached to the roof of one of the cross posts of the thatched roof, swings to and fro when on and squeaks. Fresh towels are in the wooden closets and shelves next to the bathroom and a hammock swings on the porch outside.

It is getting late and we are told dinner with be at six thirty. We shower and report to the dining room. It is only the Canadians we had met beforehand and us and Carlita, the youngest girl, brings in beans. barbecued chicken, mashed potatoes and coleslaw as well as pitchers of ice water and the softest, most delicious flour tortillas. We are hungry and quiet, still adjusting to our surroundings. The youngest son, Jeronie, arrives in the midst of banana cake and coffee and we arrange a trip with the Canadians to the Mayan ruins in Tikal, Guatemala, the next day.

As the family cleans up and prepares to go to bed, George and I drink Coke and play cards at one of the tables. Large beetles, moths and other bugs, drawn in from the jungle by the light, get caught in the whirling blades of the fan above and come raining down upon our heads in odd moments with soft pings. We can only take so much of this and eventually retire to the room where, despite the hand sized moths that have invaded the cabana, we fall deeply into sleep on the impossible hard queen bed that sits nearly a foot and a half off the ground on sturdy, carved varnished wooden legs with an ornately carved headboard of a jaguar, hunting a deer in the jungle vegetation. To the tune of the squeaking, whirling fan, I dream of bats falling from the ceiling and biting my hand.

Honeymoon Chronicles, Part 2

June 25th 2002

Awake to the noisy joy of a jungle morning, the sun seems to already be soaking Belize. We rouse shortly before 8, unusual for us, and decide to forgo showers in order to schedule horseback riding at the front desk at 10 and grab breakfast. A small buffet of fresh melons and pineapple as well as scones and granola greets us. The coffee if full bodied but not too bitter and goes down easily thanks to the warmed creamed. And the sugar, unmilled, is sweet and softly grainy to the touch.

Our appearance at 10 donned in jeans and suitable shoes at the front desk rouses Michael and a golf cart that whisks us off to the stables. On the way we pass Blancaneaux's extensive garden and groves and see men at work in the midday heat. Clouds are beginning to overtake the sky and I glance up worriedly.

At the stables our horses are waiting, saddled and calm, as well as our guide, Frances. Young and dark skinned, Frances introduces our mounts. Mine, Cocoa, is a deep chocolate and has a serious affection for any plant trailside that he can jam into his mouth. George's horse is Katie, who gingerly plods along behind the pack and avoids puddles and mud like a true lady. Frances is riding a thoroughbred, a retired racehorse he informs me, who tosses his head and prances his muscular hind quarters without once deigning to nibble a single tempting bush or a blade of grass.

I chat with Frances along the way, mostly about the Lodge, glancing behind my should to check on George's slow progress behind us. He says his whole family works at Blancaneaux and while he has been riding horses for 17 years, he has only been at the Lodge for three and lives on the premises. He knows quite a bit about the flora and fauna we pass and points out tidbits as we plod serenely along. It rains pretty steadily at one point and though we get wet- no one comments or complains.

After forty five minutes, the forest becomes suddenly denser and muddier and then we are there. Dismounting Frances leads us down a steep, wet descent to the even slipperier rocks below. Belizeans call this BIG ROCK and the falls, while fairly short, are pretty spectacular. The water, muddy green, crashes quite fast off the large jagged rocks into a pool that cascades again and opens wider to flow into the wide, placid river it was before its fall. We scramble and slide across mossy wet tables of rock to reach the water and strip into swimsuits.

The water is fairly chilly, but not enough to daunt us. We both ease ourselves along in the murky depths, unable to see even a hint of what lies below. By hand and foot we feel our way out and while I am held back by my fear of water, clinging precipitously to a rocky ledge, George plunges ahead. Scraping his stomach against an unexpected , shallow rock, he swims out into the open pool which our guide says is 15 feet deep. The current becomes swift at the other end and I watch George fight it and emerge on the rock shelf that encircles the falls. Our guide, who has stripped to his shorts, is climbing an impossible cliff and diving 20 feet or more into the pool below the falls. He is nothing but lean muscle and must do this fairly often.

George is begging me to make the terrifying crossover and I am staunchly refusing, shaking my head and shivering form my shallow post. Finally, he swims over and coaxes me into the adventure. The hardest part is swallowing the fear and beginning and from there it is easy until I reach the sucking, swirling current of the falls that churns water into my face and makes me gasp for air. Sputtering, George heaves me to safety and we scramble close to the falls. Showered and pelted with water, we marvel at Frances as he fights the current and emerges on the other side of the pool below the falls. I am frigid in the moist, cool air and we somehow manage the swim back and after an athletic, steep descent, are once again on horseback,

The ride back is calm and quiet and no one feels compelled to talk. Allowing the slow fluidity of the horse's movement to permeate our bones and listening to the wind rustling softly among he palms, time seems long and sleepy and lovely.

It is only on the short walk back from the stables that we realize how ravenously hungry we are. Lunch is perfect and delicious. We both order Bloody Mary's and they are spicy and obviously made from fresh tomatoes and handpicked spices....mmmmm. Toasted, warm sandwiches- ham & cheese and smoked chicken & cheese as well as garden fresh salad greens top off our tummies.

Our afternoon is spent as honeymoon afternoons should be spent. After a short exploration of the hydroelectric plant and river paths, we get real lazy reading and writing in our cabana. George, spooned into the hammock, revels in rocking back and forth and it isn't long before I give in and tumble into bed for a nap. George joins me later and we sleep until almost dinner.

Showered, we spend our evening eating pizza and Belikin beer, ordering exotic drinks, chatting with the bartender, and playing cards. The air seems restless and I have difficult sleeping. Not George, luxuriantly fast asleep in the hammock.

Honeymoon Chronicles

In celebration of our 6th wedding anniversary, I had planned to feature an excerpt a day from the diary I kept during our honeymoon of our travels and experiences in Belize. I've been craving travel recently, especially the out of country tropical kind, and it's nice to relive one of the most magical times in my life. Keep coming back for more!

June 24th Destination Belize

We worked hard to get here and in the beginning, our reward seemed meager. Up at 2 am after a scant few hours of sleep as drove the two and a half hours to Philadelphia. From there it was a blur of check ins, gateways and airplanes all day as we dozed fitfully from Philly to Houston, Houston to Belize.

Our rocky, tentative approach into Belize City was ominous and likewise beautiful. The clouds were enormous milky pies stacked into the heavens and every time the plane parted its wings through one, the cabin would shimmy and shake with its density. We were never able to see the land except in pieces through the gray cloud fog until we were nearly upon it. I remember the wide, churning, muddy river the most, snaking through the country to the sea.

Customs was a blur and perhaps the easiest arrival onto foreign soil I've ever experienced. Our driver materialized immediately from the waiting throng outside and led us to our vehicle, a rusty well used Isuzu trooper with a cracked windshield and a clean, but threadbare interior. We were crammed in with a family from Canada into the backseat and carted away. I spent most of my time on George's lap, planting small kisses on his forehead and neck as we watched the poverty and flood devastation reel by us at the windows.

When they say Belize City is the eyesore of the country, it is a gentle estimation. Ramshackle, dilapidated shacks with tin roofs crumbled back into the soaked land. Crowds of native people, Belizeans as they call themselves, simply stand by the dirty, potholed, collapsing road they call a highway and stare at the vehicles rumbling by. But as the capital fades behind you, the country's jungle rises up and the villages surrounding the road, while still poor, seem scenic in comparison.

Our driver and guide, whom we later devised to be Mr. Tut, head of Crystal Paradise, was an atrocious driver. He altered between maniacal and molasses speed at odd intervals and he seemed to have a decided aversion to his side of the road. Mr. Tut had a fondness for jokes which was lost in our limited understanding of his soft, broken English. But the crow's feet and deep lines at his eyes bespoke his intelligence and humor and his company, while at times quiet, was pleasantly comfortable.

Our first stop was a forced one at a dive that, like most of the shacks on the roadsides of Belize, served as a bar, restaurant and all purpose store. Our drive insisted on a cup of coffee and while he and the woman owner conversed in Spanish, George and I read the signed panorama of 30-50 t shirts hanging like flags from the ceiling. We even spotted one from PA as well as Kentucky.

Back on the road, rattling and bumping uncomfortably along, it wasn't long until we ran into halted traffic. People immediately jumped from their cars as if they knew we would be stopped awhile. Never a good sign. Our driver explained that the bridge ahead had been washed away by the enormous floodwaters that have drenched Belize.Three days before he himself had seen a car pulled into the swift waters and a house become submerged. Now that the rain had receded, the bridge was passable but only to small cars. The two buses ahead, loaded with native people, would have to let off their passengers and have them cross on foot. We assumed this was the cause of the delay but George and I walked up the road to scout out the particulars. It was not the buses but a huge tractor with a clawed backhoe. digging up earth and moving it along the bridge to repair the compromised areas that was the reason for stopping. No one seemed alarmed at this delay, several shuffling about laughing with sodas in hand. It was difficult to tell who, if anyone, was in charge of directing traffic and it was nearly half an hour before we were safely across.

All along the way, strange, mangy dogs wandered across the road and every house and shack seemed to belong to a small, frayed eared mutt. The road itself was an oddity, passing alternately between rutted, uneven pavement and potholed, puddled dirt. There were no lights and very few stop signs but every small village seemed to have three things:

1: A set of squared, wide speed bumps so drastic that vehicles must slow to 5 mph to bounce over them.

2:A colorfully painted, peeling shack that serves food, sells alcohol and soda and seems to constantly be occupied by a cluster of big eyed, long armed, dark males.

3: A church that seems to double as a school with gangs of uniformed children standing by or in the road, watching traffic and scanning the distance for a bus.

Mr Tut's son takes charge of the Canadians in a roadside swap and Mr. Tut carries us through to Blancaneaux. He claims it is 17 miles more to the lodge but what he fails to mention is that it will be up a red, muddy side road that twists through the Mountain Pine Forest Reserve. We pass several Mennonite farms and the entire hillside and valley to our left is groves of citrus for miles and miles. After passing the butterfly farm and several other lodge entrances and tour companies, I am told we are only 7 or 9 miles away. But 7 or 9 miles on such a road as this is an eternity and I'm sure that it is an half hour more before we turn into Blancaneaux's stone gate and cobblestone paths.

Blancaneaux becomes a difficult thing to describe only because it is almost unbelievable. Thatched roof cabanas and villas cling to a lush, blooming hillside garden that slopes steeply to the muddy cool waters of the Privassion River. Cobblestone paths and steps bordered with small, soft lights lead everywhere both between cabanas and the main villa as well as down to the banks of the river. Both inside the main villa and the cabanas everything is exquisite and simple. Dark reddish wood- mahogany perhaps- makes the main villa look elegant and natural and expedition pictures and stone outcroppings line the wall. The staff, all Belizean by appearance, are polite, professional and soft spoken. When we arrive at the front desk we are shown to our cabana, which has been occupied by the pilot (there is a landing strip at Blancaneaux). Profuse apologies and complimentary drinks follow while they usher him and his things out.

The drinks are incredibly good and my colada, made from a Cream Rum, goes down strong and smooth. We shower briefly and explore the river path and find ourselves on the porch of the dining room, illuminated by candlelight and screened by lush, showered greenery. We eat extravagantly. A bottle of Francis Ford Coppolla's own wine, Syrah, that tastes as though it was warmed in a wood stove and is filled with the sensuous complexities of berry and currant. We order a calzone, fresh and moist and homemade with spices that must have been picked today. I order pork chops with coconut rice and steamed vegetables that taste so crisp and fresh that I at once abhor American grocery stores. We share an eclair that tastes so fluffy and sweet it reminds me of my Mom's homemade cream puffs. The night is capped off with another colada and a jugger of cordial called Danche, noted to be a local aphrodisiac.

Bellies satiated and drenched in relaxation, we find ourselves on the front screened porch of our cabana, making love in the moonlight. The jungle, stirred only slightly by the wind, is quiet with the chirping of cricket and bird. We never recall our heads touching the pillows, only the deep, hard sleep that overtook us immediately.

Daily Dose of Owen

If you thought you were going to get out of a daily dose of Owen today, you are mistaken. Here's the last group of photos for the week- a series of shots taken at our local Hills Airforce Base Museum.

Letters to the O

Twenty-Nine Months

The beginning of this past month was a rough one. You started out with a monumental case of diarrhea. And no matter how much we tried, we couldn't convince you we weren't purposefully trying to cause you distress. When Dad or I would put you up on the changing table for the 8th time that morning, you would cry and wail and beg-"Please, leave my butts alone!" Once, when I was describing why it was necessary to put ointment on your blistered butt, you leaned over to talk to your butt.

"It's otay, butt. Don't cry."

Early on this month you also got to spend a weekend at Grandma's while Daddy and I hiked in Zion. Even though you weren't feeling well, apparently you and Grandma got along fabulously and when she dropped you off, complete with an entire box full of new toys, you seemed to have been thoroughly spoiled and adored. You were quiet for the first hour in the car on the way home, as if you weren't sure exactly who we were. That didn't last long.

You've finally begun to expand your culinary horizons. We were at a restaurant with Ken and Holly when they were in town and you ate pizza. And then later that same day-ice cream! I discovered recently that you finally understood the value of bribery. At this point in our house, we have an exchange rate. One piece of meat= one cookie. 10 blueberries= one cookie.

Perhaps it's all this experimentation with food or your earlier brush with intestinal discomfort, but whatever the reason you seem to occasionally be constipated. Thinking that ointment is the cure for all things wrong with your butt, you beg me to apply some when you're uncomfortable. I've tried to describe to you that the problem is not located in your butt but more in the vicinity of your stomach and is more likely to be solved by fruit. So far, you're not buying it. You're also not buying into the myth that you should be using the toilet for any of these activities. You'll occasionally be motivated to pee or poop in the potty but for the most part, your interests are more closely aligned with forklifts. Recently, when I was changing you, you informed me you would never eat poop. Cool, glad to hear it. Fear of you being the kid in the back of the room in kindergarten eating his own feces- totally alleviated.

You've also learned how to open doors. You've been able to close them for some time, but not open them. This created its own problems and sometimes called for rescue operations when you'd shut yourself down in the basement or garage. But I greatly prefer that situation to the one we have now, where nothing is off limits. Your favorite door to manipulate is the back door and you are constantly trying to control the traffic flow of the dogs. They must be in, they must be out, they must sleep with you, they must be glad to have your fingers jabbed into their eyes. I think for the first time you're experimenting with the idea that you may be able to control not just your environment, but those two stupid hairballs who live here. Apparently the concept is a total high.

You and Dad recently started playing a little game. It goes something like this. Dad loves to hear you say "I''m not a little bear" because he thinks it is cute. So he devises ways to make you say it over and over. At first, you would scowl and protest and be truly insulted. "I not a bear. I Owen!" Towards the end of the month, you had resigned yourself. "Yeah. I'm a little bear." Can I go back to playing now?

We took you to see some monster trucks and a fireworks show recently as part of a local festival. And silly me, I totally forgot that you might hate things exploding in the sky in the dark and find them scary. You clung to me and whimpered and asked to go home at first. But as Dad and I began to talk about the pretty colors in the sky and name them, you agreed to at least take a look and show off your knowledge of shapes and colors. You didn't release your death grip though and I have to confess that despite the 30 pound lump attached to my chest, it was the best fireworks show I've ever seen. Just earlier in the day we had given you a buzz cut for the first time. And the way it made your mischievous smile and expressive eyes so prominent made me feel like you were someone else's two year old brat, another future menace to society. But as we sat under the night stars while colors splattered the sky and I held you close, I knew you were content to sit there, afraid, as long as you were anchored to me. Your father sat close by, tussling your hair and holding your hand and murmuring to you and it made me glad that we all had each other.

Another Round of Owen

For those of you who haven't reached your weekly Owen quota, check out this round of shots. These were all taken at a local playground just as spring thaw was beginning. Enjoy!

Owen Strikes Again!

You were totally dying to see more pictures of Owen, right? You weren't? Well, avert your eyes because here's another batch. This time we're featuring shots from the enormous amount of snow that used to formally cover our front lawn. Makes me cold just looking at it.

More Owen

Another installment of our personal favorite, the O face. Here's a set from his birthday. This is when Owen's love affair with his dump truck began. And also the origin of the fake, corny smile.

A festival of Owen

Some of you may not have any clue what Owen looks like since you haven't seen pictures on this site since maybe... oh, I don't know- Christmas?

Well, here you are. George was sick the other day and made good use of his misery by formatting a plethora of Owen pictures. You'll find the first installment, Christmas 2007, here.

Enjoy!

MileStone

Owen ate pizza this weekend. And ice cream. And for anyone who thinks this is unremarkable for a toddler, you have yet to meet mine.

Congratulations, Owen! Welcome to the world of poor nutrition. Next stop- juice and candy right on the way to obesity.

Vacation to do nothing in particular

Hole in the fence

It's been really nice to have a day off that isn't a weekend. I didn't feel like I needed to do anything like I usually do on the weekend. I recommend to everyone to take a day off for no reason at all. And then do nothing in particular.

Letters to the O

Twenty-Eight Months

There's no doubt about it now. You are such a little boy. And it's not just because you seem to walk around half the day with your hands stuffed into your waistband. I feel somehow as if you began this month as an older version of the toddler I once knew. But each day has slipped past me, a thousand small milestones. And now you are irrevocably yourself.

You are entirely messy. Every time I looked at you this month you had smears of breakfast or stripes of dirt across your cheek. No matter how many times I washed and scrubbed, you always seemed crusty. And yet, while you are oblivious to any sense of yourself as a walking disaster area, you are acutely aware of and intolerant of anyone else's mess. After upending an open box of tapioca accidentally from the pantry, you spent nearly half an hour with a dustpan and broom, scanning the kitchen floor for the minute white pearls. A project that would surely have driven me insane in less than five seconds kept you enthralled.

You are also passionately devoted to your dump truck. You use it to haul your matchbox cars from room to room and even outside, where you stack them along the fence or under the slide and spend long hours imagining car conversation. The new nightly ritual is for you to gather all your cars in the dump truck. You drive them to your bedroom, then haul each one out, kissing it good night and calling it by name.

"Good Night, Shelby Cobra. Good Night, Monster Truck."

They are then deposited for a long, uncomfortable sleep on top of the bureau and immediately loaded back into the dump truck in the morning for another day of fun on wheels.

You have become stubbornly independent as well. And damn bossy. You recently discovered how to open the back screen door and let both yourself or the dogs outside. This has literally opened up a whole new world for you. One in which you can control whether or not you are outside. And like every kid since the dawn of time, you would prefer to spend every waking hour there, trolling around the yard. What's worse is that you demand that the dogs join you, no matter how hot or miserable they seem to be. If they dare to sneak inside against your wishes, you stomp up the stairs, swatting at them and pointing, demanding furiously that they "Get Owside!"

All of these blossomed mental and physical abilities have their pay off. I now know you are old enough to be called out on your bullshit. You speak in full sentences and actively negotiate every waking moment to manipulate what you want out of it. So trying to convince me that you didn't understand my simple directions for not throwing that toy down the stairs- kind of a long shot. But you're still at that magical age where counting works. And I don't have to have a consequence yet.
"I need you to come to the bedroom to get changed and you have until I count to ten to meet me there."
Typically by the time I get to 8, you come running. What happens when I get to 10? Dear god. Does anyone really want to find out?

You are now required to clean up on at least a daily basis, but for some reason you often refuse to pick up the plastic play balls that came with your tunnel set. Oh don't get me wrong. You love to scatter them about the room for other people to trip on and then leave. But getting all fifty of them back into the basket they came from? Such a nuisance. The other day I asked you to and you refused. I put you in a chair and told you not to get up until you were ready to clean up. You promptly got back up, turned to me and said,
"No, mama. I not clean up. You do. Mama do. You clean up. See you later."
And you ran down the hall.

Five minutes later you were picking up those damn balls. How does that work? I'll never tell. But let's just say the real secret is how I kept from bursting out laughing to begin with.