June 26, 2008
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.