Wanderlust

Letters to the O

Thirty Months

This month I became convinced that you are the most articulate two year old the world has ever known. Your father and I are constantly amazed by both your ability and your complete inability to verbalize your emotions and experiences. When you are conveying something specific, you are serious and almost always speak in complete sentences,

"Mommy, we are going to turn left at the light. We are in traffic. There are lots of cars everywhere and some are parked. Green means go."

And then five seconds later you could become an inarticulate puddle of goo because you've lost one of your cups and you want the "breen" one and not the blue one. And it's all you can do to simply blubber "Breen...breen...breen."

Because you have complete dominion and power over your surroundings, I often look up and realize you have abandoned me and I find you outside, wandering about the yard. Recently you gave me a heart attack by falling down the back stairs. You came up bruised and bloody but unscathed and you spent less time crying about the incident than I did.

You've also begun to exhibited control in other ways. Like holding food in your mouth and refusing to swallow until it becomes a saliva saturated, disgusting ball that once resembled food. This drives me INSANE. Seriously. Swallow the damn thing- what's the big deal? I used to think you did it just with new foods or food you didn't like but now you've begun to exhibit it with mundane items like oatmeal. Just to piss me off.

We've been half heartedly trying potty training but you seem to have no serious misgivings about peeing in your diaper... or the floor... or outside. But after recently purchasing a box of diapers at Costco for $40 (FORTY dollars !!!) I've decided this an effort definitely worthy of my energy. Right after our trip to Cancun and that shopping spree on Rodeo Drive, I am totally going to buy myself a sticker chart and commit to sitting around the bathroom with you for hours on end.

Just today I was bustling around the house, folding laundry and putting away dishes and getting ready to start dinner. I had walked away from you into the bedroom and I must have been talking to either you or the dogs and my tone communicated frustration. You came running into the bedroom and yanked on my pant leg.

"Mama, did you say Jesus?"

And that's when I knew that two hours of painful pushing- absolutely worth it.

Honeymoon Chronicles, Part 15

July 8th, 2002

It's time to leave Belize, Ambergis Caye and San Pedro. While it has been idyllic and beautiful and enormous fun, we've done what we set out to do and we're ready to go home.

We frolic into town one last time and decide to venture into a place called Blue Reef grill across from Fido's. It is empty and a man, who looks like an old salt but is American through and through, is watching the bar and pours out the coffee in big Styrofoam cups. We get to tell the cook, a burly looking local guy, our order personally and he brings us out breakfast quickly. It is average and unremarkable except for the flyjacks, a Belizean dish, which seem to be sopapillas. Yummy.

Our morning is methodical and quick. Dropping off the golf cart, packing is a surprisingly easy task and our check out is smooth. Soon enough we find ourselves deposited by taxi at the airport and only wait a few minutes before the full flight is ready to board and depart early.

At the door of the plane, the make ticket agent holds me back and waves George in up front, explaining he needs me to sit in back. I consent, unwillingly, somewhat confused until I discover the plane, which only holds 15 people, is 3 seats across like a bench in back and he needs someone small to make sure everyone fits in comfortably. When I board I discover I am next to the emergency exit but my seatbelt is broken. Smiling at the irony, I enjoy the wobble and lift of the puddle jumper as it skims away from the island.

Down below the shapes of coral reef and the small heads of islands poking above the waves create spotted patterns across the turquoise depths. Occasionally a small structure or a lonely dock beckons from a patch of land but mostly it is uninhabited, mysterious paradise.

Twenty minutes later we touch down in Belize City and begin our journey home which will take us to mass chaos in Houston, a long ride home in the wee hours, and going to sleep to the sound of birds chirping at the dawn. Our honeymoon is almost over and we take our last day before returning to work to sleep, relax and watch a couple of movies that we missed while we were away. It's nice to be home, enjoying the comforts and familiarity before the rush of reality sets back in.

Honeymoon Chronicles, Part 14

July 7th, 2002

Too early and the alarm beckons. We have scheduled a full day and if we want to eat breakfast it will have to be ASAP. Thanks to the golf cart, we zoom downtown to front street and Estel's for breakfast. There are several small groups of locals, mostly men, who are drinking beer at 7:30am. My guess is they just never stopped form last night. George has his usual omelet and I have pancakes and some belated sausage from our waiter who seems difficult to get a hold of. I notice he is holding one hand oddly behind his back and later he shows us a nasty, deep cut he got several days ago that should have had stitches (quite a few by the look of it) but didn't because the doctor wasn't available. For once, I'm glad not to be living on San Pedro.

We bustle away to keep our appointment with Tuff Nuff tours, the dive shop at the Playador, and do some fishing and then later in the afternoon, snorkeling. After talking to the guys, who are all young and local with varying degrees of salesmanship, knowledge of English, and professionalism, we decide to combine our tours and extend our morning. The boat is outfitted with lures and sodas and we are ready to depart.

Victor (or Vincent?) has us out on open waters in no time and is splashing, jumping and assailing the waves with a slight smirk on his face. When George asks him if he likes his job, he grins ear to ear. It is obvious Victor likes to drive the boat at full throttle and would be doing so if he was not encumbered with us.

He heads for the channel, a spot where the reef breaks and the water is choppy, but we can head out to open seas. I am turning several shades of green and feel awful but am doing my best to be a good sport. Our guide takes out poles with thick line and lures in the shape of a fake, technicolor fish about a foot long. These are drug behind the boat at a fairly fast clip to entice larger fish to take a bite. The whole process is called trawling but it's weary on the arms, a bit boring, and extremely challenging for seasickness since you spend your whole time looking backwards. I am thankful when, after no nibbles or chomps in the deep blue, we head for the reefs.

Heading south along the coast of Ambergis Caye, the first spot Victor puts us in at is a dud with no bites and lots of getting stuck and ripping line on the jagged coral below. Even Victor is getting discouraged and insists he must have us catch a fish. He zigzags further down the reef to Mata Rocks, one of our snorkeling spots, and we through a few lines in here. There are plenty of bites and every time I throw my line in off the back of the boat I get a hit. Shortly, I reel in a small, yellow fish and then in the course of fifteen or twenty minutes, two more. Most of my lines, however, are being snapped by something below with very sharp teeth and we lose more hooks, lines and bait than either I, or even probably Victor, thought possible. George, who has been casting up front, is doing a wonderful job of reeling in small pieces of coral or losing his line on the sharp rocks below. The fish I catch are rather on the small side and we throw all but one back.

Giving up on fishing, our guide points out the shape of the coral reef at Mata Rocks and invites us to jump in. George and I investigate the coral and schools of fish, which are more exotic and colorful here than in Ho Chan. Besides which, we are alone under the water which has its own charms and fears. After we have viewed most of the underwater landscape, Victor helps us in and we head for Mexico rocks, which turns out to be scarcely more than a few minutes up shore. We plunge in and find angelfish, schools of fish still and swaying with the current in an alcove of rock, hidden from predators, and an underwater cave of small proportions in which fish float in and out. I head back to the boat before George, fatigued and when he comes aboard he reports facing a school of squid, swimming in formation, who suddenly stopped when they saw him and swam away.

Drenched both with sea salt and sun, we head back to the dock and dry land, a welcome thing after our long morning on the seas. Donning dry clothes and showered, we cart it to Fido's for lunch and order our favorites. The reality of our departure as well as the business of our morning is beginning to set in and we both seem a bit out of it.

An hour or so of air conditioned, hotel laziness and we are ready for the last supper. A longer saunter than we expected takes us to the Blue Water Grill. A large restaurant that looks to be simply a porch clustered with tables and a bar and well lit even through the night. What we actually find is a somewhat snobby, pricey menu and clientèle. But the Japanese tilt to the dishes is intriguing and we decide to stay anyway.

This last dinner on Ambergis Caye is an adventure for two reasons. One is the food- mango lobster, wasabi potatoes and sesame pork and Bloody Mary's. The other is our animated conversation as we plot details of our elaborate scheme for Rob's wedding. Before we know it, the food is gone and we are once more on the beach, taking our stroll slowly because it may be our last.

It is a fairly early night because we know it will have to be an early morning. The golf cart must be dropped by 8:30am and we want to have a good breakfast in us before we face a day of planes, and connecting flights, customs and long car rides.

Honeymoon Chronicles, Part 13

June 6th, 2002

The sky is already a little gray with light when we go out to the beach at 5 am. Amazingly, there are scattered figures moving about already, walking to unknown destinations to start their day. I lay in George's arms, surprisingly awake but relaxed, in a chaise lounge ten feet from the lapping waves of the shore and watch the sky grow pink tinged and blue illuminated in the growing sun. Despite the intensity of the light here so close to the equator, sunrise is still a gentle thing and delightful to watch as the world stirs. A woman from the hotel comes out to sweep the bar floor, open to sand and wind and sea all night.

We go back to be for a brief piece of shut eye since we must wake for a golf cart by 8:30am. Rousing at 7:30, we drag ourselves to breakfast at George's. We are not there long before they are besieged once again by droves of teenage missionaries and their chaperones, who by coincidence are staying at the Playador. We wolf down our food, mine a spicy Juevos Rancheros, George's an omelette, and try to depart ASAP. One of the group leaders next to us, obviously from the South by his loud, irritating accent, is beginning to rhetoricize.

Most of the morning we rumble around in our golf cart, a big, green thing with enormous mud tires that looks like a golf cart on steroids. A bit of shopping and a lot of waffling on how we should spend our day finds us at the Jambel Jerk pit for lunch, a deserted restaurant where the waiter watches TV and seems to be a favorite of the locals. George orders curry and I order jerk and we share. The chicken is spicy but good despite the skin and bones but the best part is the fresh coleslaw, crisp and vinegary.

We decide to parasail again since Tony offered us a two for one special for our second time. We go back to the dock and find the boat out for a long run with about 10 parasailers and not due back for an hour. Wandering about town again and touring the southern back roads, we waste some abundant daylight and return to Fido's dock. The guy who works for him says he is already out again and when we find out he plans to charge us full price, we decide to bag parasailing. It's a long, casual stroll back down the beach and after a bit of air conditioned boredom, we decide to take a dip in the pool.

Our swim turns into a romp of teasing, dancing and playing for an hour or more, with George swimming underwater between my legs and holding my bikini bottom for ransom. After so much activity, we are hungry early and decide to try a restaurant off the beaten path called Casa Picasso.

It opens at six and we drive up in the golf cart just as they swing open the picket gate door. The restaurant is in the bottom part of a white, clapboard house and is ironically situated right in front of the tail end of the airport runway so that planes shake the room and drone out conversation when they land every 20 minutes. But other than this small inconvenience, the place is charming. Run by a young, hip couple trying to make a go of it in Belize's island paradise, they have been open scarcely two months. There is only one young local man who serves as a waiter and whether because of his nervousness or genuine interest, he keeps up a running conversation with us about the ins and outs of the island off and on through dinner. It seems as though he might have missed his calling as a tour guide and his enthusiasm often leaves him searching his English repertoire to find the right word.

The restaurant itself is like someone's back screened porch, surrounded by a sparse but growing garden. Inside it is lit by candlelight and a bit warm, despite several ceiling fans. Eclectically decorated, it reminds me of a Pier 1 with it's tin deco, wildly colored tables and chairs and mix and match pottery. The best part is the music, pipped in from the back room, and it is a mix of oldies, classic rock and jazz. They have cinema Wednesdays here where one wall becomes a screen and they do dinner and a movie TBS style. The movie this week will be Breakfast at Tiffany's and I find myself sorry not to be here.

Dinner begins with a small plate of olive oil, in which the waiter swirls spicy, herbed vinaigrette accompanied by a basket of fresh, soft sourdough french bread. We order two appetizers or as the menu called them, tapas. Our tapas are cool, tomato gazpacho that George claims is like eating salsa with a spoon and shrimp with a tomato dipping sauce. I think both are scrumptious and I'm beginning to be a bit tipsy from the colossal wine glasses, half filled with the burgandy tones of Cabernet Sauvignon. Quite full already from our tempting tapas, enormous bowls of pasta arrive, laced with creamy sauces red or white and liberally garnished with additives like chicken, olives, onions, mushrooms and sun dried tomatoes. Warm and happy with wine, we insist on boxing up our large, uneaten portions and move onto dessert. We sample delectable tart, lemon squares and fresh fluffy carrot cake that's a bit too warm and just slightly dry. A large party has arrived and as we leave, we congratulate the couple on their lovely, unique restaurant and assure them they've done all right.

We return to our home, 3A, with every intention to keep ourselves up until 12 pm when the PSU intern from the front desk of the Playador tells us the noisy nightclub across the street called the Barefoot Iguana really gets hopping. We briefly ducked into the club after hours during the beginning of our stay to get laundry tokens and saw the elaborate jungle decor, lighting and large dance floor. George promised to take me dancing at least once on our honeymoon and this was our chance.

Thelma and Louise, which George has amazingly NEVER seen, is running on one of the cable channels and we settle in to watch it as a way of passing time. Analysis, symbolism and philosophy run thick and we are attentive and talkative. It is only ten thirty and my eyes are heavy, exhausted from our early morning. I decide to give in and after watching ALIVE with George for awhile, turn into bed where I hope he will join me. I have been fighting a freak cold since we've been in the tropics and the nasal drip and sore throat is getting the best of me.

When I begin to doze off and he does not appear as promised, I venture out to the couch to retrieve him. He is surly about me bothering him to come to bed and I get upset and everything escalates from there. It ends well enough though and we hold each other and sleep directly through the night.

Honeymoon Chronicles, Part 12

July 5th, 2002

Our honeymoon is passing quickly and we begin to contemplate what we most want to do before our departure. Over coffee at George's, we decide para sailing is a must. Back at 3A Playador, scrambled eggs and ham and sopapillas are the morning fare and we set out under promising skies to once more rent a golf cart.

CARS-R-US, completely booked again, agrees to reserve us a cart for the weekend. We trek downtown, hoping for a taxi, and finally get one to drop us downtown at Fido's. The taxi driver's interior is decked in red velvet and in the dim light that manages to penetrate through the tinted windows, I see him using a paintbrush to sweep off the persistent dust that permeates everything on the island.

Down at the dock, we find Tony relaxed after his day off yesterday and raving about the massages he and his wife got for their anniversary from Maruba jungle spa, whose advertisements are plastered in almost every roadside stall in San Pedro. Tony's boat needs a new oil filter and so he promises to kick it into high gear and replace it so he can take us out. We tell him to take it easy and that we'll go to the bank and lunch and get back to him in Belize time.

We change money for the third time in a week and I'm sure the young teller, with impeccably manicured hair and nails, thinks we are crazy, extravagant American tourists. Not quite hungry yet, we wander in search of cool gifts for the parentals. Still debating, I stop into a down town beauty salon to get a quote on braiding my hair. The girl is away and the effeminate man who runs the salon says 40 US. Finally, stopping to check out Ambergis Delight, we are drawn in by a waiter's insistence for lunch. The food is good but average for the island and we have snapper and grouper. The most intriguing part of lunch is the Latin TV, parading talk shows, soap operas and a Spanish version of People's Court. George and I try to follow along but find the whole thing wildly confusing.

Down at Fido's dock the motor is still open and Tony is hurrying down the dock, in need of extensions at the hardware store. We promise to return later and grab some ice cream at Mannelly's, a Technicolor, Americanized pink ice cream parlor and arcade where a young girl of about 8 alternates between scooping cones for customers and watching Rugrats on Nickelodeon.

We wander back to the Playador and spend some time soaking air conditioned coolness before scanning the skies and heading back once more to Fido's. We have an appointment at Mata Chica for 7pm at the dock and I've decided to braid my hair and so we are running out of time.

After a glass of water at the bar, Tony is finally ready and offers us a VIP ride for our patience. Tony's assistant, a young local boy with broken English, helps us into our life vests and harness as Tony takes us out from the coast. We are ready rather quickly and are instructed to stumble up to the platform off the back of the boat where the big yellow smiley face sail awaits us. George and I are hooked on and told to sit back and before we can think too much about it, we are up. There is no sudden jerking, just a smooth lift into the skies with our feet dangling out beneath us over a collage of turquoise sea and coral reef. George laughs giddily with surprise like a little boy and I find myself unable to stop smiling.

It is the most incredible thing. Attached to one knotted sailor's rope and held aloft by a parachute sail, Tony's boat moves us slowly, almost imperceptibly, through the air. San Pedro lies before us, clustered along the white sand with its docks stretching like hands into the open, shallow depths of coraled blue green water. The reef seems close from up here and the line of waves breaking stretches along the edge of the horizon. George is snapping pictures like mad and the wind plays gently with us. It is strangely still and quiet up here, hundred of feet up into the perfect, warm arc of sky.

We seem to be up for longer than usual, probably courtesy of our VIP ride. Tony begins to drop us out of the skies and we can feel a tension and tug on the line. And then, slowly, we approach water and are plunged in, laughing and gasping, up to our waist, and dripping are sent aloft again.

Soon enough we are being reeled in for good and are told to simply stand as we near the platform. Dropped out of the sky as if we were in the palm of a hand by Tony's capability, we are exhilarated and back on board.

Still awed, we lazily saunter back to town, and since it is still early, I stop in to get my hair braided. There are some exasperatingly annoying teenage girls getting braids and it takes longer than I anticipated, even with both the guy and the girl, who doesn't seem to speak or understand any English, working steadily. Finally I step into the chair and request a head full of straight braids with two beads, red and white, in the ends. It seems to go on and on forever, the constant tug and pull on my head. George preoccupies himself with interpretations of Spanish TV that is playing the usual daytime fare. He keeps seeing advertisements for a program called "Este Noche" and comments on it. I try not to laugh too hard and explain that this means on "tonight," not the name of the show. He is amused by the way the facial expressions mirror human emotion everywhere and how formulaic most shows are so that we can guess the meaning of what they are saying pretty closely without interpretation.

The man who runs the salon tells jokes and passes out oranges bought yesterday from the boat from Belize. They are fresh and sweet and almost as good as the joke, which goes something like this:
"What do you call a person who speaks three languages?
Trilingual.
What do you call a person who speaks two languages?
Bilingual
What do you call someone who speaks one language?
Gringo."
George has a good chuckle and stores this one away in his memory for future use.

Finally I am done and shaking my head, hearing the clink clink of the braids that will be my companion for the next few days. George says he likes it but to me it is simply strange.

Back at the Playador we being preparations for dinner ala chic at Mata Chica. I don my sarong, showing a little tummy and we hail a taxi ans saunter down to Fido's deck promptly where a stiff wind blows and other scattered couples wait for the water taxi.

The taxi driver strolls down the dock, polite and well versed in English, and leads us on a tour of the North shore that includes pickup and drop off stops at Captain Morgan's and Journey's End before we reach Mata Chica in the dark of starlight. A flash lighted assistant meets us at the dock and leads us to the muted light that is Mata Chica. Outside the arty deco of angles, bamboo and red accents is a blue lit hot tub bubbling serenely, its empty warmth only mildly appealing in the hot evening air. We are puzzled when we are led through a large, sparse, vanilla dining room where even the fans spin artistically and are seated in a waiting area. Then it becomes apparent that even though the restaurant is mostly empty, Mambo wants us to wait and tantalizes us with cocktails. I am immediately unimpressed with such a tactic.

The lobby of the resort, where we have seated ourselves on a pile of red and buff pillows and cushions, is a study in expensive, quirky, European meets Eastern deco art. The middle of the room, which seems which seems to be circular with stairs leading to Mambo and double french doors on the other side opening out to a courtyard, is taken up with an underlit art piece that is comprised of white linen and bamboo, draped to achieve a light tower affect. The rest of the room, decorated in natural colors in red, buff and tan, is simple but accentuated with elaborate pieces like a wrought iron castle birdcage, African and Indian masks, and molding cut in classic eastern shapes and embellishments. Jazz is piping through the stereo system, and the fake blonde hostess is failing miserably at being naturally sincere. The drinks here are somewhat weak and plain looking.

We are invited into the restaurant and seated up front, where the strong wind blowing off the water makes the red table runner fly up into our faces and the tinkling of glass from the bar and murmur of voices drowns out any music that drifts out to us. We order appetizers which are pretty sparse and the wine fairly expensive, is nothing better than average. We seem to have three or four waitresses, all local girls who speak perfect English and look remarkably like each other. The entrees follow the trend of expensive and pretty but unremarkable and dessert is something of a saving grace with a mango cheesecake that is to die for. George and I decide that Mata Chica is artsy and impressive but uncomfortable and awkward and definitely not our style. It is the kind of place that asks you to accommodate yourself to it instead of welcoming and enveloping you.

The water taxi that speeds us back is lovely but the romantic charm of Capricorn's is gone. We have a brief drink at Fido's and then wander back home, pretty sloppy and still feeling sore and tired from our day with El Gato. George and I lay down on the bed for only a few minutes and find ourselves fast asleep for nearly two hours. Because of our inadvertently early night, we decide to set the alarm for 4:30am and watch the sun rise on San Pedro.

Honeymoon Chronicles, Part 11

July 4th, 2002

Our independence day is spent independent from decided action. From beginning to end, it is a day spent in following whims. After our traditional escapade to George's for coffee, where a group of southern mission teenagers have descended and thrown George's restaurant and his wife into harried chaos, we breakfast at home on ham and cheese eggs, bagels and peach nectar and watch CNN, car chase standoffs and celebrity fluff until we become motivated to seek out reality in our island paradise.

Our attempts to rent a golf cart at CARS-R-US are foiled because, while they are half price, they are all rented long ago. We jaunt to the grocery store for more water, chatting withe cashier who has been there every day all day and is beginning to regard us as regulars. Later we wander to a ramshackle place on the beach called Estel's, where the menu is written on a chalkboard and the table inside is clogged and stacked with games of every sort. We lunch on conch fritters with a special sauce that tastes remarkable like McDonald's Big Mac sauce. On a chair next to me lies a wooden bowl, wooden sailboat and a big conch shell we bartered for next door with a sleazy brown skinned old man with rotting teeth whose dirty salesman routine didn't work as well as his bargain basement prices. As the day continues to move toward the horizon we decide to drink our way down the beach. Having begun with rum drinks at Estel's, we move to Mango's where George and I impetuously order doubles of the most enormous, yummy exotic drinks I've ever had. Slightly tipsy and mellowing, we find ourselves at BC's, ordering Pina Coladas and chatting with Jim from Texas. We linger there for nearly an hour, shooting the shit before moving on.

We're pretty slammed when we reach our own Crazy Canuck's and suck down a few Mango Tangos. The conversation gets lively and we leave with some reluctance to finish our mission at Coconuts where we drink solo and watch the bar wenches, thick with jewelry, clumsily try to reconcile the cashier slips. I am solicited by a local woman who, like many here on the island, work on the beach offering handmade jewelry and hair braiding. It's hard to say no and I end up buying a black and white beaded necklace.

Quite drunk, we come back home and dress for a late dinner. Recommended by the barflys at Crazy Canuck's, we decide on Margarita's, a Mexican restaurant up the street only open for dinner. When we arrive, we are escorted through the building and seated on the upstairs patio where the dark is rapidly descending. Intrigued by the sound, we order armadillo eggs for an appetizer, which turn out to be the most delicious poppers I've ever had. The margaritas are so tart with lime and salt that they are nearly undrinkable and the entrees are merely mediocre. But dessert is huge, fluffy, flaky, sweet sopapillas dripping with honey. Stuffed with sweet alcohol and spicy food, we can barely finish up no matter how delicious and end up carting them home for breakfast.

Relaxed, tired and sun burnt sore, the afternoon that began so wildly ends quietly and we find ourselves without regret about our lazy independence day.

Honeymoon Chronicles, Part 10

July 3rd, 2002

After our ritual cup of joe at George's, we whip up a quick bagel and cream cheese breakfast and head to the dock, scanning the approaching sails for our ride. Several minutes later, a catamaran comes into view but stops at the dock ahead that sports a Texaco. The hands on deck wave and gesture and while we try to decide what they mean, the guys from Tuff Nuff insist that El Gato offers dockside service to its guests and we should sit tight.

A figure from El Gato disembarks and makes his way down the dock at a brisk pace. We watch him approach and sure enough, he's come to take us to the catamaran. Tall, wiry and ebony with a polite manner and a long stride, he was difficult to follow over the sandy shore and down the yacht club's weathered but sturdy dock.

Aboard, our companions wait. They are a married couple staying at Mata Chica. The wife, fairly young but plump and blonde, is chatty but not overbearing and the husband reminds me of Aaaron, although a bit quieter. Our captain is another tall, thin man who is hidden behind dark sunglasses and a Denver Broncos t-shirt. He has a fairly thick island accent and seems easy going but commanding and masterful with El Gato.

El Gato (the cat in Spanish), is a simple ship in and of herself. Her hull is simply the two banana shaped cabins whose insides hold a small "lady's room" and storage space, the tarp that serves as a deck, strung tight like a seaside trampoline, and the sail whose unfurled canvas becomes our locomotion. We navigated the shallow harbor and docks by motor but out on the open sea, with El Gato slapping the rounded blue waves, an enormous vanilla sail that felt like canvas and burlap was released and sent her skimming across the ocean to the tune of the wind. I reclined on the taut deck and let the intense Carribean sunshine permeate my skin under the canopy of unbroken, perfect sky. George rode the runners side saddle, soaking in the enormous array of horizon and rise and fall of what was to be a glorious day.

All too soon we were at Shark Ray Alley and all at once, everyone seemed to be strangely reluctant to snorkel. The water was remarkably clear, an indescribable shade of azul and jade, simmering in faucets like a diamond. As El Gato's captain began to throw small fish into the waters, shapes gathered and clustered, bodies thrashing and gliding. Nurse sharks and sting rays, as big or in some cases bigger than me, had come to feed.

Seeing our hesitation, the captain reassured us they were harmless and insisted we get in the water right away or they (the sharks mainly) would leave because feeding had ended. And while their departure sounded appealing and it seemed the height of stupidity for a first time snorkeler to jump into shark infested waters, there was no way we were going to pass up an experience like this. With George leading the way, I took the plunge.

Underwater, it was chaos and thick with bodies, most of them not human. Our guide, arrayed in a wet suit that I became jealous of because of the illusion of protection it seemed to provide, was attempting to catch hold of an elusive sting ray. He held it still long enough for George, close by his side, to pet it before it wriggled away. Sting rays are a bit like puppies and eager for attention and petting as they writhe and rub against you. Most of the sharks, who are more afraid of humans than vice versa, had dispersed. While swimming around the side of the boat, the guide motioned to me and said that there was a sting ray behind me. He sounded so serious an ominous that I gulped water and came up to the surface, flailing and sputtering. A bit panicked, our captain calmed me like a child, helped me grab onto the boat, and cleaned my breath fogged mask. Back underwater, the scene was calmer and we followed the guide in exploring a bit of the reef and sea floor before heading back to the boat. As I swam back, the waters became thick again with stingrays and the occasional shark. Unbeknown to me, other guide and tour boats had arrived in Shark Ray Alley and were feeding the rays and sharks to bring them in closer. As I rounded the corner of the boat, with George right behind me. I felt almost as if my flipped were stuck in some squishy quicksand. A second later it was released and I scrambled aboard, where our captain graciously showered and rinsed us with fresh water over the side, and George informed me that I had kicked a stingray squarely in my efforts to round the boat and get aboard.

We set sail once again in the mid day sun and while the wind kept us cool, I began to get more than a little seasick. Always a victim of motion sickness since I was a child, I could do little more than reside on my deck mat and close my eyes, willing the nausea to stop. It was not working. I gratefully accepted the dramamine the other couple offered but since it would not take affect for another half hour, most of our journey to Caye Caulker seemed long and choppy to me. It was difficult, however, to justify complaining about any of this under such glorious circumstances and so I simply lay as still as possible until we docked.

Caye Caulker does indeed make Ambergis Caye look like a metropolis. While it was quaint and very relaxed, it bordered on stagnant and I saw immediately that I would have been stir crazy in a few days or less if we had stayed here instead. There was really only one main street and in our short two hour layover there we caroused it form end to end. A few gift shops, a handful of restaurants and bars and a few street merchants were all that were to be found. Many places were closed and there were many staring locals who surveyed you so closely that it bordered on hostility. The island was overrun with hippie backpackers almost exclusively and this seemed to add to the strange atmosphere.

After this brief carousel, we settled into lunch at the only local establishment that seemed to be open, the Rainbow Bar. Run by only one married, teenage local girl, we patiently waited along with the companions and crew from El Gato for a spicy, authentic lunch. There was a group of Mexican men sitting at the bar with our captain and guide who kept scanning everything in the room with breasts and a pulse so obviously that it was comical. As in Ambergis Caye, people watching is really the only entertainment you'll ever need.

We have a scarce twenty minutes or less before El Gato disembarks and the San Diego wife, a shopping addict who has already done some significant damage on the island, races off to finish the job. I do my best to come away with at least a memento and come away with another sarong- a frayed edge thing with earth tones and scrolled paisley.

Back on the rolling seas, I find the Dramamine has kicked in and I am able to enjoy our late afternoon meander to the Ho Chan Reserve. The waves sometimes splash over the sides and shock us with their salty surprise and I enjoy my own turn riding the saddle. Ho Chan is close to Ambergis Caye and clustered with tour boats in the afternoon sun. A small area scarcely a quarter mile square, shallow and filled with coral reefs that peak their heads above the waves, it is easy to see why this is a popular snorkeling spot. We are allowed to jump in after paying a park ranger in a boat our fee for the stay. The guide explains it is important for us to stay close together and we're off.

The waters are crowded and we are not far from the boat before I feel surrounded by reef, divers, snorkelers and huge schools of fish. Almost every time I move, I collide with someone in our group and the divers clustered in groups on the bottom are easy to spot where the sea floor drops away. The reef is an intricate maze of strangely shaped coral, colorful plants swaying in the current and even the occasional sting ray. We float past a group of snorkelers and I recognize a couple from dinner at Capricorn's or people from around town. Even here, underwater, it is still a small world.

Eventually it is time to make our way back and we follow one another back to El Gato, where a school of huge menacing looking fish have gathered below the ladder. Our captian explains they are a type of dogfish, akin to tuna, as we climb aboard.

The trip home and to dock is entirely too short and sun burnt but elated we say our good-byes. As we knew it would be, it has been an amazing and beautiful day. It is still light out but the sun has calmed and we make our way to the grocery store for aloe vera gel, which we know we will need tomorrow.

Tired but a bit giddy yet on rum punch, we know the toil of the day will set in soon. Ordering a pizza to be delivered to the room, we shower and later eat and spend a quiet, lovely couple of hours laying in each other's arms by the glare of the TV until sleep overtakes us.

Honeymoon Chronicles, Part 9

July 2, 2002

We quickly attempt to establish ourselves as regulars at the local diner, George's. Tumbling out of bed, sleepy-eyed, we throw on clothes and journey a scarce 100 steps up the lane and seat ourselves at the counter. George's wife is bustling about, a sturdy woman with short black hair who appears to be a native Belizean. She helps us to good, full bodied coffee with fresh cream in a small glass tumbler. The sugar is stuck and we have to shift among the gnats to get pure granules. Undaunted by this, we pursue and satiate our daily caffeine fix.

Returning back home (Playador 3A), we have a little breakfast feast of cinnamon rolls we got from the bakery downtown yesterday and peach juice, thick and sweet and deep, rusty orange. We are slow moving and luxuriously lazy and it is much closer to noon before we are ready to begin our day and play in earnest.

George and I, already committed to snorkeling tomorrow, have never snorkeled in our lives and are starting to feel some anxiety about our approaching trip on El Gato. Taking Tony's advice, we go to the dive shop at the end of the Playador dock and rent equipment from a long haired, young islander who gives the impression of being a bit of a snake. I insist on a trial run in the pool.

We wait until the coast is clear, a bit embarrassed to be two grown adults in the swimming pool with flippers and masks. But nearly anything is endurable in good company. Our first initial trial goes well. although it is easy and not so easy at the same time to breathe exclusively through your mouth. Both George and I have difficulty when we tilt our heads up too far and get water in our tubes, which sends us up sputtering and coughing to the surface. As hard as I try, I can never clear all the water no matter how I huff and puff and we give up on perfection and head to try out our new found skills under the dock of Ramon's Village.

Tony at Fido's recommended Ramon's because there is a great deal of rock, fish, coral, etc. both naturally grown and placed under the waves and it is fairly shallow and calm. Best of all, it's free. Also, the swimming platform and steps into the water make it easy for newbie snorkelers like us. Despite my fears of the murky depths and my inadequacies as a swimmer, I plunge in and quickly feel at home while George struggles with water in his tube and mask. The waves are at times a bit choppy, dancing in the wake of rocking boats and passing barges and water taxis, but I amazed at how easily I float in the unbelievably salty water and find it easier and more enjoyable than my usual flailing attempts at swimming.

After only a half hour or so we find ourselves weary and have explored most of the underwater action around and under the dock. Jaunting home along the beach to change, we retrace our steps back downtown for lunch at Celi's. Celi's is a small restaurant with a street side deli counter and a small, screened in dining room beach side noted for good sandwiches and local favorites. We are the last to slide in under the 2pm deadline for lunch and enjoy our inexpensive meals. Mine is a delicious chicken salad sandwich and George partakes of a local dish with Mayan marinated meat on small squares of fried pastry topped with cheese, salsa and shredded lettuce.

With a free afternoon stretching out before us, we opt to rent a jet ski from Tony for some high adventure. George encourages me to get my own but I refuse as a first timer and insist on hanging onto the poor guy. It becomes quickly apparent that this was probably a bad idea on my part. While the force with which the motor blasts us across the blue faceted shallows and shimmering waters is exhilarating, it is nearly impossible to keep hold as a passenger. Despite my death grip around George's waist, thumbs hooked into the belts of his life jacket, my ass slides back on the slippery vinyl surface and no amount of griping my thighs viselike will keep me from bouncing. Every wave we smack into resounds through my bones with a vibrating thud. Secondly, we realize goggles would have been an invaluable asset due to the brine and excessive salt in the waters here. Despite sunglasses, the water slaps up into our faces when we turn, head into waves or even slow down and it stings like hell. Several times we have to stop, allow our eyes to tear and clear a bit before we can go on.

Despite the discomfort and feeling of loss of control that comes with so much speed, force and jarring, it is still a beautiful, exhilarating thing to skim and bounce and challenge the momentum of the ocean under a perfect sky in a warm, Carribean place. I even consent to drive for awhile and as George promised, I find it a much more pleasant experience although I still feel somewhat discomforted by the intense speed and torque.

Back at Fido's an hour later, we are blessedly invited to wash off under their dockside shower and we pad once again back down the beach and home to our transient abode, to relax and regroup.

Later, showered and dressed, we enjoy a drink (strong- the bartender's specialty at Crazy Canuck's "Mango Tango") and some pre-dinner chat with Pirate and company. We have dinner reservations at Capricorn's, a restaurant on the North end of the island touted both in the guidebook and by the locals as fabulous. Run by a French and British couple who want to keep things small, it is a restaurant with a bed and breakfast feel. We reach it, along with a few other guests by water taxi and only get mildly splashed in the dimming light that grows dark by the time we reach the restaurant dock. The "woman" of the house, a short-haired, older, somewhat eccentric looking blonde woman with a lovely Brit accent, shows us to our table and situates me on one side of the table because of the wind. "So you won't be eating your hair, dear," she explains. There is quite a good breeze stirring the night air and playing among the waves and it makes eating on the porch seem special and quaint.

A bottle of wine and bruschetta with tomatoes so fresh and crisp they taste off the vine today, and George and I become involved in deep conversation about our lives, our purposes. It seems a perfect, romantic situation and when the talk turns too intense, it is easy to remember why we are here and enjoy it. Then enters our entree- we have both ordered Filet Mignon. One sensuous, tender mouthful tell us all we need to know about our chef- he loves his steak. From the amazing taste of it we can imagine him in the kitchen at night, kneading it by hand. By this time, quite giddy with our pre dinner drinks and having knocked off an entire bottle of wine, we are contemplating approaching the kitchen window and complimenting him on the best steak we've ever had the honor to eat.

The night has really fallen now and the sea is calm and mirrors the open vibrancy of the night sky. George and I, with no water taxi in sight, are not in the least bit distressed in being stranded in such a lovely place and belly up to the adjoining bar to order Mai Tais. They are mixed so strong they make me wince and we sip happily in little wooden lounge chairs under the vaulted ceiling of an enormous, clear sky. I even give the hammock a try and find it a perfect spot and difficult to abandon when the water taxi finally presents itself.

Perhaps the best part of our night, even the best part of our honeymoon, happens now with our drinks in "to go" cups, sitting side by side in the water taxi. Two local girls are hitching a ride home, but otherwise it is just us and it is quiet as we set off. The driver guns it and sends us skimming across the dark mass of ocean under a canopy of stars that seems like a symphony. All the constellations here are strange to me and even the ones I know seem tipped on their sides, but the milky way is clear as day and lays like a glimmering fog drawing a ribbon across the heavens. Words would only destroy the clarity of those few minutes and so we sit silent, hands clasped.

Momentarily disappointed to be back on land, we return to the bar and find Pirate still holding court with the bartender. We rejoin and briefly continue our evening, but liquored drowsiness sets in and finds us retreating towards sleep, relishing another beautiful day.

Honeymoon Chronicles, Part 8

July 1, 2002

The morning finds us early risers, although not THAT early since the sun rises here at 5:30am. We sip coffee and nibble cinnamon toast in Coconuts lobby. There is a beautiful Latino baby toddling about with warm brown eyes and soft curls, cooing and exploring every object not nailed down in the lobby and behind the desk. Her father, wearing a t-short that claims "If found unconscious, return to Coconut's bar," is watching over her and later, attempts to introduce her to an enormous lost crab that is wandering outside, knocking on guest's doors with its one defunct claw.

As the morning melts away we do laundry and inquire into rooms at the Playador and rent a golf cart for the day. This absorbs most of the morning. Once we have a suite at the Playador, 3A, everything becomes much more relaxed. The Playador is a cluster of thatched roof, two story units centered around a small square pool and palm trees curved by the beach winds. On one corner is a busy little beach front bar called Crazy Canucks that seems to always be frequented by colorful regulars. Out front is a sweet, open stretch of white sandy beach with jade and turquoise waters calmly lapping the shore. At the end of Playador's rickety, weather worn dock is a dive shop called Tuff-Nuff that seems a bit rough and seedy.

Our room is a small suite graced with a kitchenette with full sized fridge, range and microwave and a collection of oddly matched utensils and simple dishes and glassware. A white tiled eating bar with matching blue seashell pattern fold out couch and small color TV, along with a matching wicker dining set in one crowded corner and a glass topped coffee table that sits at an odd angle at the end of the couch to allow you to get in and out of the double french doors that lead to the outside patio completes the living area. The windows and doors are graced with simple off white linen curtains and venetian blinds. The floor throughout is a tan, muddled tiled that seems unable to stay clear of sand and dust however clean it is. The bedroom consists of a small, open, shallow closet, a dresser with drawers that are difficult to slide, a queen sized bed with a typical hotel flowered bedspread, and a air conditioner that cranks out frigid air 24-7. The bathroom is simple and plain and the water, unfortunately, reeks of sulfur and often goes suddenly hot or cold.

We enjoy the pleasure of zipping around the island in our golf cart after our torturous walk of yesterday. The island itself, at least San Pedro, is an oddity that deserves description. Comprised of only a few dusty , sandy streets of either dirt or red brick aptly named things like Front, Middle or Back street by the locals, they are paced with speed bumps that are similar to the mainland ones- squared cement or in some odd places simply coiled rope stretched across the ground. The dusty sand is several inches deep in the gutters and littered with potholes and bumps all over town. Business owners often water the streets in the heat of the day to tame the grit that often flies into the eyes of golf cart taxis and bike drivers alike. Most locals seem to have their own vehicles or golf carts and are not shy about inspecting passersby and tourists with long stares. However they are mostly friendly and smile in response, nod or wave hello to strangers and locals alike. San Pedro is a town whose wheels are greased almost exclusively by tourism and downtown, which is half a mile of beach front as well as the street behind, is nothing more than a cluster of look alike gift shops, so many restaurants and bars that we could never try them all, and a few useful things like a bank, church and post office as well as a few beauty salons who cater to braiding giddy tourist hair into dreadlocks. On Ambergis Caye, everyone seems pretty- toasted by the sun and scantily clad, bodies toned by hours of life on the water. Both tourists and locals alike seemed graced with the beautiful bone structure of Latino women or the curvaceous, sexy bodies of the young and buff. There seem to be quite a few groups of average, shy college women traveling together as well as large groups of high school kids doing "mission" work for churches in the states. Americans, as to be expected, out number tourists of other nationalities ten to one.

The resorts stretch from the North to the South of the island with the smaller, less expensive resorts in town and the extravagant, larger resorts clustered across the channel to the North. Places like Mata Chica have hosted the rich and famous and Captain Morgan's and Journey's End were the scene of the first Temptation Island. In the afternoon we take the ferry across in the golf cart. "The Ferry" is a wooden platform attached to ropes that the two men work as a system of pulleys to bring the twenty foot by ten foot ferry across the shallow, waist high blue water that interrupts the island road for scarcely a hundred feet. On the other side it is suddenly swampy and the shacks from mainland Belize make a brief appearance in the distance. After navigating a nearly impassable stretch of potholes in the golf cart, we pass into a lush lane of private residences and restaurant resorts spread out on the unpopulated north shores. We only continue briefly before the rental restrictions on the cart specify we must turn back and leave the rest of the island for exploration by water taxi.

George and I lunch lazily at Fido's on jalapeño poppers stuffed with warm cream cheese, spicy fajitas and deep fried snapper with fresh, vinegar coleslaw and Belikin. Wandering down Fido's dock we find Tony of Tony's Para sailing and water sports who reels us in with his enthusiasm, laid back attitude, and great salesmanship. Tanned as deep as any local, with gold chains and long brown hair, Tony would look Italian if it wasn't for his thin, petite frame grizzled with lean muscle. He presents us with a great deal- a full day on a Catamaran charter with two snorkel stops at Ho Chan reserve and Shark Ray Alley as well as a two hour lunch layover at Caye Caulker and complimentary Rum Punch. After a short stop at the grocery store for the fourth time that day to purchase water in mass and stock the fridge with breakfast groceries, we realize Tony's proposal is a fabulous deal and go back to book immediately for Wednesday. He manages to find another couple to join us (El Gato will only sail with 4-8 passengers) and we are confirmed.

We spend the rest of our afternoon idly shopping with the only purchase a beautiful red silk sarong for the kazmus. Driving past Playador we find a few more resorts, mostly overly tacky and extravagant, as well as a few hidden, interesting restaurants on back streets.

When we return the cart and come back to the Playador, George is not feeling well and has become an overly frequent visitor to the bathroom. After some persuasion, he is convinced that dinner is an acceptable idea. I happily don my new sarong and we take a taxi down to Elvi's.

Elvi's would look more like a snappy downtown New York Bistro if it's floor wasn't sand and there wasn't an enormous tree gracing the inside and reaching its branches through the roof. Elvi's serves wonderfully fresh seafood and spicy dishes. George, too ill and restless to enjoy it, deserts his Mayan Chicken wrapped in a Plantain leaf, and we return home to cuddle and soak in some television so George can find health and relaxation.

Unfortunately, on our return, we discover an alarming emergency . We are out of toilet paper and the office is closed and the office intern is out to dinner. Finally, in desperation, I crash a party in the next building and beg a roll from a burly looking man with gray hair, tattooed and a long, pointed goatee who graciously humors my request. I return with the roll as a triumphant savior and we end our night successfully.

Honeymoon Chronicles, Part 7

June 30th, 2002

Breakfast is a normal affair and excitement builds as we begin to contemplate leaving for the islands. After settling our bill, collecting our things, and waiting for Jeronie, it is nearly nine before we set off. The Canadians have made plans to leave today as well but later and are incorporating a stop at the zoo before flying on to Ambergis Caye. They plan to stay at Zanadu and George and I are somewhat relieved to not be encumbered with their company.

It is a sunny, beautiful day that begins with only teasing shadows of puffy white clouds. The "highway" from San Ignacio to Belize City is reborn in the wash of sunlight. Everything looks more scenic and lovely now that it is illuminated rather than oppressed with dark gray skies. We pass colorful homes with laundry flapping in the breeze, ramshackle establishments sporting Fanta, Belikin, and Coca Cola and all manner of good natured pedestrians on bike, foot and trucks with broken shocks. The pasture land so rurally beautiful in Guatemala is evident here as well, dotted by citrus groves, swamps called "mangroves" bY the locals, and all variety of houses from white washed to clapboard in various stages of upkeep and disintegration.

We reach the chaos and crowds of Belize City sooner than anticipated and are dropped at the water taxi station. Unable to catch the next departing taxi, we must wait for the noon taxi in the smelly, empty building with a few wooden benches and tables, bags of trash lying about, two stands sporting soda, tours, money exchange, cameras, M&Ms and a food stand that serves unidentified plates of unidentifiable food to locals. We have to pay .50 cents Belizean to even use the bathroom to a cocoa skinned, shiftless man with one tooth. George and I keep close tabs on our bags as we pass the next hour watching people come and go and playing gin rummi. Most of the water taxi passengers seem to be young, hippie backpackers or athletic, tan college kids in groups.

The hour passes quickly and we are surrendering our bags and boarding before we know it. Around Belize City's shoreline, the gulf waters look similar to the muddy green river water and are clogged with seaweed and debris. But within ten minutes from shore, the waters are bluer than the sky and so clear, you swear you can see the bottom. Tinged a cellulean blue you only see in the Carribean, the ocean stretches out before us and the boat skims and jumps over the waves full throttle. In short, it is already magnificent.

A strange crew accompanies us to the Cayes. There is a European family of mixed nationalities with a spoiled brat of a kid and a punk ass boy of about 8 or 9 who is jumping about the ship decked out in electronics and eating cookies. Two couples of the hippie variety chat across from us- one a rather geeky but pretty teacher with light chocolate skin, a round face, and slightly "Guatemalan" sense of style that she admits to having sewn herself. Her partner is a quiet, long, frizzy haired boy with glasses that looks slightly delicate and feminine, sporting a Guatemalan handbag and birks and looking a bit unshowered. The other couple, rough around the edges and sloppy, are backpackers and have obviously been on the Cayes awhile and have lots of advice to offer. Our first stop is the white, deserted sands of Caye Chapel, sporting the only golf course and the most exorbitant price tag for a resort on these islands. Only one passenger jumps off into a waiting golf cart and then we're back on the open seas.

It's quite a long, pleasant space of sun and turquoise sea until we pull into the dock at Caye Caulker and idle there for several minutes. The clear, shallow water is multi faceted and sharp and it's hard to resist jumping in immediately. The strong breeze is a delicious relief.

Soon enough we set out again and are straining and searching the horizon for Ambergis Caye. An island appears and grows larger as we approach. The resorts with sweeping porches in pink and white stucco and red tile roofs become visible. From there it is a mass of confusion- docking, luggage, people milling about, aggressive taxi drivers and a smattering of Creole Spanish that melts seamlessly into English when directed at us. We have decided to stay at Coconuts and find a driver to convey us for 5 dollars Belizean. The streets pass quickly and are clogged with golf carts, trucks, pedestrians, taxis and speed bumps. Dust and sand swirls about the tires and the ocean isn't visible from this back street.

At Coconuts we step into a cool, white tiled lobby where a pretty, helpful local girl checks us in and takes us to our room. We are famished and do little more than drop our bags, glance at the small stretch of white sand, palm trees and hammocks swaying in the idyllic island breeze and go in search of food. We find it at a small local place, empty at this time of day, called George's. A middle aged man lounging up front at a table, obviously a regular, hollers out to George who comes out with menus. We have delicious, warm toasty sandwiches- ham and cheese and chicken breast. It is nearly three o'clock and we decide to go into town in search of Hotel Del Rio, where we have reservations for tomorrow. Setting out on foot in the waning sun along the dusty road, it seems exciting and adventurous to explore San Pedro.

That feeling is squashed quickly by the intense beating of the sun and heat and the dusty, white, powdery sand that lines the gutters of the street. What was a short, bumpy jaunt in the taxi to the hotel becomes a long, weary, hot stretch of road that seems endless. Refusing to surrender to the circumstances, we plunge along down the front street past small, tacky gift shops, loitering locals, and hotel and bar establishments with colorful signs and brightly painted exteriors. Their names match up with my guide book memories- Fido's, Ruby's, Estel's, Elvi's. Front street ends and we are thrown onto a back street that is more residential. Discouraged that we have not yet run into Hotel Del Rio, George and I become grouchy and silent, overwhelmed by the confusion and newness of our surroundings. We reach Hotel Del Rio finally when we have almost reached the channel, where a previous hurricane divided the island into North and South sections. It is a cute cluster of thatched cabanas but the beach is nearly non existent and the waters floating in seaweed. And I know that the non air conditioned cabanas in this heat will be difficult to bear. We discuss our options on the way back.

Enormously tired and mostly unappreciative of our tropical surroundings, we fall back into the cool, simple hotel room to shower and regain our composure. Deciding to put off laundry until the morning, we journey down to the beach to a place called Mango's with colorful stools on a stretch of pretty beach under a canopy of tree and thatched roof. The have a long and delicious menu of drinks and the food is simple and spicy. Service however is slow and the clientèle, mostly American and young, seem quiet and uncomfortable.

Our stroll back down the beach to the hotel is shorter and much more pleasant. We pay attention to the beach side resorts to see where we might like to stay and while the extravagant fantasy for Ramon's Village is appealing, the similar structures of Hotel Playador seem more realistic. Back at Coconuts, the wind has grown wild and the bar is full. While tempted, we are drawn to the cool comfort of our room, the quiet murmur of TV and an early night of long, dreamless sleep.

Honeymoon Chronicles, Part 6

June 29th, 2002

Our morning begins quite normally with a traditional breakfast (tortillas, eggs, beans, juice, etc.) and as much coffee as we can swallow. Coffee here is not a completely enjoyable experience since the creamer is CREMORA, which tastes akin to warm, evaporated milk. We spend the first few hours of our morning, writing, reading and finally, getting ready to canoe.

At ten we are loaded into a dirty, old rusty FORD whose speedometer and other such dials swinging in rapid circles of broken confusion. A young man whom I've seen around the property and must somehow be related to the Tuts, transports us up river to our launch site. The canoe sits precarious on the roof and bed and I begin to wonder if the man riding in the back is really there simply to keep it from falling out onto the roadside. We take a right and climb washed out dirt lanes that look little more than horse trails, where the dense vegetation scraps the roof and flies into your face at the windows.

Suddenly we are there and then man jumps down, unloads the canoe, and wrapping the rope about his arm, drags it downhill. We scramble after him as he slides and bumps our boat down the muddy, rocky approach to the river.

Suddenly, the rocky jungle trail below us turns into weathered planks and splinters of gray wood and we are standing in an enormous washout. The recent floodwaters have pushed debris far up into this jungle cove from the swelled river. With the receding of the waters, the field of splintered debris has been stranded here. It lays several feet deep and hundreds of feet wide and is stunning to comprehend.

Life jackets are tossed into the boat and we are left to make our way down river. Here the waters are shallow, wide and calm with muddied yellow tones and the jungle growing high on the cliffs above. Birds of all varieties, chirp, call, swoop and dive into the current on every side and the sun is warm on our shoulders. We float and paddle and drift our way down the meandering waters and George teaches me the basics of paddling canoe. After putting in at shore briefly on a small, sandy stretch of white beach to carouse, we continue lazily towards our destination.

After a few false alarms, we find Chaa Creek's riverside dock and tie up the canoe. Following a dense trail through the back of Chaa Creek, we emerge into the extravagant resort. Beautifully Americanized, landscaped to perfection with thatched cabanas and white washed structures, Chaa Creek sports a renowned spa and butterfly farm, which is the purpose of our visit. While scenic, it seems a bit removed form reality and we can see that most of the staff, as well as the guests, speak, dress and act perfect American.

On the hill, after some confusion about our direction, we stumble on the butterfly farm. After a brief, mostly unsatisfying journey through the museum exhibiting locals snakes in jars, pickled, pinned samples of insects such as scorpions, beetles, tarantulas, moths and butterflies and a model of a Mayan hit, we get our own butterfly seminar. Our first stop is the cage, where blue Mots are being bred. The flit and flirt about the cage in brilliant displays of blue and brown and are in various stages of life. In a glass case, cocooned butterflies encased in their pupas hang from masking tape marked with their expected emergence dates. Outside, our guide offers us a personal exhibit of the development of these butterflies from transparent eggs embedded in the leaves to fat, furry caterpillars laced with cyanide and perfect congealed cases of green pupa. Fascinating and more intricate than we had imagined, George and I listen with interest.

We head down hill, slightly dirty and sweaty, to infiltrate the Chaa restaurant for lunch. Feasting on Margaritas, fried chicken fingers and fries and an enormous chef salad, we talk animatedly, thrilled with our experiences thus far on this beautiful day. Topped off with vanilla ice cream, a rarity in the jungle, we head back to the canoe.

Our initial attempts to head the canoe down river are sloppy but we soon recover. Farther down river on our journey, the wind begins to blow substantially and we have to counter paddle. Then it begins to rain, scattered sprinkles that quickly turn to hard, fat pelting drops. They hit the surface of the water and seem almost to bounce off as the wind blows wrinkles into the river.

The rain lets up and we round a corner into the shores of Crystal Paradise. Down by the river the massage therapist, Lisa, and a friend of hers are lounging. Pulling the boat onshore, we stop to let them inspect our rings and then continue uphill to the resort. Halfway up it begins to pour as only a tropical storm can and we become soaked to the skin. The world seems to disappear under a heavy curtain of rain and slide away under our feet.

The rest of our afternoon is spent in pampered luxury as Lisa massages, rubs and works our worries away in her dim, scented cool cabana.

Dinner had a more local flavor and made me almost sorry we had plans to leave the next day. Nachos, a spicy rice and beef stew and the soft, yummy flour tortillas. We packed and went to bed, excited to see what the islands had in store for us.