Belize and Guatemala - From the Reefs to the Ruins

Over the period of twenty-one days, we traveled from North America’s largest barrier reef off-shore from Belize’s southern beaches, then to the Mayan Ruins and cave systems in the border region at Guatemala, and then back to Belize’s northern beaches, cayes, and reefs.

Hopkins Village

The open top boat idled off shore from the beach that fronted our bungalow. The captain waved us into the water, instructing us to wade out to board.  The 150 horse motor pushed us into strong headwinds as we made slow but steady progress out to the reef, a trip that normally takes only 30 minutes to reach but today would take a full hour.

At the Southwater Caye Marine Reserve, we donned our masks and snorkels and followed Captain B and his first mate to explore the underwater mysteries in this gem of Belize, part of the second largest reef system in the world.

Sharks, rays (one being as big as a small car), Parrot fish, barracudas, Angel fish, colorful coral and many other neon-colored fish too numerous to count were all on display, expertly pointed out by our guides who swam deep below us to show what they were discovering, things we would have missed had it not been for them

“This is our office,” Captain B explained, waving his hand out over the ocean. “This is what we know.”

After several hours, we sped back, assisted by what were now strong tailwinds, to the small village of Hopkins where we were staying for the first of three weeks in this wonderful country. Our landing was as unique as our earlier boarding: a high-speed approach to the beach followed by a grounding of the boat high up into the sand.

Our snokeling guides, Captian B (l) and his first mate.

The population of Hopkins and other points along these southern shores of Belize are made up of the Garifuna people. They are descendants of Nigerians who, in the 1600s, were shipwrecked on Caribbean islands farther to the east. They mixed with the indigenous peoples of those islands but were then relocated to this part of Belize by the British for reasons only tolerated centuries ago. Their culture thrives to this day.

A part of their culture that survives is their music, mainly through the percussive beat of their drums and other instruments. 

A concert was performed for us and other onlookers one evening at a nearby beach-side restaurant. The drummers’ hands would blur as the tempo of their beats increased and the chanting by others became trance-like. Adding a surreal aura to our experience was the full moon, rising from the dark ocean’s horizon.

A video (1:30) of this performance is here:

At the outset of most of our days, we had to make a hard decision: Should we walk north along the beach? Maybe heading south would be better? What do you think? How about we go north today and then south the following day. Sounds good. Whew, tough way to live.

Village dogs usually followed us at the start of our walk but in time lose interest and slink off. We also had to occasionally give way to horses making their own daily walk down the beach at water’s edge.

We all read about the amount of plastic waste in the world’s oceans. This problem is very apparent here in Belize. The beach had all types of plastic mixed in with the sand and seaweed. We saw some tourists picking up what they could, but it hardly made a dent in all that we saw. I don’t see how this problem can ever be adequately addressed.

Along the way, locals would cheerily greet us. Most wave with a hearty “hello” or “good morning.” Some ask for money in exchange for their homemade wood crafts and woven baskets. Others, like a young schoolboy we saw one morning, simply ask for some coins to help them buy lunch at school.

One day, several people were struggling to push their boat off the beach and into the surf. They gladly accepted my offer to help push. Soon, they were on their way across the open water.

A short video (40 sec) of this effort is here.

There are no chain or corporate restaurants or hotels here. All appear to be locally owned and operated. Some of them look fancy, others more basic. They are all interspersed with the homes of the local people living in very rustic and, sometimes, run-down conditions, all on what elsewhere in the Caribbean would be million-dollar beachfront properties. 

We normally returned to our bungalow via the town’s main and, for the most part, only street. 

Hopkins' public library. 

...and its librarian. 

MK attended mass at the Catholic church where Garifuna drumming replaced the conventional music that most of us are used to when worshiping back home. 

Once back at the hotel, we usually visited with other like-minded travelers who were staying in our complex and who we have befriended. We all sit and relax for the balance of the day, reading, swapping stories, or simply staring out over the ocean.

The daily view from our deck.

Our bungalow. 

The number of no-see-ums and other biting insects here are legion. MK sports a pretty bad reaction to them before visiting the town's only pharmacy for treatment. 

MK + bugs = cankles.

As always, she endured with a smile, a laugh, and overall good humor. She recovered quite nicely as we prepared for the next phase of our trip. 

Border Region - San Ignacio, Belize and Guatemala

We left the coast and headed west along the Hummingbird Highway toward the Guatemalan border. Endless orange, lime and coconut groves and plantations bordered the road as it coursed its way through the valleys all of which were surrounded by an arena of green, jungle-clad hills and mountains.

Once in the mountains, the agricultural areas gave way to limestone outcroppings, cave systems, crystal-clear streams, and signs leading to numerous national parks. The only blemish was a public solid waste transfer station, its chain-link fence barely working to contain the rubbish and trash that was strewn about. Nearby was a billboard exhorting all to “Please, do not litter!”.

In the miles leading to the larger city of San Ignacio, we passed through small villages and towns with interesting place names. Armenia School, Cave Branch, Roaring Creek, Blackman Eddy, Tea Kettle, and, my favorite, Camelote, which made me wonder how many times 13-year-old boys have changed the order of two of letters in the name on the town’s sign to instead announce one’s arrival at something very different.

The main bridge leading into San Ignacio.

We were picked up at dawn the following morning by our guide Omar for our journey into Guatemala and toward the Mayan ruins of Tikal. We were joined by three 30-something women, all friends from the Washington D.C area who regularly travel together.

With the D.C ladies. 

With Omar, our guide. 

At the border, we were met with the bureaucracy typically experienced when passing through developing countries. About 30 minutes were spent having to stop at various desks and stations to get our passports checked and stamped to exit Belize (and pay $20USD for the privilege of doing so). Then there was another series of desks and stations to get even more stamps, papers, and permits to enter into Guatemala.

All the while, bus loads of school children passed by the border guards with little notice, leaving Guatemala and toward the better schools in Belize where English is taught. Later in the afternoon, we would see these same school buses making the reverse trip, dropping off the kids for their return to their homes in Guatemala.

After a couple of hours, we arrived at Tikal, one of the largest archeological sites of the pre-Columbian Mayan civilization. We soon learned that Omar was a walking encyclopedia and a font of knowledge of the history of Tikal and all things Mayan (being a Mayan himself). During the height of its occupation (200BC. to AD900), Tikal was a sizeable city of nearly 90,000 people.

Today, only 20-percent of the ruins have been uncovered and restored. This portion must be continuously maintained and cared for to hold back and keep in check the perpetual advance and rapid encroachment of the jungle and its attempt to reclaim the site.

The remaining 80-percent of the site is covered in a millennium’s worth of green foliage and brown, leaf-strewn soil, waiting for the day when resources are available to expose the ruins once again to daylight thereby allowing for further study, research, and tourist visitation. Meanwhile, the roots of the trees and teeming numbers of jungle plants embrace the stones and relics hidden underneath, keeping all intact and away from the harsh effects of erosion.

A walk through the jungle, sometimes along narrow paths, was required to get to these restored areas. Omar said we had to walk quickly. Last month, he and his group were followed by a menancing jaguar for about 100 yards and he didn't want to relive that experience. He also said if we see a log or thick stick, and it is moving, that we are not to pick it up. "For obvious reasons," he said when one in our group asked why. 

The alignment of the temples was such that they instructed the Mayans the proper times of the year to plant and harvest their crops. Celebrations and feasts were also planned depending on where the sun and the stars set at the horizon relative to the positioning of the temples. 

The temples were not just oversized astronomical devices. They also housed deities of the Mayan world were priests, priestesses, and nobles worshiped and prayed. Temple One, or the Temple of the Jaguar, is the most famous, built by Jasaw Chan K'awiil I in around AD700. Across the plaza from Temple One is Temple Two, Guatemala’s Taj Mahal being that it was built in honor of and love for the ruler’s wife.

Temple One.

Temple Two.

The site was largely abandoned around AD950 when overpopulation and drought made living there more and more untenable and unsustainable. After adding in crippling diseases, a series of famines, and a war or two fought over the dwindling resources, the fate of Tikal was sealed. This ancient city was never to again to be lived in.  

We spent the next couple of days back in town exploring its offerings.

We shopped at the large market which was set up near the river. There, we ate our breakfast of fresh breads and tasty burritos. We followed this with the purchase of various fresh fruit, vegetables, and other produce which we used to cook with back at our apartment.

We walked to the southern part of town where a lesser know Mayan ruin is located. In a very quite and shaded area were the ruins of Cahal Pech. Evidence suggests it was built as early as 1200BC making it one of the oldest Mayan sites in the region. 

Being at the top of a hill with a commanding view of the surrounding area, it is thought that this was built more as a fort and garrison rather than the more spiritual and astronomical purposes of Tikal. 

Let's climb to the top.

Almost there.

ta da!

And now down safely....

...and back to our apartment...

...where our new friend awaits.

We later added some sweetness to our days by participating in a chocolate making and tasting tour. From the raw cacao fruit, the seeds are fermented until they turn into a purple-ish color. After these are roasted (or sun dried), the shells are removed (sometimes the shells are used to make teas).

The cacao fruit, seeds inside.

Grinding the seeds into a paste.

What is left over are the chocolate nibs. These are ground down (originally using a mortar and pestle made of volcanic rock) to extrude the nibs’ oils and made into a chocolate paste. Add in some water and a blend of pepper, allspice, cinnamon, and/or honey (all to taste) and you have created your chocolate.

From the raw fruit to the finished product.

Looks like we all need to eat more chocolate.

Fortified with our homemade chocolate, we had another early morning start on our final day in the region and arrived at the Actun Tunichil Muknal (ATM) cave, which in the Mayan language means “Cave of the Stone Sepulcher.” We met with our guide Junior who led us and six other intrepid travelers for a three-hour caving and spelunking tour of what is described as a “Journey into the Mayan Underworld.”

Our guide, Junior.

Before we started, we were warned not to bring any cameras or other materials into the cave. In the past, when these were allowed, clumsy travelers dropped their camera onto the relics, cracking and destroying them. So, the pictures that follow were previously taken by professional photographers for use on websites and in tourism advertisements.

The 45-minute jungle walk from the parking lot to the entrance of the cave required us to ford three river crossings, two we could walk across and one that required a bit of swimming. A lengthier swim was then required to enter the cave itself allowing for the most unusual way we ever had to undertake when approaching a natural site.

One of three river crossings.

Cave entrance.

The only way in.

Into the current we swam. At one point, in chest high water, we had to squeeze through our journey’s narrowest point. It is here that the distance between a high wall on one side and a jutting rock on the other was only the width of one’s neck. So, with your chest fully submerged and your head just above the pointy and sharp edge of the jutting rock, you attempt the passage where you can barely make your way through without slicing your jugular. It was a good thing I didn’t eat that extra jelly donut at breakfast for I would otherwise not have been able to make it through.

Further in, we waded through the now shallow water and then up and over boulders, rocks, and walls. Stalagmites, stalactites, pillars, and columns surrounded us as we made our way deeper into the cave. Along the way, crystalline flowstones sparkled in the light from our headlamps. Later, we were dwarfed by the large rooms and chambers we had to walk through then fought off claustrophobia when what followed were a series of narrow tunnels and passageways.  

We reached the cave’s depths. We had to remove our water shoes and make our way in stocking feet, this to avoid the hard soles of our shoes from crushing the fragile surroundings and the oils from our skin from contaminating the limestone and eco-systems in this part of the cave. 

There, we saw ancient ceramics and stoneware, some fully intact, others now in shards. Bones and skulls of as many as 13 skeletons, remains of those sacrificed to the water gods to cease the drought up on the surface, were scattered about. At the far end of the cave, where we could travel no further, was the “Crystal Maiden,” a fully intact crystallized skeleton, likely a sacrificial victim from one- thousand years ago.  

The "Crystal Maiden."

Our exit from the cave was largely via the same route we took to get in. Junior, our guide, seemed to pay extra attention to me, the oldest among us, throughout the rest of our return journey. He turned to our group and asked us to switch our headlamps to the red light function as he expertly showed us the way. This made the journey even more mysterious and ethereal. 

Sometimes we had to wait for other groups to pass through the narrow points. At one of them, Junior held the back of our life vests while we hovered over a one-person-wide chute with running water. He then released us, one by one, as we plunged down to a larger pool ten feet below. 

We were ravenous when we reached our starting point and the area where our van was parked. A tasty lunch was wolfed down by all followed by a thirst-quenching rum punch. Noticing my empty water bottles, Junior motioned me to the fill them up with the punch that was leftover and take them home, which I gladly and quickly agreed to. 

Caye Caulker

The ferry from Belize City was full. By the time we boarded, there were only a few seats left. We squeezed into two that we found against the starboard gunwale. The canvas covering flapped about, keeping back only a little of the water that splashed in from the wind and the boat’s wake. The man next to us was uber man-spreading, making our small space even smaller. He did nothing to correct his seat hogging position.

After 90 minutes of discomfort, we pulled up to the dock at Caye Caulker, our home for the next week, and headed toward our apartment. The differences from what we have become accustomed to were immediately clear. The hustle and bustle of Caye Caulker contrasted sharply with the slower, less hectic pace we enjoyed while in Hopkins and San Ignacio.

“Organized Hodgepodge” is the best way to describe the island. Buildings here and there, with differing land uses both unique and incompatible, are located right next door to each other. Everything is accessed by sandy and sometime dirt roads. Dust and debris, briefly suspended in the air by the strong breezes from the nearby ocean, eventually settles into and onto everything, our eyes and nasal passages being among the locations.

Bikes, golf carts, and walking are the main ways to get around. Only a handful of construction vehicles and the island’s fire truck are the so-called regular vehicles. No traffic lights are required. Everyone pauses at intersections before proceeding.

It’s all a happy mess and no one seems to mind. In fact, it is all embraced and cherished and seems to work just fine and without complaint.

As we continued on our way to our apartment, street vendors sold their crafts and wares. One of them was a man selling chicken burritos from his bicycle cart. At the local school, he sold some to the blue and white-uniformed school children by passing them through the playground’s chain link fence.

Further down the street, a large group of people gathered near water'e edge. A super model was surrounded by a team of helpers and bodyguards. She preened and posed for glamour photos wearing a very skimpy, barely-there bikini. I noticed the rib bones on her back protruded prominently from her very skinny, waif-like frame as she scampered into and out of a hastily erected changing tent. 

In a grocery store across the street, a Rastafarian man, very drunk and staggering, reminded me that this was Black History month and that I should learn more history. I assured him I have. His attention turned to the store clerk who, apparently used to this man’s antics, waved him away as the man tried to kick him. We would later see him dancing and trying to out-sing a guitar player at a beach-side bar.

The Rasta man during one of his more sober moments.

Made it to our apartment...

...and this fella waiting to greet us. 

We set out the next day to meet with our apartment’s rental manager to go over a few things and to settle our bill.

The address she gave us for her office was not Google friendly for at the map’s identified location was an abandoned building on one side of the street and a collection of orange-pink colored bungalows on the other.

From one of the bungalows, cats roamed in and out of the pet-sized door at the bottom of the larger screen door. Sidestepping the cats, we knocked several times but received no answer.

Just as we were to give up and walk away, a man staggered toward us from down the street, a half-full cocktail glass in hand. Its remaining contents were brown and aromatic, just like his breath. 

“Is this the rental office?” I asked.

“The what?” he slurred.

“The rental office. It is supposed to be located here.”

“There’s no office here. This is my house.” For a moment we were both silent not knowing what to say or do next. “Do you want to try and call?” he said, swaying on his feet.

“I don’t have data on my phone…”

“That’s ok,” he interrupted. “Use my wifi.”

“Great,” I said, knowing that I could make a wifi call. I pulled out my phone. “What is your network’s name?” 

He looked over my shoulder at my phone, his breath reeking of rum, as I scrolled through numerous network names. “There, that’s it!” he said somewhat triumphantly.

I clicked on it. “OK, now, what is your password?”

What?”

“Your password, what is it?”

“Umm,” he stared off, his eyes glassy and his breath warm and still very aromatic. “Try 'spring1978’”

“Is that with an upper-case ‘s’ or a lower-case?

“What?”

Not waiting for an answer, I tried both. “It’s not connecting.”

He leaned his head back with his eyes closed as if in deep thought. “Ah, try 'december…'” His speech trailed off. After some more deep thought, he opened his eyes. “You know,” he said, “I am so drunk I can’t remember anything.”

“Got it,” I said, as if I didn’t already figure that out. “Thanks for your help anyway,” As we walked away, he mumbled something indecipherable as he bent down to pet his cats.

We left by passing through the town’s back streets and by pure luck, found our rental manager’s office and squared away our payment and fee.

After buying some refreshments and a snack of fry-jacks, we continued our walk, absorbed in our unique surroundings.

The standard "go-to" beer in Belize.

Delicious fry-jacks, this one stuffed with cheese and bacon.

Maybe it was the beer talking but I had an urge and stopped. I turned and gave MK a big smooch. Why? Well, because… just because. I was unaware that as I did so, a woman was walking directly behind us.

“Are you two on your honeymoon?” she asked, smiling at our public display of affection.

“Nope, been married for quite a while,” MK responded. “Just enjoying our day.”

“Ah, I remember those times myself,” she said somewhat wistfully. “But those are long in the past.”

“They are? Sorry to hear that,” MK said with sincerity.

“I’m good,” that lady said. “I’m on a new course in life now, traveling the world and enjoying myself immensely.”

“And where are your travel’s taking you next?” I asked.

“I’m not sure at the moment. I am one month into a six-month journey across the world. I’m thinking I might go down to Bolivia next and then Africa thereafter. I don’t know. But I’ll wake up one day with the urge to move on and just wing it from there.”

She bid us goodbye as she walked away, exuding confidence in her new way of life.

An early start the next morning was required for us to meet our boat and the scheduled full day of snorkeling and exploration of the Ho Cahn Marine Reserve. At the dock, Captains Phillip and Rahim greeted us and nine others from France, Belgium, Germany, and the U.S.

We swam and snorkeled among the manatees, turtles, dolphins, stingrays, and fish of all types and colors. All photos were kindly and expertly taken by our captains using GoPro cameras. Later, we hovered over a sunken ship, watching the neon blue fish swim in and out of the ruins’ rusty and corroded openings.

A pair of manatees (sometimes referred to as sea cows), the "gentle giants" of the sea.

Another manatee. Oh, wait... that's me. 

MaryKay doing her thang.

Go get them, girl!

Most unique was when we were snorkeling amongst a school of sharks feeding near another tour boat. Its occupants were chumming the water with small bait fish creating a feeding frenzy amongst the sharks and other smaller competing species.

The sun bore down harshly when we were back up top on the boat. A burn was a concern. We were told not to over-use the sunscreen to minimize our impacts to the coral reef, a reef we could see was already degrading and bleaching. I normally wear a hat to keep my blading pate from getting sunburned. But I lost it early in the day to the winds and waves. I alternated between using a towel over my head or borrowing MK’s hat which seemed limit the harsh effects of the sun.

Captain Phillip.

Captain Rahim.

The balance of our week on Caye Caulker was spent by further exploring the island, mostly by using a couple of beach bikes supplied by our apartment.

Tarpons, perhaps the fiercest game fish for salt-water anglers, schooled around a wooden dock and shed owned by a short, older lady. She sold us some sardines to feed the waiting fish. It was a fun, if touristy, thing to do. Although, we had to fight off the pelicans who also lingered looking for a hand out.

Click below for a video (1 min) of the feeding.

Sting rays would also gather at a location a couple of docks further to the south. Tourists gathered to watch and feed them in the shallows at their feet. A worker from the nearby restaurant would admonish people who walked in too deep, warning them they would get stung mercilessly if not careful.  

When heading further to the southern end of the island, we skirted the airstrip and rode through the neighborhoods where the locals live. Their living conditions contrasted sharply with the condos, apartments, and touristy areas of the main portion of the island. Some were accessed via jungle roads or lined with swampy, mangrove- and trash-choked properties.

Caye Caulker’s main southern island, where most of the development and tourist infrastructure are located, is separated from its north island by a narrow channel. The channel was created in the early 1960s when a hurricane ripped through the area forever cleaving the island in two, creating a split through which flows a strong ocean current.

The next day, we traveled north to this area appropriately, if not unimaginatively, called “The Split.” This is ground zero, party central if you will, for the younger crowd, although it was relatively quiet during our mid-day visit. But we didn’t miss anything for those partying days are long in the past for us. The money spent, the time wasted, and the headaches the next day; nope, not our thing.

We boarded the simple ferry that takes people and their bikes across the narrow channel. The guy manning the engine, sitting among fuel and oil cans, was smoking a giant spliff, so big it would make Cheech and Chong proud. 

As the ferry pulled away from the dock, a young man leaped aboard. Without us asking, he was fast to extol the virtues of coconut oil that he said he makes at his home located on the northerly island. 

Turning to MK, he said, "It's very good for the skin, a great mosturizer." Leaning toward her, he added, "It's great for your hair as well. Here, take a smell." He stuck his hair under her nose as she took a sniff. 

He looked toward me and with a wink and in a hushed tone said, "And for men, its good for you-know-what." He made a gesture that suggested the oil helps in "strengthening" certain parts of one's anatomy. 

MK is all smiles after learning about a certain benefit of coconut oil. 

From the landing on the other side, we spent the better part of the day exploring this more remote northerly island.

The hoped for beaches were rough and strewn with debris. They were not the best, and certainly not picture-postcard worthy, but we made do after we spread out our towels on the hardened, sun-bleached coral sand.

We headed further north through areas that alternated between scraped earth prepped for future development and deep jungle foliage that bordered the road. Lizards two-and a half-foot long scattered as our bikes approached. We came across some swanky places where the 1% must vacation. Signs made it very clear that only guests were allowed and not us sweaty, sunburned bicyclists.

The road became a path and the path became a foot trail at a swampy morass marking the southern border of a nature reserve. Nearby was a house from which a lady and her barking dog greeted us. “Looking for the crocodiles?” she called out from the top deck of her home.

“Well, we were,” we said pointing to the barely discernible path that coursed its way through the murk and mud. “If you continue through here,” she said showing the way, “you’ll cross a dilapidated foot bridge. From there it’s a fifteen-minute walk to a lagoon area.  There you’ll see the crocs. But bring plenty of bug spray. It’s pretty bad in there.”

I could tell by the look on MK’s face that it was the threat of biting bugs, not a swampy walk or the man-eating crocs, that was enough for her to abandon the idea of going further. 

Our three weeks in Belize were drawing to a close. We were bushed and no longer had anything left on our list of things to see and do. And even if we did, we no longer had the energy to do them. Instead, one of us went off to drink some beer while the other lounged by our apartment’s pool. 

But in time, we noted that we indeed still had one last and hard decision to make: should we nap at 2 o’clock or wait until later and do so at 3 o’clock?

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