The Road to Las Cuevas

On July 4th, a most auspicious day, I summited the mountains and reached Las Cuevas, the scientific research station, of Belize.



On July 2nd, we left the comfort and pleasures of Crooked Tree Lodge and struck out to reach the capital, Belmopan. The roads were ragged, the scenery was tropical and the bus rattled and scrapped. Before I continue, let me give a brief history of Belmopan. Initially, Belize's capital city was the conveniently named Belize City. However, due to the frequency of hurricanes and flooding in that part of the world, government buildings would be washed away, and thus, replaced at considerable expense. At long last, the government decided to move away from the metropolis of Belize City (pop. 70000) and decided to carve a city from the jungles of central Belize. Here one will find all the various branches and agencies, in addition to a sort-of un-capital-city. Belmopan (pop. 7000) is a full tenth of the most populous city, and consists of a market square and some outlying suburbs. So, now I continue.



Our bus pulled off to the side of the road and the group "rolled out". We were given explicit orders to "do whatever we wanted" but to enjoy the local eateries and internet cafes. Oh boy! Internet! When we left Crooked Tree, we imagined a modern sanctuary, complete with all the ameneties of American life! So, when we arrived, we were a little disappointed. The small market resembled a farmers market. Nothing wrong with that, just not quite what we imagined. The local eateries consisted of small stands selling the same fare; garnaches, paladas, tacos, burritos, and of course, it all looked a little, um, suspicious. Not to worry, lunch can wait, we have internet awaiting us! The first store was full, as well as the second, so my little group wandered over to this little "cafe" across the street. Complete with posters proclaiming "instant termination" if pornography was viewed and old out-dated computers, I happily plugged in the various passwords and user names that guide my online life. Well, midway through writing a blog, the damn internet cuts out. And just like that, the blog goes away. Gone. Poof. Damn.



Well, Belmopan being a somewhat bust, the group loaded up into the bus again and headed to St. Margarets, a small Mestizo (various Latin races grouped together) village. I, of course, wasn't staying in town, but heading to the research station. I wasn't entirely disappointed, the village was small and very basic, and, when we arrived, the plumber was fixing the lone toilet. A nearby shower also displayed its "bare" side, as it lacked a door. As, me, Tom and Marcella, and Ema (another soul who volunteered to work on the Jaguar project) left, we saw a local waving at us and flashing the peace sign. Groovy, man. Might I now elaborate on the drive back. Driving through scenic jungle terrain. Watching the clouds float over karst terrain. Seeing an ancient bus hurtle past on a blind turn, nearly creaming us. Children gathered around one of the local Protestant Churches. Traveling past orange groves cleaned of fruit and lacking in pickers. Lone mahogany trees standing out in the cleared land, quite devoid of similar statured neighbors.

The drive took us back through Belmopan and into the outskirts of San Ignacio. We then began the "climb". The first few miles were fine, rough, but fine. Then, we hit the shit. Rocks jutted out of dirt roads. Pot holes were placed at a very convenient one per foot basis, so as we did not forget that they were there. Tom put on his determined face and pressed on. We eventually reached the small town of Cristo Rey, and then past the "People's Dump" (so named due to its illegal location, and excellent positioning to receive a goodly lot of smelly, dirty garbage (which conveniently is placed in the local watershed (which means everyone gets a taste (mmmm)))). Soon after the dump, we drove through St. Martin's, which was a nice little town, complete with fresh mountain air and numerous speed bumps. After St. Martin's, the road decided to surprise even the most stout pessimist, and began to become much worse. As I sat in the back of the Mitsubishi, I thought of many comparisons: For sports fans, the many dimples on a golf ball. For space nuts, the lunar surface. For hygenists, the pimples on an adolescent kid.

Eventually, after many jolts, spinal corrections, and the occasional "metal bender", we reached the friend's "house". This wasnt quite the research station, but we had things to do in town tomorrow, in addition to the fact that it was getting quite dark, and thusly, harder to drive. The "house" as it turns out was actually a resort, Blancaneux resort to be exact, and the friend was Francis Ford Copola, owner of such said resort and also, a reknowned director, with such films as "The Godfather". No, I did not get to meet him. Yes, I did sleep in a small villa, complete with perfumed soaps, a most comfortable hammock and couch (I lost out on the bed), and a fridge stocked with Coca Cola and Chocolate. Yes, I did eat fine Italian fare, noodles cooked al dente with a hint of garlic. Yes, I did wake up comfortable and rested, with a view of a jungle river and a nice hot shower. But that's history, so lets not dwell on it.

We drove back down the mountain, back through St. Martin's, Cristo Rey, and the infamous Dump, all on a handicapped vehicle. Oh, it appears I forgot to introduce you to the Mitsubishi. A midsize truck complete with back, uh, thing, the L200 is an excellent all terrain vehicle. Relatively new, this 2002 model was first owned by a Belizean, then sold to Tom and Marcella. While most trucks of its caliber are considered tough, the Belizean outback, roads and highways are worse. The truck has several problems at this point, not to mention previous corrections. These include busted shocks, clattering sound between first and second gear and reverse, and a right rear window that is missing. As we climbed the mountain last night, T and M feared their trusty dusty pack mule might not make it. As we climbed down, they still feared. Thankfully, we made it back, and headed to a Guatemalan mechanic. Most of his men did not speak Spanish, and he, Marcella, and his mechanics explained the problems and the solutions. Eventually, we had our answer, but we did not have a ride. All the local auto renters were fresh out, and the our selection consisted of a Rodeo, which is an exact replica of the Honda Passport. That was it,and "It" did not even have four wheel drive. But we got it anyway, and drove back to Belmopan.

T and M dropped us off at the same little market as we had been at yesterday, and left to go deliver laundry to the student group still camped at St. Margaret's. Me and Ema went and found a good internet Cafe, better in fact than the previous one, and I sat down and wrote the blog before this one. I hope you liked it. I then went into the book store portion of the store and bought a book of Belizean short stories. They are so-so. T and M picked us up,and we headed back to Blancaneux. Oh, I mean the research station. Oh, wait, darn didn't make it, guess we have to stay in a villa again. Well, that was the same old same old. Geez, luxury just aint all its cracked up to be. I mean bathrobes, expensive tile and hand made and seasoned sausages are just alright now...

July 4th, we drove back down the mountain, again, and headed to Spanish Lookout. This happens to be a Mennonite settlement. Mennonites, as you may or may not know, are industrial elitist types. When they hit Belize back in the fifties, the clear cut a lot of land and began to raise cattle and grow cash crops. This set the precedent for their economic sucess, and paved the way for very modern living. Stepping into Spanish lookout was like stepping into an American town in the Midwest. It was sweet. Tom had to pick up some steel faceplates that would protect the camera traps we would be setting up, so we went to Cooter's Tinsmith. The owner and clerk greeted us when we entered. He could not have been much slower or much more talkative than a slug. However, he delivered the goods, and we were on our way to the Menonnite all around store. Most excellent goods did they have indeed! I myself purchased a box of cereal, a box of granola bars numbered at 70, and, most coveted and precious of all, a box of Dots. Que singing of angels. Oh, I could not wait to scarf those sugary little rounds of gelatin. MMMMM. This epic conquest completed, we drove to San Ignacio to meet up with the Student Group. They were parked in San Ignacio's main market square. Here one could find both Chinese food and traditional Belizean fare of beans and rice, and tacos. I myself had two delicous tacos from a little stand. Gut bacteria be damned. A bus pulled up, one of those older models (1950's old) and sporting a Jesus license plate, with, uh, a bullet studded rim. The inside of the bus had several inspirational quotes inside of it (personal fav: Be like a stamp, stick to something until you get there) and a small TV. Oh, little did I know of the damnation that TV would bring.

The trip from San Ignacio to Las Cuevas is three hours by SUV. By Bus that translates to about four. Four hours in small seats, with dust filtering in through open windows, and country love song classics playing on the TV. Did someone say exciting and exhilerating? Good, cause I would love to pop that person in the mouth. Anyone who knows me knows that slow country kills me, absolutely, god forsakenly, straight from hell, kills me. The monontony was broken by seeing a couple of British troops playing war on a bridge, thankfully, with blanks instead of bullets. We arrived at a Crossroads, and we all jumped out. Free at last, thank god, free at last. The groups were then ferried through 20 km of the last muck. That was actually a fun part of the trip, because the road had huge puddles that exploded on impact, and a giant mud pit that swalllowed a bus (OK, not actually swallowed, but got a bus stuck), and hits so hard that it tore half a bumper off on one of the vehicles. At last, at last, we were here, we were where I was supposed to be. Las Cuevas.

Of note: A shoutout to Jess, there was a student group at Las Cuevas already. Any guesses where they were from? Thats right! Manchester! I could not remember Paul's last name, so I did not mention it. Many apologies. Oh, and ask me about a new card game called Shithead when I get back. It is amazing and relatively simple.