Monday, July 14, 2008
Interesting...
For some reason, Speedracer, Sacropia Trees, and Backpacks is posted beneath Experimentation. Be sure to check it out!
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Experimentation
The important thing is that I learned my lesson.
A few days before I went up Las Cuevas, I made a stop at a Brodie's, which is the main grocery store of Belize. While I was there I purchased various necessities, such as chocolate, saltines, and a bottle of Stoli vodka (don't worry mi parentes, this one is on me). The truth is, I prefer the taste of vodka to most alcohols. It is just pure and clean. Destructive too.
On July 4th, the first day at camp, and the critical partying day of the American year, I got pounded. It started with helping Beth find her rum, and subsequently, receiving a Pina Colada. That down the hatch, I began to play Kings Cup. For those who don't know what that is: King's Cup is a game where cards are laid out in a circle and each card has a specific value. And, since we were playing with Brits, we combined the two sets of rules. Regardless, when a King is drawn, you add a splash of whatever you have in your cup to the main cup. When the last King is drawn, the "winner" drinks down the whole cup. So, now I continue. I began playing King's Cup. I downed about four ounces of rum, followed by at least eight or nine of vodka, and then I won. The whole damn thing I won. A mix of vodka, rum, orange juice, and Belikin Beer. Gross, a whole cup. An entirely full and massive whole cup...
I am of a good build, and thusly am able to hold my alcohol. This I know. However, the combination of all that hard liqueur, in a relatively short amount of time, wiped me out. It might have been better, but, I continued into the next game. But just for a little bit. I sipped a few sips of vodka, and then walked back to the main porch.
Never close your eyes. Never do it if you know you are wasted. The spinning, whirling, dropping, crazy black vortex will take your soul. I have never thrown up before, not from the drink. Never say never. Off the porch railing it went. And again. It honestly seemed like a dream, an illusion, some kind of nightmare. I then went into the Mess Hall and drank some water. Next mistake. At least for me. I then tried to close my eyes. Second mistake. Off the railing again. Everyone kept pressing me to drink water. Get it out of my system. Every time it would disappear into the brink.
Thank Goodness for friends. They stand by you even in your most desperate moments. Moments when they could just leave you to suffer alone. Thank Goodness for those friends. They helped me out a lot over the course of the next hour. Kept making me drink water. Kept helping me get back up after I failed to hold even that down. Deeper and deeper did the vortex pull me. Deeper and deeper.
My last recollection of time is 11 o'clock. The rest of the story was told to me by Tom.
Thank Goodness for those friends that are so great that they are family. They will make everything better, even if it isn't possible. Tom and Marcella stayed by me during the blackout. They would get me to drink water and let me lay on the porch, within easy waste removal vicinity. Tom said I threw up a lot. I bet I did. I murmured a lot, many many suicidal things. It was very horrible, at least I remember it was horrible. At long last, the deemed me ready to sleep. They left me in a chair on the porch. After a half hour of this sleep, I walked off. Into the jungle. Tom was summoned from sleep, and went out to go find me. This he did, and laid me to rest in the chair again. Another half hour passes. The roar of the radio awakens Tom again, and he goes out, to find the wandering drunk. The chair, again. A belt would have been better. The third time, I wake up. I remember this event. I felt lucid. Sick, but lucid. I walked to the guest house where I sleep. And slept without a break. Unfortunately, the soldier watching me did not believe me when I told him I was going off to sleep. Tom, yet again, was pulled from slumber. It took them a long time to find me, but eventually, they opened the door of the guest house, and found me curled up like a kitten.
The next morning, I received a drinking education. You have to drink water. It is necessary for your survival. Due to the actions of my comrades, I drank enough water to sink a ship. And thusly, had no headache, no excruciating brightness, and no pained hearing. Vodka is a fast acting alcohol. It will get to your head in no time flat. Rum, however, is a slower drink, and takes its toll later. The reason beer is so popular, is that you often get full before you get horribly wasted. As well, the vortex may be devilish, sucking and spinning, but it rots away the poison in your system. It, despite everything, is a good thing. And... Everyone does this. Everyone. If your time has not come yet, it will.
Today, I decided that after eight days, I would be fine. I took a sip of the Stolichnaya that was sitting in my room. Even as the vapors touched my tongue,my stomach turned on me. Nausea filled my arteries. Disgust filled my veins. But, I held it down, and did not try again. And so there it sits, a bottle mostly full, a testament to learning experiences.
I leave you with this poem:
Here comes the Demon
His eyes are clear
But yours are red
Here comes the Demon
He knows no fear
And slinks into your head
Here comes the Demon
He laughs at beer
And makes the living dead
Here is the Demon
The end is near
Nothing else can be said
A few days before I went up Las Cuevas, I made a stop at a Brodie's, which is the main grocery store of Belize. While I was there I purchased various necessities, such as chocolate, saltines, and a bottle of Stoli vodka (don't worry mi parentes, this one is on me). The truth is, I prefer the taste of vodka to most alcohols. It is just pure and clean. Destructive too.
On July 4th, the first day at camp, and the critical partying day of the American year, I got pounded. It started with helping Beth find her rum, and subsequently, receiving a Pina Colada. That down the hatch, I began to play Kings Cup. For those who don't know what that is: King's Cup is a game where cards are laid out in a circle and each card has a specific value. And, since we were playing with Brits, we combined the two sets of rules. Regardless, when a King is drawn, you add a splash of whatever you have in your cup to the main cup. When the last King is drawn, the "winner" drinks down the whole cup. So, now I continue. I began playing King's Cup. I downed about four ounces of rum, followed by at least eight or nine of vodka, and then I won. The whole damn thing I won. A mix of vodka, rum, orange juice, and Belikin Beer. Gross, a whole cup. An entirely full and massive whole cup...
I am of a good build, and thusly am able to hold my alcohol. This I know. However, the combination of all that hard liqueur, in a relatively short amount of time, wiped me out. It might have been better, but, I continued into the next game. But just for a little bit. I sipped a few sips of vodka, and then walked back to the main porch.
Never close your eyes. Never do it if you know you are wasted. The spinning, whirling, dropping, crazy black vortex will take your soul. I have never thrown up before, not from the drink. Never say never. Off the porch railing it went. And again. It honestly seemed like a dream, an illusion, some kind of nightmare. I then went into the Mess Hall and drank some water. Next mistake. At least for me. I then tried to close my eyes. Second mistake. Off the railing again. Everyone kept pressing me to drink water. Get it out of my system. Every time it would disappear into the brink.
Thank Goodness for friends. They stand by you even in your most desperate moments. Moments when they could just leave you to suffer alone. Thank Goodness for those friends. They helped me out a lot over the course of the next hour. Kept making me drink water. Kept helping me get back up after I failed to hold even that down. Deeper and deeper did the vortex pull me. Deeper and deeper.
My last recollection of time is 11 o'clock. The rest of the story was told to me by Tom.
Thank Goodness for those friends that are so great that they are family. They will make everything better, even if it isn't possible. Tom and Marcella stayed by me during the blackout. They would get me to drink water and let me lay on the porch, within easy waste removal vicinity. Tom said I threw up a lot. I bet I did. I murmured a lot, many many suicidal things. It was very horrible, at least I remember it was horrible. At long last, the deemed me ready to sleep. They left me in a chair on the porch. After a half hour of this sleep, I walked off. Into the jungle. Tom was summoned from sleep, and went out to go find me. This he did, and laid me to rest in the chair again. Another half hour passes. The roar of the radio awakens Tom again, and he goes out, to find the wandering drunk. The chair, again. A belt would have been better. The third time, I wake up. I remember this event. I felt lucid. Sick, but lucid. I walked to the guest house where I sleep. And slept without a break. Unfortunately, the soldier watching me did not believe me when I told him I was going off to sleep. Tom, yet again, was pulled from slumber. It took them a long time to find me, but eventually, they opened the door of the guest house, and found me curled up like a kitten.
The next morning, I received a drinking education. You have to drink water. It is necessary for your survival. Due to the actions of my comrades, I drank enough water to sink a ship. And thusly, had no headache, no excruciating brightness, and no pained hearing. Vodka is a fast acting alcohol. It will get to your head in no time flat. Rum, however, is a slower drink, and takes its toll later. The reason beer is so popular, is that you often get full before you get horribly wasted. As well, the vortex may be devilish, sucking and spinning, but it rots away the poison in your system. It, despite everything, is a good thing. And... Everyone does this. Everyone. If your time has not come yet, it will.
Today, I decided that after eight days, I would be fine. I took a sip of the Stolichnaya that was sitting in my room. Even as the vapors touched my tongue,my stomach turned on me. Nausea filled my arteries. Disgust filled my veins. But, I held it down, and did not try again. And so there it sits, a bottle mostly full, a testament to learning experiences.
I leave you with this poem:
Here comes the Demon
His eyes are clear
But yours are red
Here comes the Demon
He knows no fear
And slinks into your head
Here comes the Demon
He laughs at beer
And makes the living dead
Here is the Demon
The end is near
Nothing else can be said
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Speedracer, Sacropia Trees, and Backpacks
Just two days into my adventure in
My day to day life around Las Cuevas is fairly non-exciting, however, I will give you an excellent overview.
In the morning, I wake up. Surprising really, due to the fact that I sleep on a thin foam pad, with a sheet over me. Stinky boots lie next to my head, as well as a broken rollie chair that holds a frightening amount of dirty laundry (which I then proceed to put back on), and the night air holds a chill around 50 to 40 degrees. Sadly, I have yet to find a blanket. But, despite these odds, I get up and sit for about five minutes. This is mandatory, because my body is not really rested, and needs that five minutes to cry, but, afterwards, I rise to my feet. I grab a shirt and a pair of pants (caked in mud) and head down to the bathroom below the small guest house I reside in. There I dress, and attempt to put in contacts. This task is no small thing, as oftentimes it is still dark, and sanitation is not optimal. When these personal chores are completed, I head to the Mess Hall to grab some breakfast. There one finds coffee (instant), some eggs, biscuits, white bread (there is no whole wheat bread here), margarine, and bananas. Lately though, I have been missing breakfast (which, by the by, is served at 7:00), and instead eat a nice meal of cold cereal.
After breakfast, there is usually a lull in activity, and depending on the weather, I sit outside. These past two days, the morning sky has been clear and blue, with a hint of wispy clouds. The breeze is just strong enough to blow away the swarming botless flies (they really really suck). And the songs of the birds and the serenades of the cicadas fill the air with a warm and living sound. The problem with a good lull though, is that it always ends to soon. And, recently, it means the beginning of the day’s work. I'm not complaining though.
Three mornings ago, I awoke at 4:45 and hiked to the
Much of my work down here is due to one measly plant. Xate, to be exact. It is commonly used in floral arrangements, and sells for quite a bit. As well, it grows quite well in
The exciting. Hacking through Jungles is a most excellent exercise, stress relief, and after a bit, sore muscle and sense of futility creator. You get to see exotic plants, before you cut them down, beautiful animals, as you destroy their habitat, and sweaty BDF (the Belizean Defense Forces) soldiers in Green BDU's, as they hack a path through the jungle. It is really quite exhilarating. The fauna changes every kilometer (I have been thinking in metric lately, sorry, a km is about .6 of a mile), the trees reach amazing heights and the seedlings create a feeling of people in the streets of a city. Vines reach all the way to the sky, and butterflies flutter from one shrub to another, in every pattern imaginable. My forays into the jungle have given me a sense of how futile it is to try to create permanence in a place where nothing is the same from day to day. As well, I find the environment to be fragile, highly susceptible to the onslaught of man and his technology.
I would like to bring your attention to a very interesting mutualist biological structure. Mutualism, for anyone's information, is an evolution where one species preys on another species, the preyee develops a defense, the prey develop a better offense, the preyee develops a better defense, and so on. The ultimate climax of this is mutualism, where one species lives in harmony with the other species. Such is the life of the Sacropia tree and the lives of the ants that inhabit it. The Sacropia tree is hollow, and the ant colony uses it for shelter, and possibly even for food. The ants in turn provide protection (yes, biting, eating flesh while I scream, protection). I just thought that was cool.
At the end of the day, I take a cold shower (or, alternatively, if it has been sunny and no one has used the shower yet, hot shower) and change from my sweaty, dirty clothes into shorts and a wife beater. I then eat dinner, which is usually very good, and enjoy the cool night air. The generator is turned off at about nine, and darkness ensues. I go to sleep. Repeat.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Catch Up
Belize has two seasons. The first consists of skyrocketing temperatures and little relief, such as rain. The second consists of high intensity rain showers appearing as if at random, dumping the contents of the Gulf of Mexico on our heads, and then fleeing. This, of course, is an excellent mosquito breeder. Oh, and of course, that leads me to my proclamation that the second season sucks.
When I wrote the first blog, I had been confused as to our coordinates. We had been staying at the Community Baboon Sanctuary (CBS, Breaking News, Russ Mitchel, among other things) and I had believed that the group I was with were actually hard laborers, ready to go wreck havoc to insert the Jaguar Cameras. As it turns out, they were a student group that Tom and Marcella were teaching. Silly me. I was just tagging along until T and M headed to Las Cuevas, the real research station (http://www.mayaforest.com/) So, after two nights at CBS, the student group, including me, headed to Crooked Tree Lodge. There, I pitched a tent, while the rest of the group slept in Cabanas. Don't get me wrong though, that little resort was a paradiso. The air was clean, the eastern wind ruffled the skin, brushed the hair, and most importantly, meant no mosquitos! The hosts, Angie (a Crooked Tree native) and Mic (a British Army pilot who is about to become an ex-British Army pilot after serving for 22 years), along with their two really cute kids, Cory and Zach, provided delicous meals. We were so glad to have salads, let me tell you, and there was roast beef and fried rice... sausages... pancakes... fry jacks (really delicous fried bread things)... and, it was all good.
Crooked Tree itself is a kind of oddity. It is surrounded by a lagoon. During the so called wet season, the lagoon fills up and turns the village into an island, which can only be accesed by the Causeway, a long strip of built up dirt that was form fitted into a road. In fact, the wet season also turns the lagoon into excellent swimming, free of all major predators such as crocodiles or predatory fish, which can haunt other Belizean rivers and lakes. When the dry season rolls around, the lagoon drys up and the causeway is accompanied by the grassway. The locals grab fish that have suddenly lost their only source of life, and the feasting begins. The town itself is comprised of several wooden buildings painted various bright gaudy colors, with two main restraunts, one old post office, two restraunts, a general store, variuos resorts, and one Audubon Society.
The main attraction of Crooked Tree is the vast collection of bird species and other wildlife, as well as its proximity to Mayan Ruins. As a pseudo-member of the student group, I was invited to go on an early morning bird watch. And of course, I said yes. Waking up at 5:55 (the alarm was covered by a pair of my stinky pants and thusly did not wake me up) and blearly putting in contacts, followed by pushing myself into a waiting van and heading to Birds Eye View Lodge was all done with considerable sleepiness. However, once we stepped into the dinghy and the motor roared to life, the fog of sleep disappeared. The first thing we came across was a green iguana, which was actually grey due to a lack of nearby mates, which was followed by another green iguana, then, um, another green iguana, and, well, another, and another... In fact, the only thing we saw for the first 20 minutes or so was Iguanas and a handful of birds. But suddenly, the hidden avian world was revealed.
Over the course of the next two and a half hours, we were beset by colorful jacanas with feet big enough to walk on the water lilies, Roseate Spoonbills with white plumage, Vermillion Flycathers with bright red plumage, and small enough to hold in one hand, even a rare lesser yellow-headed vulture. We also got to see the Stripped Basilisk, also known as the Jesus Christ Lizard because it can run so fast as to stay on top of the water for short periods of time. At about three hours into the tour though, it began to rain. Actually, let me rephrase this. It dumped-water/hit-us-with-spray-gun/blasted-with-wind/drenched-us-to-the-bone. We were soaked on that little boat and the tour was not over yet!
Our captain manoevered the boatclose to a landing, but not close enough to jump onto dry land. The rest of the passengers and I disembarked and waded up to a small grassy spot where we feasted our eyes on... Old ruins... Of unknown nature... but kinda resembled an archaelogist camp. We turned to our left and moved into the jungle. About a hundred feet in, we came upon two small hillocks. Our guide said that there, before us were the ancient Mayan ruins. Incredibly, I believed him, despite the fact that the things in front of us resembled hills, complete with trees, mud, and gravel like rocks. Not exactly Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull, but it would do. I scrambled to the top, ahead of the group and stood there. My bare chest (I had taken my shirt off to keep it, of all things, dry) lay open to the wind and rain, the mud of my upward scramble splayed across my body, and the rest of the world below me seemed small and remote. I realized it must have been an incredible view. The others crowded around me as the summited the peak, and we lined up for a group photo. Our guide explained that this hill and the one next to it had been part of a trade center. Coolio.
The rain, of course, stopped just as we got back into the boats and headed back for a long awaited breakfast. We had seen over 30 different species of birds, not to mention various reptiles and fish. I am thinking... BEST MORNING YET!!
When I wrote the first blog, I had been confused as to our coordinates. We had been staying at the Community Baboon Sanctuary (CBS, Breaking News, Russ Mitchel, among other things) and I had believed that the group I was with were actually hard laborers, ready to go wreck havoc to insert the Jaguar Cameras. As it turns out, they were a student group that Tom and Marcella were teaching. Silly me. I was just tagging along until T and M headed to Las Cuevas, the real research station (http://www.mayaforest.com/) So, after two nights at CBS, the student group, including me, headed to Crooked Tree Lodge. There, I pitched a tent, while the rest of the group slept in Cabanas. Don't get me wrong though, that little resort was a paradiso. The air was clean, the eastern wind ruffled the skin, brushed the hair, and most importantly, meant no mosquitos! The hosts, Angie (a Crooked Tree native) and Mic (a British Army pilot who is about to become an ex-British Army pilot after serving for 22 years), along with their two really cute kids, Cory and Zach, provided delicous meals. We were so glad to have salads, let me tell you, and there was roast beef and fried rice... sausages... pancakes... fry jacks (really delicous fried bread things)... and, it was all good.
Crooked Tree itself is a kind of oddity. It is surrounded by a lagoon. During the so called wet season, the lagoon fills up and turns the village into an island, which can only be accesed by the Causeway, a long strip of built up dirt that was form fitted into a road. In fact, the wet season also turns the lagoon into excellent swimming, free of all major predators such as crocodiles or predatory fish, which can haunt other Belizean rivers and lakes. When the dry season rolls around, the lagoon drys up and the causeway is accompanied by the grassway. The locals grab fish that have suddenly lost their only source of life, and the feasting begins. The town itself is comprised of several wooden buildings painted various bright gaudy colors, with two main restraunts, one old post office, two restraunts, a general store, variuos resorts, and one Audubon Society.
The main attraction of Crooked Tree is the vast collection of bird species and other wildlife, as well as its proximity to Mayan Ruins. As a pseudo-member of the student group, I was invited to go on an early morning bird watch. And of course, I said yes. Waking up at 5:55 (the alarm was covered by a pair of my stinky pants and thusly did not wake me up) and blearly putting in contacts, followed by pushing myself into a waiting van and heading to Birds Eye View Lodge was all done with considerable sleepiness. However, once we stepped into the dinghy and the motor roared to life, the fog of sleep disappeared. The first thing we came across was a green iguana, which was actually grey due to a lack of nearby mates, which was followed by another green iguana, then, um, another green iguana, and, well, another, and another... In fact, the only thing we saw for the first 20 minutes or so was Iguanas and a handful of birds. But suddenly, the hidden avian world was revealed.
Over the course of the next two and a half hours, we were beset by colorful jacanas with feet big enough to walk on the water lilies, Roseate Spoonbills with white plumage, Vermillion Flycathers with bright red plumage, and small enough to hold in one hand, even a rare lesser yellow-headed vulture. We also got to see the Stripped Basilisk, also known as the Jesus Christ Lizard because it can run so fast as to stay on top of the water for short periods of time. At about three hours into the tour though, it began to rain. Actually, let me rephrase this. It dumped-water/hit-us-with-spray-gun/blasted-with-wind/drenched-us-to-the-bone. We were soaked on that little boat and the tour was not over yet!
Our captain manoevered the boatclose to a landing, but not close enough to jump onto dry land. The rest of the passengers and I disembarked and waded up to a small grassy spot where we feasted our eyes on... Old ruins... Of unknown nature... but kinda resembled an archaelogist camp. We turned to our left and moved into the jungle. About a hundred feet in, we came upon two small hillocks. Our guide said that there, before us were the ancient Mayan ruins. Incredibly, I believed him, despite the fact that the things in front of us resembled hills, complete with trees, mud, and gravel like rocks. Not exactly Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull, but it would do. I scrambled to the top, ahead of the group and stood there. My bare chest (I had taken my shirt off to keep it, of all things, dry) lay open to the wind and rain, the mud of my upward scramble splayed across my body, and the rest of the world below me seemed small and remote. I realized it must have been an incredible view. The others crowded around me as the summited the peak, and we lined up for a group photo. Our guide explained that this hill and the one next to it had been part of a trade center. Coolio.
The rain, of course, stopped just as we got back into the boats and headed back for a long awaited breakfast. We had seen over 30 different species of birds, not to mention various reptiles and fish. I am thinking... BEST MORNING YET!!
Saturday, June 28, 2008
First Impressions
So, I write on my second day of Belizean adventures. Nothing surprising, nor grand, nor death-defying has happened, but may I give you some… First Impressions!!
The Plane Trip: My first flight went off as normal, and I was placed next to this nice elderly man. We talked on life, his consisting of visiting family in Arizona and much ado about missionary trips, and mine consisting of Graduating (woot!). To this end, he promptly switched seats to a row without passengers, actually, without even a goodbye, and began reading a small pamphlet like book. The crying baby, at long last dropped into the background and I read until touch down. Upon exiting the plane, the nice old man gave me a little cross with the words “God Loves You” on them, and wished me the best of luck.
The terminal in Atlanta was obviously obsessed with fornication, because as I walked by, I heard Four, yes Four, times the word SEX. Now, I was not eavesdropping, nor was I looking for people who might say such words. It was just that these people used their outside voices to broadcast their bedroom habits.
The second flight went off as normal, and without a hitch. Boring… So, I read, and occasionally sneaked a peek at the pretty missionary girls who were coming to poor primitive Belize. No offense or anything, I just wonder if they know that most of Belize is Christian already. Oh well.
I then arrived in Tom’s big arms upon arrival and drove to the camp.
The Camp: Well, I did not know how primitive our camp would be, nor how populated. What a shocker to find working restrooms and a group numbering in the teens! Most of these fellow comrades are ladies too, schweeeeet! But, I digress, back to the camp. I arrive with an insane scream of nature. So I use the facilities, which lack toilet paper, ok, what now. Well, I give a labored cry, and someone finds me some. Phew! Close call!
Now, most of the camp is flooded. It has rained the past five days. That makes for some slushy ground and a few tents perched on the few dry spots. There is a pavilion in which we have our meals, a community center where most of the group sleeps, and an Internet “Café”. Not much but good enough. Oh, and I share a cabin with two Canadian girls.
Sadly, we will move out tomorrow.
The People: For the most part, I really like the people. I like their accents; which are jovial and lilting. It gives you a feeling that whatever they are saying is a joke. It might very well be. I like their faces, they are always smiling and shining, or somber and contemplative. I like the customs and manners. They are always polite and willing to offer their services. Most of these services however, are money gimmicks. For instance, in the downtown, they will offer to wash your car, and supposedly, sell you crack and hash. Around here, they will attempt to sell you wooden carvings and foods. So be it. We must all make a living, and the average Belizean lives on 6,000 US dollars a year.
The Roads and Driving: The roads are hell, the driving is hell, the drivers are hell, and I am not surprised that the number one killer of Belizeans is vehicular carnage. Seriously, every mile or so, there are these things called sleeping policemen. Simply put they are unmarked speed bumps, which will bottom out cars and tear the suspension loose from anything else, they are brutal. Cruising along at 50, which is as fast as I would go, and bamf, this massive jolt, a feeling of airborne and a sickening crunch as the vehicle chassis-plants the road. Not good for anything. Oh, and potholes are as common as the sleeping policemen, except, like, times a googa-mega-billion. You slow down, and bwa bwa bwa chunk bwa bwa chunk. And let us not forget that the roads are effectively gravel with asphalt on them. Meanwhile, the suspension is dead and your tires are screaming for mercy.
The drivers are fairly chaotic, swerving in and out of traffic. They accelerate rapidly, and brake hard, causing their small, old, fairly beat up vehicles to scream and jitter, and by sheer will, they do not fall apart. Many vehicles sport large cracks in windshields and most trucks carry a few passengers on top. It is not a pedestrian culture either. Walkers are all but pushed up against the walls, and bicyclists are nearly plastered on a minutely basis.
The Food: The fare is so-so so far. Mostly consisting of beans and rice and chicken, rotated in a random combination, and without exotic taste, one could say that Belize food is not actually food. However, when all you have to eat is this mix, you do so, and proclaim it to be food. Hip Hip Hooray! I will say this though, the smells coming from the open air barbeque pits are almost enough to make a man jump from his vehicle, barely miss a berserk car, grab at the little cross given to him by a nice old guy, and stand in line, where he will be offered various small, touristy trinkets… Someday, I will feast on such food.
Until next time,
The End
The Plane Trip: My first flight went off as normal, and I was placed next to this nice elderly man. We talked on life, his consisting of visiting family in Arizona and much ado about missionary trips, and mine consisting of Graduating (woot!). To this end, he promptly switched seats to a row without passengers, actually, without even a goodbye, and began reading a small pamphlet like book. The crying baby, at long last dropped into the background and I read until touch down. Upon exiting the plane, the nice old man gave me a little cross with the words “God Loves You” on them, and wished me the best of luck.
The terminal in Atlanta was obviously obsessed with fornication, because as I walked by, I heard Four, yes Four, times the word SEX. Now, I was not eavesdropping, nor was I looking for people who might say such words. It was just that these people used their outside voices to broadcast their bedroom habits.
The second flight went off as normal, and without a hitch. Boring… So, I read, and occasionally sneaked a peek at the pretty missionary girls who were coming to poor primitive Belize. No offense or anything, I just wonder if they know that most of Belize is Christian already. Oh well.
I then arrived in Tom’s big arms upon arrival and drove to the camp.
The Camp: Well, I did not know how primitive our camp would be, nor how populated. What a shocker to find working restrooms and a group numbering in the teens! Most of these fellow comrades are ladies too, schweeeeet! But, I digress, back to the camp. I arrive with an insane scream of nature. So I use the facilities, which lack toilet paper, ok, what now. Well, I give a labored cry, and someone finds me some. Phew! Close call!
Now, most of the camp is flooded. It has rained the past five days. That makes for some slushy ground and a few tents perched on the few dry spots. There is a pavilion in which we have our meals, a community center where most of the group sleeps, and an Internet “Café”. Not much but good enough. Oh, and I share a cabin with two Canadian girls.
Sadly, we will move out tomorrow.
The People: For the most part, I really like the people. I like their accents; which are jovial and lilting. It gives you a feeling that whatever they are saying is a joke. It might very well be. I like their faces, they are always smiling and shining, or somber and contemplative. I like the customs and manners. They are always polite and willing to offer their services. Most of these services however, are money gimmicks. For instance, in the downtown, they will offer to wash your car, and supposedly, sell you crack and hash. Around here, they will attempt to sell you wooden carvings and foods. So be it. We must all make a living, and the average Belizean lives on 6,000 US dollars a year.
The Roads and Driving: The roads are hell, the driving is hell, the drivers are hell, and I am not surprised that the number one killer of Belizeans is vehicular carnage. Seriously, every mile or so, there are these things called sleeping policemen. Simply put they are unmarked speed bumps, which will bottom out cars and tear the suspension loose from anything else, they are brutal. Cruising along at 50, which is as fast as I would go, and bamf, this massive jolt, a feeling of airborne and a sickening crunch as the vehicle chassis-plants the road. Not good for anything. Oh, and potholes are as common as the sleeping policemen, except, like, times a googa-mega-billion. You slow down, and bwa bwa bwa chunk bwa bwa chunk. And let us not forget that the roads are effectively gravel with asphalt on them. Meanwhile, the suspension is dead and your tires are screaming for mercy.
The drivers are fairly chaotic, swerving in and out of traffic. They accelerate rapidly, and brake hard, causing their small, old, fairly beat up vehicles to scream and jitter, and by sheer will, they do not fall apart. Many vehicles sport large cracks in windshields and most trucks carry a few passengers on top. It is not a pedestrian culture either. Walkers are all but pushed up against the walls, and bicyclists are nearly plastered on a minutely basis.
The Food: The fare is so-so so far. Mostly consisting of beans and rice and chicken, rotated in a random combination, and without exotic taste, one could say that Belize food is not actually food. However, when all you have to eat is this mix, you do so, and proclaim it to be food. Hip Hip Hooray! I will say this though, the smells coming from the open air barbeque pits are almost enough to make a man jump from his vehicle, barely miss a berserk car, grab at the little cross given to him by a nice old guy, and stand in line, where he will be offered various small, touristy trinkets… Someday, I will feast on such food.
Until next time,
The End
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Welcome!!
Welcome to the Belize Adventures. This blog is public, so anyone can read it.
I will be updating this blog as often as I can for the 3 weeks and a day that I am in the Jungles and Cities of Belize.
*Warning* Keep Kleenex on hand for emotional moments.
I will be updating this blog as often as I can for the 3 weeks and a day that I am in the Jungles and Cities of Belize.
*Warning* Keep Kleenex on hand for emotional moments.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)