Map of Central America

One - Belize

Date: 10.05.95

A Start to Begin

I live in a white painted shanty trimmed in turquoise and raised on stilts. The shanty faces out through the coconut trees to the Atlantic on the isle of Caye Caulker, Belize. The coconut trees bristle in the ever-constant gale passing around and across the two rows of painted shacks on Ignacious' Place. Roosters caw every fourth beat while two empty Belikin Beer bottles clink as high hats on the porch. It's past lobster season, and gray wooded traps are stacked five high on the Ignacious property. Those in need of repair are lined behind the shanties for reconstruction.

* * *

We flew in on May 10 from Indianapolis to Houston to Belize City without the guitar. The girl, Charmion, drove us to the airport at 5:30AM and left us full of laughs from a sleep-deprived morning. No plans, but getting to Caye Caulker for a couple days and relax and let go some stress. My friend, Hank Beach, with the receding blond hairline, blue eyes, and pure heart is a partner in the travel. We unload in Belize City from the Continental Airlines flight onto the single runway of the Belize International Airport and mill into customs. We've had our eye on a blond woman wearing a black baseball cap who is towing a guitar in her left hand. We make Heidi Forbes' acquaintance and quickly learn she's living in Boulder, my college hometown. Good people, Boulder people. Heidi is traveling solo, without her boyfriend, to calm down after an intense round of finals.

We stand in a long queue behind Heidi, and she recommends taking a puddle jumper over to Caye Caulker instead of the untimely boats that run out of the crazed Belize City port. We take heed of her advice and purchase tickets for $30US one way and pass the time drinking a draft Belikin beer in the air-conditioned gate area. Thinking our departure is the same as Heidi’s; we slam our beers when the flight is called only to learn that Hank and I are to travel on a different plane. We watch as a twelve-seater takes Heidi away to Caulker.

Not long after Heidi's departure, Hank and I jump in a four-seat Cessna. It’s just the pilot and us. We accelerate along the runway lined with foot high green-brown grass and plane wreckage and lift into the Belizean sky. The view is one of green waters, coastlines, and very small islands strewn into the Caribbean. Looking straight down, it as if plastic strips have been taped in crooked lines over the waters. Hank sits upfront along side the pilot, Hank’s first flight in anything other than a jetliner. We hum through the atmosphere for 15 minutes before the plane noses its center towards the gravel runway on the south tip of Caulker. We land with a jump into the wind shear, settle and land safely on the Caye.

Clipping on our backpacks, we ask a boy at the airport for directions to Ignacious. He tells us it’s very near in his Carib accent, just along the beach a bit north. Hank and I walk down the sand dust street psyched on our beginning adventure. A gray lizard with a black speckled back darts across the road and perches itself on some gray wooded lobster traps. Vegetation and shanties immerse the center of the island as the sun beats down. We trek to Ignacious referring to our Lonely Planet Guidebook for direction. We walk onto the property full of smiles and laughing at our good fortune. The huts sit upon wood pilings in purples, Burgundies, and whites. Rows of bent and contorted coconut trees line the shore. A wood dock jets out to the Caribbean shallows as two boats tied to wood poles dance from side to side. Guests lie on the dock sunning themselves. A woman is topless. The gravity of freedom, travel, and the places unseen pull me up by the bootstraps and walk me out to the dock. You can see the waves crashing on the reef off the coast some 1/2-mile out. Within the reef to the Caye the waters swim softly, dripping warm and shallow. You can walk out for hundreds of yards and not be head deep. Seaweed strings up from underneath and caresses your calves as you go.

Ignacious Huts

Belikin and Song

Walking up Center Street, we stop and watch the locals play soccer on the jumbled patchwork field. White houses on leggings boundary the field. The shirts press on offense against the skins’ defense, and we walk on in the dropping light. A billboard on a fence reads "Drinking is Fun," and we take this to heart. All intentions fell on finding the Sandbox Restaurant and perhaps Heidi. We find the Sandbox on Front St. and it is closed Wednesday nights, a Belizean custom many places observe. We settle in on Sobre Los Olas on the Carib shore and order a few Belikins. As we order and take in our beers, Heidi meanders in barefoot, blond hair blowing back just below her taught shoulders. Crab claws and fish fillets are grilled for us and conversation jumps from music to Belize to each other.

With dinner in place, we stroll back to Heidi's place and she boils water to make tea. She brings out her acoustic guitar and plays us a sampling of her music. Her voice fills the room like a fine whiskey warming your innards. She plucks double strings in rhythm and we're captivated, in awe. We pass the guitar around playing songs we've written. I struggle with an instrumental as the strings refuse to hold tune. Heidi yawns and we know we have spent our hour. We stroll home along the main roads, unsure how the beach walk runs. Behind a mangrove, a flock of raving gypsy mosquitoes baring machetes unleashes on us, and we turn and high tail it to Ignacious in double time. Here, the wind blows incestuously off the ocean. We trip into sleep to a steady gale playing coconut palms as we lay within blue-green wood walls and paperboard ceilings.

Date: 11.05.95

Sand Roads and Golf Carts

We follow the sand white beach path along the east shore, past the boats pulled ashore, past the lizards sunning on the rocks, until we reach the graveyard. An intermittent wooden white fence surrounds crosses, stones, and crypts on a sand ground. We cut through the graveyard to Front St., one of the three streets that run north and south along the isle. Restaurants, motels, dive shops, and food marts make up Front St., which parallels the Atlantic shore. Golf carts and bikes click their bells to pass as barefoot local and backpackers walk along the sand avenue. The beaches are little here, but at the north end of Caulker is the Split, a cut torn through Caulker during a hurricane some years back. A channel no more than 30 meters wide separates Caulker from "North" Caulker. Virtually, no one occupies North Caulker. A dock borders the Split and a cabana serves soda and beers. Behind the cabana to the west is a small clearing for helicopter landings, another dock, and boats pulled ashore and tied to the dock. George, the white heron with long legs and beak, wades in the shallows with one leg cocked. To the Atlantic east, a mangrove grows some 12 meters off the docks. You can swim out to the mangrove and climb up its roots and branches and loft into a 12-foot dive.

Heidi lies topless in bikini bottoms on the dock. Heidi has a mole below her left breast and her blond hair falls back and away from her strong shoulders. A tattoo of a dove holding a sprig is etched in green dye on her right buttocks. Her blue eyes and blond eyebrows are bold, not the least shy, perhaps a dash conservative from her New England breeding. We camp out near her and I lean back against a dock post writing my time. Little local boys, 9-10 years old, bait a hook on fishing line and catch blue gill size tropical fish off the dock. They swing the hooked fish against the wooden planks, cut them up, and use pieces of their meat for more bait.

The dock stretches out to the Atlantic and makes a perpendicular angle and runs back along the shore. To the south, more docks stretch out into the waters built with faded gray wood and lined with old black tires. Fallen coconuts litter the sand. Beach shells decorate the nicer hotels.

After a bit of sun, Hank and I spend the remainder of the afternoon at the Sandbox, the best restaurant on the island. No shoes, no shirt, no problem. Shrimp melt for lunch and jerk chicken for dinner and in between, cigarettes and Belikin. There's outdoors seating, but the indoor has character: sand floors and wooded tables with overhanging lamps. Basket weave covers the wall as wallpaper and a screen squares our view of Front St. and the Caribbean waters. Steely Dan plays through the speakers.

Geographic Moment

The black cormorant dives underwater and skims the shallows. Diving, it picks a sea snake from the seaweed. As it wrestles the snake firmly in its bill, two frigates (seagull like critters with wing shapes similar to osprey) swarm the cormorant. The cormorant takes flight and the frigates attack like enemy air fighters for the snake. A frigate succeeds and plucks the snake free from the cormorant. The other frigate quickly bumps the steal away from its brother, and the snake tumbles as a black curvy line through the afternoon sky back to the sea and disappears. This snake will live to see another day.

Moon, Wind, and Coconut Palms

Clouds sift on the Caribbean night. Wind pushes through the coconut palms. The Americans walk through the Belizean cemetery full of sand, white crosses and stones. On the beach path, the Americans relieve themselves against the cemetery fence facing downwind. Finished, the flashlight leads them along the beach path to Ignacious. The one teeters onto the dock to its very end to spot a pair of sandals and lovers hidden horizontal in the tied vessel swinging freely from left to right and back in the sea. He retreats slowly with a sly "how do?" Back on the hut porch two Camels mask the Americans and their harmonica rifts. The waxing moon pours brightly between clouds, shadows shifting and dimming. The wind drowns the American squalls in her coconut palm howls and the night sleeps on.

Date: 12.05.95

Hysterical Boyz on the Open Seas

The sun burns early as Hank and I take the walk along the shore path. We've designs on snorkeling the Ho Chan. The Ho Chan is a marine preserve set-up and guarded along the great reef between Caulker and Ambergris Caye. We purchase tickets and rent gear from a local who pawns us off onto another who also runs a water taxi service. We wait and wait as the water taxi service is always delayed. Although we paid to go straight out to the Ho Chan, we're trapped along with five other snorkelers into taxing people over to San Pedro beforehand. The boat, a 15-footer with two outboard engines, is crammed with people squeezed tight and bags stuck into every nook, cranny, and orifice. I sit on the boat rail pushed above the others and hold tightly to the sides as the powerboat begins its surge for the next Caye.

The boat noses out from behind the calm created by Caulker and leaps into the waves and gales of the open sea. The ocean splashes the people in the rear as the boat jumps like a porpoise across the waves, jarring us forward and back in an inconsistent rhythm - a true lashing. The two gentile males in the very rear of the boat have it the worst. They are repeatedly pummeled with waves of water. Somewhere between the Cayes one of the motors sputters and the water pump isn’t keeping up with the water intake. One of the boyz in the back must continually pump the bilge and fuel lines to try and keep the motor running. It runs and quits. We stall for a few moments while the driver tries to fix the problems. To help steady the ride, he convinces an older, overweight American man to sit on top of the front of the boat. This big man is riding on the boat like a teenager on a hood of a car, with his back against the boat windshield being tossed up and down like a super ball. Meanwhile, the homosexuals are getting soaked and scared, and the girl next to me is doing everything possible not to throw up all over my legs. This is when the boyz snap, I'm talking lose it. I mean the worst is passed as we're edging up along Ambergris near the outskirts of San Pedro when the "fear" must be released from their brains.

"Stop the fucking boat man. You hear me, stop the fuckin' boat right here. This isn't safe, someone's going to get killed and ain't going to be me."

"What?" the captain answers, "Wha t'is the problem? I do t'is all the time. We’re safe. Believe me, it'z all safe."

Karen, the girl squatting next to me, is a traveling friend of the fellas. She rolls her eyes and whispers a quite "Oi vey." This guy Steve, his girlfriend "T," and I are convulsing and laughing into our cupped hands. Sometimes laughing is the best outlet in these times.

"This isn't safe, stop the fuckin' boat and let us out right here. I don't care, I've been in a boat accident before, and this isn't safe. Fuck."

"It'z safe, we do t'is all the time. I know these waters, it'z safe. Trust me. We almost there."

"Stop the fuckin’ boat...." and so it goes, with tears welling up in his adrenaline-filled eyes.

This is obviously far from the safest ride, but we're not in America and greater risks are expected. Hell, this is the Third World. Finally, the argument subsides, the boat sputters onward, and we pull into the San Pedro dock safe and sound and get the boyz off the boat. They plot with the Austrian couple and Karen to not go on with the boat to the Ho Chan. They plan to get their money back by holding onto the snorkel gear that they rented from the captain. Karen will not have anything to do with it, and she joins Hank and I for a brief rest on the dock while the scared Austrians and San Franciscans spin their webs of righteousness in an unfair world.

Eventually, the captain takes Karen, Hank, and I out on our own little snorkeling trip. A spectacle of underwater color and life unfolds in a visual feast: coral, rainbow fish, trumpet fish, angelfish, barracuda, nurse sharks... Channels of coral run through the Ho Chan and schools of fish scroll past. Among the coral, smaller fish live in tiny worlds oblivious to all the big things around. Hank is flipping on all this. Imagine your first time snorkeling, swimming with sharks, and you're in some of the best visual waters in the world with clarity of 60 horizontal feet. Karen, an American of Italian-Scottish decent, thin with short black dyed hair and blue-gray eyes, becomes our new friend. We share peanut butter and bread and bottled water during a snorkeling break, and she explains her friends' dilemmas and why she shouldn't be traveling with them in Belize. Bottom line, these guys are resort travelers, not backpackers. We enjoy the rest of the afternoon swimmin' and sunnin' and head back late in the afternoon with more fiascoes. The motor clamp breaks on the way and Hank is stuck holding the motors in place the last mile of the ride. As we approach the dock, the captain jumps up to the dock and slips and falls between the boat and dock with a body pounding thud. He's not killed, just maimed a bit, but he won't take our help. The three of us walk off from the adventure unscathed and laughing at life, leaving the captain to his wounds.

Sandbox, The Punta, and Mad Annie’s

We stop in Mad Annie’s on our way back to Ignacious to sate our famished bellies. Tomas is there trying some soft foods. Tomas with dark hair and tortoise glasses is recovering from the shits acquired in Flores, Guatemala. He's attaining his masters in Poli Sci and hopes to enter journalism school. Tomas randomly knows Karen from common friends who attend classes at the same university. He's staying in the next cabana over from ours He likes to razz the American girls about American habits and effeminate sports "our" women play. He's a good sort overall and basically is traveling the reverse of my plans. Tomas chats with us for a second and then heads back while we're ordering to ensure his food holds in the safety of his lodgings. The three of us order burritos and Belikins and let our skin cool under the roof shade. Words disappear into an intense concentration on the food. Finished, late afternoon siesta calls and we depart planning to meet for dinner.

The night falls and the crew assembles for a Sandbox dinner. Tomas, Karen, Heidi, Hank, and I settle into the coziness of the Box. We grab the last inside table lit with the soft brown light falling from the overhanging lamps and tabletop candles. The ashtrays hold sand in their bottoms while we recount stories of the day. Karen updates us on her friends’ return to Caulker. Apparently they had to charter a boat back to Caulker and tried to get their money back from our maimed captain to no avail. Pity. They're a bit put out with Karen for continuing on with the snorkel. Oh the horror, the danger of it all.

Steve and Tonya (a.k.a. T) from the boat ride enter, and we make room for them at the table, as the place is full. They're from Breckenridge, Co. and are enjoying a week in Belize before they take off for their separate summer jobs. T studies whales in Canada. Last summer blue whales were the focus, this one it's belugas. She has a sincere laugh and naive way that is unmistakably pure and good. You would not picture her as a studying scientist. The table fills with jerk chicken, fish filets, and for dessert, chocolate cake with coconut ice cream. "We're maxin' out T," pipes in Steve as they order their own cake for dessert. This is the last we’ll see of Steve & T as they will go back to San Pedro to finish up their stay.

After dinner, we go over to Heidi's for the ritual guitar play, and then to the Punta dance at the Split sans Heidi. The Punta dance requires much shaking of the hips with little upper body movement. We watch an American girl with glasses dance with a local. She is completely out of rhythm but fully in the moment. An Andy Gibbs white boy tries to be the Punta king with a local girl. He's all hips and legs and fool. We're a little spent from the afternoon, and Tomas is still weak from the Montezuma. Karen and Tomas make for their respective huts, and Hank and I stop at Mad Annie’s for a couple more Belikin. We sit at the bar enjoying cigarettes and the NBA playoffs flicker in the background, the sound drowned out by the wind. Behind me, a drunken old man with white hair and a baseball cap lays his head on the table and moans a constant yawl like an airplane engine from his lungs. He stumbles up to the bar and we give him a cigarette to shut him up. But old man airplane keeps up the constant hum and tries to mooch drinks from others. We can't help but laugh with a couple of the expatriates at the bar. Finally, one of the locals walks him out through the tables onto the dock and settles him in his little boat to pass out.

Date: 14.05.95

Chocolate and the Manatees

Tomas, Hank, and I awake early to go swimming with the Manatees and snorkel off Goff Caye. Our guide is Chocolate, a local who runs a first rate trip. Heidi arranged the trip for us so all we had to do was show up and pay our 25 bones. Chocolate's skin is bronzed from the sun and his white mustache and hair strike out in brilliance. Underneath this Saint Nick ‘stache is an infectious smile that puts any human at ease. He is 60 something, small framed, and in tremendous shape.

We load up and Chocolate hand steers the 18' craft east by the power of two double outboard motors. We turn south bouncing off the waves as the wind continues to blow causing small swells even behind the protection of the reef. Mangrove islands speckle the waters. Cormorants, herons, and frigates swim, stand, and sail the skies and sea. We schoon along past uninhabited Cayes (some harvested for wood and other resources) until we reach Manatee waters. The wind makes it less than ideal to spot the mammals. We step into the waters and snorkel softly along the top of the water being careful not to scare these elephants of the sea. Unfortunately, no Manatees are home. We move on past their hole in frustration only to spot two quietly breaching and trying to avoid the waves. It is too murky in the open waters for snorkeling so we stay in the boat and watch carefully for their breaths.

We power on to Goff Caye for a snorkel. The waters are shallow with orange and purple coral. Small trumpet fish, tiny yellow and black fish, squirrelfish, angelfish, Oscars, rainbows, fill the sea. The cute German woman swims in front of me. We point out schools of fish to each other and take underwater photos of the spectacular. I veer off by myself to explore and am the last in the group to make it back to the sandy beach of the tiny Caye. Just a couple palm trees and a place to barbecue compose the isle. Chocolate spots a sea snake burrowing into the beach and we watch it wriggle its way down. On the boat, Chocolate steers us into a hypnotic state between sleep and wake and expertly navigates us blind marshmallows across the Caribbean safely to Caulker.

The five of us from the previous evening do the Sandbox again. Afterwards, Hank and I play guitar with Heidi and then meet Karen and Tomas for drinks. Hank and I are consumed with tomorrow's travel to Tikal. I feel as if I'm leaving a home after only five days on Caulker. We vow to meet Heidi back in Caulker at the end of May.

Two: To Guatemala

Date: 15.05.95

Buses, Dust, and Sweat

We point our compasses to Belize City anxious for the road. We jump an early Cessna flight to the city traveling with the pilot and a man with his cat. The animal hisses and throws itself against the aluminum bars in moments of fury just behind my back. We land at the Municipal Airport at the north end of the city next to the sea. In Belize City, few buildings stand over three stories. Everything important to us is near the Swing Bridge. We grab a taxi and take it to a bus station that we believe has a route to the Guatemalan border. Dropped at the Texaco station bus stop, we quickly learn that this stop does not handle the bus service to Guatemala. An old, local black man finds us near the post office. He says that he will lead us over the bridge to the correct terminal. He rants about Belize in his Belizean English. Bucci is his name. Bucci tells us how the Bloods and Crypts run rampant in the city, "...surround you on bicycles and take your money and jewelry." I figure the gangs are getting soft on killing and more into biking. It probably has something to do with the waters. We give him a couple Belizean dollars and catch the bus with no time to spare. The coaches are American school buses painted in various colors dependent upon the bus company. We take seats near the rear in front of a couple English lasses. We each take our own row, as the bus is not full. One of the girls has a shaved head with many ear, nose, and navel rings. She has a tattoo across her bicep and along her foot. The other is striking with dirty blond hair and brown-green eyes. She's five foot eleven and fit. Four Brit men sit together in front of us. They're more conservative in nature and keep to themselves.

The bus stops along the road frequently to let people off and pick them up. Most of the locals occupy the front 3/4's of the bus. We ride sweating with the windows pulled down halfway through the heat. The dust sticks to every visible pore. The countryside rolls by in a dry green dressed with tropical trees every now and again. Farms and shanties pass and go in no particular hurry. We stop midway at a market for a :15 break. We lunch and note the fact we are far from any cities. After eating a hamburger, which I'm not sure is made of beef, I return to the bus only to find the bus has filled and a Rasta boy has seated himself next to Hank. I find a seat across from them next to a white man with a reddish beard donning a straw hat. He wears suspenders, a blue shirt, and a strong bodily aroma.

Mennonite and the Number of the Beast

Riding in silence through the heat of the early afternoon, the man turns to me and asks, "Is your faith in God?" The question takes me off guard, yet I quickly reply, "Yes." He continues questioning me, asking me if I'm English in his unique accent. I tell him no, but the boyz in front of us are. I learn he is a native Belizean. He asks me if I'm Catholic, and I reply that I'm of Protestant upbringings. I offer no more bites and we ride on in silence. A black boy sits behind us with the Brit girls. He carries a large boom box, and they start playing reggae and rap music. My seatmate leans over at the start of the music and questions if I believe in following in the footsteps of Jesus. I tell him we try to practice the ethics and values Jesus taught. He continues and asks if I believe radio is what Jesus had in mind? Is it in his footsteps? I tell him that music and religion are often intertwined and that the answer to his question is not so black and white.

Moments pass, a few miles roll by until the man can hold his tongue no longer, so he asks, "Are you in America or England, are you wary of the number of the beast?" I don't quite understand him through his accent and have him repeat the question. "Are you taught the number of the beast?" Wow, I'm thinking, this is weird. I play it safe and reply that we try to accentuate the positive lessons rather than the fear of Revelations. And with this he nods his understanding, and we continue once again riding in silence until he offs the bus some miles down the road.

Guatemala with Simon and Floss

We reach the Guatemala border, which is as far as the Belize bus line will carry us. We grab our backpacks and step into the late afternoon heat. Five to ten black market moneychangers work the passengers for their business. I change a few travelers’ checks myself and stand in the customs line with Hank. Just ahead of us in line are the Brit girls. The one with the body piercing is called Simon, and the tall blonde's name is Floss. They approach us about sharing a van to Tikal and we couldn't be happier. We go through the Belize and Guatemalan customs with little hassle or search of belongings, and by the time we've finished Simon has already been in shrewd negotiations with van owners. Simon tells us the prices they're asking and we agree it's a little high. We loop into our packs and start out to see if we can hitchhike. We immediately cross a bridge that stands over a lazy clear, green river. Locals wash clothes and swim. The thought of cool water is too much for Simon and Floss. We stroll down to the river's edge to accommodate them. They shake out of their sarongs to their panties and go in for a swim. Hank and I stay on the bank and discuss our situation. Hitchhike? Take a van? We are both cool with hanging with these gals and see what happens. Floss and Simon come back wearing see-through tank tops. They ask why we didn't join, and I mention that I'm not wearing boxers today, which for the first time since we arrived, isn't true. From the road, a bus honks and the bus conductor walks down to solicit us. Simon, who speaks Spanish well, haggles with him and he agrees to drop us at the Tikal turn off for 10 quetzals ($2US) each. We jump on the roof of the bus and ride with our bags. We're psyched to ride topside even with the occasional tree branch swinging for our skulls. We sprawl out on top of our luggage and feel the surging sunrays beat down. The view explodes with beauty in the dazzling heat. Small mountains merge out of vegetation-covered earth. Ceiba trees sprout up like gargantuan coconut trees with mushroom tops. Unkempt wooden shacks, girls in turquoise dresses, hogs and thin cattle, and laundry hanging in the wind gather our senses all along the road.

Floss finds a comfortable spot on a green duffel bag and tumbles into a sleep still in her swim attire. Simon is engaged in conversation with the bus employ. He wears Ray Ban and attaches the glass case to his black leather belt and jeans. I lie down and watch the blue, blue sky broken ever so often by leaf covered branches and fronds. The roads are dirt here in northeast Guatemala, and dust becomes layered on our skin. The constant wind keeps us dry from sweat.

The Brit Women

Floss and I talk after the lunch break. She's 21 and studies contemporary dance in Cambridge. Simon and she have been traveling for 2 1/2 months - started in Mexico and are working their way down to Costa Rica if their money holds. Mexico brought times of dancing on Mayan ruins and traveling in a van with some Dutch. Simon postponed her acceptance to film school and waitressed at a fine dining establishment in Oxford before taking off to travel. They had planned for six months of travel, but five is the more likely reality due to their cash situation. They budgeted for $7US in spending a day. The girls had just left Caulker themselves where they experienced good and bad. They had good fortune in accommodations. A local put them up for free. He slept on the floor and gave his bed to them. He had cable and all the amenities for their contentment. On the flip side, a few of the locals would stalk them when they were out and tell them the fantastic things they'd do to them in bed. Even though the girls told them to, in their words "fuck off," the crack heads continued to harass them.

Floss and Simon did meet Ross, the captain of the Reggae Muffin, and had a time. On Simon's birthday, Ross took them out for a cruise on the house. They danced naked to Bob Marley and snorkeled with the stingrays. They even petted an Eagle Ray on his slimy white snout. The crew topped off the day by catching tropical fish and cooking the nuggets up for a delicious dinner.

The Road to Tikal

The four of us are dropped at the Tikal turnoff and arrange van transport as hoped. Into the jungle we travel until we reach the Tikal National Park entryway. There's a 30 Quetzal entry fee for foreigners and the girls flat don't have the quetzals for it. So I cover them and we venture onward to the Tikal lodging area some miles further. The hotels and campsites are all overpriced. After some searching and negotiating, we arrange to sleep in a tent at the Jaguar Inn for 90 quetzals ($4 US each). Hank and I leave the girls after changing some checks and go to the cheapest restaurant for some beans and rice. A couple tables from us, four locals sit and sing in the restaurant over an out of tune guitar. Beatles and Guatemalan songs ring in trying harmonies. I tap my feet to the tunes and enjoy my first rounded meal of the day as the last of the sun rays extinguish in the jungle fauna.

We retire back to the tent where Simon has lit a candle and is preparing marmite on bread. I'm encouraged to take a dab, and man, we're talking this is powerful yeast brother. It has a strong aftertaste not so different from peanut butter. Floss repairs holes in the mesh of the tent with duck tape and then she lays down for sleep around 7:30PM.

Camping Tips

Use tampons for candles, especially when wind is prevalent. Simply soak an end in 2mm cooking oil, twist the top into the shape of a Hershey's Kiss, and light. It takes a moment to light, but it should burn for hours due to the thick cotton, wool make-up of the tampon. Simon swears the harshest wind will not blow it out. I make a note to myself, "must try to travel with more women."

Simon

Simon is concerned about running into life. She was prepared to return to Oxford, and her father was going to help her buy a house. She'd rent rooms to friends, have a mortgage, get a car, a computer, and attend film school. And now traveling, she realizes she was running into life. So Simon is trying to defer film school indefinitely. Says she wants to work six months waitressing and go to Sydney and get a service job. Maybe visit Malaysia, Indonesia, and her father who lives in Taiwan. Then, perhaps, she can return to the life she'd planned. Conversation drifts over the candle light and we talk about Saudi Arabia where Simon had lived in a European colony until she was 10. Different customs, different places, but people still laugh and still cry like anywhere else. Around 8:30PM we kill the candle and try to slip into unconsciousness. It's hot. There is only a faint, ghost of a breeze. A few ants march on the tent walls. Jungle noises explode from birds and other critters that one can only imagine. Tikal nights are a huge contrast to the sleepy Caribbean breezes engulfing Caulker. We twist and roll in and out of consciousness in the dark.

16.05.95

Screaming Howlers, Temples at Sunrise

Howler monkeys scream, peacocks gobble like turkeys, and bird coos pierce the night. The peacock yawl and call and recall in the night make me have a hankerin' to chase one down and ring his sissy little neck. Damn birds. Floss, Hank, and I drag our bones off the floor at 5AM with mush brain, sleep-deprived skulls. We stand awake, put on our Tevas and Birkenstocks, and begin to hike up to the Tikal ruins. We lead into the jungle on a wide trail in the dimmest of light. A half lemur, half raccoon looking critter forages the jungle floor for food. A radio collar wrapped around his neck does not appear to hinder its movements. We've set our destination on Temple IV with flashlights in hand and day packs on backs. It is said that Temple IV has the most magnificent vistas of the jungle. Howler screams begin to echo more regularly as light begins to filter up from the horizon. We approach Temple IV, the tallest temple in the western hemisphere, and start the steep climb up ladders and stones to the top perimeter of the ruins. To get to the peak of the temple, you'd need to be an insane rock climber who is able to make it up slick vertical walls. A heavy mist cloud rolls over the jungle at sunrise and only the nearest treetops are visible. The sun appears as a shiny, dim moon through the mist. A grumpy Howler greets the morning screaming. The sound is similar to that of a long scratchy cough exhaled from an emphysema victim. We walk on the temple ledges with some other visitors. Lizards and a falcon are also settled atop the temple, and squirrels race across the branches of the tree to our left. Floss speaks of her travels, and we feed her with interested ears as we wait on the day. As the sun inches higher, the mist burns, lulls itself away to a humid haze. Peaks of other ruins jut up past the jungle ceiling. Toucans with green-yellow hollow bills wing from ceiba to ceiba.

From Temple IV, we watch hawks circle Temple III to the southeast. The stones of the temples comprise of chalky white, grays, and blacks. Tall steps adorn the front of Temple III. The steps rise straight up in a 45-degree angle to a flat rectangular top. The stones, laid down for Mayan gods during a time before Christ, still stand strong today. I'm wondering if Egyptians and Mayans had ties before continental drift. A red hair English lass and her mate talk to us as we drink in the view. They have traveled continuously over the last seven years and are finally making their way back to the dreary Brit island. Most recently, bandito shots and robberies were occurring in the Guatemalan mountains, and they were unable to climb Volcan Pacaya, the volcano located a few hours outside of Antigua. We slip away from the backpacker veterans and head over to climb Temple III.

We're out of breath as we climb through the temple's shadow. At the top, we stand and consider where a reservoir could possibly be. The red-hair mentioned she thought there was a reservoir here. How could they build without water nearby? After a short stay on Temple III, we make our way through the jungle to the grand Plaza. It's a large courtyard a few football fields wide with temples boarding three sides. Scaffolding mars the sprawling horizontal one to the north. Stones with oblong headboards line the grounds in front of the ruins. I imagine these serving as the chopping blocks for hundreds of sacrifices: cattle, pigs, virgins, and neighboring warriors. Mayan godheads are engraved in the temple walls, and I hear high-pitched screams from days gone by.

Floss, Hank, and I are drained by late morning. No food and long hikes exhaust a human. After searching a bit, we learn that there is not a reservoir, and the Mayan architectural feats seem even more monumental. Unlike other ruins, Tikal is part of the jungle. You cannot see all of its magnificence from any one point, not even from a bird's eye view.

Monkeys and the Danes

Working our way back to camp, we happen across a family of monkeys feeding in the trees. Brachiating, hanging by tails, and leaping from tree to tree they cross overhead. We're unable to say what kind of monkeys these are, only that they are not Howlers or Squirrel monkeys.

We run into Morton wandering in the jungles along the trail. Morton is a Dane who has reddish hair and a bearded face. He is particularly unclean even compared to other backpackers. Floss and Simon traveled with this man and his band of gypsies in Mexico for a spell. His group is traveling in a beaten up van. He's tired, and Floss's immediate excitement in the reunion fades as Morton attention is elsewhere. We walk on with Floss as she recants moments in Mexico with the Dane caravan. We come across two more girls from the Danish van near the trailhead. Living in the van, sleeping on its metal floors, and not having showered in five days peppers forth from the girls' breaths. We laugh with them and then walk on thankful for our little tent.

Through the Tent Screen

Hank and I move off to fetch some fruit and water before going back to camp. We find Simon has just got going this morning and is preparing to take a shower. I'm spent and enjoy a cigarette under our tent's cabana. Simon returns from the shower and Floss from her friend’s. We talk of our morning experiences as Simon organizes her wares naked in the tent. Nakedness is nothing but ordinary when traveling on a shoestring. Even so, her petite breasts, nose earrings, and razor stubble baldhead are a unique vision through the tent screen. Simon swats at mosquitoes that have made it through the tent entry. She finishes her packing and eventually steps into a pair of shorts.

Jumping Over to Antigua

It's 11AM and it's jungle hot. Hank and I take turns showering and decide to try and make it to Antigua for the night. We hire a van for 80 quetzals and go to the Flores airport. It's a 3 1/2 hour wait until the next flight to Guatemala City. I go out and sit on the front strip of grass against a sapling. I watch the green clothed guards on the land next to the airport through a wire fence and write postcards and journals. Finished, I relieve Hank of watching the backpacks in the open door airport. Two Belgium girls sit across from us. We talk to them for a few moments until we are individually singled out to board our flight. We missed the announcement for the flight. The plane ascends into the air, and we loaf off toward Guatemala City. This :30 flight is supposedly a worthwhile luxury versus the treacherous 16-20 hour bus ride through the mountain passes teeming with banditos. All for the low, low price of $80 a ticket. The ticket is pricey for us considering the tight budgets we must maintain. Upon landing, a 40-year-old blond Danish woman recruits us to share a taxi to Antigua.

Elise and we ride through the large, fume filled Guatemala City. Bus exhaust pipes jet toxins from their sides directly into our open car windows; billboards line the highway: cigarillos, panty hose, cervasez... We're in foothill country and it is a quite comfortable climate of mid 70's. I enjoy the gently rolling cumulous clouds as we leave Guatemala City and wind our way to Antigua. Antigua is built on cobblestone roads and only a few buildings are over 3 stories tall. Most buildings are one story. Old Spanish colonial buildings exist in decay. We look for a place to settle and hole up in the Casa de Santa Lucia II. The town is quiet as the sun ducks down, and I envision this to be a place of study.

We off for a bite and mill about the town. We find no obvious watering holes after a sandwich and decide to buy some cervasez and hang out in our room. Gallo's the beer, the rooster. We play cribbage, drink, smoke, and laugh at poor cribbage play. The laughs echo off the hard cold floors and fall to silence. We tire and head for sleep in the start of the night.

17.05.95

Antigua, The City

We awake to the explosions of firecrackers. It's not even 7AM, and the machine gun fire of a string of firecrackers rivets the air. We bound out of bed to a sun filled day. The air is cool, not yet warmed by the sunbeams. We check the Lonely Planet guide and figure we'll try the Dona Luisa. We stroll along the caille sidewalks observing the cobblestones, the buildings, and the people. It is Wednesday I believe, and a little market is set-up just shy of the town square. The Parque Central marks the square. Fountains leak water into their pools, while flowers of white, red, and purples line the walks through the park. Trees stretch upwards providing shade for wooden benches. Beautiful little schoolgirls with braided hair and tanned skin play in their uniforms. The uniforms weave white and black checker skirts and red sweaters. A white-boarded church with religious figures mounted into its walls lines the north of the parque. Shops and banks square the parque's west and south. Market vendors string the area. Some walk in the park soliciting people to haggle and buy goods. Women carry wares in woven baskets atop their heads. Overlooking it all, are three volcanoes that surround the city. It is rare to see their peaks due to cloud cover. It is as if the clouds and volcanoes share a symbiotic relationship while the rest of the sky shines deep blue. The town is not much for bars and virtually shuts down between 9-10PM and will not rise again 'til dawn.

Cafe Dona Luisa

Dona Luisa provides a quaint atmosphere that caters to the gringo. There is a courtyard filled with potted flowers on the first level, and a cork billboard that lists ads for Spanish courses, Tikal trips, family housing opportunities, and scuba diving certification in Honduras. The upstairs’ verandahs offer views of the city and Volcan Fuego. It is a light place with white walls that invite the sun. Wood tables and chairs, and waitresses wearing smiles complete the indoor decor. Filling the tables are students and teachers conversing over coffee. Journalists and worldwide expatriates debate politics. Some gather in the back room where CNN constantly rattles world news. Hank and I enjoy coffee and cigarettes over good, but not great food. The prices suit the backpacker. We peruse the women with our eyes and imagine wonderful things. We discuss our future plans over several cups of Guatemalan coffee. Travels to Costa Rica fill our heads. We devise a strategy to meet with a travel agent and get to the heart of the matter. Planes would be required, as Hank's time is growing shorter by the day.

Haggling in the Parque

We adjourn down to the Parque Central and find a comfortable bench and take in Antigua's snail’s pace. A young girl of eight or nine years of age spots a kind character and approaches Hank. She plants herself at his feet carrying a basket of woven goods. Her dress is made of exploding blues and strands of purple. Her long dark hair falls along her back. She smiles baring white teeth and giggles at Hank's words: "No tengo (I don't want it); No dinero (I have no money); Es muy caro (it's very expensive); El precio es muy alto (the price is very high); No necessito (it's not necessary); No tengo (I don't want it)." Hank's retorts are delivered with a smile and laugh. After fifteen-twenty minutes, he settles on a braided string bracelet, and she lets him go. I sat watching the whole transaction while reading a book with my stern face warning off other potential marketers. Hank: "I had to buy something, she's so cute. How could you not buy something from that smile?" We while away time in the sun watching peasant men drink from their cupped hands and rinse their faces in the parque fountain, the community commons.

Around Town

We finally visit the bank and a travel agent. The stores and banks protect themselves with security guards dressed in fatigues. The guards are armed with heavy artillery, some with Italian shotguns and some with Uzis. We tire of the free wheeling gun barrels at the bank, and we go to a travel agent. The agent lets Hank struggle in Spanish for a moment before he speaks to us in English. Costa Rica becomes out of the question. Whereas most flights between Central American countries are under $80US, flights to Costa cost over $350. The bus would take several days and cost $70 each. It is too expensive for us by air and too much time to lose for Hank by bus. I'm not ready to part ways with Hank, or his Spanish, so early in the travel. We decide to spend an extra day in the area and then go to Honduras. The company of a good friend should never be left too soon. The two of us continue on about town, and on the southeast corner, I haggle with a boy for a Guatemalan music piece. It is the equivalent of a one-note zilaphone. A wood tube with a hole and two splices running along the length of the instrument. A little mallet with a brightly covered hammer is used to play the tube. Each wood tube the boy offers has its own unique, high pitch. Hitting it in different strokes and directions generates variations of the tone. I pay around $5US for the piece and am pleased with the purchase.

We're undecided whether to spend the next day traveling over to Panajachel along the magnificent Lago de Atitlan, or to trek up the bandito filled terrain of Volcan Pacaya to view the active volcano. We motion for the Volcan and stroll back to Dona Luisa for dinner at sundown.

18.05.95

Volcan Pacaya: Skiing in the Lava Sand

Fifteen tourists ripe for the pickin's. Auzzies, Kiwis, Spanish, Americans, and Austrians going to climb a volcano in bandito country. Much rape, robbery, and murder have occurred along Pacaya's trails, but two guides with machetes and two small dogs make us safe? It's an hour and a half bus ride of bumps, the last 40 minutes on torn up dirt roads, up through small villages of green country sprinkled with goats, cattle, trees, and crops. Vistas of green mountains, far off cities, and Volcan Pacaya bleeding with smoke fill our eyes. Blue skies glisten in the fading afternoon. Satellites with drifting clouds roll across the peak. There's an indoor-outdoor bar where we park the bus, and across the dirt road, a narrow single-track trail points to the volcan. A white bearded Guatemalan with machete, beige clothes, straw hat, and black boot galoshes leads the group. A younger guide brings up the rear. It's hot along the upward winding trail. A gentle push through heavy fauna into dirt troughs that break into clearings that shoots back into forest. After an hour or so, we rise above the trees on to grassy knolls. Ahead, past the cow pie littered trail, the ground turns to a black, packed lava track. The hike steeps immensely as we wrap around to the east of the volcan. The last 1/4-mile is straight up through volcanic sand. Each step sinks deep and our breathes are heavy. The group splits pace. I stay with the lead guide and stop twice for air. As I look back, the hikers are bent over and reaching with their hands struggling to climb upward. The guide urges me on in Spanish, saying it’s only a few more metres. I let my body hike through the ache and make the ledge. We're on a ridge some 200-300 metres from the cone. The sunshine slants through the clouds as I light a cigarette, and with shaking rumbles the volcan spews forth orange and black glow embers that fall as a river before crashing to earth in a thud like eggs on concrete. Every 3-10 minutes Pacaya spews smoke and red and black lava. As the last of the group reaches the perch, clouds slither across the volcan blocking the view. Soft rain turns off and on. The cloud vapor wisps through us in a frigid fog. The temperature dips in seconds to below 40F. The team puts on jackets and Patagonias that they've stowed in their packs. We eat snacks, drink water, and wait for clearings in the cloud cover. I feel as if I'm waiting atop a ski trail holed up in a white out.

Our hands are numbed and tingle. I feel the blood ants marching through the capillaries. After 45 minutes and occasional eruption sightings, we turn back. The descent down reaches the phenomenal of experiences. We leap high and bounce into fluffy black volcanic powder and pull turns pretending we're downhill skiing. It must be like walking on the moon. Hank does a shuffle that makes it appear he's on a moving walkway beneath the black powder. The med student hollers with joy swooshing in the air, gliding into the dust. Look Ma! I'm flying. I'm floating in moon dust. It ends all too quickly. We stop on the firm terra and shake out our boots to find our socks turned black.

From here, we begin our return descent as night approaches. We stumble along with our torches beaming the way. The mist stays upon us in the dusk. Suddenly, the dogs shoot ahead in a growling and jeering terror. Oh shit, I can't deal with banditos. How does one escape on this part of the trail? Cliff like precipices guards the trail at this point. Through the fog, two figures with lamps stand in hooded ponchos. Fear streaks through many of the group. I'm thinking as long I stay calm and quiet; perhaps I can slip away unnoticed. We march onward and find the hooded marauders to be a village couple enjoying Pacaya. Breaths of relief are heard among our footsteps as the guides gather the dogs and we move on. As we descend the heavens clear. An orange glow hangs above Pacaya and her mouth is skirted with bright lava against the deep black sky. Stars, millions of stars, shine like jewels twinkling by firelight. In the valley, lights of a city sprawl out. I'm a light year away from home and home all at once. Laughter sprinkles the hills as we make our way back. Cervasez are had at the bar where the bus is parked. An Auzzie spots me a couple Quetzals so I can split a beer with Hank. I'm alive in my solitude as we bus back over the rutted trail to the interstate. A giant pig charges across the interstate, and cars brake hard swerving to avoid disaster. Giant pigs in Guatemala. An Austrian falls a sleep on my shoulder until we make Antigua once more.

Date: 19.05.95

Three Planes, Three Countries

We awake at 4AM to catch a ride to the Guatemala City airport. The weasely white car slowly winds it way to our destination. Honduras lies ahead for us. We book tickets to La Ceiba, Honduras via El Salvador. We fight through the crowds and huge custom lines and just make the plane to El Salvador. A man takes Hank’s assigned seat and Hank is forced to sit up front. This man, Amos - a former Salvadorian, now is a US citizen living in LA. He hands me his business card as if I might actually call him someday. Amos talks about paying for good women in El Salvador. Thinks he may buy a house of his own here in case he decides to leave his wife and children in California. The children would be welcome to come any time, but the wife would get stuck with the LA house and a $70K mortgage. He's a bitter, unfaithful man looking forward to two weeks of peace away from his wife. I bid him goodbye as we land in El Salvador, and Hank and I catch a quick connection to La Ceiba.

We arrive in La Ceiba airport and decide to go straight out to an island called Utila on the 11:30AM flight. We wait and begin talking to two Americans. The girl teaches English in Southwest Africa. She's learning Zimbabwe so she can speak to all the villagers. The villagers have their own tribal language but also speak Zimbabwe. Africa is a place of customs. The Africans will greet each other whenever they cross paths. These greetings take well over a minute to communicate. Certain gestures and words are spoken. No hurried western recognition will do. No quick: "How are you?" followed by a fleeting "Hello!" Her companion is teaching English in San Pedros, Honduras. They're off to the beaches for her visit. We wish them happy days as they depart.

Skinny Legs and Lucky Strikes

The man walked out from the airport structure with skinny legs smoking a Lucky Strike. His calves defined above his brown hiking boots. He slung his olive canvas pack onto the ground and wiped his shoulder length brown hair from his face. He sits down next to us and begins conversation carrying an English accent. He's traveling to Utila, and he goes by the name of Nick. Nick is 25 and had been living in London bartending, but he's from Sheffield. He's waiting to hear if he has been accepted into Socio-philosophy school. He wants to attain his Ph.D. The plan is to call England in a couple of weeks from southern Mexico with six shots of tequila lined up on a bar. Figures he’ll either need the drinks to celebrate or drown his sorrows. I see his wisdom and quickly accept him as a mate.

The flight to Utila costs $12US and takes 10-15 minutes. We land onto a dirt runway and disembark into heat. We walk down the main drag having referenced the Lonely Planet for lodging ideas. We check a place or two, and they're charging more than we'd like and it's off-season. A couple dudes recommend Selley's located just off the main street. We roam over to Selley's and see what he's got. We grab a couple of beers from his ice chest. They're so nice and cold that they're slushy. Turning the bottle up, I forget the heat, the dirt, and the sweat beading down my back. We check out one of the cabins and are impressed by a spider the size of your palm lying legs up on the red robed bed. Nick and Hank decide to look for other lodgings while I watch our belongings in Selley's indoor/outdoor lounge. I sit back popping cervasez regularly and listen to Selley speak in his island English.

Old Fashion Potado Salad

"Sure wou'd like sum ole fashion't Potado Salad. Ya know. Lots a' fuckin' potado, Cheddar - New Yark Sharp. Sum ham 'n mayonaize. Everythin' but da kitchun sink. Bo' sure wou'd like sum. That had lots of fuckin' flavor. Ya can't get no good flavor on 'dis island. Ya gotta garlic everythin' up ta taste anythin'. Hell, de fish don't even have good flavor here no more."

Selley, This is His Place

Selley is a bald, older man with sizable belly and breasts. Yes, the man has breasts. He sits in a wooden chair with 3 packs of cigarettes on the table. He wears loose pale green shorts and has a tan to his skin. The TV is tuned to CNN. A slight breeze rolls through the dirt sand room and wood rafters line the ceiling. Selley spent some time on a cruise ship as a cook, and then landed in Miami as a maintenance man for a hotel. Those days on the cruise ship were something. They "was da best" according to Selley, here in Selley's place.

Selley and the Little Hole

"Whatta stupid man! A man wid all dat money throwd it all away for one little hole, a hole no bigger den dat," Selley encircles his thumb and index finger. "He can 'ave any piece a pussy he wants, but one hole done ruined 'im. A woman ain't meant to been lived width. They not'in' but a bunch of hang-ups. I lived wid one for 5 years. All sudden she lays a hang-up on me I never knewd she 'ad. Only good woman, truly good woman, is a dead woman. Hell, follow the three F's. Find 'em. Fuck 'em. Flee 'em! Woman ain't no good."

As Selley finishes his soliloquy, his black boy showers under a spicket in the corner of the bar.

"Didya soap ya crack, ya front, and ya legs?"

"Noah," the boy responds.

"Get on dat boy. Get all dat saltwater off."

The boy soaps up more, rinses, and looks at himself in a little square mirror. He towels and runs upstairs to change. CNN drones on in the background. The OJ trial update is over and Selley flips through the channels looking for something to watch to help take away the hot afternoon. Hank and Nick return to find me a little buzzed. They've located another place to sleep just a stones throw away. We settle our bill with Selley who encourages us to comeback for dinner or a room. We walk down the road to the Loma Vista where Hank and I pay 50 Lempira/day for a double (roughly $5.50US in total). Nick pays 30 Lempira for a single. The place offers shared showers, fans, a front porch, and a laundry facility under the owner’s house next door. Settled in, we decide a swim is in order. We hear there is a small beach (supposedly the only beach) across the island called Pumpkin Hill Beach. We hike to find sand and ocean.

Walk through Crab Valley

Hank, Nick, and I find the path to Pumpkin Hill Beach. It's a 3km walk across the island. The hour nears 6PM and the light is fading. By 6:15PM the sun will have set. The path starts just past the soccer field. Coconut and palm trees line the dirt path. Wooden homes are sparsely tucked in the fauna. Turquoise and white paints show chips and peeling gray boards. Near the middle of the Utila, we sight thousands of holes along the path. We are not alone. In each hole is a crab with a blue face guarding each entrance. The crabs come in all shapes and sizes, some no bigger than a couple inches in diameter, others eight inches. The crabs scurry in their holes around us until just past the flowering white trees. At which point the trees have carpeted the path with bride white pedals for over 30 yards. "Keep Out. Explosives" is posted near a house by the trail. Barbed wire meets the trail to mark property boundaries. This is some weird yellow brick road. Where's that damn Oz?

A hill juts up among green grassy fields. The ocean can be heard in the distance. A blush falls on the western skies to our left, and the beach fronts our north. Finding the shore, we learn that whatever sand was here, is now somewhere in the Caribbean. White crabs run along the shore, and dead lime coral makes up the shallows. The cracks and cronies of the coral make it difficult to walk out and get to any sort of depths. We sit in the shallows letting the slow, soft waves push and pull us with the tide. The sky continues to dim throwing it's last light from behind the earth. We savor the fading sight of the ocean and palm fenced shores and decide to turn back.

It is dark on the trail. We talk about the movie "Ishmael and I" and "the fear." Mustn't get the fear, mustn't lose all your senses to adrenaline induced lunacy. Nick is forced to lead the way. You see, he's wearing boots and Hank and I are only in Teva's. Talk of shattering crustaceans under foot, talk of crab attacks swarming in from all sides, shouts to warn the crabs "we're" coming, calls to let 'em know their nothing more than crazy critters, talk of bears in America mauling humans, and then looking skyward to see the stars fill-up the heavens. Suddenly, we're sprung onto the soccer field and thanking God for holding back the crabs, when we're attacked by local Utilian boyz. Oh how silly we were to fear the crabs, it's the local 6-9 year olds you must arm yourself against. The boyz try and catapult them selves onto your back and subject you to giving them piggyback races. They're the worst kind of jockeys, trying to race us like horses on dog track conditions. Unheard of I tell you. Oh, the madness. We fend off the boyz as we come to the Loma Vista.

We shower and then grab a couple cervasez at the Tropical Sunset and call it an early night. From midnight to 6AM the power is shut off in Utila. The fan dies at the stroke of midnight and we're left to bake in our rooms. There is no breeze and it's humid and hot. Hank can't take it. Hank rolls and curses, rolls and curses as if any of these tactics can relieve the suffering. Sometimes you just got to lie there and take the pain - quietly.

20.05.95

Captain Morgan's and the Blue Bayou

After coffee and bread at Thompson's Sidewalk Cafe with the romance novel walls, we tour the dive shops. We find Captain Morgan's to be to our liking. Our Loma Vista neighbors (Heather of New Zealand, Rebecca of England, and Carol from Wisconsin) recommended the shop, and Colin Ross, our Auzzie instructor, exuded the laid back but thorough attitude we wanted. We take our PADI guides and evade the high noon heat at the Rainbow Cafe. The Rainbow is a small, colorful painted wood house just shy of the Loma Vista. A fan shoots still air into breeze in one corner of the hut. We order mango and banana shakes and read the assigned PADI course work, shooing the flies as needed.

We go to the Blue Bayou for the afternoon to snorkel and sun. The Blue Bayou is a 20-minute walk from the Loma. Head north along the main street onto the dirt road that skirts the calm green sea. Coconut trees fence the trail while lizards run across our path. We move in slow motion past the rotting cargo ship run aground to the palm trees strung with hammocks. For five lempira, the hammocks and sea bathing are yours. Snorkeling just off the wooden dock, incredible coral leads to a shimmering coral wall, which drops directly down 50-60 feet to the ocean floor. Little barracudas, trumpet fish, angelfish, stingrays, and the rest of the multitude roam lethargically about while we awkward, land evolved creatures, jerk and dive about them in awe.

Carnival Relics

Hank decides to bow out of the scuba deal in hopes of traveling over to see the Copan ruins. Nick and I go over with the Loma girls and do lecture and videos for three hours. We rendezvous, do not pass go, with Hank for some beers at the Tropical Sunset. When it closes, we move to the Bucket of Blood, but it is closing too. We walk back to Main Street and settle on the bar caddie corner from Captain Morgan's. It is a large green wooden structure near the waters. An altercation explodes at the crossroads between a liquored woman and two guys. The locals gather around laughing and watching the fireworks. People hold her back as she stumbles and yells drunken Carib into the night. She's pushed into the corner tortilla stand, held down to the ground, and writhes in hysterical obscenities. I'm thinking these relationship blow-ups can just happen anywhere, anywhere I tell you. At first glance, you think how can these guys gang up on this poor drunk. Then again, she's not so small, she's throwing blows, and she has an acid tongue. Relics of the Carnival are what they are. It's Carnival time in La Ceiba and some of the overflow has landed on Utila. Little black and white boys light sparklers and throw them and chase the fragments of light along the street. Music beats into the street from the bar. I tire quickly after a few beers and leave Nick and Hank to the fall of the Carnival.

21.05.95

Dimensions of a Sterile Boxcar

White walls and two by fours, white ceiling and a white light bulb, wooden shelf, two single beds - one with Star Wars sheets and the other pale pink - and the sound of water dripping from swim trunks that hang on a hook attached to the bottom of a shelf. On the back wall, a wood framed window has a screen. There is 18 inches between the beds, three feet to the door. A standing fan set on high hums.

Bleeding the Days Together

Sunday is not so different from Saturday. The morning in Thompson's includes eating the cheese and egg sandwich with a glass of OJ. The white girls with Carib accents in tank tops and bra strings have blond hair and brown eyes. The wall among the turquoise table is full of cheap romance novels for any who want. After breakfast, Hank and I do laundry at the Loma. Beneath the landlord's stilt raised house, we blister our hands wringing the clothes of suds next to the washing machine. A mother cat lies on the ground while a calico and a black kitten nurse from her teats. We stretch our clothes over the clothesline beneath a hazy sun to dry.

We reward our hard efforts with a snorkel at the Blue Bayou and follow the snorkel with a snooze beneath the coconut trees. Ferocious sand fleas strike from every direction, the miserable buggers. No-see-'ems, tiny little bites you can hardly feel turn red and swell. Small red marks on ankles, the waist, arms, mark most of the backpackers' bodies here. Swimming is the only safe haven, as well as offers a good excuse to walk past and view the large breasts of topless Swedes sunning on the dock.

Nick and I attend class in the evening. Three more have added Captain Morgan's scuba class - the Hebrew with the rotten clothes, and the striking Norwegian girls with the hair covered legs and underarms. The class drags with today's topics of decompression sickness and charts.

Central American Holiday

After class, we join Hank at the Tropical Sunset. He's nuzzled up to the bar watching No Escape and the beginning of True Romance on the bar's TV. The place is wooded and open. A large industrial fan shoots air toward the bar. Nick and I kick back strawberry sodas and Hank polishes off his fourth Nationale. Hank will awake at 5AM and journey to Copan. We talk about meeting back in Caye Caulker on Thursday or Friday. Hank looks forward to the travel alone, wanting to be more in the Central American holiday.

... and as if Floss or Simon had reappeared, I hear English accents question:

22.05.95

Breathing in the Sea

Nick moves down the hall to share my room to take advantage of lower boarding fees. We're off to Thompson's for breakfast and we share a talk with two Italians and two Germans. They've just arrived from the Carnival at La Ceiba. It wasn't dancing. Just madness coupled together with the feeling of danger. Nick and I feel better for not going. The blond German on my left smokes insistently and laughs in a shrilling manner. The Italian from Rome is moving to London in September and jokes about a gigolo service. Cheers and all that mates.

At noon, we meet at Captain Morgan's to begin our open water scuba training. Colin Ross, the instructor with blue eyes and red-brown hair, has some ear and nose hair that should be macheted back a touch. Colin is a good sort. A true diver, he's been traveling the last two years and has settled in Utila for the last 9 months to work and save up cash. In August, he must go to Miami to avoid violating Honduras visa rights. The two Ali's are the assistants and are qualified Dive Masters. The male Ali (for Alestar) is English, has reddish hair, earrings through his nose and nipple, and several more through his ear. With a thick, full cap of hair, he's quite a chap to see. He dates the other Ali (for Allison) who has thin red hair. Her skin shines pink with sunburn, and freckles dot along her shoulders and cheeks. She's gentle and kind. Out on the boat, we are dropped 100-150 meters from shore and must swim in. I brush my foot against coral, ignore it and swim on. Gearing up in the shallows, I notice a chunk the size of a fifty-cent piece has been ripped off the arch of my foot. Red streams circle in the water behind my foot as I walk in the tide.

We suit-up and the underwater buzz begins. Drills, and more drills: clearing the facemask, buoyancy, capturing the air regulator, etc.... At one point, out of nowhere, a fear grabs me sitting on my knees at 3 meters deep. Just want to talk to someone about what's going on, and say look how sunrays spray through the water. But, you can't talk to anyone down here. I quickly get my wits about me and slow down my mind. Relaxing, I find diving comes quite easily to me. Strange, the fear never grips me again. We finish the four-hour session with a dive down to seven meters into the "Little Bite" dive hole. We venture across stingrays and coral gardens as a bubbling school of fish.

Back at the dive shop, Colin gives the hydrogen peroxide and alcohol treatment to the gash on my foot. The peroxide bubbles and is applied three or four times before it kills the bacteria. After the pain subsides, I step into the afternoon, and Allison shares a tortilla with frijoles from the corner stand with me. I decide I must have one of my own. Nick and I walk back past the Bucket of Blood and the Sea Horse Cafe (with the great burritos and mango shakes) to the Loma Vista. I shower the salt off the body in the communal bathroom. I've fallen into the Life of Scuba here on the Honduras Bay Islands. I wear the same clothes every night and the same swim suit every day. It's a lazy sport, a fantastically lazy life.

Nick and I join the girls for a bite at their favorite island restaurant. We eat lasagna and drink sprite and quickly tire. Feeling dehydrated and not wanting to deal with swatting the ever-present sand fleas, we go home. The night rolls down and over and ends with a long, slow exhale.

23.05.95

Diving Day Two

Rising at 6:30AM, Nick and I roll about in the morning light as the fan greets our awakening with a splash of wind. Milling down to the dock, we get our gear together. Placid and flat, the ocean beckons. Louis, the native boat captain, navigates us to sea with a hand steered outboard motor. The dive drills are important, take time, and are often boring. Yet, just floating around weightless in a sea garden is worth the training. Colin rewards our efforts with a roam about the coral down to 40 feet. Eels, like strands of grass in the sandy bottom floor, rise and retract. A flat-bodied sand fish (a flounder of some sort) covers itself in the sand with only its tiny black eyes protruding the soil. Slithering through the waters, we weave through channels of coral fans and strings, over a wall, down into another channel and up again to the boat. Gital is a shapely brown-haired, brown-eyed amazing Norwegian beauty. Gital is traveling with Anne who possesses a most kind face as well as blond hair underarms and thighs.

"That was cool," Heather yells. The Kiwi breaks my reverie excited from the dive. Louis starts us moving to the next stop, Silver Gardens. Colin leads us along a coral wall. Like a teachers pet, I stay right with him maintaining communication with my dive buddy Nick. Colin takes time to point out the ocean life. He hands me a sea spider and a purple shrimp. I play with them letting them crawl along my hands and arms before gently returning them to their niches. We come across a rare toadfish and leave it to its business. The dive ends before we're ready as we lazily spiral back to the surface and burst into the sun.

We motor back to the docks by 11:30AM for lunch and finish the afternoon with class and the final written exam. We pass in good time, but poor Gital fell ill before the second dive with earaches and cold spells. She'll finish the test tomorrow.

Dinner Routine

Nick, Heather, and I stroll down to Captain Ron's for chicken sandwiches and fish. Rebecca and Carol are there, in fact, just finishing their meals. The talk wanders and I phase into a quiet state absorbing the scene, the stars, wood tables and benches, palm trees, the slow breeze that quits, and hear a story of New Zealand love crime. The girlfrie