Jungle Juice: A Weekend In Belize

It's hard to imagine that a week ago I was in the Belizean jungle. Then, a few days seemed so long, and this past week has seemed to pass so fast.

I've spent a little time regaling acquaintances with the trip along the New River and the visit to a Mayan village and temple. They also heard about what the world looks like from atop the trees in the jungle, while zipping along a wire. I have not been to see a psychiatrist, but I think I am certifiably mad. Why else would I think that a man in his mid-50s, who is not President Putin, would think that clambering up 60 feet of scaffolding as if he were Tarzan's chimp was a good idea? My mate had decided that parenting is an active occupation which means that at least one unit be present, and quickly dispelled all notions that she would be 'going for a ride'. But, no. Macho man had to surface. Truth was, when the offer was made early in the morning, I'd recalled with clearly a very blurred memory taking a zip line run or few when I was a boy. Then, in London's Holland Park, there was a rope contraption that ran through the woods, and friends and I regularly went there for a bit of whoo-hooing. It was simple enough and I remember--true or not--flying along in jeans and T-shirt, and having to jump off at the end instead of crashing into a tree. No harness. No helmet. Just a bit of guts.

But, times have changed. Now, I was being trussed up in a harness that looked like a skimpy diaper. I was given a workman's glove--one, yes--and did not feel that it made me look like MJ. Then, I was pointed to my objective. Way up above me stretched the scaffolding. Atop that was a platform--well, three planks set on top. "Up you go," I heard come from a drawling youth in his mid-40s; his name was Mark and he had long straggly hair. I trusted him because he was the owner's son. His smile was evil. In the late afternoon, with a tired and sweaty body, and the prospect of being high in the sky with only my bottom as support, I wondered if I really was being smart. I climbed. "You're going on the outside. You need to be on the inside," I heard from below me. I gave a glare. "What difference does it make on which side I fall 30 feet?" I yelled back. Tschoupse!

As I took a midway break, I looked down and saw nothing but tree and rock to fall onto. Comforting. I wanted to get to the top fast because my arms were aching and I knew that more time meant more thinking, meant more worry. I reached the top platform and was not put off that the plank raised as I tried to sit on it. It's only 60 feet down, I thought as I wavered. As I was hooked onto a pulley, my guide said "Just suspend yourself on the wire and get comfortable." I looked across the tree canopy and down to the ground. Suspend. Comfortable. Who is he kidding? I looked as his fellow pushed off and zipped toward the lower platform 500 feet away. Seemed easy enough. I pushed off and suspended....disbelief at first that I was not falling. Thank God, I thought. "Ready?" evil-looking Mark asked. "Like dead Freddy," I chimed. "Let's go, then," Mark snickered and pushed me away. Wheeeeeee!

Time moves slowly in a crisis. I tried to put up my gloved hand to pull on the wire to test how the braking worked, remembering that it was sensitive and that too much pulling would make me flip. I touched the wire and in an instant lurched forward. I let go immediately. I whizzed on, but now was starting to spin as my body was buffeted by some wind and I wondered how it would feel to hit a concrete column at 20 miles an hour. I tried to steady my swinging, and in doing so saw my glasses fly off into the jungle. What you cannot see, cannot hurt, right? I put my gloved hand up again. One finger got caught in the pulley and the glove dangled. I had no means now of holding the wire without burning or cutting my hand. I thought about impact. I braced. I put my legs out a little in case I needed to cushion my impact. Then remembered. The zip line turns up towards the end and that should slow me down. It did. A huge sigh as I got near the end and arms came to control me.

I had survived. But, hold on. As I stood atop a ladder waiting to be unharnessed, I heard "Wait. Stop. He's not off the line." I looked between my legs as I bent over to be unharnessed and saw evil-looking Mark racing toward me. Why were his legs outstretched? Surely, he was not aiming for me? I did not panic. Where could I go? I might fall off a 6 foot ladder.Better that than off a 60 foot scaffold, I rationalized. I thought that my bottom clearly was a good target and laughed to myself that I would have an ignominious end to the day. But, no need to fear. Mark skilfully braked his run and stopped inches from my backside. He saw my smiles, right way up. "You want some more of my beef jerky?" What an offer.

We headed back to the not completed lodge and lodged our complaints over several bottles of locally made fruit wine, tamales and meat pies. Stories were not ready to flow along with the fruit juices. Natural juices had already flowed freely.

I started from the end of the story, though. Beforehand, we had been taken as the first visitors along a 'medicine trail' still under construction, where there would be about 110 marked posts indicating plants and trees that had proven medicinal properties (for curing hepatitis, running bellies, enhancing sexual prowess, countering snake bites and more) or had geographical or cultural importance.Nature has a wonderful system of self regulation, so no sooner had we found a tree with a venomous sap, than we found alongside a plant that would reduce the rash that it caused.

But, the walk seemed tame compared to having to clamber around deep caves for several hours. Even though the inside of caves are dark and cool, working your way up and down the 'paths' is very hard work, and sweat mixed with bat guano is still not going to be a killer product on any market. But you have to get used to the combination. As I looked around at Mayan era remains on the cave floor, I wished that more of history could be absorbed by merely being in a place. I did not want to see the ritual human sacrifice as much as to understand what people really thought they were doing and what would be achieved. Now, with a few relics of old civilization to help, we can try to piece together life from 2000 years ago.

I discussed this week in an online forum views about Europeans cultural influence. I tried to argue that we overplay its role and significance, especially in the Caribbean and Americas. We forget, or do not know, of ancient Mayan and Incan culture, and misunderstand what Europeans did, including giving them credit for erasing those cultures even though the cultures were on self-destruction paths. It may seem oddly contrarian, but I feel that focusing on the negative view of Europeans' influences amounts to putting the wrong people on a pedestal.

Un-Belize-able: 2012 And All That

No two English speaking Caribbean countries are the same. But those that are part of the Latin American mainland are intriguing because of the cultural and linguistic mixing with non-Anglo Saxons that has gone on for centuries and continues, while most of the islands do not have this phenomenon as a constant. Having met Belizeans decades ago in London and been fascinated that these people from central America spoke like Jamaicans, I was always intrigued by the possibility of visiting their country. I later learned that it was slaves from Jamaica who had been taken to work in logging for Britons some 200 years ago that formed the based of Belize's black population. Well, I got my chance to visit this small country at the weekend, as I followed the head of household to one of her periodic meetings with high ranking officials from the region.

Belize (formerly British Honduras) has a population just larger than Barbados, with some 300,000, but with a huge land mass of some 8,860 square miles--big, but about 1/10 the size of Guyana.

The country is regarded as poor, with GDP of about US$ 1.4billion and income per head of about US$ 4,250. But, on the ground, the place looks like better than many other Caribbean countries, though I did not go far into Belize City, and I heard that garbage is a constant problem. There are good roads that take you from the coast into the interior. But I was not on a big economic study tour. I was looking forward to seeing some the famed history and culture.

Starting out around 7am, we had the pleasure of a day tour of the New River lagoon and Mayan ruins at Lamanai (meaning 'submerged crocodile'), to the north of the country. The river ride was placid and dotted with sights that our guide and boatman skilfully pointed out to us. We saw howler monkeys, who loved to be fed bananas and were happy to jump into the boat. Iguanas basked in trees. Adult and baby crocodiles languished near the river banks--more or less submerged. "Jesus" birds walked across the water and lily pads. Cormorants just looked on from their perches. As possible, our boat turned into a sprinter as we scooted around bends: I've never before been in a boat that did a wheelie. But the boat ride was a prelude to a tour of a Mayan village.

The Mayans were the masters of the place nearly two thousand years ago. It's still amazing to see what their culture created, whether or not you think that they were really aliens. Their ordering or life and time are now coming to the fore as the year 2012 approaches: this is supposed to be the end date of the Mayan long calendar and portends various kinds of cataclysms or major physical and spiritual transformation. The Mayan population in Belize was reported to be some 3 million and the Mayans did things on a big scale, as evidenced by their temples. I have seen them before and visited Mexico's Teotihuacan site. Climbing that had been hard due to dealing with altitude. When I saw the smaller temple at Lamanai, I knew it would be hard too, as it had really steep steps. So it was, as my gazelle-like wife was leading the charge with one of her super fit Bajan women colleagues, whom I'd met in the gym in the morning doing her normal routine, so I knew she was in shape. I clung to the rope to help me up. We were all stunned by the views from on top. We were then all seized of the steepness of the descent we needed to make to get back down. Mummy! Some of the descendants had to take the hindmost way down and mud stains on the pants were no sign of shame.

We were glad to get back to our little picnic area and enjoy lunch provided by our guide's mother: rice and beans, stewed chicken, onions steeped in hot peppers; washed down by a few ice cold Belekins, the local beer.

The boat ride back to our bus was like a speed boat race as the two boats jockey for position as we negotiated the river bends. More than one Jones lost a hat, and at least one Jones was assaulted by a flying baseball cap.

The hour long bus ride back to the city was notable subdued: after eight hours of fresh air and food and fun it was understandable that people were tired. While some could pack their bags and think of sitting in airport lounges the next day, some of us had to be up bright and early to head off on the road again, elsewhere into the interior. That will be another story.