Friday, June 30th, 1995

Day 6: Calderitas, Mexico to San Ignacio, Belize

Sunrise at Calderitas

A huge orange sun climbing up over the Caribbean Ocean wakes me from a deep slumber.  I jump out of the truck and revel in the beauty of a Caribbean sunrise.

I decide to spend a half hour looking over Pedro for problems.  I check all the fluid levels under the hood- everything looks good.  I lay the tarp down on the gravely ground and crawl around under the truck while Sean checks all the lug nuts.  I find the source of that clanking noise in the back end.  It turns out it was just a loose spring-pack clamp, and the generous application of duct tape quiets it easily enough.

We roll out for the border.  On the way we fill the last two roof-mounted gas tanks.  All are now full for the trip into Belize, where lead-free gasoline is unavailable.  We find the border at 8:00 a.m.  Incredibly, we run into the two fair-skinned guys we met briefly in Los Indios when crossing from the States.  Ramone and Rafael Matus (pronounced Mah-toos).  Very cool guys, with tan skin and light blue eyes.  Rafael is a party animal, Ramone is his charming older brother.  Both are native Belizeans from San Ignacio, a small town near the Guatemalan border that I've been wanting to see.  They tell us of their car-repair shop and the attractions surrounding San Ignacio, and promise to lead us to the town, just three hours south of here.  They walk us through the brief formalities on the Mexican side, where an attractive female official removes my import sticker and takes my import permit.

We catch up with Ramone and Rafael on the Belizean side.  As we are standing in line waiting for our passports to be stamped, Sean makes an interesting observation.  "Look around.  This looks just like the customs office of a Central American country."  He's right.

We purchase one week of insurance and two maps of the country for $BZ35 (US$17.50).  Apparently the Belize government doesn't mess around about insurance.  You absolutely must carry proof of coverage at all times or risk going to jail and losing your license for a minimum of a year.  Ramone buys one day's worth just to get him back home where his policy is.

Belizeans speak poorly of Mexicans from the moment we arrive.  The insurance agent tells of Belizeans having major problems getting through Mexico from the U.S.  Some have paid up to US$200 in bribes to make the 1200 mile journey.

The Matus brothers are importing a red Mazda pickup they bought in the States and drove here.  Apparently they make a healthy profit each time they make the trip.  I ask Ramone what my truck would sell for in Belize.  "About $14,000 Belizean dollars, 7000 U.S. dollars."  I can't believe it- that's probably about what this truck cost new in 1987.

We run into a black couple from California who are driving a modified Jeep Cherokee into Belize.  They are the only other driving tourists from the States we will see.  They have made the trip a few times before, and as I wait to have our truck inspected the man tells me a horror story about trying to get his truck back into Mexico.  Apparently they turned him back at the border and made him go to the capital to get something stamped at the U.S. consulate.  He recommends that we stop by there on the way out to make sure all of our papers are in order before approaching the border of Mexico.

We break through the red tape first, and the Matus brothers promise to catch up with us as we head south.  Since there are basically only three roads in Belize, they shouldn't have difficulty finding us.

Livestock wandering across the Northern Highway in Belize

Belize is absolutely beautiful.  The people here are warm and open, and English is spoken as soon as we cross the border.  It's a nice change, removing the barrier that we've found so frustrating throughout Mexico.  I enjoy the countryside and plot a way to stay here forever.  I figure we can hang out here for a solid week, sell the truck, fly home and still make a healthy profit on the whole trip.  I'll buy another truck, drive down again, sell that one and live off of the profit until I can get myself steady work.

We pass through many small towns, where the people stop and wave at us as they did in Mexico.  The few private cars that we see are generally traveling way too fast for the road conditions.  Sean and I drive slowly to soak up the magnificent scenery.  Suddenly Ramone and Rafael come up behind like a rocket and pass us on a curve, yelling "Exit!"  We follow them off of the paved road onto a dirt side road that enters low, dense jungle.  This shortcut bypasses Belize City and should take us straight to San Ignacio.  We keep a pace of 45 mph on the sandy surface with the trucks sliding in the turns.

Sean turns to me and says: "We are following two absolute strangers down a dirt road through a Central American jungle.  Unbelievable!"  Occasionally we slow to cross a stream on spindly log bridges with 2x8's set across them.  It begins to rain for the first time since Poza Rica.  A light drizzle turns to brief downpour, coating the truck in dust and mud thrown up by the mad Belizeans ahead.  Then crystal clear again.  Beautiful jungle country with lush green mountains in the distance.  Suddenly the little red Mazda pulls over and they ask if we want to stop and grab a drink.  "Si.  I mean, yes."

We enter a restaurant/bar located at the top of a small rise.  Our local guides order a round of Belikin beer, Belize's native brew.  These are to be the first of a ridiculous number of beers Sean and I will consume today.  Ramone and Rafael are very proud of their small country.  They speak of the beauty of the land, the quality of the people, and the safety of the towns.  The language of Belize is a cockney English based on England's.  The dialect is called Creole, and I have a lot of trouble understanding it.  Many times Belizeans are speaking to each other in our company and I can't understand a word, then they turn to us and speak in perfectly clear English.  Ramone makes notes for us on destinations and people we will want to see.  The view from the open bar is incredible.  A light rain falls over a lush desert landscape framed by abrupt jungle-covered mountains.  I pick up the tab on the way out.  We roll on towards San Ignacio.

Just before entering San Ignacio, we stop by their shop.  They are very proud of their concrete 3-bay garage.  Ramone shows me his tools and I am very impressed.  It's not a bad life he has.  His garage even has compressed air.

Main Street, San Ignacio, Belize

We roll into San Ignacio.  The town is a small "twin city" situated at the junction of the Mopan and Macal Rivers, which merge here to form the Belize River.  The Hawkesworth Bridge, an old one-lane metal suspension bridge built in 1941, ties San Ignacio with Santa Elena.  The 100-yard bridge rattles like mad as we roll over it into the town square.  Rafael leads us to Eva's Restaurant, which is for all intents and purposes the center of the town socially.  Many eco-tours are run from here and the English owner, Bob, knows everyone.  We sit down for a lunch of huge chicken burritos for BZ$2.50, and more Belikin.  Beautiful women everywhere, American and otherwise.

We are arranging stuff in the truck when a local rasta named Jimmy Smith strikes up a conversation.  "Da people in town call me Big-uh-Jimmy."  He ends up sitting down on the curb with us for a half hour and telling us all about Belize, San Ignacio, his vegetarian restaurant, and his attitudes towards life in general.  The man is an ex-Semi-Pro soccer player.  He's very bright and apparently well educated.

We check into the Belmoran Hotel smack dab in the middle of town, within sight of Eva's.  A nice big double room (large beds, private bath) for BZ$35.  Sean and I walk around town a bit to get acquainted with our surroundings.  We are approached by quite a few people from the States who notice my MD plates and stroll up to say 'hi'.  The main streets of town are sprinkled with shiny new Suzuki Samarais that tourists have rented and driven up from the coastal towns.  The locals speak of tourists returning to town black and blue after taking the tiny rented jeeps on some of area's dirt roads.

We are sitting in front of Eva's drinking more Belikin when an attractive American schoolteacher named Victoria approaches.  She and her equally attractive friend Tara join us for a few beers, and the sun sets as we talk travels.  We tell them of our problems getting the truck into Mexico from the States, and our anticipated troubles on the return trip.  Victoria has done quite a few border crossings with vehicles and has had her share of problems.  She seems to know all about it.  "As long as you still have your import permit, you're O.K."  "Uh...they took that when we entered Belize."  "Well then you're screwed."

Victoria and Tara are hiking through Central America and were hoping we were headed for Tikal.  I was already thinking about making the trip to see the Mayan ruins in Guatemala.  After about an hour, and a lot more beer, we say what the heckl.  We make arrangements to meet the girls back here at 8:00 a.m.  They head back to their hotel room and an American student named Fletcher introduces himself.  He's in Belize with some sort of ill-defined fulbright project and is looking for some people to hang out with.  He saw us with the young ladies but didn't want to butt in.  Fletcher is a nice guy- he's bright and street-smart.  Everyone smokes here.

While talking with Fletcher, a sketchy-looking guy named Eduardo approaches and asks him about something.  The subject of Caracol comes up, and I mention that we wanted to see it.  He tells us that the road is closed due to the rains- no one is allowed to go down there.  But he can get us through.  Eventually we learn that he is the son of Belize's Minister of Lands and Natural Resources.  I'm intrigued by the possibility of seeing Caracol- especially when no one else can.  "You ran into the right guy at the right time," Eduardo declares repeatedly.

Fletcher knows a group of archaeology students (called "diggers" by the locals) working on a site south of Belmopan.  They are having a big party tonight and he invites us up the hill to join them.  I drive Sean, Fletcher, and Ed up to the digger's base camp.  A party is going strong on the roof of their 1-story concrete house.  Inside we find shelves and shelves of labeled paper bags and racks of drying potsherds.  We also meet Cameron, who is the American surveyor supervising the dig.  Cameron warns us about relying on Ed.  He is who he says he is, but he shouldn't be trusted.  He's unpredictable.

Cameron talks to us for quite a while.  We dig him.  He digs us.  We go groove with the digger chicks on the roof.  They all dig Pedro parked below under a palm tree.  Sean digs into the Fried Chicken burritos they are having.  I look out over the lights of San Ignacio below us and think about where I am.  Just happy to be here.

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