It had been 25 years and little had changed in Belize. In 1974 I passed thru on my way to Cay Cauker, a sleepy island paradise with a laid back, no worries reputation. I had dreams of a simple vacation on the beach, fishing and snorkeling on the pristine well-stocked reef. Although the nearest reef lay almost a mile off shore and fishing was prohibited because of depleted stock the laid back attitude was confirmed when I met the local constable patrolling the beach barefoot in ragged khakis and he suggested a bottle of rum as a way of getting acquainted with island life. This was my introduction to Belize and it left a strong impression and a promise to return. Now it was 1999 and I had a more ambitious plan, first a few nights in a nature reserve, then a week diving in a marine reserve, finally a week to relax and decompress in a funky beach town.There are 4 main roads, the Northern, the Southern, the Western and surprise the
Hummingbird Highways. Technically they are called highways but I would say that is a stretch. In this context it is good that Belize is a small country because getting around is slow and difficult. My first destination was the Cockscomb Basin Wildlife Sanctuary, aka the Jaguar Reserve, since the ultimate goal of all visitors is the sighting of this magnificent cat. After traveling by chicken bus on three of the 4 main roads for most of the day I arrived at Maya Center, a tiny community of indigenous people whose ancestors built some of greatest pre-Colombian cities in history. However times have changed and these people are now a minority with little status and no wealth. The reserve was created on their land so they control and manage it. It is another 10 km to the actual sanctuary and after my ordeal I am in no mood to walk so I’m stuck here until I can arrange a ride. These last 6 miles take 45 bone-crunching minutes on a potholed washboard track across 2 streams, but we finally arrive at a grassy clearing beautifully landscaped 
with native flora and a few rustic cabins. At check in I’m asked if I have reservations, which I find amusing since the place seems empty. I’m assigned a cabin, given a brief orientation and I’m on my own. Over the next 3 days I saw hundreds of exotic birds several large rodents and some monkeys, but few people and no jaguar or any of the other cats in residence (jaguarondi, puma, ocelot, and margay). I did catch the scent of some hidden creatures as I explored the well-kept trails in the reserve. I even ventured out at night in search of nocturnal creatures with similar results. Being a rainforest it goes without saying that it rains almost everyday and the trails are very muddy, the insects are a constant nuisance, but my big fear was snakes and luckily I didn’t see any. On leaving the rainforest I was filled with emotions, disappointed at not seeing a Jaguar, but elated at having experienced the pure beauty of the jungle, and looking forward to the next adventure with excitement and anxiety.
Since I needed a car to get to the Southern Highway anyway, I negotiated a price to Sittee River where I would meet up with the folks from Glovers Reef. Glovers Reef is bare bones, bargain basement “resort” located on a private island with a dozen very rustic cabins 30 miles off the coast. My 1-week stay cost $150 and included a deluxe cabin, and boat transportation period. After a brief orientation at their guesthouse again I’m off to buy supplies for a week of camping on the beach. This is easily done at Reynolds General Store, but the one thing they couldn’t supply was a top priority, rum. The Village of Sittee River is tiny, so when I’m told that the liquor store is down the road past the poolroom I am not prepared for the 2 mile hike there and back. After meeting a couple of my fellow guests and some nasty fire ants, the next thing I know I awake from my Robinson Caruso fantasy to the sound of a monster thunderstorm and the itching of a hundred new insect bites. After breakfast we begin to transfer the luggage and supplies for approximately 20 guests to the hold of a 40-foot sailboat for the trip to the reef.
The sail begins awkwardly but soon a spirit of community develops and we are free to relax get acquainted and enjoy the scenery as we motor downriver toward the open sea. It turns into a beautiful day for sailing but 3 hours pass and anxiety is building, then we spot land and slow to navigate thru a break in the shallow reef and into the lagoon.
We dock on a neat palm covered islet studded with thatched roofed huts and basic zinc roofed cabins. Each equipped with camp stove, lantern and kitchen utensils. There are composting toilets and a well for bathing, laundry and dishes but drinking water is imported and considered optional. Because I have a deluxe reservation I get the best hut and choose not to share it. Impulsively I signup for the scuba course, maybe thinking I have a chance with Becky the cute instructor and daughter of the owner.Between morning classes and afternoon instruction, evening meal preparation and cleanup the days pass quickly and before I realize it the week is over and Im exhausted. Several other guests and I decide to stay a couple of extra days and that’s when the storm started. First dark clouds appeared then lightening in the distance and a light rain; at first my cabin was comfortable and dry. As the storm picked up the roof began leaking and the wind blew thru the walls making it very chilly.
Finally I was forced into the ramshackle but dry bunkhouse with the other single I had refused to share my cabin with. Arthur is a cranky 70-year-old Jewish professor with a Boston accent, and a bizarre passion for rap music and psychedelic drugs. The storm lasted 3 days, during which there was little to do and little to eat, since it was too rough for diving or fishing. The bunkhouse was divided in half and had separate entrances but one kitchen so after agreeing to disagree, Arthur and I pooled our meager supplies and managed to cook a few hot meals during the chilly siege. During the storm time seemed to have stopped, as we had little contact with the other guests and none with the staff. When the weather finally cleared we were all so excited to be leaving that it never dawned on us later that we had been manipulated by the staff, keeping us uninformed and captive and charging us extra for the privilege.Placencia is a funky beach town at the tip of a skinny 17-mile long peninsula. Akin to Cay West in the 50’s it lives up to it’s outcast rough and tumble reputation with a mix of characters from local artists to con artists, Caribbean cursers to the Garufuna, descendents of African slaves and pirates who have been around since Glovers Reef was named after one of their most famous. Some of these characters operate bars and restaurants with a funky twist which made them unique, like the bar on Caulker with a row of swings like gallows at the bar instead of stools, or the Lagoon Saloon accessed from its long pier, making it a hazardous return especially when inebriated on a moonless night, or the one on Tobacco Cay where I had my first Pantirippa and rolled my last joint out of a large pizza box. Then there was Brenda, usually found near the Placencia dock at happy hour, handing out potent cocktails followed by large portions of her delicious local specialties served picnic style on the beach as the sun set. The full figured Brenda presided over these impromptu dinner parties with her flamboyant personality, hospitality and chutzpah. Sometime later I learned of her destructive relationships with drugs and men. Unfortunately shortly after that marvelous trip Placencia was flattened by a hurricane and to this day is still recovering. Though not perfect Belize occupies a special place in my heart so to all its people I am thankful and to Brenda a special shout out we love you and “you better Belize it”.
