“I feel strongly that it is time for me to leave in the morning.” I told Marty and Carolyn as we sat watching the mild surf splash gently onto the white sandy beach about 75 yards away.
We were enjoying delightful conversation on the second floor balcony of Lydia’s guest house while enjoying a beautiful relaxed Monday evening.
Part of me longed to stay longer in Placencia, perhaps for several more days. Our balcony was such a relaxing and peaceful place—a place to mediate, to visit with friends, to swing in a hammock and just stare at the ocean—a place to simply be.
“I have a mild feeling that I will be staying at least one night in Punta Gorda,” I told Marty and Carolyn, “but I’m still a little fuzzy about what I might do next. I’m not sure if I will go straight to Livingston, Guatemala, or whether there might be something to do in Punta Gorda before I continue on to the south.”
“What do you know about Punta Gorda?” I asked inquisitively. “If I decide to stop there, what might I do?”
“Have you considered visiting one of the tiny Mayan villages?” Carolyn asked.
As those simple words came off the tip of Carolyn’s tongue, my first reaction was to resist, saying, “Yeah, but …”
While I had heard of the Mayan villages, I knew next to nothing about them. A young woman in Caye Caulker told me about a ten day guided adventure that she had taken through the backcountry of southern Belize, traveling up rivers and visiting remote Mayan villages. Her adventures sounded so amazing and so exotic. I even remember commenting about how I would love to do something like that.
Yeah … but … yeah … but … that tour was arranged through a professional tour company from Canada, and the young woman told me that it was very expensive, and that you had to have the right tour guides, etc…
I was making up all kinds of excuses why a single woman could not just simply march into the back country all by herself, hoping to get friendly with the local Mayan people.
“No Brenda, you don’t understand.” Carolyn began. “In many of these villages, the Mayans themselves are trying to get tourists to come and visit for an authentic indigenous experience. They have guest houses, and let you eat meals in the homes of local families. They want people to come to learn about their traditions and way of life.”
As soon as I stopped saying “Yeah, but…” and really listened to my heart, the idea began to sound very energizing and intriguing.
While I had not yet made up my logical left-brained mind, something in my heart told me that I would be spending some time in one of these villages. My head was simply demanding that I have more information before committing.
So, to keep my head happy—to keep it from rebelling—I told my head a little fib.
“I won’t make any decisions until I get to Punta Gorda.” I told my head. “After gathering more concrete information, then I will figure out what to do.”
Long before I arrived in this small seaport town earlier today (Tuesday), my heart already knew that I would be heading for the Mayan hills.
Punta Gorda is an ocean-side town of just over 5300 residents, located near the southern end of Belize. There are no beaches here, and most tourists never get this far south. Visitors that do come here usually do so for one of two reasons, the first being that Punta Gorda is a popular location to catch ferries to and from Guatemala. The second reason being that there are many tiny Mayan villages located near the mountains in the southern end of Belize, and Punta Gorda is considered to be a launching point for visiting these villages.
Hokey Pokey Water Taxi
Bright and early this morning (Tuesday), I carried my backpack out onto the balcony of Lydia’s guest house and exchanged goodbye hugs with Marty and Carolyn before beginning a short fifteen minute walk toward a small marina on the western edge of Placencia.
As I arrived at my destination, I scanned the area with a puzzled look on my face.
“Can I help you?” A large man asked as he saw my blank stare.
“Yes,” I queried, “can you please tell me where or how I pay for a ride in the Hokey Pokey water taxi?”
“You would pay me.” The man replied matter-of-factly. “That is the boat right there, and it will be leaving in about ten minutes.”
The water taxi was a long fiberglass outboard boat with a blue vinyl canopy top strapped to metal frames. The body of the boat was white, except for the green words stenciled on the side which read “Hokey Pokey Water Taxi.”
With five or six fiberglass benches, each being wide enough for about four people, I figure that as many as twenty-five people could be transported across the inner bay in a single journey.
Being careful to not drop anything, I swung my heavy backpack over the edge of the boat, gently placing it on a small pile of life jackets on the floor at the front of the boat. Then, I assumed a seat on the right front bench, with my feet kicking up against the side of my large bag.
Within minutes, the boat was mostly filled to capacity. To my surprise, over half of the passengers were young children wearing school uniforms, most likely being shuttled over for classes on the mainland. Even though Placencia is not an island, the town itself has a very small population, and is situated at the end of a twenty-mile long and narrow peninsula. It only makes sense that the children would attend a larger school, just a 15 minute boat ride away.
Surprisingly, our 7:45 a.m. water taxi actually pulled away from the dock five minutes early at 7:40 a.m., making me quite happy that I had arrived with plenty of time to spare.
After proceeding very slowly through about five minutes of no-wake zones, our driver suddenly hit the throttle, sending us all jerking backwards in our seats. As the warm and muggy morning air began to blow wildly through my hair, I expected to see a large open bay, but instead our little boat continued to make its way through a narrow channel that twisted and turned through a maze of small islands—some of which appeared to be inhabited, others appearing to be nothing more than large overgrown mangrove swamps.
The stiff breeze was snarling and tangling my unrestrained long hair. In an effort to prevent my locks from becoming a total tangle, I used one hand to hold the back of my hair in a ponytail, while using the other hand to keep my eyeglasses securely in place.
At five minutes before 8:00 a.m., our boat slowed to a stop and tied up on a small dock in the mainland town of Independence. As the roar of the motor went silent, the boat emptied quickly. While lifting my backpack onto my shoulders, I realized that I was the last one to disembark.
“Do you need a taxi?” A young man asked as he helped me maneuver my backpack under a cable above my head while stepping off the boat.
“How far away is the bus stop?” I asked.
“About fifteen minutes,” was his reply. I never got around to asking if that was fifteen minutes on foot or while driving. I simply told him “Yes,” and was soon zooming away in the back seat of an old beat-up taxi cab. Another woman from the boat, a nicely dressed middle aged woman, was sitting in the front passenger seat.
“Your bus will stop right here at 9:00 a.m.” the driver informed me as he dropped me off. When I looked around at the tiny sheltered bus stop, I noted that the tin-roofed structure had three open-air benches forming a small U-shape.
My heart overflowed with gratitude. When I had entered the taxi, I had no idea where I would catch the bus, nor did I have a clue as to what time that bus would pass by. In a matter of mere minutes, I was now sitting safely at the bus stop and knew that I had just under an hour to wait before continuing my southbound journey.
Mountains and Pine Trees and Jungles, Oh My
As my multicolored yellow, red, and green school bus sped down the southern highway, the first amazing thing I noticed while looking off to my right were tall mountains in the distance. While I had seen hazy outlines of these mountains from the sailboat, portions of them were now much closer. These gorgeous mountains appear to be rugged and wooded, being quite the contrast to the flat Yucatan terrain to which I have grown so accustomed.
As the lush green jungles whizzed by on both sides of my bus, I was also taken aback by the beauty of the thick jungles frequently hugging the sides of the road. These are the most beautiful jungles I have seen to date, being much taller, filled with a wide assortment of palms, broadleaf trees, and even occasional groves of tall, long-needled pine trees.
As my bus neared Punta Gorda, shortly after 11:30 a.m., the bus driver’s money-collecting assistant asked me where in Punta Gorda I wanted to get off the bus.
“I don’t know,” I responded, “just somewhere near the hotels.”
“If you tell me which hotel,” the young man replied, “I can tell you exactly where to get off the bus.”
Quickly, I flipped open my travel guidebook—a book for which I am increasingly grateful—and read the names of four hotels and guest houses in Punta Gorda.
“Saint Charles Inn.” I blurted out—not knowing anything about it other than the fact that my book said that it was a good budget hotel with large rooms and cable TV. I made a quick assumption that if it had TV, it probably had internet access too.
Ten minutes later I was stepping off the bus less than a half block from St. Charles Inn—my comfy little home for the night. As it turns out my room is very tiny, with a double bed that almost fills the entire bedroom—but the hotel does have wireless internet that sort of works, perhaps 50% of the time.
Raf Jacob Revisited
One of the first things I noticed while exploring this small town is that several of the Creole men can be very forward and fresh in their advances.
While walking down the street looking for the tourism office, a dreadlock-clad man rode by on his bicycle, yelling: “Hey baaabbbyy, you need to be by my side. You don’t need that book (my guidebook), I’ll show you around.”
I simply ignored the man and kept on walking.
Then, while eating at a nearby restaurant, another man named Gilbert approached me. After greeting me with, “Hey Baby,” he at least made pleasant small talk, discussing where I was from, and what I planned to do while in town. As soon as I finished my meal, I politely excused myself and did not look back.
While being loving and pleasant, I had made one point perfectly clear when Gilbert asked what I was doing later on.
“I go to bed early, and I get up early.” I told him politely but assertively. “I don’t drink, I don’t party at night, and I am not interested in hanging out.”
Later this evening, I stopped at a small Chinese restaurant for dinner. I was quite amused by my plate of “sweet and sour chicken.” The chicken was pounded down into thin three-inch-diameter discs, which were then breaded and deep fried. These thin cooked chicken discs were placed over a large pile of extra crisp French fries, on top of which was poured a thin layer of sweet and sour sauce (with no green peppers or pineapple). On the side of the plate was a small pile of green iceberg lettuce and three tomato slices.
As I walked back to my hotel after consuming my interesting, yet filling, dinner, I again encountered Gilbert on the street.
“Hey Baby,” He called out to me. “You want to get a beer tonight?”
“I told you I don’t drink,” I kindly responded, “and I am not going out tonight.”
When Gilbert attempted to engage me in further conversation, he seemed slightly perplexed as I politely excused myself, turned around, and simply walked away.
While I feel a safe and peaceful inner state of being, I find the aggressive nature of some of these men to be quite bizarre.
Tiny Tourism Tidbits
When I entered the Punta Gorda tourism office earlier in the afternoon, a smiling young woman greeted me at her desk. As I asked her about the possibility of visiting some Mayan villages, I was quite puzzled by the information (or should I say lack of information) she gave me.
The young woman handed me a printed page with a very sketchy text-only summary listing the names of seven villages. Four of the villages also listed several basic details about the village—such as “so and so cave is a one hour hike” or “Creek & river in village to swim” or “Arts & craft, Milpa farming.”
Associated with the name of each village, the list also contained the names of two people who run the program in that particular village.
The woman told me that the people in charge of the overall Mayan Village program—the “Toledo Ecotourism Association”—used to share office space with her.
“They still have a desk here,” she told me, “but I haven’t seen them in quite some time.”
“I think their global organization must have fallen apart.” She continued, “But I do know that the guest huts in at least these four villages are definitely still operating. You can just show up at the village and they will help you.”
As I continued probing for more information, I was only able to glean the bare minimum—almost nothing concrete. I did learn that there would definitely be families with which I could eat my meals, but they would be very humble and poor. For example, my chair for dinner might be an upside down bucket on a dirt floor, and there may or may not be electricity.
The best part is my cost. Sleeping in the guest quarters will cost $11 US, and each meal will cost $3.50 US, making the total cost only $21.50 US for room and board.
When I asked about transportation, the woman pointed out that along with the names of each village, she had also included a basic bus schedule. Some villages only had a single bus that ran four days of the week. Others had at least one bus every day.
As I walked away from the tourism office, I knew only one thing for sure. Tomorrow (Wednesday, March 3) at mid-day, I will be catching a bus for the tiny Mayan village named Santa Elena. The rest of my adventure remains a magical discovery eagerly waiting to be experienced.
I might stay three days, or perhaps I will stay ten (I need to leave Belize by March 14). I may successfully locate the guest housing along with places to eat, or I may end up begging villagers for a place to lay my head. I may find a source of internet connection somewhere in the village, or I may be completely isolated from the outside world.
One thing is certain, however – I am in for an incredible and unforgettable adventure into the unknown.
I Am Not Alone
As I waited for my unique meal at the Chinese restaurant this evening, I found myself quietly singing along to the tune of Michael Jackson singing the song “You are not alone.”
Suddenly, I realized I was not the only one singing. On the other side of the restaurant, a handsome young African-American man was also quietly singing along. As we both made eye contact, we smiled at each other. Realizing that we were not alone in singing the song, we both slightly cranked up our vocal volume—but only minimally on my part. I was not totally sure of all the words.
The main chorus of the song struck me quite deeply as I pondered the fact that I am almost finished with my ninth month of solo travels. With my fifty-fifth birthday just a week away on March 10, it would be so easy for me to begin to feel lonely—isolated in a foreign country away from loved ones back home.
Yet the thought of feeling alone has never even crossed my mind. No matter where I travel, I seem to be synchronously guided to meet and befriend incredible people from all over the world. With every footstep, I sense the powerful bond of unwavering unconditional love shared with my incredible family and friends. But most of all, I am increasingly aware of the constant divine love that flows within the oneness all around me.
No, I am definitely not alone. My heart has never been more incredibly full.
As that beautiful young man and I quietly sang along with the chorus to Michael Jackson’s song, my soul danced with delight. Following are the words to that chorus.
You Are Not Alone
Sung by: Michael Jackson
Written by: R. Kelly
(Chorus)
But you are not alone
For I am here with you
Though we’re far apart
You’re always in my heart
But you are not alone
Tomorrow, I board what I assume will be an old school bus, taking a ride into the lush green jungles adjacent to the southern mountains of Belize. The tiny Mayan village of Santa Elena, nestled in Belize’s Toledo district, will be my new temporary home.
Even though I do not yet know a single soul, I will definitely not be alone.
Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved
Note: This will probably be my last blog posting for at least a week. I will likely have no internet connection where I am going. The only thing for sure is that I will return to Punta Gorda by sometime on March 13.
I have a powerful sense of peace as I take this next step, and know that all will be well. Please do not worry about me. Simply share in my love and peace via the universe.
For those of you tracking me on Facebook, I will post a status update as soon as I am back in internet range. It may take me a day or two after I get back before I begin posting to my blog again, as I will need to quickly travel out of Belize. My tourist visa expires on March 14, 2010.]