It's only 90 minutes in the rickety old Blue Bird school bus (whose drivers navigate the twisting mountainous roads of Belize way too fast) from the impoverished Southern coastal Garifuna village of Hopkins that I described in Part One of this article yesterday, to the daunting entranceway to Caves Branch, in the rugged interior
of West Central Belize. The bus drops me off at the edge of the
highway, and it's a mile hike in sweltering 90F heat and occasional
torrential rain up the mountain road through stunning tropical
rainforest to the ecotourist Caves Branch "jungle lodge" owned by
Vancouverite Ian Anderson, who I meet almost as soon as I arrive.
On
the trek up, I keep stopping and staring, taking photos of the towering
tangle of ferns, vines and immense (100') trees that extend darkly into
the distance on both sides of the road, and create an imposing archway
over the dirt and stone road. And I think to myself, breathlessly: I am home. This is where we humans were meant to live.
The jungle calls me, inviting me in. I have no fear of the poisonous
snakes and spiders, or the jaguars and other wild cats whose last
remaining Earthly refuge is in this country. I haven't felt this way,
this sense of instinctive belonging, about a place I do not live, since
I walked through the temperate rainforest in Qualicum BC, and the 300' redwood forests of the Pacific Northwest.
The
other people staying at the lodge are all North Americans -- couples in
their 50s and 60s, some with kids and inlaws in tow. The cheerful
workers, mostly Mayan youngsters, are as culturally different from the
Garifuna I've been living among for the previous three days, as day is
from night. They patiently explain their history, culture, lifestyle,
and the nearby archaeological sites, to me and the other curious
tourists. They ask no questions of me, about how I live, what I think,
or the unimaginable snow-covered country I come from.
I keep
looking for good conversation in Belize, but, other than with Joe
Bageant, I haven't found it. The Garifuna, the North American tourists,
the Mayan workers, all seem to live in their own narrow, isolated
worlds, and are disinterested in the future, in philosophy, in the
purpose of life or in any other profound or long-term subject. Their
intellectual curiosity is shallow, their imagination dormant.
More
than anything in this natural paradise I miss you, dear online friends.
This is a staggeringly beautiful land, but to me, except when I imagine
you here with me, it's an intensely lonely one. The night in the
rainforest, in my bug- and water-proof but authentic-looking cabana,
is delightful. I awake to the cries of the howler monkeys, the macaws,
and the driving downpour of a wall of rain so heavy I cannot see
through it. The forest smells are so dense and rich I can taste them.
The foolishness of the sense of invulnerability I feel in the rainforest becomes apparent the next day when the inner tube
I'm riding down the the river through Belize's vast rainforest cave
system hits the rapids, and I cannot stop from crashing into the
riverbank, carving up my arms and spraining two fingers in a spiky
stand of bamboo, and losing my only pair of glasses in the process.
One
of our young guides has to steer me through the rest of the journey,
hooking her feet under my tube and answering my questions about Mayan
history and culture as I squint to see at least the nearby sights. I
complete the arduous five-hour tour in tow, but I feel humiliated, and
worried about the risk of infection and making my way home visually
impaired. I decide to cut my trip short, a day early, and book a flight
back home. Paradise found, and lost.
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9:42:12 PM 
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MADE IN CANADA
trust your
instincts 
