Belize & Tikal 2009

We arrived at the Belize City airport at 10 a.m. March 14 and about an hour later Laurel and family arrived.We rented a seven-passenger SUV, loaded luggage, kids and grandkids, and drove the four hours or so to Hopkins, a village on the south coast where we had reservations at Hopkins Inn.

Deb and I took the large Cabaña with Maren and Matthew; Laurel and Dave took the smaller. Each morning we ate fresh local fruit on the veranda of the large cabaña and watched the Caribbean lap the sand.
After recovering from the flight, we drove to the nearby Jaguar preserve in Cockscomb Basin to hike trails. We didn’t really expect to see any big cats, but we did find a track in the mud, proving to me, at least, that cats do cross the road.
We also explored the wreck of a plane used in the study of the big cats before a storm brought it down.
We drove several hours south to Nim Li Punit (fl. C.E. 700-800), and Lubaantun (730-890), Mayan sites off the Southern Highway, and had them pretty much to ourselves.

At both sites, Mayan men were clearing jungle and building shelters and women were making and selling souvenirs. We wandered through the ball court and other structures at Nim Li Punit and then lunched on the veranda of a restaurant: iguana stewed in a cilantro sauce with hard boiled iguana eggs—the shells are leathery rather than hard, taste like chicken eggs (no kidding) —while in the shrubbery iguana (called bamboo chicken locally) looked on and hummingbirds flittered among the flowers.
Lubaantun is interesting among Mayan sites for its ceramic figurine whistles, and for the crystal skull found there in 1926 (now thought planted for publicity reasons) but recently made famous again, this time by the Harrison Ford movie.

I had engaged Marcos Cucul, who spent ten years training British troops in jungle survival, to guide us to Xibalba; we met on the Hummingbird Highway, about an hour and a half north of Hopkins, transferred to his SUV and drove another 45 minutes or so on back roads through orange groves to a put-in point on Caves Branch river. We spent the day kayaking through caves with one “easy portage”—Marcos’ words—up a mud bank and a quarter mile through the jungle around a point where the river dropped through a hole; the next day we hiked into St. Herman’s Cave to see more formations and artifacts—sacrifices to the gods of Xibalba by the Classical Mayas— enough to whet the appetite, so following Marcos’ advice, we arranged with Elias Cambranes to guide us to Tikal in Guatemala.

On the way, we stopped at Belize Zoo, 29 acres of jungle fenced into enclosures with paths between, the only chance most, Belizean and tourist alike, have to see the iconic big ones. For US$10 each, we were let into a cage within the jaguar enclosure, and Junior, a two-year-old born at the zoo to a cattle-killing mother, was lured near with offerings of chicken feet. Keepers had handled him for his first three months, but said that he grew too big—look at those teeth—so most of the work they do with him now is through the fence, but Junior is still tame enough that we could touch his fur and feet through the mesh.




Other exhibits were as fascinating: a Jabiru stork, toucan, tapir, and most impressive, a Harpy eagle, more than three feet in height with a wing span exceeding six feet. On our way out, we met a keeper with a boa we could handle, and Maren did.

The next day in a minivan with four other tourists and our guide, we bounced for about two hours on the gravel highway through several villages without electricity or water to the Tikal archeological site. Photos hardly begin to convey the experience, starting with the ceiba, the “World Tree” that so impressed the Maya, they recorded that it held together heaven, earth, and underworld.

Paths led through the jungle to plazas with structures familiar but still a surprise. I expected crowds but the area is extensive enough that except for the climb up some of the monuments, individuals disappeared.
Our guide led us from major site to site, but left us to savor for ourselves what we wished. We walked, climbed, explored, photographed, rested, then did it again.






The climb to the top of several of the temples is now done via steep wooden steps to protect the stone from the myriad shoes but the view has not changed. In the plaza, New Age practitioners sought enlightenment, while almost tame coatimundi sought handouts. It was time for us to leave.

Originally, Deb and I had planned to ride to Belmopan with the kids on their way to their flight home, but tourists raved so much about ATM cave we decided to stay an extra day to explore it. The next morning, we bid the kids goodbye and waited for our guide, who, through a mix-up, showed up late, making our trip the last of the day, with only two other people and our two guides. ATM cave (officially Actun Tunichil Muknal) was identified only in 1989, opened to guided tours in ’98. The cave has been explored some five kilometers, includes limestone formations, countless artifacts—some 1400 catalogued: pottery, tools, and ceremonial items dating from 1 to 1000 C.E.

It lies a 45-minute trek through jungle that includes wading three streams; then the fun begins. We swam fully clothed and shod through the opening to get to the trail within, then waded on slippery rocks in the stream and swam again in spots too deep to wade, squeezed around boulders, climbed a ladder to a cliff's edge, all by helmet light.

The goal was several vast chambers littered with artifacts and the remains of some 14 humans: seven adults and seven children.

We removed our shoes and proceeded in stocking feet to protect the calcite surface. We were told that the artifacts remained as they had been left, and given the thickness of calcification on many, I don’t doubt the claim.












The artifacts are as impressive as the temples above ground; imagine: for some thousand years individuals with only fire to light the way

struggled as we did into this “Place of Fear” (one translation of Xibalba) to perform rites to the gods of the underworld.
That night we stayed in a tree house at Parrot Nest, a B & B outside San Ignacio, then next day headed south on a series of crowded bus rides.

In Dangriga waiting for the Hopkins bus, we discovered French fried cassava, a yummy snack.

We met up with Catherine, who lived in Belize for some years and has a lovely modern house. We hiked in the newly established Mayflower National Park to Antelope Falls on a hot, humid day that almost did us in. We drove south to Sittee River, took a catamaran to the barrier reef to snorkel. On the way out, Deb trolled and caught a small barracuda which was cooked and served as one of the unending snacks provided. We stopped at Wee Wee Caye, identified as having the highest concentration of boa constrictors in Belize, and actually found one.

On the way back, Deb convinced me to hang a rod over, and we both at the same time hooked jacks, played and landed them. We took fillets to a local restaurant for supper and left the rest for the crew.

Most restaurants in Hopkins are little more than the front room in a private house and are limited by the local source of most food and by Garifuna culture. Dishes offered primarily are stewed chicken or pork with beans and rice, and sea food when caught. One evening, when I asked for a Garifuna meal, the owner/cook offered to make hudulu, which included a condiment made from mashing green and ripe plantains in a mortar as has been done for generations. Like most of the meals we ate in Hopkins, it was plain but delicious.

On our last evening in Hopkins, we visited the Lebeha Drumming Center, where village youth learn to drum, sing, and dance in the Garifuna way. They have a CD, and, wonders of modern life, a web site. The mood is casual, and Deb was welcomed for a set.

Then on the advice of Catherine and Rita, the next day we boarded a 14-passenger Cessna for hops to Belize City and Caye Caulker, one of the more laid-back islands inside the barrier reef, 4 to 5 miles long (sources differ) by a quarter mile at its widest, permanent population about 1300.

No point on the island is more than 8 feet above mean sea level, the streets are sand, transportation is by foot, bicycle, and golf-cart taxi.






Deb was for more snorkeling, I wanted to see manatees: the island is primed for our wishes. We engage a guide with boat and head out for the manatee reserve, where we (and two other boats) find a beast lolling in shallow water off a mangrove swamp. Viewing manatees in the water is like watching whales, you don’t see much: every five to seven minutes the beast rises for air for a moment or two, then sinks down again.

When the tourists tire of the sport, we race off for snorkeling waters near the Smithsonian’s reef study station on Carrie Bow Cay.


After half an hour or so, we up anchor and race by other islands, stop on one not much bigger than our living room where Deb finds a nice horse conch, then race off for more snorkeling.

Even I get into the water, floating on the surface fifteen to twenty feet over coral outcrops, angel fish, a stingray half hidden in the sand. Deb would be happy to stay, but the tropical sun is strong (she burned her back in an interesting swimsuit pattern) and the rest are ready to quit. We return to Caulker and on the split at the Lazy Lizard, where for Belize $5 you get two hefty rum punches, we watch the sun set.

In the morning, the water taxi is a 45 minute ride to Belize City where we get a balcony room at the Mopan, a British colonial era hotel. We had been warned about the dangers of the city, population 70,000 (the entire country is about 300,000) but we found it a typical tropical port, colonial buildings now museums and galleries, stores full of cheap stuff.

The Museum of Belize, in the city’s former prison, has a collection of Mayan artifacts but the most important, such as the Jade mask found at Altun Ha, are elsewhere. The streets, however, are full of interesting sights: markets and crowds, manikins shaped like African women rather than waifs, a chemist named Usher licensed to sell poisons.



A taxi driver, when he learned we wanted to eat local, takes us to Mary’s, a two-story bar, restaurant, and night club, where I discover gibnut, a Belizean delicacy fed to the Queen when she visited, giving rise to British headlines about the “Royal Rat.” It was stewed, served with beans and rice, tastes like dark pork.

Despite Deb’s efforts, we couldn’t hold back the sun: back to the airport and home. It was a trip to savor.