Background
A turn-of-the-century travelogue. 19 days on the Yucatan Peninsula.
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Ambergris Caye is a thin coral island about 25 miles long which lies at the northern end of Belize's 165 miles of barrier reef, close to the Mexican border. The travel brochure made mention of a regular ferry service between Belize City and the outer cayes. Just what did we imagine, I wonder?
An open boat with twin 200-horsepower Yamaha engines? Forty passengers squeezed shoulder to shoulder around its periphery on vinyl seat cushions? Suitcases slung in a careless heap in the middle? A two hour journey? Tropical seas swarming with sharks and barracuda?
If this boat has a Plimsoll line, it is a long way below water level! Small waves slop dangerously close to the gunwale each time another boat passes. Our Caribe captain grins through gold-filled teeth, his long black dreadlocks and tattered beard hanging down over a huge beer gut overlapping khaki shorts, and he has a bottle of Guinness Extra Stout firmly clasped in his right hand.
"Hey dere, man, come aboard! Dis is de Caribbean Lady! Ain't she jus' a real beauty, huh!"
We nose slowly out through the gridlock of boats jamming the river mouth until we reach the open sea then ...wham, bam! Hit those throttles, man! The Caribbean Lady sits up on her cute little arse and cuts a bow wave to make your hair curl. Lurch and slump through the choppy water, she slices her way at between twenty and thirty knots towards the fringe of trees on the horizon, throwing up huge spumes of spray which, caught by the cross-wind, whip back into the stern of the boat saturating the row of clenched-teethed, white-knuckled passengers.
"Better than air-conditioning, eh, man?" El Capitano grins.
Five miles out from the nearest island we slow down and, as if from nowhere, another boat draws up alongside. Luggage is passed hand to hand to a young lad at the bow of the boat, then tossed across the gap to be caught by his counterpart. Wait a moment! Some of that is our luggage! It is quickly followed by the dripping, sodden figures of Wendy, Matt and me! At least half of us are going to stay with each half of the luggage! That is for sure.
The load now more evenly distributed between the two boats, we set off again. This time, sitting somewhat higher in the water, we avoid the bow wave and within half an hour are pretty well dried out. Tom, Jeanette and Jeremy have already vanished around the other side of the island, and are not to be seen again until our eventual arrival. Our boat drops in at a couple of islands along the way, lets off a few passengers and picks up a few more. At Caye Caulker we draw up alongside the town jetty and change boats for the second half of the journey. It seems that we have ended up with all of Tom and Jeanette's luggage and they have all of ours. We hope that we might meet up with them again sometime before the end of the holiday but, although now dry and in more philosophical humour, we are not yet brave enough to predict anything with a degree of certainty.
The second part of the voyage is a little more sedate and I have time on my hands to cast an eye over our fellow passengers. Alongside me there is a young Belizean girl clinging to a two-month old babe swathed head-to-foot in a white towel, save for tiny fingers clutched to her breast and dangling feet encased in two-inch sandals. Beside her, stretched across the lap of another young mother, a 3-year old piccaninny girl lies fast asleep, completely oblivious to the cobblestone thump of the journey. Wendy's neighbour has an old sugar sack across his knee. There is something wriggling about inside. Somewhat nervously she asks what it is. He grins and points to a small rubbery snout poking out of a hole near the end.
"He's my pet raccoon. I don't think he enjoys the journey!"
There are also various tanned youths in t-shirts, a German couple, holidaymakers like ourselves, two old men, faces weathered by sun and sea and, opposite me, an amazing apparition clutching a black cotton bag containing a violet plastic thermos with a pink lid. She's a baby-faced girl, eighteen, perhaps, hair twisted into thin braids, tightly drawn to expose neat furrows of scalp, all wound up in a loose bundle at the back. Coffee blancmange breasts partially encased in a white lycra top rest on a huge roly-poly belly - the whole confection wobbling and shuddering in a most alarming manner with each lurch and slop of the boat. Her arm is adorned with golden bracelets and a strange tattoo like a question mark wrapped in barbed wire, and her fingers are laden with gold rings and finished off with extravagant curved talons painted with gold polish. I cannot help thinking of Circe, in the story of Ulysses. Clearly there is truth in these fables of sirens lurking along tropic shores. This I have seen with my own eyes.
Eventually we arrive at San Pedro, and there are the others on the jetty ahead of us, with smiles on their faces and our luggage at their feet. The Sun Breeze Beach Hotel lies 200 yards south along the seafront. Our luggage is tossed onto a handcart and we stroll along the seafront. Soon we are baled up in a dockside restaurant, easing into cold local beer, broiled lobster and shrimp.
