It's raining in Belize.
It’s raining in Belize. It is always raining in Belize. I have been here three separate times, in three separate months, and whenever I ask what month gets the heaviest rainfall, they always say, “This one.” I’m beginning to think there is a direct relationship between my presence here and watershed.
Now I am on the wrong side of a very long, muddy dirt road. When you say “Four-wheel drive” to this road, it chortles. I came down looking for a ferry to Honduras – a car ferry, to be precise, or at least one big enough for my obese motorcycle – with the hopes of bypassing a long detour through Guatemala. Sometimes our dreams are so lofty.
As soon as I crossed the Belizean border, I started asking about the reality of my fantasy ferry. To arrive at an answer that runs any chance of being the truth in Central America, a survey of the largest population cross-section possible is necessary. Thus I questioned customs and immigrations agents while they defiled the pages of my passport; gas station attendants whose eyes were crossed and hands were cupped in a C; society women; a somnambulist who trotted through my dream; trail blazers looking for reward and recognition; bikini models and their estheticians in between a pluck and a wax and a paint; quasi-evolved atheists from whom was borne the idea of IT training; druids looking a little astray; bass fishermen in pixilated form; and people who enjoy strobe lights but will settle for the effect of a ceiling fan. Mascots and children I got together during a group shot outside the stadium. Oh, and there was a lemming (in the human sense, of course, which was a bad idea).
This group (don’t bother yourselves trying to figure it out) spoke with one, unified voice: They all said, “Maybe.”
But one among them, one very self-assured suit man among them, told me that the highway all the way to the possible ferry departure area was paved. My guidebook told me it was dirt. No, he said, it’s all been paved in the last few years – all but a very small section that you won’t have trouble with.
Well that’s something.
So I headed down that way. I stopped off on another dirt road to stay the night at the Jaguar Reserve. Partly because it was a cheap sleep, mostly because jaguars. Put that on a flash card and pull it out of your pocket tomorrow and see what it does. Jaguar. Asa! It’s the only jaguar reserve in the whole wide world.
I checked in and paid my $2.50 camping fee. The ranger took me outside to a crudely painted trail map and suggested a few nice hikes. “What are these?” I asked instead, pointing to the crab-like figures painted into the river. “That’s where you can take a tube down the river,” he told me.
I’d spent the last two days driving through hours of pouring rain. My voice was down to a scratchy whisper and my mental state was sufficiently waterlogged. I wanted to do something that required little thought or physical effort. Sitting and floating on an inflated piece of rubber sounded like a really good idea (albeit one that involved more water, I at least wouldn’t be fighting it). Normally, I would hate this idea. Not every day is normal though.
So he picked out a tube that looked like the right size. “Remember,” he said, “you MUST exit by the second exit. Do not miss it.”
“What happens if you miss it?”
“Then you go into heavy rapids that will take you all the way back to the highway, if you’re lucky.”
The highway was six miles away.
“What if you’re not lucky?”
“Then you’re dead,” he chuckled.
“Oh.”
He added as a side thought, “Do you swim well?”
I love that in Belize, they send you unguided, unvested, on a river tubing trip where you not only need to know how to swim, but it’s pretty important you’re a strong swimmer. And they only ask you about that last part if they happen to think of it.
I got out onto the Lazy River, except that it was a real river surrounded by a real jungle, and felt like I should feel alarmed by the swifter-than-expected rapids and maybe the whole situation in general, but I didn’t have the energy required for alarm. (Anyway, my mom says I’m missing that chemical that alerts people when danger is near. Could be that most things aren’t as dangerous as people give them credit for.) The tube was dropped into the water and I squirmed into the donut-hole middle.
If you’ve ever craved surrealism, float down a jungle river in a rubber inner tube, alone. They’ll write a song about it one day.
It’s pretty predictable what’s coming here… I got ten minutes down the river, and that pretty blue sky that always shows a little leg then runs away giggling did just that. And along came the greyer older brother with a big one-two pop for the whole lot. Raindrops started to fall. Then it poured. I couldn’t really do anything. Probably wouldn’t have in any case. I just sat in my tube in the river and watched the mist rise off the water.
If you don’t know, the one thing that will make a fast river even faster is more water. Which was actually a good time, except when it came to the whole exit business. I thought about skipping it to see whether I’d make it to the highway or die, but I decided if I did make it to the highway I didn’t want to walk six miles back with an inner tube. So, with no small effort, I got to the riverbank and got out of the river, then walked back through the muddy jungle in flip flops.
That was just a short but kind of long interlude to underscore the fact that no matter what I do here, it rains on me.
But back to this ferry business, which is the real reason why I’m sitting at a bar with a mysterious wireless connection, on the wrong side of a very long, muddy dirt road.
I was shooting for Placencia, the docking point of the fantasy ferry, only because the roads were paved and I could turn right back around if the boat couldn’t take me or didn’t exist. I got onto the Southern Highway and found it smooth and covered, as promised. And when the signs pointed to Placencia and the road turned to good ol’ Belizean red dirt, I thought that this too was as promised. It’s the short patch that I “won’t have trouble with”. Onward.
Turns out, the “short patch” extends for 25 miles. I kept going because I thought the pavement would reappear at any moment. By the time I realized otherwise, it was too late to turn around. It was a fight through thick, muddy construction truck treads and poorly graded dips where water swelled at amazing depths. Had the sun not been shining, I wouldn’t have made it through.
I got to Placencia and went straight to the dock. There I found, in plastic lawn chairs, and old man and an old woman and a big rubber tub filled with enchiladas. This, apparently, was the official ferry information center. I got off the bike.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for a ferry to Honduras.”
“Ferry’s broke,” the old man replied. “It’s not running tomorrow.”
Slap.
“Do you know when it will be running?”
“They’re waiting for a part.”
“So after the weekend?”
“Nah. Probably a good two weeks or so.”
Sock, elbow to the rib.
“Oh.” I let it simmer for a minute. Maybe the boat would be fixed sooner. “Do you think it would take my bike?”
“Dunnow.”
“Does it usually take vehicles.”
“Nah, might take a motorcycle – might – but that one’s pretty big.”
“Is the boat pretty big?”
“Average.”
“Do you know I’d talk to about getting it on?”
“Yeah, the capn’d be able to tell you.”
“Yeah? Where can I find the captain?”
“Can’t. He’s in Guatemala right now. Took a little trip with his family while the boat’s being repaired”
Please, someone just hog tie me and throw me into the ocean.
“You want an enchilada?” the woman asked. “They’re real cheap.”
Just then, it started to rain. In the time it would take me to get back out to the road, it would be impassable. I didn’t want an enchilada.
So here I sit, a day later, and it’s still raining. I’ll eventually have to bribe a large truck to take me back out, or wait for the sun to re-appear.
And after all this, the answer to the question of whether you can get a motorcycle on a ferry from Belize to Honduras is still Maybe.
Now I am on the wrong side of a very long, muddy dirt road. When you say “Four-wheel drive” to this road, it chortles. I came down looking for a ferry to Honduras – a car ferry, to be precise, or at least one big enough for my obese motorcycle – with the hopes of bypassing a long detour through Guatemala. Sometimes our dreams are so lofty.
As soon as I crossed the Belizean border, I started asking about the reality of my fantasy ferry. To arrive at an answer that runs any chance of being the truth in Central America, a survey of the largest population cross-section possible is necessary. Thus I questioned customs and immigrations agents while they defiled the pages of my passport; gas station attendants whose eyes were crossed and hands were cupped in a C; society women; a somnambulist who trotted through my dream; trail blazers looking for reward and recognition; bikini models and their estheticians in between a pluck and a wax and a paint; quasi-evolved atheists from whom was borne the idea of IT training; druids looking a little astray; bass fishermen in pixilated form; and people who enjoy strobe lights but will settle for the effect of a ceiling fan. Mascots and children I got together during a group shot outside the stadium. Oh, and there was a lemming (in the human sense, of course, which was a bad idea).
This group (don’t bother yourselves trying to figure it out) spoke with one, unified voice: They all said, “Maybe.”
But one among them, one very self-assured suit man among them, told me that the highway all the way to the possible ferry departure area was paved. My guidebook told me it was dirt. No, he said, it’s all been paved in the last few years – all but a very small section that you won’t have trouble with.
Well that’s something.
So I headed down that way. I stopped off on another dirt road to stay the night at the Jaguar Reserve. Partly because it was a cheap sleep, mostly because jaguars. Put that on a flash card and pull it out of your pocket tomorrow and see what it does. Jaguar. Asa! It’s the only jaguar reserve in the whole wide world.
I checked in and paid my $2.50 camping fee. The ranger took me outside to a crudely painted trail map and suggested a few nice hikes. “What are these?” I asked instead, pointing to the crab-like figures painted into the river. “That’s where you can take a tube down the river,” he told me.
I’d spent the last two days driving through hours of pouring rain. My voice was down to a scratchy whisper and my mental state was sufficiently waterlogged. I wanted to do something that required little thought or physical effort. Sitting and floating on an inflated piece of rubber sounded like a really good idea (albeit one that involved more water, I at least wouldn’t be fighting it). Normally, I would hate this idea. Not every day is normal though.
So he picked out a tube that looked like the right size. “Remember,” he said, “you MUST exit by the second exit. Do not miss it.”
“What happens if you miss it?”
“Then you go into heavy rapids that will take you all the way back to the highway, if you’re lucky.”
The highway was six miles away.
“What if you’re not lucky?”
“Then you’re dead,” he chuckled.
“Oh.”
He added as a side thought, “Do you swim well?”
I love that in Belize, they send you unguided, unvested, on a river tubing trip where you not only need to know how to swim, but it’s pretty important you’re a strong swimmer. And they only ask you about that last part if they happen to think of it.
I got out onto the Lazy River, except that it was a real river surrounded by a real jungle, and felt like I should feel alarmed by the swifter-than-expected rapids and maybe the whole situation in general, but I didn’t have the energy required for alarm. (Anyway, my mom says I’m missing that chemical that alerts people when danger is near. Could be that most things aren’t as dangerous as people give them credit for.) The tube was dropped into the water and I squirmed into the donut-hole middle.
If you’ve ever craved surrealism, float down a jungle river in a rubber inner tube, alone. They’ll write a song about it one day.
It’s pretty predictable what’s coming here… I got ten minutes down the river, and that pretty blue sky that always shows a little leg then runs away giggling did just that. And along came the greyer older brother with a big one-two pop for the whole lot. Raindrops started to fall. Then it poured. I couldn’t really do anything. Probably wouldn’t have in any case. I just sat in my tube in the river and watched the mist rise off the water.
If you don’t know, the one thing that will make a fast river even faster is more water. Which was actually a good time, except when it came to the whole exit business. I thought about skipping it to see whether I’d make it to the highway or die, but I decided if I did make it to the highway I didn’t want to walk six miles back with an inner tube. So, with no small effort, I got to the riverbank and got out of the river, then walked back through the muddy jungle in flip flops.
That was just a short but kind of long interlude to underscore the fact that no matter what I do here, it rains on me.
But back to this ferry business, which is the real reason why I’m sitting at a bar with a mysterious wireless connection, on the wrong side of a very long, muddy dirt road.
I was shooting for Placencia, the docking point of the fantasy ferry, only because the roads were paved and I could turn right back around if the boat couldn’t take me or didn’t exist. I got onto the Southern Highway and found it smooth and covered, as promised. And when the signs pointed to Placencia and the road turned to good ol’ Belizean red dirt, I thought that this too was as promised. It’s the short patch that I “won’t have trouble with”. Onward.
Turns out, the “short patch” extends for 25 miles. I kept going because I thought the pavement would reappear at any moment. By the time I realized otherwise, it was too late to turn around. It was a fight through thick, muddy construction truck treads and poorly graded dips where water swelled at amazing depths. Had the sun not been shining, I wouldn’t have made it through.
I got to Placencia and went straight to the dock. There I found, in plastic lawn chairs, and old man and an old woman and a big rubber tub filled with enchiladas. This, apparently, was the official ferry information center. I got off the bike.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for a ferry to Honduras.”
“Ferry’s broke,” the old man replied. “It’s not running tomorrow.”
Slap.
“Do you know when it will be running?”
“They’re waiting for a part.”
“So after the weekend?”
“Nah. Probably a good two weeks or so.”
Sock, elbow to the rib.
“Oh.” I let it simmer for a minute. Maybe the boat would be fixed sooner. “Do you think it would take my bike?”
“Dunnow.”
“Does it usually take vehicles.”
“Nah, might take a motorcycle – might – but that one’s pretty big.”
“Is the boat pretty big?”
“Average.”
“Do you know I’d talk to about getting it on?”
“Yeah, the capn’d be able to tell you.”
“Yeah? Where can I find the captain?”
“Can’t. He’s in Guatemala right now. Took a little trip with his family while the boat’s being repaired”
Please, someone just hog tie me and throw me into the ocean.
“You want an enchilada?” the woman asked. “They’re real cheap.”
Just then, it started to rain. In the time it would take me to get back out to the road, it would be impassable. I didn’t want an enchilada.
So here I sit, a day later, and it’s still raining. I’ll eventually have to bribe a large truck to take me back out, or wait for the sun to re-appear.
And after all this, the answer to the question of whether you can get a motorcycle on a ferry from Belize to Honduras is still Maybe.
posted by Tracy at 4:23 PM
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