Privilege Meets Poverty

Today we would depart from Amergris Caye for the mainland. We woke at eight, as we had every morning during our stay, and grabbed some coffee. The woman who served us that morning seemed more gruff that usual. We showered, began to pack, and then went to breakfast, which, in keeping with the observed trend, took forever. We spoke to Ms. Grumpypants about our imminent departure because she was in charge of checking us out, but she had no idea we were leaving that day. After breakfast we finished packing and then sat on the porch for a while. After a bit, Ms. Grumpypants approached us to say she was ready to help us settle up. She acted pissed off when we wanted to pay with American Express, even though it was accepted there, and then she seemed pissed that we didn't leave an additional tip on our final bill (because we had been tipping cash or adding individual tips to our tab throughout our stay). She was making things very awkward, so we left a little earlier than we had planned, an unfortunate end to an otherwise good experience at the resort. Another employee had confided in us a couple days earlier that he avoids interacting with that woman because she's a bitch, so we can't say we weren't forewarned.

Our fishing guide Adam boated us and our luggage back to San Pedro. At the docks, we hugged and said our goodbyes, and thanked him for being such a good guide during our stay. We wheeled our luggage over to the nearby ferry dock, bought tickets, and waited for about an hour for the ferry to arrive. We chose to take the ferry back to the mainland rather than the plane because it only cost $25 USD as opposed to the $150 USD plane ticket, plus it reportedly offered views of the neighboring cayes. 

The trip turned out to be pretty disappointing as far as scenery goes, since the boat was enclosed by mostly fogged up, water-splashed plexiglass. Most landmasses were too far away to see. Still, it was a leisurely 90-minute ride with a couple dozen locals, many of whom slept for the duration. We stopped at both Caye Caulker and Caye Chapel, the latter being an exclusive private golf resort where one might stay if one had lots of money and little interest in intercultural exchange. A sign at the dock warned that the island was protected by armed security.

A tiny private island in the misty distance

Our ferry docked at the terminal in Belize City and I was immediately impressed by the pervasive decrepitude. We collected our luggage and went outside to wait for the private car that would take us to our next destination. While we waited, one taxi driver asked us three different times within five minutes whether we wanted to ride with him. Then our driver, Adrian, arrived. He was the son of the owners of the bed and breakfast we were going to stay. He got out of the car wearing the orange shirt that I was told he would be wearing and awkwardly held up a blue sign with my name on it. He was young, maybe in his late teens or very early twenties. We greeted him and got into the Ford SUV he had arrived in, which was so impeccably clean that it looked completely new inside and out.

Adrian was mostly silent during the drive, but occasionally pointed things out or answered Charlie's questions. On our way out of Belize City, we drove along the waterfront for a while, where everything looked as if it were falling down. Bits of litter peppered every surface along the route like confetti after a party. Every fourth building was a hotel-casino, between which stood large clapboard residences and a few whorehouses. We crossed a bridge into a neighboring district, and this was when Adrian informed us that we were leaving the "classy" part of town. I was relieved that we had decided not to spend any time touring the city.

We got stuck behind a cement truck for awhile, which meant a slow and winding route through a "working class" neighborhood. Nearly all of the homes in this area were little more than dilapidated shacks, full of holes that left their residents exposed to the elements. Many homes bore evidence of once brightly colored paint that was now faded and chipped, while the exteriors of others' were collages of mismatched building materials. I felt like a (former) Pope in his bulletproof Popemobile gawking and being gawked at by people who were noticeably skinnier than the locals we had encountered on Ambergris Caye. I'm not rich by any means, but these people were on the far opposite end of the socioeconomic spectrum from me. I wanted to photograph their unusual and creative dwellings, but I felt guilty about effectively producing poverty porn in which the subjects could neither consent nor reciprocate my curiosity with any type of social exchange.

Once we were out on the main highway, I was able to photograph a couple of modest homes that seemed typical to the more rural area we had just entered. 

Locals at a bus stop

Unbeknownst to us, the brightly colored van in the background of the picture above belongs to the resort where would stay during the last leg of our trip.

A small square home

The Western Highway was mostly straight and in better shape than I expected it to be, defying the reputation that Belize had earned for its poorly-maintained roads. Indeed, the single road running the length of Ambergris Caye had been atrocious and was more of an obstacle course than a means of travel. Adrian drove quickly, but safely, speeding past several slow-moving vehicles along the way and stopping periodically at checkpoints manned by armed men in military gear.

The surrounding scenery was bright green, mostly flat, and covered with young palms and some kind of tall skinny tree clothed in white bark. The ground was blanketed in tall, soft grasses, and off in the distance stood striking, irregularly-shaped mini-mountains.

Mini-mountains in the distance

We passed through a couple of villages so tiny that they barely registered as blips on the radar, tending to contain only a few widely placed homes, a run-down supermarket, and several roadside produce huts. Within an hour we had reached the city of Belmopan, turning down a small private road on its western edge that led to The Inn at Twin Palms. Looming beyond the private drive was a bizarre, unfinished neighboring home several stories high that looked like an aspiring Tower of Babel.

The Tower of Babel

I had booked a room at Twin Palms based on the nearly perfect ratings the establishment had on various travel websites. I had high hopes for our experience here after corresponding with the owner, Anna, who asked me for extremely detailed information prior to our stay, such as our favorite drinks and what colors we liked. Our stint here turned out to be better than I ever could have imagined.

Anna greeted us warmly as we got out of the car, presenting us with a fresh fruit juice and a diet coke. She then led us to our ground-floor room in the guesthouse, which faced the pool, and gave us a quick orientation. The first thing we noticed upon entering the room was how clean it smelled. The decor was simple but homey, and the place was so spotless that it practically sparkled. I often judge the cleanliness of hotels by how clean the bathroom is. In this case, the grout between the tiles in the shower was so pristine that it looked like it had just been installed. 

Fresh flowers set out for us in one of my favorite colors

A welcome bouquet for the newlyweds

We unloaded our belongings in the room and then headed over the big house (the family's residence) to consult Anna on where to eat. She provided us with a spare pre-paid mobile phone in case we ever wanted to order takeout or had an emergency, and then generously gave us a lift into town and pointed out a few places. We settled on an establishment called Caladium that she said had Belizean food and was "very clean." We knew that if she considered it to be clean, it was probably devoid of any nastiness that might affect our sensitive foreign digestive tracts. The place was empty but indeed sanitary, and they were kind enough to serve us between the lunch and dinner rushes when most restaurants close. The food tasted great, although it seemed barely warmed over and a bit dry, and the service was friendly. At our table, we found a bottle of Marie Sharps Exotic Sauce and doused our food with this newly discovered flavor, and then ordered two more plates to go, knowing that we would be hungry later on. All four entrees only amounted to $24 USD + tip, which was a nice change from the inflated prices on the Caye.

After lunch, we took the 15-minute walk back to Twin Palms and I immediately changed into my bathing suit and declared, "Make I swim," employing my newly acquired Belizean creole syntax. I was in the water in no time and quickly became accustomed to the slightly chilly water. The owners' adorable chubby cat, Smokey, came and sat by the pool, both welcoming and recoiling from my stroking his face with chlorine scented fingers. He had a raspy meow as if he were indeed a smoker. Charlie sat nearby, smoked a cigar and read, while I floated and paddled in my own pathetic version of swimming until it was dark. It was so refreshing and relaxing. The sky was crystal clear and a bright crescent moon appeared. In the distance I could hear reggae renditions of Christmas songs, along with banda music, and the occasional snarling of the formidable guard dogs whenever any unknown party approached the property.

It got too cold to swim, so I went in to shower the chlorine out of my hair and skin. Charlie barged into the bathroom to tell me that there were frogs outside, which he knows I love. By the time I had dried myself and dressed, it had begun to rain. Charlie pointed out a small frog sitting under the garden lamp and I observed him for a while. We both went inside, ate our take-out meals, and watched a staticky transmission of South Park on TV. Full and content, we were asleep by eight o'clock.