Spring Break in Belize, Day 1

Woke up bright and early – at 4AM – to catch the flight to Belize. Thankfully, no one was late and the trip to the airport, which easily could have been a major logistical disaster, turned out to be rather painless, notwithstanding the pain of waking up so damn early in the morning.

After a brief layover in Charlotte and about 5 hours of travel time, we touch down in Belize. The first thing that strikes me is not the lush vegetation, the perfect weather, or the sense of excitement in the air – it is the fact that we are driving down the runway in the wrong direction! Seems that it in Belize it makes more sense to do a U-turn on the runway rather than to quickly move away from an area where planes are landing at excessive speeds. Our landing smacked of Dan’s description of his first landing in Ecuador so many years ago: “when we were about 20 yards off the ground.....jesus christ. I look out my window. The wing was about 15 fucking feet from some sort of department store. … There are not only buildings basically on the fucking runway, but buildings with civilians in them.” As panic set in that my life and Dan’s had converged into one hopeless mess, I prayed that I would not be mugged by thugs armed with a cigarette lighter.

Next step in our journey to Caye Caulker, the island chosen as our base of operations, was to jump in a cab and head to Belize City. Disregard for safety surfaced once again on this leg of the trip – you see, our cab, which careened dangerously down the two-lane road at its maximum speed of 55 mph, lacked seatbelts of any kind. I tried to maintain my composure, and to just relax, but as we passed our fifth car in a row (five cars at once, not on separate passing ventures), I couldn’t help but envision what would happen to this 25 year-old Oldsmobile – and to the rest of us – if a crash were to occur.

I must have passed out from the fear, because the next thing I realize, we are at the water taxi station preparing to board a medium-sized power boat for the final leg of the day’s travels. In paying the fare, I discovered that the exchange rate in Belize is quite favorable: two Belizean dollars are equivalent to one American dollar. Unfortunately, the Belizeans seem to be quite aware of the fact that tourists generally use American dollars, not Belizean ones, and thus have priced everything at about double the price of what it is in America. Considering the limited amount of money I had on me, this did not bode well.

About 30 minutes into boat ride, an island appeared and the boat altered its direction to head right for it. Palpable excitement set in again as we were all ready to get to our luxurious hotel and rid ourselves of the long-sleeved shirts and jeans that had been a necessity in the cold weather of New York. However, disappointment followed as the captain of the boat informed us that this was not Caye Caulker, our destination, but rather Caye Chapel, a golf resort for the uber-rich, and none of us "cretins" would be de-boating. Incidentally, Caye chapel played host to a recent MTV special called something like “Win a chance to spend time in paradise with Beyonce”. We were not the winners of that contest.

Scarcely more than five minutes later, Caye Caulker – and a number of locals who had gathered at the dock – welcomed us to its shores. It was at this juncture that we realized we had absolutely no idea where our hotel was located. Fortunately, at the end of the dock was a map of the island. We scrutinized it for a few minutes, amazed at just how small the island is – 4 miles long and, at certain points, as thin as 100 yards. Most of the tourist stuff – the hotels, restaurants, and dive shops – was at the north end of the island, near what the locals call the “split”, a deep water channel created when the island was cleaved in two during a particularly strong hurricane in the 90s. As it turns out, the Tropics hotel was just a few blocks away, so we grabbed our bags and trekked up the beach.

As you can see, luxury and the Tropic hotel are not bedfellows; in fact, they’ve never even heard of one another. What the Tropics hotel lacks in room decoration, though, it makes up for in unpleasant sleeping and showering experiences: only one paper-thin sheet adorned the uncomfortable bed and the sink and shower faucet both spewed sulfur-smelling saltwater (how’s that for alliteration). Oh, and the toilet could not accept toilet paper; a waste basket was provided for this purpose. If housekeeping worked every day of the week as opposed to their more leisurely schedule of “whenever I feel like it”, the situation would not have been as dire as it turned out to be.

But, come on, when in paradise, why waste time in your hotel no matter how nice it is? With the white sand of the beach just 100 ft away, I certainly did not intend to sit around redecorating my room or complaining about the lack of livable conditions. And it was with that positive attitude in mind that the posse and I struck out in pursuit of sustenance, which, except for that fake cheese on the plane, had, thus far, been in short supply.

Both lunch and dinner that first day on the island would have been disappointing – bland fish for lunch at the Happy Lobster and bland chicken for dinner at the Sports Bar - were in not for the fact that the next week would be filled with indulging in everything paradise had to offer. Plus, I think I was too exhausted from traveling to formulate the thoughts necessary to voice my distaste for the meals.

Dinner marked the first appearance of Ryan aka “Cowboy”, Dan’s online gambling counterpart who coincidentally happens to live on Caye Caulker. He is also the reason that I traveled thousands of miles with a DVD about a dancing hobo in my suitcase. Ryan and I had exchanged a few emails before the trip, and had agreed to meet up for a beer once I arrived. Problem was, his emails never disclosed where he lived on the island and I never thought to get an address (believe it or not, he gets mail that is addressed simply to Ryan at Caye Caulker, Belize, so he might not even have an address). Earlier that day, as we scouted the island for the first time, I questioned the various street vendors as to Ryan’s whereabouts, just as he had suggested during our correspondence. Everyone I spoke to claimed to know him, but seeing as how none of them seemed to know where he lived, I had a hard time taking their word for it. With no useful information from the locals, I gave up and decided that locating Ryan would have to wait another day.

As the fourth hour of never-ending dinner approached, this random guy pops his head out of the kitchen, and asks if there is an “Andy” with our party. Convinced that Andy could not get himself embroiled in island trouble so quickly (I thought it would take at least another few hours and a bottle or two of rum), I took it upon myself to become Andy for a moment. “Well, my name’s Andrew, not Andy, but pretty close,” I replied. He then introduced himself as Ryan, and realization struck. Apparently word travels around the island at light speed, because numerous people had approached Ryan saying that some tall guy with an Asian girl was looking for him. He figured it was me, but because he kept running into other tall guys with Asian girls who were not me, he had a hard time finding us.

To celebrate our arrival, Ryan joined us for some late night rum drinking on the deck of our hotel, which lasted for multiple hours despite our utter exhaustion. Eventually, though, the adrenalin wore off and we retired to our uncomfortable beds.