You Better Belize It

I was born in the fires of an unnamed furnace.  My first memory is waking up to the sounds of clanging machinery.  My millions of brothers and sisters, all identical to me, lay motionless.  We were roughly packed into crates and sent to distant lands.  We never said goodbye.  I was bought in a dusty, rural town in Belize, thrown into the back of a Ute, the shock bouncing me out of my box.  I was hurled from side to side as the Ute drove at speed, hitting pot hole after pot hole.  Suddenly, I was unceremoniously flung from the back and onto the road, bouncing, skidding to a stop I lay motionless and silent, waiting…

Little did we know, our fate and the fate of this nail were intertwined in a way that would come back to haunt us time and time again for months…

It was an ambitious goal to start with – a long drive from Guatemala to the border of Belize, crossing the border and then finishing on the East coast of Belize, all in one day.  We have a rule of thumb that if Google maps says a journey should be 8 hours, expect 20.  But for the most part, we were travelling on sealed roads and didn’t expect too many problems.  Famous last words.

We set off from Flores, in northern Guatemala, for the distant Belize border early in the morning.  Despite some patches of pot holed dirt roads, we made good time.  Guatemala and Belize famously do not get along and the road is somewhat symbolic of their relationship.  Periods of good road, punctuated by murderous potholes and long, rutted dirt stretches.  If you are unfamiliar with the history, Belize used to be part of Guatemala and under a dodgy agreement with the British, was seceded in the promise that Britain would build a highway between the two. The road was never built, agreements became muddled by time and mutual animosity, and the tension between the two (now separate) countries remains potent.

 As some kind of presumed substantiation on the part of Guatemala; the road between them remains symbolically in bad repair. However the road wasn’t as dire as the lonely planet reported and we left Guatemala without too many dramas. Getting ourselves and the bike into Belize was another matter altogether. Two very grumpy customs officials, who were thoroughly disgruntled that we had disrupted their afternoon bludging by wishing to enter their country, begrudgingly served us.  Despite giving us the allotted 30 day tourist visa, they only gave the bike a two week permit without asking us what date we intended to exit. They then told us there would be a $1000 fine if the bike overstayed this and once it was done, they would not alter it.  Unfortunately this turned out to be a representative experience of Belizean customer service all over the country. 

Unperturbed, we headed into Belize, unknowingly driving right past the little shack that sells third party motorbike insurance, which the Customs officials had neglected to tell us was compulsory and if we were caught driving without it would receive a huge fine and possible imprisonment… Only much later did we realise this from other travellers; and much tension (otherwise know as puckering up) ensued whenever we passed a police car or road block for the rest of our stay.

For a few hours we drove through winding highways, rejoicing in the scenery and simply glad to see vast expanses of trees.  The environmental degradation of Guatemala can be depressing with piles of rubbish and large scale clearing of forest for agriculture.  Belize was a welcome change, with wisps of cloud throughout jungle covered mountains.  Similarly, the superior quality of the highway allowed us to open the throttle and feel the wind speeding by. The asphalt was course gravel which provided terrific grip and we flew around potholes and the occasional belching bus. The roads have a deserted feel to them which is not really surprising when you consider the entire population of Belize is only 400 thousand people.

As late afternoon approached, and an estimated 1.5 hour drive time remaining to make it to our destination, we were getting anxious. We would make it before sundown, but it was going to be tight.  As we rounded a corner, about 100km from the nearest town there was a particularly vicious series of potholes to avoid and as we drove around the last the bike started acting strange. After a few hundred meters the bike started wobbling badly and as we reduced our speed we knew with dread that something was badly wrong. Killing the engine we rolled to a stop in silence and looked forlornly as our rear wheel deflated before our eyes. That tiny little nail sent the course of our next three weeks in an entirely different direction. Of all the places on the wide highway, our rear tyre, only 15cm wide, drove straight over the top of that son-of-a-bitch. 

Annette: ‘What do we do now?’

Jack: ‘Well we’re pretty much fucked’.

Despite making such a defeated statement, we were both in pretty good humour.  These things have a way of working themselves out, but we knew this was going to cause some problems. On a car you can just replace a tire, on a bike you need a series of tools to get the tire off, a new inner tube or a decent patch to fix it, and a way to pump the tire back up. We had a total of none of those things.

We took off our packs and were preparing for a potential night under the stars when within five minutes a man approached us asking if we needed help, we had parked in his large front yard. He informed us that his brother, who lived across the road, had an air pressuriser we could use.  Before long, we had a team of five local men joking about and helping us to inflate the tyre, but to no avail.  Upon discovering the offending nail, the men informed us that about 600m down the road was a backyard tyre repair shop, round about where we hit the nail. Suspicious much…

 

By now the sun was going down and we had almost no other options, so we hobbled the bike down the road and promptly waited for an hour until Mr. Tyre Repair, Kyle, got home. It was dark when he finally drove up and he just casually informed us that he did not fix motorbike tires, sorry… Shit.  However, despite our unconfirmed and potentially unjustified suspicions about the coincidence of hitting a nail outside the only tire repair shop for 100km, Kyle was a pretty nice guy. He obviously felt some sympathy for us and despite it being dark and having never fixed a motorbike before offered to help. He was unsure of the mechanics, but he set about calling some of his friends.  We asked if we could camp in his garden, which he assented to and then, after disappearing to consult with his wife, offered us a room in his house.  Kyle, his friend and Jack spent the next three hours removing the tyre, repairing the huge hole and putting everything back together again.  By now it was well into the night, however the two men only asked for $5 in payment as it was a learning experience for both of them.  We gave them $25 and a further $25 for staying in his house, simply grateful to have found a solution to our rather dire situation.  Of course we could not know at this stage that our problems stemming from that tiny little nail had only just begun.

Kyle (standing) and his friend

Spending the night at Kyle’s house gave us an opportunity to learn more about Belizean culture.  We discussed the ongoing issues with Guatemala, political strife regarding oil drilling and environmental protection and the prohibitively high price of food in Belize because almost everything is imported. It was one of those cool experiences where everything goes wrong and it turns out perfectly alright. We talked into the night over some smuggled orange juice from the factory his son worked at and thanked him profusely for his help.

Arriving in Dangriga

Departing Kyle, we spent the next day in a town called Dangriga, which managed to fulfil all of our Carribean stereotypes, with people yelling out ‘jus be happy mon’, and ‘everyting is gonna be alright’ as we road past.  It was in Dangriga that we pulled into a supermarket car park and found ourselves face to face with an identical KLR250 with Australian Army Cam side-bags.  Excitedly, we ran inside and accosted the poor bloke wearing riding gear.  Once he realised we came in peace, he opened up and gave us a bit of his life story.  Michael, an Australian, was riding from Canada to South America on the same bike and with generally the same outlook. It is refreshing to be able to discuss topics that other travellers have no interest in, such as road conditions and which hostels have big enough areas to store a bike.  In the six weeks since we met him he’s made it a shockingly long way in such a short time to Colombia, and we have linked his blog on this site which has some hilarious tales about the perils of touring Central America on a motorbike.

We still were not sure what we were going to do for the next week in Dangriga until we planned to meet up with a friend from Australia, and not a whole lot seemed to be happening in Belize. Anywhere.  We went to an internet café and with some intense Googling and searching, Jack discovered Glovers Atoll, a tiny coral atoll 62km off the coast literally in the middle of the ocean that offers a ‘no-frills’ island experience.  There were some appalling discrepancies between peoples’ reviews on trip adviser of this island, people either love it or absolutely hate it. 

For starters it’s remote; the small boat runs out to the island once a week so you are effectively trapped there for the week. There is no electricity, no running water, the accommodation is run down and you have to cook all your own meals or pay a ridiculous amount for each meal. But you are living on a fricken island! Sold.

We did a week’s worth of shopping in Dangriga and set out trying to find the backpackers where the boat would leave about an hours ride south. Sittee river (from now on known as Shitty river) was a real challenge to find, and we rode around asking people most who didn’t know the place or gave us vague directions off into the jungle. We eventually found the backpackers miles from anywhere, swarming with mosquitos and with a bad smell coming from the mud flat on the river. For better or worse we were roped in now and the boat left at 9am sharp the next day.

At around ten thirty sharp the next day we set off down the 6 miles of river to the ocean.  The boat was a small motored Catamaran, groaning under the weight of about a tonne of coconut fronds used for the thatching of huts.  As an island in the middle of no-where, literally everything has to be brought out on the boat – building materials, food, gas and even fresh water.  As we passed the river mouth we entered Open Ocean and only passed a few sporadic islands on our 3.5 hour journey.  After the arduous journey, we spotted it for the first time and were in awe – paradise.  Picture a small tropical island surrounded by shallow, brilliant turquoise water, covered in Palm and coconut trees and with a smattering of thatched huts on the exterior and hammocks strung between the trees.   

The island has a population of approximately six people, plus any guests that happen to be staying.  When we arrived there were two other guests and a small American summer camp group of 15-17 year olds.  Despite paying for a dorm room, we were upgraded to a beach cabin – a cute, three story hut with an outdoor kitchen on the bottom and two levels with beds and a deck area.  We unpacked our food and set about chilling the fuck out. 

Our Beach Cabana

Our days were occupied by sunbaking, snorkelling, swimming, cracking coconuts, playing with hermit crabs and meeting the islands 6 inhabitants.  Every day we went for a snorkel on the most picturesque reef you can imagine.  Brilliant coral reef brimming with colourful fish, impeccable visibility and lobsters for the taking.  

On our second evening, as we sat around the camp fire drinking Belizean rum, we met Jim, a middle-aged American guy who told us he was here for his sixth year in a row.  What happened next was some of the most passionate, exhaustive and frustrating political debates ever seen on this island.  Jim, a staunch Republican conservative, libertarian ‘tea party guy’ and self confessed 1%er and us, slightly left leaning democratic socialists came to loggerheads over everything from minimum wage, the credibility of Fox TV, Capitalist theory and President Obama.  Both parties groaning, head in hands and filled with incredulous disbelief at the opinions of the other lead to some hilarious scenes.  Perhaps the only thing that saved our relationship was a general agreement on the flailing state of the US economy.  Despite this volatile beginning, we became fast friends.  Each day Jim and Jack would go out spear fishing, returning with a haul of lobster and delicious fish. 

It was Jim who woke us excitedly on Friday morning yelling ‘Come to the dock guys, you’ve gotta see this!’  We ran down to the dock and saw a tiny boat, barely afloat and crammed with people on every surface.  It turned out they were 24 Cuban refugees, who had set out 14 days earlier from Cuba on a leaky homemade boat across the Open Ocean.  Disaster had struck in the middle of the night before when their bathtub of a boat had hit the reef, breaking the recycled VW engine they were using and snapping their propeller.  They washed up 8km along the reef, with no land in sight.  If they hadn’t been picked up by some sympathetic fisherman and dropped at Glovers, who knows what would have happened.  The only two women aboard were pregnant.  What was left of their boat was half full of water. 

 What happened that morning was one of the most touching displays of humanity we have been fortunate enough to bear witness.  These poor, starving people who had been jammed in like sardines for the last two weeks, undoubtedly fearing for their lives and liberty, showed the enduring generosity of the human spirit by offering to share their meagre supply of food with us (some almonds nuts).  Before long, we were handing out cigarettes and, in our broken Spanish, learning their stories.  Two guys were a father and his grown son, seeking a better life.  One guy, yabbering in Spanish pulled out a small brown paper package, wrapped in unbelievable amounts of plastic (to which we were thinking ‘oh shit…it’s cocaine...’) and pulled out his identity card and a few small pictures of his children.  Others were ecstatic just to see dry land. The boats that get this far are only the ‘seaworthy ones’. Every year people wash up long the coast after spending 4-5 weeks at sea on rafts made of rubber tire inner tubes with most of the people on aboard dead.

Belize has a seriously harsh illegal immigration policy, whereby if you enter and are caught, you are thrown in Belize jail for 2-3 years then deported to your original country. Cuba, just for laughs, then puts you in jail for 6 years when you return for having the audacity for trying to leave. For the Cubans, this meant if the Belize authorities caught them they would be spending the better part of a decade behind bars. After traversing hundreds and hundreds of kilometres of Open Ocean, in a homemade boat not much bigger than a large car, with tarps for sails and standing room only – they were going to go to jail only 60km from the Honduras boarder and safety. It was heart breaking.

As we sat around talking to the Cubans, Jim then made a decision. If they were going to go to jail for a decade, for doing what I would have done in their situation, then we’ve got to help in whatever way we can. Jim then paid for every single Cuban to call home via satellite phone to tell their families they were alive and shipwrecked in Belize; as well as a few small clandestine calls to try and find a contact to take them to Honduras. No small feat when it took hours of Jim relaying instructions over the phone and hundreds of dollars. As a second thought Jim and Jack decided that if all they’ve eaten for the last two weeks is nuts and face imprisonment then the least we can do is catch them dinner. Jack and Jim spent the next four hours catching half a dozen lobsters and fish to feed them all.

 

It was a wild situation, in a wild place with some wild people. But everyone pitched in a helped, from cooking of meals to teaching each other to play various card games. We are pretty happy to say that thanks to some big hearted people taking some big risks; that the Cuban’s made it to Honduras. For their sake we hope they find what there looking for and a freedom they never had.

From our island we got back to the mainland and started heading for Belize City about four hours away. With a terrifying reputation to the extent that the locals on the way were telling us to turn around and forget about it, it felt like we were going into a war zone. American gang culture has permeated Belize City and has evolved into a distinct blend of Garifuna violence.

Two hours into our ride, with only jungle on either side of the road the bike started wobbling badly again and we couldn’t believe our luck. As we rolled to a stop we had another flat rear tire! But this time no friendly local tire repair guy was anywhere near us. We were seriously pissed off, thinking some joker was throwing nails out of their car. To make matters worse there was no room to pull over and trucks we smashing past us dangerously close. We pulled off the packs and set about waving down a Ute. Within 10 minutes one pulled over and two Guatemalan guys helped us put the bike on the back. 15 minutes after the flat tire and we were back on the road, albeit in the tray of a Ute. We chatted to the two guys and thanked our limited Spanish for the hundredth time.

We got dropped of a service station in Belmopan at the self professed “greatest tire mon in Belize”. Who was hilarious in his shameless self promotion in every sentence. It turned out that the original patch had leaked…it was the same puncture coming back to haunt us again! 

Nail: 2, Us: 0.

However we were reassured by our tire man’s confidence and deftness with the bike.  He gave us a new patch and 10 minutes and only $5 later, we were on the road again.   

 

We continued along the highway, still heeding warnings from everybody not to go to Belize City as we were likely to be shot.  Therefore when we arrived we were not surprised to find high fences with razor wire and bars on every window; however it was no worse than any other big city in the region.  We bunkered down for the night and found a hostel that was prepared to watch the bike for a week while we explored our next island destination, Caye Caulker.

The next morning we took a water taxi to Caye Caulker, which is about 40m off the coast and very touristy, a sharp change of pace after our near isolation the week before.  We met up with Bec and Felicity, friends from Australia, and Murray and Hayley, fellow travellers.  We had many lively evenings sampling the local cuisine and liquor, and many relaxed days soaking up the sun.  Our hostel room was a small loft, one of the highest buildings on the island, and we squished the six of us for a couple of loft parties.

 Our time on Caye Caulker was relaxed and happy; we thought our troubles with the tire were over and we would be able to get on the road again.  We were wrong.  As soon as we arrived back in Belize City we were greeted by a limp, sagging back tyre…FOR THE THIRD TIME!!! By now it was beyond a joke, we had a distinct sense of deja vu as we wheeled the bike into a shop, the patch had again failed.

Nail: 3

Us: 0 

To cut a long story short, we’re sick of flat tyres.