On the Road in 1980, Part the Last

Caye Caulker, Belize, in the late 1980s

Wednesday, 16 April. Before catching a small skiff from the Belize City docks to Caye Caulker, I exchanged travelers cheques for Belizean dollars[1] and bought some fruit. A one-hour trip skipping across Caribbean waves brought us to a coral island twelve miles off the coast, five miles long, north to south, and one mile wide. The island was situated just east of the 190-mile Belize Barrier Reef, the second longest coral reef system in the world.[2] That first day, I fell in love: the water was mildly choppy at best, pristinely clear, just cool enough for comfort, and teeming with tropical fish. I walked in up to my waist and dove, swimming underwater, kicking my legs like a frog, gobsmacked by the rainbow of small fish flitting around me.

Caye Caulker was a laid-back paradise, explaining the number of young North American and European travelers who had washed up on its shores, drawn by word of mouth. On the island’s windward side, the fairly steady trade winds kept the mosquitoes and sand fleas at bay. I settled into the idea of becoming a beach bum – whiling away my days doing a little swimming and snorkeling … a little sailing and fishing … cooking meals, playing music, getting high with friends … kicking back and letting go.

By Friday, I was hatching a plan with Bruce, Cheryl, and Ruth to rent a house on the island. I’d caught a truck ride and then skiff ride from Punta Gorda to Caye Caulker with Bruce, and I’d crossed paths with Canadians Cheryl and Ruth in Livingstón and Punta Gorda. We scouted around and soon located a house on the southern tip of the island renting for $25BZ a week. It had the basics – stove, refrigerator, indoor plumbing, beds. We bought a supply of vegetables and fish from the local co-op, where freshly caught red snapper and jack crevalle sold for $1BZ a pound, and started cooking. The house was located in a coconut palm grove, so we were using coconut milk and/or meat in all our dishes. And I’d begun constructing a percussion drum from coconut shell halves. The four of us got along well based on our shared appreciation of coffee, music, and marijuana.

We were living on island time. My Rastafarian friend Charlie just happened to sail up from Punta Gorda and settle in nearby. The notes of his wooden flute came floating from his camp on the beach. At the hostel where I stayed the first two nights, I’d found a copy of John Irving’s The World According to Garp. The opening fifty pages had been ripped out, likely used to help start some traveler’s campfire, but I was enjoying rereading the last 550 pages. Common yellowthroats, little warblers known as yellow bandits, hung out by our back doorway, eating flies and sand fleas, flitting about, even hopping into the house. 

On Monday, I made coconut bread – using the milk, meat, and oil of the coconut[3] – and added the finishing touches to a chowder Cheryl had started with fish caught by Charlie and his friend Freddie. On Tuesday morning, I made another loaf of the bread at the request of my housemates, and cooked up a breakfast slumgullion for six, frying an onion, adding apropos leftovers from the fridge, and scrambling in eggs. I was completely out of B-dollars, but others supplied the food and I did the cooking, taking pleasure in serving as cook and housekeeper for our improvised family.

It would rain most nights and then clear up during the day. I had gotten used to the occasional hassle of the fleas and mosquitoes; the others not so much. By midweek, Bruce, Cheryl, and Ruth had moved on. Another Canadian, Marcos, moved in with his Belizean girlfriend. Then two Swiss guys, Pascal and Alain, joined us. Charlie had settled into a nearby house, but spent most of his time at our place, sometimes good energy, sometimes exhausting. He had found a way to hustle every pretty girl on the island.

On Thursday, after breakfast, a couple of us got high and walked into town, went for a swim, and were soaking up sun and coconut oil on one of the piers when we learned that Paulo and George, two local fishermen, were taking folks out on their sloop. We joined the group, sailing out to a spot on the lee side of the reef and dropping anchor. Masks and flippers were available, so I dove to get a close look at the amazing variety of colorful fish darting among the coral. After an hour, we got back on the boat and sailed into deeper waters near the southern end of the reef. When Paulo and George went diving for conch, many followed to watch, but I headed a different direction toward the reef. As I was admiring a beautiful school of yellow-finned goatfish and fluorescent blue triggerfish, I happened to notice a shark, about five-foot long, slowly patrolling the waters three meters below me. A bit spooked, I swam directly back to the boat. When I later mentioned my sighting to Paulo, he laughed, “Ah, Caribbean reef shark – you kids always find the sharks.”[4]

As the expiration date of my Belize travel visa loomed, I faced the realization that this three-month trip had run its course. I began to think about my return to Iowa City and what I would do when I got there: Help wrap up the issue of Police Beat, the lit mag I was co-editing. Start a bagel street vendor business. Take classes at the university – Spanish, French, film, poetry workshop. Reconnect with the crazy music-making of my Pink Gravy friends. And reconnect with Pat and little Sierra, see if there was still a place for me with them. It felt like my life was waiting for me to rejoin it.

Syd’s Restaurant & Bar on Caye Caulker

My last night in Caye Caulker, I made a hearty rice-veggies-cheese casserole for our household, then strolled down to Syd’s Bar to raise one last glass of stout and bid goodbye to my friends, especially Freddie, who’d become a good pal and who still owes me 5 B-dollars. Next morning, I caught the Mermaid, the seven o’clock boat to Belize City. As we approached the harbor, I asked the skipper for directions to the airport. He took it upon himself to call Kimba International Airport, found a TACA[5] flight leaving for Miami at 10:40, and called a taxi for me. I sailed through the morning traffic to the airport, bought a ticket, passed through immigration and customs, all in a blur. My first plane ride, I was enthralled by the dance of the flight attendants demonstrating how to use the life vests and oxygen masks. We soared over the blue Caribbean and its pattern of reefs and islands, then the green Everglades, then Miami International Airport.

Back in the US of A, I walked out of the airport, got my bearings, and began hitching north, excited to be back but also disturbed by the jarring reminder of this country’s superfluous affluence. I thought back on how the trip had begun, my commitment to “the interior voyage … to trace that path.” I had promised to pursue this inquiry: “Are the things I do and say equivalent to my feelings, my emotions, my convictions?” I couldn’t say I had returned a changed person, but I had come to know myself a little better.

When I now reflect on this trip, The Barr Brothers’ song “Defibrillation” and these lines come to mind: “Where would you wander? / What would it mean? / There might be saviors, but no guarantees / … It’s not my nature to pretend / That any one road leads to any one end.”

Footnotes:

[1] At an exchange rate of $2BZ for $1US.

[2] To preserve the biological diversity of this coral reef, UNESCO designated it a World Heritage Site in 1996. Although Belize has taken notable steps to protect it from bottom trawling and offshore oil drilling, the reef is still threatened by oceanic pollution and global warming.

[3] To process coconut oil, shred coconut meat, soak it in water, strain the milk from the meat, and cook the milk at a low simmer until the oil separates and rises to the surface.

[4] Stephen Spielberg’s Jaws, released five years earlier, had left all us kids with an unfounded fear of sharks.

[5] Transportes Aereos del Continente Americano, a Salvadoran airline now known as Avianca.