I.II.I.I – Caye Caulker: Day One
CAYE CAULKER
I.II.I.I – DAY ONE
09/09/22
A two-hour ferry ride away stood my first destination in Central America – an island called Caye Caulker in Belize! With a fresh breeze and sea spray in my face, I felt reinvigorated. The melancholy of leaving Mexico behind soon turned to exhilaration as I was about to step into another country. And the best part? Belize was completely unknown to me. Hell, I had no idea where it stood on the map until after I started planning.
After around two hours riding at full speed, the ferry stopped at San Pedro, a port town in a nearby island called Ambergris Caye. Most other pessengers went through immigration and customs, leaving a few of us waiting for the next departure to Caye Caulker. Had I known this, I would have probably planned to stay there first, but again, much of my plans for Belize were half-assed at best. Luckily enough, the immigration process led me to understand a couple of things I had no idea about. Like the fact that locals here try to use the word Belize as a pun all the time. It’s true – it’s friggin’ unbelizable…
And then there were other, more important things. Like the fact that the official language of Belize is not, in fact, Spanish. I had set out on this journey thinking all the countries in Central America spoke exclusively in Spanish. This would make my goal of speaking fluent Spanish more attainable, and now, suddenly, there was English in the mix again – a clear and definite obstacle! Also surprising to me was the fact that it wasn’t just Latinos who populated the country, with the majority of people living on these Caribbean islands being Creoles. How much I don’t know about the world, huh? After getting my passport stamped one more time, I was again on my way to Caye Caulker.
Heaven on Earth
Caye Caulker… How can I even begin to describe this place? This gem… This precious, precious gem of an island. The island that stole my heart and made me wanna give up everything to just move there. How can I ever do it justice with my measly vocabulary? Well, I’m nothing if not a tryhard, so here we go.
Let’s start off with the basics. A cay, I came to learn, is a small, sandy island on the surface of a coral reef. I mean sure, I knew about Pacifidlog Town in Hoenn and how it floats on top of a Corsola colony, but seeing something similar in real life is astounding. The cay is around 32 kilometres northeast of Belize City and is home to at least two thousand people, with the majority of its inhabitants being Creole. To its east is the Belize Barrier Reef; part of the Mesoamerican Barrier Reef.
The second I stepped off the ferry I was immediately struck by the tropical island vibes that permeate the air. Long stretches of beach with palm and coconut trees, thatched huts and brightly coloured shacks. White sandy beaches that are continuous with the main road that connects the north of the island to the south – all kinds of fancy resorts and restaurants lining it. Nothing too over the top, but fancy in a way that matches the aesthetic of the island. And in between, a bit of everything. Reggae and Soca music playing everywhere, people walking barefoot and bare-chested, shaggy dogs scurrying around. Stalls with people selling all kinds of accessories made from pink conch shells. A guy grilling lobster on his barbeque. A woman doing braids on another girl. The overpowering smell of weed and the colours of the Rasta culture. Tour agencies, tattoo studios, cafés. Golf carts everywhere you look.
Reading this, anyone would probably think the place is teeming with life and activity, that it’s busy and hectic. But it couldn’t be so far removed from the truth. Never in my life had I ever encountered such a relaxed, chilled place. In fact, its people’s motto is “Go slow”. And that, trust me, is the truth. As a perpetually stressed out, always-on-the-go kinda guy, I thought this would either help me relax a bit, or, more likely, stress me out even further.
My prophecy didn’t take too long to become reality. I arrived at the guesthouse I’d be staying in to find no one in the office. I called multiple times without success and after what must have been the seventh time, a guy picked up and had only one thing to say when I told him I’d been waiting for ages – “Go slow brah!”.
I could already feel my forehead veins bulging, but, as they say, when in Rome, do as the Romans do. Eventually, the nicest lady showed up and showed me to my room. A very humble, very bare room. I wouldn’t be spending much time in there anyways.
The Split
Free of my ever-so-heavy backpacks, I could finally start roaming around. And roaming around Caye Caulker is easy enough. The island is as tiny as tiny can be – tinier than Malta even!
I made my way to The Split; a narrow channel that divides the island in two. Legend has it that in 1961, Hurricane Hattie left destruction in its wake, effectively splitting the island in two once it reached it. Locals, however, told me a different story. Whilst the hurricane did in fact contribute to the formation of the channel, it was the dredging of the locals that actually led to the thirty-metre rift that is now a permanent feature of the island. The Split can be crossed with a ferry, leading to the north island that is home to a few resorts and beach bars.
The south side is where most tourists hang out, usually at the infamous Lazy Lizard. Named after it, is the best cocktail I’ve ever tasted; a vile, green mixture of several different types of alcohol, topped with a cherry, that tastes, somewhat, to me (and only me), like the smell of pine. Apart from being so, so good and so refreshing, it also does the trick when it comes to destroying one’s sobriety. And lemme tell you, not a day went by during my stay in Caye Caulker that I didn’t have my fair share of the green juice. That, and beer – with Belikins and Lighthouses becoming a new staple in my routine. Oh, and fry jacks; deep-fried pieces of dough stuffed with anything and everything you can imagine; usually black beans, cheese or chicken. Worth the calories and the Belizean Dollars!
As I lay there, staring at tourists drinking, windsurfing, kayaking and paddleboarding, I was also busy pondering my nationality. In a span of an hour, I was stopped at least three times by three different groups of Israelis. On all occasions, they proceeded to speak to me in Hebrew. Only after I’d ask the infamous question – “English?” would they finally realise I’m not one of them. This, apparently, would then be a cue for them to just turn around and go on their merry way without so much as a goodbye. Rude. I’d always been told I had Sicilian and Arabic features, whatever that means. But suddenly, everyone started to assume I’m Israeli. Not that I was in any way offended. Israelis are known to be amongst the most beautiful people in the world – whatever that means.
It was probably my hair getting way too long. And by way too long I’m talking around an inch or so. I’m usually very meticulous with my hair. I tend to get a buzzcut during summer and a crewcut during the cold seasons. With the latter, I’d have to blow-dry and straighten my hair for it to look semi-decent and not overcome by waves. And now? Now I was trying to grow my hair. I’d let these eight months go by without so much as a trim; an endeavour which seemed to be demolishing my self-confidence and vanity. It was right there and then that bandanas and caps seemed to become indispensable. But the second I started being told I looked Israeli; something which became commonplace, I started appreciating the renegade curls and surfable waves that made up the nest above my head. But anyways – more on race and origins. I also observed most store owners to be of Asian descent – turns out, around 2% of Belize’s population is Chinese, with some being descendants of labourers and some being recent immigrants.
Iguana Reef
After dealing with my nationality crisis, I made my way to Iguana Reef; a bay named after the beach resort next to it. There, I was met with the most splendid of views.
The horizon seemed to be non-existent as the shades of the sea and those of the sky were practically identical, bledning in together seamlessly. Above were a few clouds and pelicans and seagulls gliding away. Below, a wooden swing standing in the middle of the sea (Instagram content warning) and southern stingrays hovering in the shallow waters. That’s right, stingrays – and tons of ‘em! Everyone seemed to be ignoring the “Beware stingrays – they can hurt!” banner. People dipped their feet in the water, the stingrays going over them, caressing them. I’m telling you, it’s as soothing as it is magical. This would soon become my favourite spot to hang out in the entire island. This was all I had been waiting for. This was the real Caribbean.
From the other side of the bay, whilst watching a guy drawing a penis on the back of a stingray using a finger to scrape off the sand (much like you would on a dirty car), I could see a bunch of people on a pier, all bent down, some on their knees, obviously searching for something. As they say – monkey see, monkey do. I simply had to go and see what clearly, they couldn’t. I saw a net covered in algae, some fish here and there, but nothing special. Nothing that would interest such a large group of people anyways.
Turns out, this was a seahorse reserve. Only those little bastards are as elusive as they get, being so good at camouflaging themselves. Much like everyone else, I got down on my knees and proceeded to scan the entire net, trying to catch a glimpse of the creatures, when suddenly – no, not a seahorse. Suddenly, a local came up to us and told us to look at the opposite side, where a seahorse was clinging on to the roots of a plant. Even with someone pointing it out to us, it was so hard to spot! I think I could have spent hours there were it not for that guy.
By the time I had finally spotted the seahorse, the sun was setting. Much like that one sunset in Campeche, the one at Iguana Reef was one that I shall forever cherish.