Toucan’s breakfast

A toucan at Belize Zoo dines on real fruit –not Ootfray Oopsaly.

Belize City is ramshackle with sewage ditches called "canals"

Another Belize

This morning I got a taxi down to the Swing Bridge in downtown Belize City. It’s from here that the water taxis leave for Caye Caulker and San Pedro out in the Caribbean. The Swing Bridge rotates early in the morning to allow boats through, bringing traffic to a halt. It’s also the key spot for hustlers who prey on tourists.

The boat, a large launch, zipped out onto the relatively calm and clear blue water, taking just under an hour to reach Caye Caulker, where I plan to spend a few days decompressing. This island is definitely geared to tourists, but it’s more like Negril in the 1970s than like the big tourist resorts. Pretty laid back and irie. There are no vehicles other than bicycles, golf carts, and the odd scooter.

The roads are sand, and you’re never far from water. There are little shacks catering to the budget tourist industry, offering reasonably priced meals, diving expeditions, etc.

I’ve found a hotel a few feet from the water with all the basics, including fan, private bathroom, good windows, and for a small fee access to wireless Internet. Paradise has to be sun, palm trees, the sea, and good wireless Internet. Is this paradise? We’ll see.

Yesterday I caught a bus out of the city to Belize Zoo, which is set in a jungle-like location an hour out of town. If I were an animal confined to a zoo, I would choose this one. They have lots of space and they’re in their real environment. Most of the animals are ones reclaimed from captivity, and unable to be released into the wilds. The zoo also has a very strong educational component, teaching visitors about protection of the animals’ habitats. The ocelot, for example, is now protected, but before that, it took 100 of the poor little cats to make one coat.

Among the other animals, all from the region, were a number of tapirs, the national animal of Belize. These look a bit like pigs that are growing longer noses that are trying hard to become trunks. They are sometimes called mountain cows, though apparently they are related to horses. They came up close and let you scratch them behind he ears, though one, Scotty, had a sign warning that if you got too close he might pee on you.

Other animals included giant crocodiles, a beautiful black jaguar, spotted jaguars, cougars, and black howler and spider monkeys hanging out in trees. One spotted jaguar reposed about 30 feet up in a tree. There were birds — my favourite, the multicoloured scarlet macaw, toucans, parrots, eagles, and others.

And on the way there and back I got to experience village life from the seat of an old Bluebird school bus.

Back in Belize City, I had a good walk in the downtown area, which seemed only a little less threatening than it was on Sunday afternoon. My hotel was in a richer area, and many of the houses were all decked out with elaborate displays of Christmas lights.

Had a great East Indian dinner at a restaurant just around the corner from my hotel — run by a family that appeared to be from south India, though things were too busy to engage them in conversation. They had the TV on, first with a Bollywood channel, and then they switched to local news. The newscaster spoke good English, but there was a murder story where they interviewed the family of the victim, who all spoke Criole, the local dialect of English. Then there was a lengthy interview with a wealthy businessman who had thwarted a planned home invasion by disgrunted former employees who planned to kill him and his family, despite the elaborate security system around his home. The news was entirely focused on crime, though earlier in the day I was in a restaurant that had CNN, and showed dozens of instant replays of a journalist in Iraq throwing shoes at Dubya, who kept ducking. The people in the restaurant and I thought it was hilarious.

Here people love Obama, and there are stickers on windows, and t-shirts proclaiming “yes we did.”

Bus to Belize

It’s a short bus ride across the border from Chetumal, Mexico, into Belize, but there’s a world of difference.

You board the bus to Belize at Chetumal’s new market north of the town. Some beaten up buses were pulled up by the market, and immediately the driver’s assistant from one called out to me in English and told me his bus was leaving at 10:30, in about 20 minutes. The bus looked like a 1960s vintage one that might have been used for intercity runs in North America a long time ago — a sign at the front still said that “federal law” requires you to remain behind the white line. Belize is not a federation. The door to the toilet in the back was shut with a wire that you had to untwist when you wanted to use it, and the driver’s assistant warned me it was only suitable for “number one.” And this was a first class bus. The normal buses, as in Guatemala, are old Blue Bird school buses with seats designed for children.

The driver and his assistant were both like many Belizeans — a racial mixture of black and Mayan. He spoke Spanish one minute to Latino passengers, switching to English depending on the colour of the passenger’s skin.

Many Mexicans were going to the border for the Free Zone, an area between the Mexican and Belize customs posts with Mexican-style shopping centres. The border was easy, and the guard who stamped my passport said: “Welcome to Belize. Fun in the sun? I wish I was you.” Just a little different from crossing into the U.S.!

The difference across the border was remarkable. The infrastructure was suddenly rundown and ramshackle, a sharp contrast to Mexico, which has developed enormously over the past 30 years. The road was narrow with no centre line, and this is the main northern highway. Some of the houses were wooden constructions on stilts. The people were a kaleidoscope of races, though mainly black and mestizo, and many people, perhaps 30% according to one cab driver, speak Spanish as a first language. But there are also other ethnic communities, notably East Indian and a surprising number of Chinese, who seem to be thoroughly involved in the business community, as are overseas Chinese elsewhere. My hotel in Belize City is run by a Chinese family, and I was awakened with a loud conversation in Chinese outside my window.

Belize City can best be described as “dodgy looking” (the term used in the Lonely Planet Guide). There are twisty streets, ramshackle buildings, and the city is marked with several of what are euphemistically called “canals,” but are more accurately described as open sewage trenches. Several times I saw rats, both dead and alive, in the streets. When I walked downtown on Sunday late afternoon, the streets were pretty empty except for a few guys who called out to me to see if I wanted a taxi, and some thin and diseased looking old me who asked me for spare change. Today, Monday, the stores are open, and there are more normal looking people around, but I’m still extremely careful where I walk and when I dare to take out my camera.

One cab driver talked to me a bit about how when he was a kid they used to sing God Save the Queen, and Belize was a colony, British Honduras. Guatamala has long claimed Belize, and he says the Americans are unlikely to get involved in Guatemala invaded because Guatemala is of more economic value to the U.S. Guatemala has a huge army compared to Belize, which I pointed out, is mostly used against its own people, rather than foreign invasions. Traces of the British influence still remain — the Queen is on the money, though it’s a younger picture than on the Canadian money. Some of the downtown buildings like the courthouse have GR on them — no doubt from one of the King Georges. And when I bought some bananas, a woman told me they were “a shilling” — when I looked puzzled, she told me that was 25 Belize cents (12.5 cents U.S.)

Today I visited the Belize Zoo, which I’ll describe in another post. Tomorrow I’ll catch a water taxi to Caye Caulker, a large coral reef out in the Caribbean.

Art, Mayans, death and mestizaje

The Mayan Museum, Chetumal, December 14, 2008

The Mayan museum opened at 9 a.m. so I went for a look. It was a modern building around an open courtyard filled with trees and birds. Other than a few items, and a map of the Mayan civilization, there was nothing very Mayan about the museum. It did have several galleries of work by Mexican artists.

I love Mexican art. From the muralists to Frida Kahlo, and many lesser-known artists, Mexican art tells stories, conveys cultural themes, and is brilliant and surreal.

Two common themes in Mexican art and culture are those of death and mestizaje – the racial mixing of indigenous people and Spanish conquerors that led to the modern Mexican race.

Death is celebrated November 1 on Day of the Dead, but it’s a theme that permeates Mexican culture right down to the little candy skulls that are often sold. Skulls and skeletons are common icons in Mexican paintings.

Mestizaje Is often glamorized, but the reality is it was a brutal conquest and rape of a civilization. The difficulty that Mexicans have in coming to terms with their cultural origins is not unlike a child accepting that his father was a rapist. Still, Mexican culture is so rich because it is a mixture of European and indigenous traditions – the Spanish-language, the indigenous food, and a European Catholicism infused with indigenous customs. At the same time, the mestizo culture, has always looked down on the indigenous as inferior. The reality of mestizaje is complex.

And so I particularly appreciated some of the works I saw that highlighted these common themes. I especially liked one artist, Angel Ortiz, who had traveled widely, including to Canada, and even had a painting of Vancouver harbor. His most striking work, shown here, was a montage of real human skulls inlaid among stones, the skulls displaying smiling and grimacing expressions.

The Real Mexico

Written: Chetumal, Mexico, 13 Dec. 2008

At last the real Mexico! Chetumal is a city six hours south of Cancun near the Belize border. I got here late this afternoon, and after checking into a cheap hotel, I took a long stroll down the main street. Many people were out walking, there were Mexican-style Christmas lights on buildings, and blaring Christmas songs everywhere, some in Spanish, some in English, but always loud.

Latin Americans have a higher acceptance of noise than North Americans. My hotel room is back from the street so I don’t expect the noise to be too bad tonight. For a walk down the main street though, the noise and hustle and bustle created an interesting ambiance. The lights are lit up in letters of feliz año nuevo and feliz navidad, but somehow in the balmy 20° plus weather, it just doesn’t feel like Christmas.

I rode the bus from Cancun and had both seats to myself. Mexican first-class buses are much more comfortable than North American buses, and the six-hour ride it went very quickly. It took a long time to escape the tourist ghetto of Cancun, and much of the ride wasn’t particularly interesting. The Yucatán is very flat with scrubby vegetation and small trees, but not much scenery. Only in the last couple hours of the ride did the sun come out and I began seeing more Mexican looking at villages, many with poured concrete boxes for houses, and some with palm thatched roofs. Along the highway, people sold fruit. Pineapples are now in season at about a dollar for a big large ripe one.

Chetumal has a great looking Mayan museum about a block from my hotel, which I will check out tomorrow if it’s open, before crossing into Belize.

Concrete Craziness

Saturday, 13 December, 2008, Cancun

I arrived last night actually slightly ahead of schedule, and entry into Mexico was a breeze. This is not the Mexico I’m used to. The airport was modern, and except that Spanish came above English on the signs, I didn’t really feel I’ve left the United States. Yes the airport staff was Mexican, but so it is too in many American airports.

I had no trouble getting a collective taxi, which is much cheaper than a private taxi, and the driver and others I encountered seemed pleasantly surprised that I spoke Spanish.

Some of the other passengers were tourists going into the hotel zone, so I got to see it. Rarely have I seen so much concrete in one place. The hotel zone sits on a long peninsula separated from the Mexican centre of the city. It was high-rise hotel after high-rise hotel, with palm trees decked out in lights. I have never before seen a resort like this – it reminded me a bit of Las Vegas, with less glitter, only slightly, but seemingly more immense. Perhaps it was like Miami Beach, which I’ve never been to. I passed a few loud party scenes with dancing gringos and English-speaking DJs, and lots of alcohol flowing.

The hotels where we dropped passengers had glittering lobbies, doorman, and high walls and gates. Everything to protect the tourist experience from the Mexican experience.

Soon we entered the more Mexican looking city center, and the atmosphere completely changed. It’s not an old colonial style Mexican city, but rather a city thrown together in the 60s and 70s with cheap concrete block construction, but this is where Mexicans live and work. My hotel, the Terracaribe, is quite acceptable by basic Latin American standards. The room has no window, except to the central corridor, and the walls are concrete painted white, with tile floor and surfaces. There’s air-conditioning, hot water, and even semi-reliable wireless Internet, and it’s relatively clean.

I got a slow start this morning, desperately needing some sleep, but soon I will try to catch a bus to Chetumal near the Belize border.

Airport Madness – Written Dec. 12

MacDonald-Cartier Airport, Ottawa, Dec. 12, 5:30 a.m.

Flying isn’t so bad once you’re in the air. It’s getting into the air that I find the most stressful.

I got a cab to the airport that picked me up at 3:30 a.m. after only a few hours of restless sleep. Blueline isn’t making appointments for pickups because of the transit strike, but the cab was on time. He raced through the empty Ottawa streets to the airport. If only traffic was that light at other times.

I hate airports. Long standing in lines like cattle. Then my least favourite – the security search. It seems they base the rules on the last terrorist incident instead of the next. Thanks to that damn Richard Read, the shoe bomber, everyone now has to remove their shoes. Thanks to those terrorists with liquid explosives, they now seize from little old ladies any 200 ml tube of toothpaste, even though there’s only 30 ml still in the tube. I pray that no terrorist ever tries to smuggle explosives in his anal cavity, or CATSA will be lining up passengers for cavity searches in full view of everyone else before they can get through security.

I’m now at Gate 5 with about a half hour before my flight to Chicago boards. Then, if all goes well, I’ll have a long wait in Chicago before getting a flight from there to Dallas-Fort Worth, and from there another to Cancun. Gone are the days of Max Ward and Wardair. If I’m lucky they might sell a bag of pretzels for $10.

Dallas-Fort Worth, 12:25

So close, but so far. I was faced with a five-hour wait in Chicago, but decided to check if I could get on an earlier flight to DFW. I was lucky. There was one going in a few minutes and I was able to get a standby seat. The only catch is my checked bag will go by my old itinerary. For that reason, I wasn’t able to pull the standby routine on the DFW-Cancun leg. I could have got a standby ticket and been there this afternoon, but they won’t let you arrive separately from your bag on an international flight. Oh well, I can get to know the DFW airport again for the next six hours. At least it’s sunny and there’s NO snow! DFW now has a cool monorail system between its terminals, so if I get tired of reading I can ride around.

I considered spending some time going into central Dallas to take a look around. In particular I’ve always been curious to see the book depository from where Lee Harvey Oswald allegedly shot JFK, as well as the infamous grassy knoll. But this would’ve meant leaving the airport, worrying about getting back, and going through the security hassle again. So I decided to stay put until and even caught a little sleep seated in a chair.

Transit Madness

Yesterday was the worst winter storm of the year so far. By pure coincidence (I suppose) the union that staffs OC Transpo, the city transit system, went on strike. No city buses ran, except the ones coming from the Quebec side.

City traffic was at a crawl, as about 20% more cars inched through the unplowed snow trying to get to work. As I live about 3 km from work and no longer have parking privileges, I decided to go to work on cross-country skis. Not a bad idea in places, but the trails weren’t well packed, and some of the sidewalks were salted and slushy.

In the countries of the south, such a situation would never occur. Sure, there could be many other problems, but real competition exists in transportation. There is no city monopoly. Even if several bus companies went on strike together, thousands of taxis and minibuses would get people where they want to go. And thousands of other private vehicle owners would try to make a few pesos or quetzales by turning into temporary, unregulated taxis.

Now my only concern is whether I can make it to the airport, and whether my planes will get off the ground. For the sake of my colleagues though, and everyone else, I hope this strke ends quickly.

Ottawa Insanity