A
Kayak Trip in Belize Bound to Please Bath-warm seas, beer
and lobster
 By
Debra Cummings
Re-Printed from: The Province-Feb 1, 1998)
Glover's
Reef, Belize-Once upon a time, far away, in a land atwitter
with green and orange and purple birds, a man with red glasses
was booted out of his house. One day, his story goes, his
wife simply turfed him.
Shouldering
the burden of raising seven children alone, she wiped her
hands on her apron and said to this man called Frank, "Go,
mon, you do me no good."
But
when you're trapped in the tiny Central American country of
Belize, where's a guy like Frank supposed to go?
"Here,
mon, that's why I'm here, right here, mon," says Frank, patting
the smooth grooves of a palm tree 65 kilometres offshore on
Southwest Caye.
Fiver
years ago, Frank sought refuge on this spit of land, owned
by the influential Usher family. He promised to stand guard
against any 20th century pirates who might try to pilfer the
handful of homes on the remote atoll.
And
so lives Frank, in a wooden shack on three-metre stilts, surrounded
by mounds of empty rum bottles, coconut husks and rusty Spam
cans.
The
50-year old Rasta man fidgets with his Medusa mop of dreadlocks
as he shows us around. Frank's little fiefdom is anything
but the Gulag. Living in exile on such an idyll is more like
assuming a part in a Caribbean cliché or a Gauguin painting.
Overhead,
a ceiling of palms rattles softly in the breeze, the giant
leaves casting razor-sharp shadows across the island. Occasionally
a coconut thuds to the sandy floor, kept immaculately swept
by Guadeloupe, the island's caretaker.
The
outhouse and ramshackle kitchen building are framed with pink,
shiny conch shells. Empty hammocks hang with off-season loneliness,
waiting for kayakers who come here November to May with Vancouver's
Island Expeditions.
So
here I am in mid-September, with one of the company's owners,
Denver Willson-Rymer, and a paddler from West Virginia, John
Maloney. It's just us, Frank and Guadeloupe.
Later
in the week, some of the Usher family turns up for a late
night fish fry.
Like
last year's 500 tourists who came with Island Expeditions
to kayak waterways in Belize, I want time to unravel slowly,
languidly.matching the pace of this place.
After
leaving behind the heat and grit of Belize City, we spent
two hours bashing trough waves to reach the tip of Glover's
Reef, where Southwest Caye pops out of the ocean.
Too
battered to kayak, I set up my tent and then squeeze on a
mask and snorkel, wriggle into some fins and hike backwards
into the bathtub-warm waters to take a closer look at the
coral reefs I first spotted from the clouds.
Five
metres offshore, the world's fifth longest coral reef begins.
Little rubbery fingers of crimson coral snap around me.. The
fish appear. Triggerfish zoom past, taunting spiky urchins
far below. Parrotfish gnaw stony bits of coral against an
underwater wall and lumpy trunkfish whirl their paths over
the coral floor.
Then
a black shadow blots out a cave in front of me. It's Pappy,
our Belizean guide-cum-spear-fisherman extraordinaire.
Armed
with a two-metre, triple pronged Hawaiian sling, he plunges
in, stabs two lobsters and hauls tem up, all in one breath.
"Supper," he grins, pulling off his mask.
Sizzled
in butter, rum and fresh coconut milk, our lobster feed is
washed down with Beliken beer. Then Pappy and Frank retreat
to their hammocks, wedges of coconut cake in hand, to gaze
at the sheet of stars overhead. And the stories begin.
The
tales flow as steadily as Caribbean rum, from outrage over
a new, nearby Taiwanese lobster operation, to Pappy's cultural
calamities on his nine-month visit to Canada. And, just like
most campfire chats that tread on political ground, everyone
is united universal glee of slagging one's own government.
It
was Pappy, a man of may proverbs, who summed it up best: "Any
government is like a coconut tree. You can paint the tree
but will always bear the same fruit." To a tourist, such moments
of cultural exchange appear to flow naturally. But the seeds
were carefully planted by Canadians Tim Boys and former co-owner
William Sirota, when they brought their first visitors to
Belize 10 years ago.
Their
philosophy was simple: Bring Canadians to this pristine area
and give them more than just a sport-related or skill-based
adventure. Expose them culturally and physically to another
environment.
And
who better to tell the country's legends than Belizeans themselves,
whose working language is English. Now each tour group-they'll
run 70 trips this year-is headed by both a Belizean and a
North American.
"Our
Belizean guides give our clients a sense of this country's
history and culture where our North American guides are likely
to have a marine biology or ornithology background and come
with excellent first-aid skill," explains Willson-Rymer.
Depending
on the trip-whether it's the eight-day Glovers Reef/Coral
Jaguar Expedition, the Coral Islands paddle or the one week
inland Mayan tour-cultural opportunities pepper the itinerary.
Our
Glovers Reef trip wraps up with a visit to elder drum-makers
in the ramshackle village of Dangriga. We are entertained
and fed local cuisine such as cassava bread with mango dips,
grilled seafood and stewed chicken served with the proverbial
piles of rice and beans.
The
Mayan river trip revolves around visits to remote villages
such as Aguacate in the Toledo district and a music festival.
Perhaps,
adds Wilson-Rymer, the ultimate cultural exchanges are the
new school programs that run over spring break and include
kayaking, coconut oil-making, cassava preparation and drum-building
workshops.
Some
trips break camp every day, kayaking along this necklace of
sandy cayes. We chose Southwest as a base camp.
For
a destination, you can paddle to a marine reserve and research
centre several kilometres away, poke through miles of mangroves
as other nearby outcrops, or simply while away the hours like
we did.
Paddle
for a bit. Hop overboard in snorkelling gear, poke around
the coral and admire the shimmer of fish below, then pop back
in your boat. Paddle farther. Fish a bit.
Be
prepared to catch something. John and Pappy hauled in 5.5
and 6.3 kilogram barracudas using a primitive hook and line.
Snorkel.
Repeat process. Again. And again.
Then
head in for a few beach-bound, slothful hours.
Here,
the relaxed ethos of the Belizean way is even more pronounced.
There may be nowhere else on Earth quite so soporific as Southwest
Caye.
Before
you drift off in a hammock, lulled by the lap of warm waters
and swish of palm trees, be sure to check the leaves above
you. Coconuts have brained more than a few tourists.
The
penalty for such stupidity, chuckles Frank, nudging his red
glasses up his pudgy nose, "is to live here, mon, in paradise
with me, mon."
To
live like Robinson Crusoe-not a bad fate, I thought to myself.
As for Frank, "the mon," he too would be okay if he'd kick
his Belizean passion for spam.
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