Low Caye in Belize

Raquel, the maid, was laughing at me. Getting into the hammock on my hotel room porch was proving tricky. I nearly flipped onto my head. This moment, however, was no joke. I was in serious need of lying down after a one-hour bone-rattling, jaw-snapping water-taxi ride from Belize City to Caye (pronounced 'key') Caulker. I was here to wile away the next four days, a calming end to a three-week archaeological odyssey from Mexico City.

Once into the swing of things, I found myself in the company of the breeze, a cerulean sky, and an easy grin.
“Have a nice day,” insisted Raquel after sweeping sand off my table. “I'm already having one,” I rejoined, drifting off to the sounds of Caribbean waves and rustling palm fronds.

There is something bewitching about diminutive islands. They are beguiling, beckoning visitors from afar to surrender responsibility. Underfoot, they are wily, tempting one to forsake the far-flung world. Perfect. And that's Caye Caulker for you.

But paradise is pricey. By their nature, these idyllic places cost more to supply, to maintain, to get to. They always seem geared to the rich and famous or honey-mooners on a once-in-a-lifetime trip. Well, that's not Caye Caulker. It is, in fact, a budget traveler's Shangri-la.

The islet's biggest allure is its location in the heart of the world's second longest barrier reef. From the air, the isle is a castaway eme-rald upon a blue palette. Beneath the sapphire, snorkelers and divers drift in an ageless underwater world crowded with weird and wonderful life. They come up for air gasping with awe. At ground level, there's a village rich with the timeless magic of informality and friendliness.

Once under the island's spell, hunger marked the time. After noon, I ambled to Front Bridge, the rickety main pier, for a chicken burrito at the Sandbox. At the bar, three pot-bellied Americans were enjoying Belikan beers. Their unhurried manner convinced me they were retirees.

Perhaps they decided to settle here from the same government-issued retirement program brochure I was reading. I wondered which of the listed benefits they came for most: tax breaks, the subtropical climate, or the good educational system. I was too busy savoring lunch and squeezing the sandy floor between my toes to really care.

Next door at the Belize Tourism Board office, time's rhythm was different for Dis-trict Tourism Trainer, Liz Ross. “The govern- ment is romancing foreign investors,” the Oklahoman told me. “The Belizeans don't mind them. But it creates resentment when workers for projects are not hired locally.”

The conversation demonstrated that Caye Caulker is foremost a home. For the island's 1,400 residents, the world beyond the reef doesn't have the same effect as does their 8-kilometer long spit of earth on its visitors. Even in this island world, where the fabric of paradise can wear thin and refuse to stretch over the day-to-day reali-ties of life, there is serious business to tend to.

“Time has no meaning here,” Liz decla-red. There's an elementary school for 175 kids to run (older kids travel to nearby Ambergris Caye), an airstrip to operate, stores to mind, fire and police stations to man, a church to preside over, and numerous community organizations, restaurants, and utilities to take care of.

Caye Caulker is also defined by golf cart traffic, weather-beaten timber houses, pterodactyl-like winged seagulls mimicking kites, palm trees and coconuts, inspiring sunrises and applause-worthy sunsets, fear of hurricanes and resolve to rebuild, and a quiet life powered by a noisy electrical plant.

On the rooftop of Lazy Lizard Bar & Grill, travelers raised glasses to toast a fire-orange sun extinguishing itself in the sea. I am certain I heard a sizzle as it did. Then again, it may have been another burger on the grill down below.

“Moments like these,” said one day-tripper from Ambergris Caye, “make working to get here all worth while.” I agreed. Spontaneous plaudits bidding the sun goodnight sealed the sentiment.

Friends come easily out here. I left the roof with a Japanese acquaintance whom I'd first seen in Guatemala. She was pleased to learn that I speak her language so we dined together. At Poor Man Grill, we dined on home-style cooking on a rustic verandah. I was also on a mission to deliver greetings to its owner.

“Leonard Santos from Border Control sent me,” I told sun-drenched McNab. “He seemed pretty eager for me to come your way.” Pleased with the message, he asked how he was doing. “Well, he looked all right I suppose,” I said. “But I don't know what he normally looks like.”

That comment brought a smile to the island-er's face. And in its lines enough innocence to believe that I could answer his question with the authority of an old friend. I liked that. I also liked my grilled shrimp with piles of side ordered beans, coleslaw, macaroni, and potato.

After dinner, my date and I went for a night-cap at I & I Reggae Bar, a wall-less three-storey structure that resembles remains in the after-math of a hurricane. I was soon set straight.

“No, man,” said the laughing Jamaican bar-keep. “This is how it's supposed to be.”

The problem with sunrises is that they are always too early. But I did manage to wake at 5am the next morning. I slunk from the sheet of my bed into the dark blanket of dawn and meandered my way along the empty beach. Everyone it seemed, the sun included, was still tucked firmly away. I felt, if only for a while, like the last man on Earth. It was wonderful.

The sun spilled its liquid glow on the day.
I then chased it with a liquado, a fruit-blended smoothie, at Cindy's Cafe. Some folk from the I & I Bar were there too. The sighting confirmed that I was not the last soul around. I decided it was more fun that way.

Two hours later I was refreshed and full of gossip. I walked the two kilometers to the Caye Caulker Mini-Reserve to learn about the island's ecology. On the way, I spied meter-long iguanas sunbathing on the road.

“Many iguanas were wiped out,” explained Peace Corp volunteer Amanda French, referring to September 2000's Hurricane Keith. “Winter had come to Belize,” the environmental educational director told me. “It was a huge mess. Trash and downed trees everywhere.”

Recent storms have also had a negative impact upon the fishing industry, coconut harvests, and the reef itself. “The government simply wasn't prepared for Keith,” Amanda explained. “But hopefully they will learn from it.”

In 1961, Hurricane Hattie flattened the place. Fewer people resided here then, and tourists didn't start coming in measurable numbers till about 10 years later. But the 'Split', a deep, cobalt gash left by the tempest, cuts Caye Caulker in two. It attests how vulnerable this mangrove-formed isle is. The swimming pool blue shallows around the area draw swimmers and sunbathers.

On my last evening, like each day at dusk, I found myself on the crowded roof of the Lazy Lizard. Twilight squeezing through the turbulent Split makes for a site you shouldn't miss. I was lucky to have seen the sunrise 12 hours earlier because the celestial disc had hurled itself 180 degrees across the universe.

I realized that despite the hurricanes and the encroachment of the modern world, including tourists like myself, one thing will never vary out here: these arresting, picture-perfect sunsets.

Text and Photos: Jono David