If nothing else, I’m going to figure out my sleep number on this trip. You can imagine some of the beds are a bit suspect for nine bucks a night. As of this morning, I know it’s not “100”. The bed in this room is just a bit softer than concrete. Throwing my towel on the floor would have sufficed. I got up around 8:00 and got up to find somewhere else to sleep, as $30 a night for this place seemed like robbery. I took a shower, which was comical in itself: 3 foot by 3 foot stall + showerhead at my ribcage = ridiculous-ness at its best.
I gathered all my crap together and walked around for about 30 minutes before it started to rain. I checked a couple places for vacancy, and found nothing. Ma Ma Chen Guest House, here I come.
They were happy to see me back, and I guess having cable TV wasn’t too bad. I did get a new room – apparently they were having a special on really uncomfortable beds. And it was still raining. Sweet. At least King Kong was on.
When it stopped raining, I went out to explore. I went down to the Swing bridge, and walked around by the shoreline for a bit. I found a little café that had some pretty decent cinnamon rolls and a nice little terrace to eat on. However, then it started raining again. Damn it! When it stopped, I got a taxi to the Bus station. I’ll say I think Belize City has the best taxi drivers in all my travels. Not because they are exceptionally good at driving or because their cars are nice (In fact, their driving sucks, and their cars wouldn’t pass inspection in the states), but because of the conversation. I had a grand chat with the guy over to the station. He was pissed off at the rain, and at the roads (which, by the way were tremendously bad. There were potholes that damn near swallowed our car whole. Those of you who live in Missouri – be proud of your roads. If you’d seen these, you’d think I35 and Southwest Trafficway are glass) and at the government.
Everyone talks in a very accented form of English. I’ve never been to Jamaica, but the dialect of folks in Belize City matches the internal audio I’ve attached to it. It’s a lot of fun to listen to, and you’ll catch yourself making the same inflections as you go. Anyway, as I got to the bus station, the taxi driver from last night was there – and he had it all figured out. There’s actually a direct bus to Guatemala City, but tickets are back by the swing bridge at the water taxi station. Of course they are. Why would they be at the bus station? And why would the bus to Guatemala city leave from the bus station and not the water taxi station? Whatever. George took me in his POS taxi and we talked about his time in LA and how he used to work security for Xerox. He gave me a ride back to the bridge and hooked me up with a friend of his inside the station, who turned out to be an entrepreneurial little guy from Bangladesh. Got a ticket out tomorrow (which was looking better and better), with the second part of it being on an overnight bus to Guate (what us locals call Guatemala City).
Once I got my ticket, I walked around a little more. I was taking a picture when this very amiable elderly guy walked up to me and welcomed me to Belize City and thanked me for being there.
He also pointed out that if I hadn’t seen it, I should go see the church and a bunch of other stuff. Frank offered to show me around for a bit – went by the church, and the bird island and a cemetery.
Then he dropped it on me that this is how he makes his money and asked me for $40 US. Now, I realize that I’m gullible, and that part of this is a learning experience. He was a nice enough guy, and I ended up giving him $20 in USD and in Pesos. I know, I’m an a-hole. However, he didn’t tell me anything about his “walking tour” services up front, and I’m pretty sure he probably just made that part up anyway. Ok. Lesson learned. Appearances aren’t always what they seem to be. And, in about 2 hours, you can see everything Belize City has to offer. I’m not impressed with it at all.
To top it off, I went by the swing bridge one more time, and was met by 3 kids (probably 8 or 9 years old). I had just bought a coke, and the leader of the trio asked me for some. I politely said no, and then he asked me for some money. I again politely said no. He said: “We sometimes ask Americans for money. Sometimes they give us some. Sometimes they don’t. Like you. Some people might call them mean.” Sweet.
I heard from someone later that the best thing about Belize City is leaving. I don’t entirely disagree. I got up the next day around 8:00, not excited at the prospect of hanging out in Belize City for another morning. I went to the café again, and had breakfast. An American sat down with me at the table and struck up a conversation. Charlie from Chicago. He was a short, animated little guy with a penchant for cussing. He was here on vacation, just checking it out. He was about as impressed as I was with the city. We talked a little about my trip, and where I was headed over the next few months. He then started in on his exploits in Europe, and specifically Amsterdam. Among his almost profuse, yet almost elegant uses of the term “mother fucker” and repeated warnings against marriage, he talked about the irresistible allure of the red light district and about knowing the names of several of the “window girls” there.
Good Lord, can I leave yet?
