Orange glow of setting sun on tall branches, palm fronds, coconuts, rooftops
Orange flowers shaped like bells, like antique gramophones, like trumpets
Orange hair braided loosely, falling around pink face, pink shoulders
Feeling motion where there is stillness
Feeling air rustling spirit - oscillating
Feeling nothing but the space
Space for wandering
Space for finding
Space for making do
Wandering through narrow streets
Wandering slowly down new shores
Wandering - when finding is as losing
Losing sight of time before this
Losing questions and gaining questions
Lost in what can only be discovered
Orange.Falling.Slowly
Glow.Motion.Through
Narrow.Finding.Losing
Wandering.Space
Feb. 7, 2011. Crooked Tree Wildlife Sanctuary
Day 3 of feeling low and bit homesick. Seems I have some tummy trouble going on, no surprise really, just surprising it didn't happen sooner... We are now back in San Ignacio while I laze around and get better. Alas I have been hiding out for the last 24 hours in a room with one small window, watching cable TV and tentatively eating french fries and digestive biscuits.
I look up on the wall above the computer I'm using and see a poster for Barton Creek Outpost where we were staying for most of this week. Our own little cabana. It was like a living dream - in rain or shine, waking up to the scent of orange blossoms in the orchard, watching the bats and the lightning bugs in the twilight, surrounded by sheer mesh "windows" and a palapa roof, listening to the sounds of cicadas and the river rushing by. It was special and I miss it.
We are now exploring the next phase of our trip and foraging for our next inspiration - likely a flight to Costa Rica in the next week or two to begin our even more Southerly adventures. We are planning to spend approx 4 weeks between 2 volunteer placements in Costa Rica - one is Rancho Mastatal and the other is Finca Dos Lados. Between these two opportunities we will be doing anything from soapmaking, sustainable building, plant identification, community development, cooking etc. It will be a great opportunity to connect with inspiring folks and contribute to the community!
Meanwhile I will continue to take it easy, mending and resting, preparing for the next yet to be determined adventure.... Know that you are all loved and missed!
We step into the boat with the promise of crocodiles, exotic birds, Fanta, and ancient Mayan temples. The speedboat is long and narrow, comfortable enough for the seven passengers. Our guide, Ignacio, stands at the stern. More than thirty miles distant lies the jungle ruins of Laminai. The wide, still river beckons us forward to untold discoveries. I think of Marlow, going upstream in search of Kurtz, but my journey is not toward madness, but wonder.
Our driver and tour guide informs us--in a well-rehearsed monotone--that he will be our driver and tour guide and thank you very much for choosing his company. My heart shudders. As safe as a robot driver might be, I want someone passionate about headbobbing iguanas and rufous-tailed hummingbirds.
Ignacio blasts the boat forward. Jenn and I hold on, binoculars and cameras gripped with white knuckles.
Each bend of the New River brings another natural treasure. Magnificent Guanacaste trees with feathery leaves and sprouting bromeliads, a young crocodile basking by the shore that slips into the water as we near, and a myriad of birds; small birds, big birds, billed birds, hunting birds, diving birds: some 600 species call Belize home, or at least visit once a year. The Belize Guide to Birds is passed around like the bible at Sunday church.
Ignacio scolds us as he slows the speedboat. "Watch where I point! Or you won't see it because you won't know where to look." He's right. I train my eyes to follow his precise finger. A yellow crowned night heron. Squirrel cuckoo. Black vulture. Yucatan Poorwill. In fear the boat will capsize, I resist doing a spontaneous happy dance.
Other, bigger boats roar by us every so often. I wave to them, secretly glad to be in a smaller group that stops for the lesser, quieter, more intimate thrills. We chase a black-collared hawk down several meanders.
At one point we are boarded by an unusual pair. Ignacio stops next to the shore where two lanky, black-haired spider monkeys eye us up as though we are McDonald's employees and they are hungry teenagers. Without warning they hop aboard. This is the first monkey--outside the Discovery channel--that Jenn has ever seen, and it nearly sits in her lap. Fortunately, two of our companions brought bananas, which are offered in exchange for safe passage. The ravenous monkeys leap back to the shore, then peel and gulp in a matter of seconds, glancing back at us in hopes of more potassium-laden fruit. But we have left monkey island behind.
It's not long before the boat churns, once more, to a halt. "Iguana," Ignacio points and I see.
"A green iguana?" I inquire.
"Yes. This is a male because he is orange and wants to attract females."
I know something about green iguanas. I once studied seventy-five of them (some of which were orange) at an exotic animal shelter. I watched them headbob, a form of ritualized communication for these nonvocal reptiles. Basically it's used--most effectively by males or large females--to say "here I am!" or "scram!". Picture former politician Joe Clark nodding his head up and down, huge jowls bobbing below his chin, and you get the idea.
All seventy-five of these captive iguanas were once pets. Now, finally, I see the green iguana in the wild. It's only annoyance is tourists snapping photos. This, to me, is a further indication of the dubious ethics behind keeping iguanas as pets, or the exotic pet trade in general. Even the most doting owner cannot provide a fraction of the environmental stimuli that is the vast, Belizean jungle. Visiting green iguanas in the wild should be a prerequisite for ownership.
A man of multi-talents, at one point Ignacio answers his cell phone, yells to a friend on the shore, points out a tiny nesting mangrove swallow, all the while steering the boat with a finger and thumb. S
everal soaring great white egrets, three water-skimming Jesus Christ lizards, two regal kingfishers, and one gigantic jabiru stork later, and we arrive at Laminai.
After a buffet lunch of rice, potato salad, regular salad, fried plantains, and orange Fanta, we learn from our guide that Laminai is supposed to mean "submerged crocodile" but was mistranslated into "submerged insect". The next tree down the path is filled with large, black-limbed bodies. Howler monkeys. A sign read moments before instructed us not to imitate their call, as it disturbs their rest and causes them undue stress. Ignacio puts his hands to his lips and proceeds to imitate their call. Long, low howls. The monkeys respond in kind, hooting and hollering and shaking the branches. The display is rather effective, as I would not climb their tree if its leaves were made of chicken veggie burgers. I wonder, if Ignacio persists, what bodily excretion the howlers might fling at us.
En route to the Mask Temple, past vines thicker than boa constrictors, and bugs that look like they could take a chunk out of your arm, Ignacio plucks a long, toothy thorn from the tree and asks for a volunteer. He mimes stabbing the young Utah woman's wrist and explains that in five minutes time a prick from this thorn will bring on severe fever and pain. He then casually mentions that virgins were sometimes sacrificed to bring on the rain; if the sacrifice were male, his penis would be pierced with this thorn seven different ways. I'm glad I no longer qualify.
Our first temple emerges from the jungle like a hidden jewel in an undiscovered country. Two huge, 13-foot stone masks of ancient Mayan kings stare back at us. Ignacio pulls out a binder and shows us the first, much smaller incarnation of the temple. "This is how it looked. Then a new ruler came and cancelled this building." He flips to the next page. "And it looked like this! More steps and another platform. Then came the next ruler..." and so on, until, half a dozen reigns later, and we have the current temple with two visible masks, and two completely covered over (maybe four was an unlucky number?).
We trek to the next excavated site: the High Temple. This one you can climb. Up I go, long legs relishing each steep step. Then I glance back down, sway with vertigo, and respect the temple's apt name. From the top, I gaze around and around in awe. Unbroken canopy stretches in all directions. The river stretches lazily to the horizon. A howler monkey hoots in the distance. I decide to translate. "Hey! Mr. Canadian! Get off our temple!" A few shutter clicks later, and I oblige.
Ignacio leads us to the ancient ball court, where the Mayan equivalent of the Superbowl was played at the end of each millennium--every 52 years, in the Mayan calendar. The court consists of two sloping sides of stone, two massive vertical hoops (missing at this site) which you tried to hit the ball through with, not your hands or feet, but your hips, and a skull carved into the rock near the center. "Archeologists are not sure if the loser or winner was killed, as it was a great honour." I wonder if any players ever threw their game.
The final temple belongs to the jaguar. Surrounded by a huge plaza of living quarters, I have trouble fitting all of the tiered, intimidating layers of stone into my wide-angle lens. Jenn poses in front of the van-sized, square-edged jaguar face cut into the stone. This unintentional caricature looks like it was made out of giant stone Legos.
The ride upstream feels longer on the way back. We stop less often and try to keep out of the afternoon sun's path. Rum punch from Ignacio smooths things over nicely. Somewhere over an hour later, I spot the dock of our morning departure just as Ignacio cuts the engine. We all look to him, wide-eyed, like well-trained puppies. "One last stop!" He grins.
Right alongside the river, eyeing us rather maliciously, is a sizable and beautiful crocodile. His scaly, spotted skin glistens in the sunlight. We take in our final gift, and approach the dock.
"Our tour has come to a close." Back to his monotone. In fact, he doesn't even look at us as he speaks, like a child forced to memorize a poem. "Thank you for choosing our company. I hope you enjoyed your day. Have a good stay in Belize."
Well, I can handle a robot at the start and end, since we got a passionate guide all in between.
Jenn and I step from the boat; the world sways with the river current for hours afterward, yet the wonders of the day still linger. Rare are the journeys that embrace a myriad of personal obsessions--rivers, wildlife, adventure, jungle, mythology--that my memories can`t help but smile in wondrous remembrance.
Currently, I am sitting in an air-conditioned internet place, keeping up with the world of people and things- from where I have been, the folks at home, to where I am going- next Guatemala?
While I am doing this, my husband is climbing around inside a very large, very dark cave filled with Mayan artifacts and crystallized human remains.
This leaves me a full day to wash my clothes by hand, meander the Saturday market buying jewellery made of Guanacaste seeds and tropical fruit, and linger in a travelers cafe reading and writing. Taking it easy, at least by all appearances.
Lift the lid a little from what seems an ideal Saturday abroad and you will start to see the various parts of me squirming, quietly pondering the conundrum of anxiety versus adventure (i.e. caves versus internet cafes) and the niggling question of "What is my purpose here?" which pops up every few days and attempts to undermine my efforts at being the 'laid back-fiction reading-restaurant eating-tour taking-housekeeping receiving-traveling gal' I am trying to be. Geez!
Now I don't altogether resent these niggling questions, and in all fairness I would rather be entertaining them than not. In fact, the by product of these persistent questions is a hefty amount of reflectiveness- albeit not tremendously comfortable reflection- about the nature of myself, the world and my self's place in the world (which you all know I secretly love).
The truth is:
I am an anxious person. I am someone who likes to think about adventure, but can get pretty spooked when I get close to it. I want to embrace more of my nature-loving, bird watching, river swimming, jungle hiking self. I feel like I "should" be more courageous, risk taking and ballsy (if that is even how you spell that!). I am afraid, not so much that I will regret not exploring dark caves and human remains, but that the world will be disappointed by my fearfulness and therefore I will make demands on myself beyond my real desire to fulfill them. I am afraid that my fearfulness is shrinking my life unnecessarily and that I am allowing it to.
I want to honour and accept myself for who I really am, whoever that is.
As such, I find myself curiously interrogating other travelers, watching them in action, listening for themes in how they travel, where they go and most importantly how they negotiate the adventure of being in the unknown. I think in doing this I am trying to place myself in the unspoken "Hierarchy of The Traveler". Where do I fall into the varied landscape of bumblers, tour junkies, volunteers, beer drinkers, vagabonds, resort goers, Rastafarians, hippies, adrenaline junkies, retirees and families? What is my place of belonging in the ever changing sea of "passers through"?
What are my ways to connect,
to both the edges in myself and the people I meet there?
To see where Lee has been, visit: (www.belizex.com/tunichil_muknal.htm)
Never underestimate the power of a sanctuary.This is what I am learning today, as I sit feeling the ocean breeze across a tall wide veranda. Swinging in a cotton hammock, watching the clouds roll by in a bright blue sky. It seems the clouds must love to visit Belize... The endless sounds of palm leaves rustling, gracal birds chirriping, the occasional chime of the clock from inside our hosts home.Indeed, today I am starkly reminded of 2 things...1. The physics of the quest, as stated by Elizabeth Gilberts character in the film Eat Pray Love, which states:"I've come to believe that there exists in the universe something I call 'The Physics of The Quest' -- a force of nature governed by laws as real as the laws of gravity or momentum. And the rule of Quest Physics maybe goes like this: 'If you are brave enough to leave behind everything familiar and comforting (which can be anything from your house to your bitter old resentments) and set out on a truth-seeking journey (either externally or internally), and if you are truly willing to regard everything that happens to you on that journey as a clue, and if you accept everyone you meet along the way as a teacher, and if you are prepared - most of all - to face (and forgive) some very difficult realities about yourself... then truth will not be withheld from you.' Or so I've come to believe. I can't help but believe it, given my experience."Travelling is bringing into light, again and again, the invisible limits and perceived safety controls that I have convinced myself are useful, practical and "the way things are" - which of course may or may not be true at all. In this light, the questions then become: How do I entertain and open to the myriad other possibilities? How do I hold the doors and windows of my mind open for the unknown, for discovery, for the discomfort of uncertainty and the potential therein? How do I listen closely - ears open to self and spirit - and letting go into what I hear?which leads me again to...2. Everything is impermanent - Coming inevitably, as a jolt to the body with each remembering!Currently, we are staying in the guest house of a retired couple from England. When we sat down over samosas yesterday evening I asked our hostess where her husband was, assuming that he was out in town doing chores as we had not met him yet . She responded, suprisingly smoothly, that he died 2 months ago. Encountering this woman who is living her dream on a veranda in Belize, yet without her life partner of 37 years, the quest physics stir me. Shaken and moved, I want to keep talking with her, I want to hear her stories and connect with the inspiration that moves her and their lives together. She, poignantly and preciously, continues throughout our entire conversation to use the pronoun "we". I hold Lee tightly as we fall to sleep in this sleepy Belizean town - carefully noting the rare and precious gift of this moment in my life, the blessing I am given in each breath, the true achy nature of change and loss and rebirth again and again. Life is teaching me to open, to not wait, to ask the questions and leave space for the answers to reveal themselves. Together, today, I see options, adventures, choices and possibilities laid out before us. I am hopeful and terrified - both arriving more fully and longing to allow my life to fill more deeply with grace.
