Of Rivers and Temples

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. Several 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.