Belize: pink gins or coco locos?

Standing by a dusty jungle road in the blue pre-dawn gloom, fending off hungry mosquitoes and cursing the crowing cockerels, we waited for a bus which was more than a little behind schedule.

Once more I found myself questioning what I was doing. What was it that made me willing to crawl out of my comfortable cocoon at such an offensively early hour?


I was still struggling for an answer several hours later as we bumped along a pitted road as the sun climbed lazily into the sky.

It was only when the road ended abruptly in a small collection of ramshackle huts that it came back to me. It was a border crossing and we were leaving Guatemala and crossing over into Belize.

Belize. Suddenly my grumpiness melted to be quickly replaced by eager anticipation. The Caribbean! Sunshine! Big smiles! Paradise beaches!

Even better than all this we’re entering a country which finally speaks in a language I can understand, for here in Belize, unlike anywhere else in central America, English is the main spoken language.

Strange. Thousands of miles from home and six weeks into Latin America and suddenly I find myself speaking my own dear mother tongue. Shakespeare! Wordsworth! Morrissey!
How could this be?

Well it’s a story equally as colourful as the country itself, with vague and twisted versions abounded but, in brief, it seems to have happened thus:

Thanks to the exploits of a few honest pirates, some plucky adventurers and frankly insane logcutting ‘baymen’ this tiny piece of central America came to be coloured in pink on the map, another odd part of the global jigsaw which once was the British Empire.

Like many wax-moustached imperial romps it seems to have occurred more by accident than design. The various aforementioned ner do’wells dwelt in the swamps and lagoons of this piece of what was, at least nominally Spanish territory, much to the purported rightful owners ire.

Despite Spain’s best attempts to claw back their territory these doughty fellows held out, stubbornly withstanding the might of Spain rather like the indomitable Gauls of Asterix’s village defied the Romans legions.

Though tacit at first, the British government soon found itself lending support to these buccaneers and rascals, quickly embroiling itself in rather an embarrassing situation, repelling the furious advances of Spain’s embassies at home and navies in Belize.

Eventually, following a bit of a skirmish on the cayes the British found themselves, almost reluctantly, in possession of a new little bit of real estate bordering the sun-kissed shores of the Carribean.

They soon set out their task of bossing people about whilst wearing knee-length socks and pith helmets and generally anglicising their new little tropical garden, calling it British Honduras in case anyone forgot who it belonged to. Oh and they made sure that everyone spoke English, for the future benefit of homesick travellers.

Fast forward to the present and although Belize has a different name and has been a fully independent nation for nearly thirty years I wondered, as we crossed the border, does the colonial hangover still linger?

There were certainly still some symptoms: besides the language there was the Queen on the currency and, as our bus set off into the Belizean interior (along the Western highway, one of only two roads connecting Belize to the outside world) we spotted red fire engines, village associations and post offices.

It was threatening to morph into some weird, sun-baked version of 1950s Britain, mutated by the Caribbean sun.

I half expected to bump into a retired colonel, resplendent in double-breasted blazer, cufflinks and panama, pink gin at the ready. “Are the papers ironed yet, Jeeves?” Surely at least, I’d be in with a shout of a decent cuppa (certainly the greatest deprivation I‘ve had to endure on this whole trip).

But this was Belize not Britain, and soon the country proved to be something quite, quite different. And very beautiful to boot.

We trundled through a gently rolling landscape of lush green hills, thick forest, coconut palms and banana plants. The villages were small and straggly, full of white clapboard bungalows, some on them on stilts, all with corrugated iron roofs painted red or green.

Signs advertised crocodile parks and attorney-at-laws. They pointed to places with new-and exotic-sounding names: ‘Spanish Creek‘, ‘Duck Run’, Iguana Creek’, ‘Roaring Creek’.

There wasn’t much on the road and what there was seemed mainly to head in the other way. It mostly seemed to be composed of a curious mix of either lycra-clad cycle touring groups, out for a Sunday speed, or British army convoys headed for jungle adventures.

What little else traffic there was our driver appeared to know personally, greeting approaching cars with a casual wave of the arm or a brief shouted exchange of greetings.

It was peaceful and relaxed, no-one moved fast in the blazing sun. A woman hung out washing on a rickety wooden front porch; vultures scavenged at a dump; Land Rovers stood for sale at a grassy car lot; a huge trailer rattled by, stuffed to the brim with oranges.

Somehow I could feel the Carribean ahead of us, just over the horizon, tempting us on with promises of white sands and tropical waters.

It didn’t take long in coming: we whizzed past Belmopan, the smallest capital city in the world (population 5,000), past mangrove swamps and ‘Gentle Ben’ boats, small skiffs with large fans on the back to power them across the shallow waters, and into the raffish port of Belize City, set on the edge of the twinkling, turquoise waters of the Caribbean.

It was more seedy than seductive. Large blokes in grubby vests lounged around munching on chicken and rice, chomping through thick slices of watermelon.

We took a stroll up towards the seafront, the heady whiff of marijuana drifted across the swampy air as we tripped over rusting cannons and admired fading old white clapboard houses, the peeling paint on their white picket fences dating from the days when Belize City was the capital.

Eyeing up the lovely Lara, ‘taxi’ drivers rumbled slowly past in creaking old pimpmobiles, offering to ‘drive you to airport mon, cheeep. Airport? What’s one of those?

It was scruffy but intriguing, and none more so than the people. As a result of its colourful past and vibrant present the various cultures which have adopted Belize as their home present a list of ingredients which together add up a heady cocktail which is uniquely Belizean.

First, to make your base, take a liberal helping of the indigenous Mayan tribal people, the original inhabitants of the region.

Next mix in a generous drop of Creoles and a jot of Garifuna, most of them descendents of slaves brought over from other Caribbean colonies.

Add to this a good splash of Ladino (itself a good mix distilled over 500 years of breeding between the descendents of the Spanish conquistadors and original Mayan inhabitants) and let it settle.

Then, to give the cocktail a European twist add a few English pirates and logging prospectors, before chucking in a handful of East Indians and other (former) colonials.

Finally bring your cocktail bang up to date with Westerners gone to seed and a new good dash of Chinese and Robert’s your Mother‘s brother.

Some of these groups have become gradually familiar to us as we have headed along our route, others have appeared suddenly and visibly.

Take the Creoles for instance, who suddenly appeared as we crossed over the border. They’re much larger than the Maya over the border, and speak an entirely different language.

Though based on English it sounds rather different than standard home counties, spoken in a wonderfully rich, lilting accent, seemingly unchained by rules.

I’ve always made an effort to communicate in the local lingo (invariably to little effect) and so took the trouble, when reaching this country to consult the appropriate section of my guidebook.

What I’ve found is a whole different ball park. I can’t even attempt this - surely I’ll sound like I’m taking the mick.

Try saying this for instance:

Eksyooz mi, weh di poas aafis deh?

Apparently this means: Excuse me, where is the post office?

Or this one:

Ah gat sohn doti kloaz fu wash

(I have some dirty laundry for washing)

Could you keep a straight face?

It sounds even more bizarre when spoken with a Chinese accent.

Chinese? Yes there’s Chinese people here. Lots of them.

Indeed the first thing we saw in Belize was a clutch of Chinese restaurants and ‘lucky‘ stores, straggling along the road into the country.

And the first thing we saw at our destination, the idyllic island of Caye Caulker was a bunch of Chinese shops.

What are they doing here? The locals furrow their brows and mutter about them ‘buying up the country’. I hope they make a better job of it than back in Yangzhou.

For now any approaching sino-apocalypse seems a long way off, particularly as I kick off my boots, feel the sand beneath my feet and take in the scenes around me.

The sun beats down on the shallow blue and green waters of the Caribbean, surf breaks on the coral reefs offshore and pelicans, frigate birds and ospreys fill the blue skies.

Reggae booms out from the bars by the shore and barefooted tourists stroll slowly down the car-free streets; dreadlocked locals greet us with big toothy grins and invite us to try their coco locos. We pass by a sign with the island’s motto displayed on it: ‘Go Slow’ (surely this is the spiritual home of World in Slow Motion) and I wonder: is this paradise?

A beach towel hangs from a nearby shop nearby; the slogan emblazoned across it reads: ‘Ya better Belize it!’