Aaaaright in Belize

Originally published in The Sunday Times (U.K), July 2000.

It was as if I'd put the hot towel from the aeroplane on my face and forgotten to take it off - I was warm, I was damp and I couldn't see very much. The explanation for my state was that I was walking deep into the humid heart of a rainforest in the Cayo district, in the west of Belize. And it was night. Thankfully, however, I was not alone.

My Mayan guide, Miguel, was a few paces ahead of me, carefully picking a way through the bayleaf palms and trumpet trees, creepers and vines with his torch. Our only torch. I really couldn't see, but I could hear: every chirrup and leafy rustle, every slither, crack, buzz and mysterious whine was chilling music to my ears. Then suddenly, I heard a more alarming sound. "Uh oh. . ." said Miguel.

"What is it?" I whispered.

"Nothing," he lied. "S'aaa-right."

Aaaright. All over Belize, from the cayes dotted along the glittering blue Caribbean coastline to the dense tropical rainforests inland, everybody says it. Aaaright. And from what I can tell, everybody feels it. It's that kind of place: relaxed, friendly and, in both senses of the word, warm. Just 180 miles from top to bottom, Belize is small but, as the saying goes, perfectly formed, offering an astonishing variety of natural ecologies: fertile lowland savannahs in the north, lush, jungle-covered mountains to the south and more than 300 crystal-clear island waterways, as well as lagoons, mangrove swamps and limestone caves.

I was interested in spotting monkeys and jaguars, avoiding snakes and spiders, and learning about ancient Mayan culture, so I headed west to Chaa Creek, a few miles outside the town of San Ignacio. Perched just above the Macal River, the Chaa Creek resort is renowned for several things: its wonderful food, its spectacular setting and, above all, its commitment to the happy marriage of ecology and tourism.

Jaguars flourish throughout the area, and the management of Chaa Creek began a successful howler monkey relocation programme in the Macal River valley area in 1996. The only problems were the spiders and snakes, a great many species of which live in the rainforests. I was assured by everybody I spoke to on the matter, however, that unless I went out of my way to do so, I would probably see neither. Aaaright.

One hot afternoon, beneath a grey, boiling sky, I took a six-mile canoe trip along the Macal. In the two hours that I paddled, I saw herons, kingfishers, cormorants and egrets, as well as dozens of orange iguanas perched in jungle treetops. Male iguanas turn orange in the mating season so as to be easily seen by females; the more lurid the colour, the more mates they attract. Several times I wondered if I might find a reptile passenger, as my lifejacket was somewhat male-iguana-coloured. But the afternoon's highlight came in a dazzling colourwash of green, yellow, black, blue and fire red as a keel-billed toucan, the national bird of Belize, flew over my head and alighted on a thin branch that dipped into the nutbrown water. Thunder cracked and heavy rain began to fall; the toucan flew off and I made my way further downstream.

Belize is one of those truly wild, unspoilt countries where you can feel a direct, palpable connection with the primal world, the ancient world. For me, this strange and intense feeling was never more vivid than when I was standing in the huge grassed plaza of Xunantunich, not far from the resort, gazing up at El Castillo, the 130ft ceremonial temple decorated with carved friezes depicting ancient gods, warrior masks, sacred frogs and monkeys. Xunantunich, completed about AD1000 after 400 years' construction, was the centrepiece - the downtown area - of a once thriving Mayan city.

From the peak of El Castillo, after a pretty easy but nonetheless nerve-racking ascent, I could see the lowlands of Guatemala to the west and the rolling Maya Mountains far to the south. And I could also see - or perhaps feel - why the Mayans worshipped nature. Central to their belief was the ceiba tree, the largest in the Central American rainforest - an unusually straight, light-barked tree with a unique flat crown. Its thick, buttressed roots provide shelter for bats, which to Mayans were the gods of the underworld; the middle world's earthly form was the anteater, which claws into the swelling termite nests in the tree's branches; and the crown offers a perfect roost for the magnificent harpie eagle, the Mayan symbol for the god of the heavens. Sitting up where I was, I felt a little like a god myself.

That evening, however, on my nightwalk with Miguel, I was to be sharply brought back down to earth.

Uh oh . . . What is it?

I stood behind Miguel, peering down at the circle of weakening light from his torch. In the middle of that murky pool was something coiled, glistening and yellow - a fer-de-lance, the aggressive and deadly pit viper.

"Don't move," Miguel said softly. And I didn't.

I don't know how long we stood there, breathing in the sweet, loamy smell of jungle undergrowth and listening to the small sounds of night, but at some point Miguel uttered a single word and continued walking. "Aaaright," he said, and, knowing it would be safe, I followed.

Roasting on the Coast

The locals call the gumbo limbo the "tourist tree." They do this because the tree is red, except when the sun is especially fierce and it peels. I couldn't help reflecting on this as I lay in pain on the bed in my wooden beachside hut in the International Zoological Expeditions (IZE) compound on South Water Caye. I'd been blithely paddling and snorkelling in the warm, clear Caribbean, marvelling at starfish below and swooping pelicans above; collecting coconuts on the white sand up and down the 12-acre island; and lying in patches of long grass, coaxing a coati-mondi to take johnny cakes from my hand. Then I, too, turned red and started to peel.

Mac, one of IZE's owners, came by with some lotion for my skin. Mac is a Garifuna, the name given to black Caribs descended from slaves, many of whom live in the dusty, lively, ramshackle port town of Dangriga, a few miles southwest of the caye.

We drank a few Belikins, the tasty local beer, on the deck of my hut overlooking the dark tangled mass of mangrove swamp. He told me about the tourist tree -- and about the time it rained puffer fish on the island. "A flock of frigate birds came down and scooped up a shoal of puffer fish," he said in his gentle Caribbean lilt. "And these fish, when they're in danger, they puff up. The birds found their mouths blowing up. Too full to hold the fish, they spat them out and it rained fish all over us." This is a place where myths and legends establish their foundations in fact.

That night, I sat at the compound's small outdoor bar and watched the most awe-inspiring sunset I have ever seen: long golden rays silhouetting the 3,700ft Victoria Peak, a near-perfect triangle at the end of the Maya Mountains, 20 miles away across a flat and burning blue ocean. The Mayan shaman in me found it a quasi-religious experience.

I didn't see any jaguars, and the closest I came to a howler monkey was hearing the occasional howl at dawn, but I didn't mind a bit. Belize has more than enough to offer the sightseer, the sun-seeker and people in search of something a little more substantial - enrichment of the soul, perhaps. During my time, I'd found elements of each in unexpected places. The ancient Mayans must have felt privileged indeed to be among such sublime diversity. As did I - it was all right. I mean aaaright.