Belize & the Abandoned Boat Camp (2022)

We woke up early in the morning in Bahia, packed our gear, cleaned, cooked breakfast, and bid farewell to Brindle, Mama, and Shaggy.  They were the stray dogs we had befriended over the past week, who slept on the porch, or under the patio in beds dug out in the sand, or simply in the lawn by the banana trees.

With no real plan other than to tramp further south, we set out by foot to find a place to camp on the island.  The road squished underfoot, from a night of rain, caking my feet with a heavy layer of gray clay.  

Salt in the air slowly disintegrates each boot.  Rusted metal brackets and rings discolor my laces that barely hold on by threads.  Holes slowly open deeper on the sides like starfish craters, but I kept walking. 

Loose trash and plastics occupied the streets, collecting in ditches, astray in lawns, next to ramshackle homes, no more than a frame, a few exterior boards, and a metal roof.  

At some point, down around the bend the road switched to gravel, plunking and crunching underfoot as heat melted its path through the cloudless sky, soaking my shirt, face, and arms in a concoction of sweat, deet, and sunscreen.  

As we trekked further south, houses switched from shanties on impoverished lots to intricate homes, sophisticated, ornate, towering in size, flaunting wealth and class and prestige.  Many of these homes looked unoccupied or under construction, probably vacation homes for the bourgeoisie.  But a few fell between the cracks of plain ordinary, similar to the homes on other streets where local Belizeans lived.

Just further south, we reached a marshy culvert, separating the local airport from the road, watching egrets stand ever so still like lawn decorations in murky pools of red clay.  Plane engines shattered the air with roaring turbulence, taking off and landing, giving tours of the blue hole or shuttling tourists to or from the airport.

By the bend in the road, between the canal and the airstrip, the Wish Willies fled to adjacent hedges.  Prior to our footsteps they had splayed out along the open road, their bellies pressed against the gravel to soak in the warmth of the raging sun.  Their gray, spiny tails, with dry splotches of scaly black skin, poked out between the twigs and leaves.  They weren't the best at hide and seek, but they could regenerate their tails so they didn't care much.

I glanced over at the canal.  I had heard stories about crocs lurking in its shadows, attracted to the dark waters, to blend and fetch easy prey.  I looked meticulously for slanty eyes and a spiny back poking out of the water like a log floating on the surface, but I didn't see anything.  My heart sank a bit faster as we wandered that small section of road, but no crocodiles appeared.  Salt water crocs do exist.  They live on the island.  They live in the canal, but we weren't swimming in there to find out. 

Where the road broke left, an overlook gifted us with a view of the ocean, which in its soft, silent, majesty looked like tempered glass.  The glinting, blue, sheen cast out for miles, unbroken, except by wind, boat, or trouncing fish disturbing its perfection.  It looked too surreal.  Too blue to exist in nature like God's hand had photoshopped the ocean with a vivid filter and turned the saturation up too high.  It was real though.  All too real and majestic.

The sun boiled as we entered Eden Isle, walking by affluent homes painted a myriad of peculiar colors, bright orange, baby blue, reds, and purples.  Some constructed of all concrete.  Others built out of mahogany and many built on concrete stilts with a wooden frame on top, a patio, multiple stories and a metal roof.  My favorite homes mixed modern construction with that of the old, village, roots where straw laden roofs like the little beach huts you'd see at the end of a dock replaced corrugated metal, giving it the island vibe.

Where the gravel road stopped, budding against a narrow path of slumpy clay, an elevated sand walkway shot off towards a pier that crawled out into the ocean between a canopy of mangroves.  They lined the shore like a pile of men on stilts, their thick fingers jutting out of the sand in a maze, and limbs drooping over the dock with bright, green leaves all too vivid.

Conch shells with films of algae rested in the open alcoves of their roots as tiny fish swam about, darting between the jelly fish and seagrass.  Dark colored crabs shuffled back and forth between the mangroves like dancing around open yurts.

The adjacent land cut out an alcove by the shore perfect for hammock camping.  A palm tree sat, skirting the ocean just above high tide, with mangroves scattered between it and the pier, and a few lone trunks stood further inland as straight as Lodgepole Pine, this was the spot I had told Kelly about the day prior.  This is where we were going to camp tonight on a half-cleared lot that never quite accumulated into much of anything, down by the lone palm tree, and the abandoned boat, at the end of the gravel road.

I heard a ruckus near the dock, lifting my head to drooling mouths and curious eyes.  Three dogs trampled across the sand, butting heads with each other, stepping on paws and bumping into legs out of pure excitement, and anxiety, two pitbulls and a labradoodle. They charged us looking for no more than gentle pets and rubs.  The brown, clumsy pitbull hopped over to me, so happy, and carefree, rubbing his furry body against my leg, wiggling non-stop, and jumped to give me kisses, slobber touching my chin and cheeks.

A young, light-skinned man around our age appeared behind the rowdy mutts insisting they were friendly and telling each dog to calm down as they ran around our gear which we recently spread out all cattywampus in the sand.  The man was my height with short black hair and a fade from the 90s.  He sported a few sleeves with unfinished tattoos as I noticed subtle outlines of ink on his forearms.  He introduced himself as Calbert.

"Hey bro, you're welcome to stay and camp.  This is my property, but it's cool.  No problem."  The words mumbled together with a fast voice command like the vocalist from Authority Zero with a Belizean accent, which took a bit for me to understand.

"Thanks man.  We thought it was vacant since the boat behind us looks completely stripped and abandoned and there wasn't a "No Trespassing" sign posted anywhere.

"It's cool, bruddah.  Stay like you're at home.  All cool.  Enjoy your time.  This beach has the best sunset in Belize.  Best sunset here than anywhere else.  You'll see later.”

I smiled and nodded my head, looking at Kelly.  "See, we just started the day and already found a chill, quiet, little spot to camp for tonight, maybe even tomorrow."

I'd never just sat around mangroves in silence before on a secluded beach in the tropics.  I plopped my ass in the sand watching ants march around with such organizational formation, so neat, so fluid, on a mission to serve the queen like little minions in a fascist army.  Their brute strength has always amazed me,  but I wasn't envious of their lives by any means, all work, no play, no fun.

Around the militia of ants, I spotted little lizards lurking in the shadows, some with orange beards, others with stripes, some black and light gray, all no larger than anoles with the exception of the Wish Willies.  Now, their lives seemed more interesting and appealing to me.  They lay around all day blending in with the dead leaves and mangroves, pouncing off limbs onto the cool sand, running wild with their tiny, little, legs as they smooshed their faces to the earth, munching on sand flies, winking, gobbling down enough food until satiating their hunger.  Then it was back to lounging.  Maybe they'd bask in the sun or nap in the shadows, hiding in nature until they spotted another.  Then the hunt was on.  They changed focus, antagonizing and pouncing on one another, playing tag like the squirrels often do in the states, bobbing their heads up and down, and grooving.  Every time, I couldn't help but laugh and think of the Budweiser commercials from the 90s.

As time floated on, the mosquito and the sandfly started disturbing my peaceful setting, becoming more of a nuisance than anything else.  I lost my train of thought.  My concentration shifted to their failed docks, simply buzzing around looking for an entry point before getting smashed against my hand.  The few that succeeded on their blood run ended up with the same fate as their friends who had never quite gotten a taste.  I squashed and smeared their bodies across my skin, my arms and legs covered in mottled splotches and faint red trails.

Frog King saved the day though. I had purchased these mosquito coils from Bahia Market the previous day, and set up a few in our vicinity to keep the bloodsuckers away.

I dug a hole in the sand and gathered a bunch of dead sticks and logs from the lot behind me.  Piles baked in the sun as lizards danced across the sand to new hideouts.  I set up a log cabin campfire with palm tree husks and dead mangrove leaves in the center beneath a small mound of tiny twigs.  It lit up like Christmas from the beach breeze and I gradually added little twigs to keep it small and steady.  I cooked a simple meal, refried beans, melted cheese, tortilla chips and a smidgen of Marie Sharpies Habanero sauce.

Through the mangroves, I saw a man with a kayak slowly approaching, ripples grazed the shoreline, and Calbert appeared.

"Hey bro, can you pull me on shore?"

"Yeah, man."

"Kayak's not gettin' much use…figured you might wanna take it out and explore the coast."

"Shit.  Thanks, man.  That'd be great.  You didn't have to do that."

"It's no problem.  Just leave it by my boat when you're done and let me know…"

He set off on foot, wandering the narrow gravel path towards his house, and disappeared through the palms.  The hull scraped against the sand as I yanked the kayak forward, sinking into clay, venturing further out into the ocean.  The floor swallowed my feet up like glue.  Mud seeped through each of my toes, squishing and caking over my nails while I tried to situate myself into the kayak.  I needed help though to escape the shallow shoreline. 

Kelly gave me a good push, and off I sailed into the deep blue, watching speedboats skip like stones, breaking the glass beneath my hull.  The sapphire spread for miles, as I paddled further out into the ocean, reaching a dock that read, "KEEP OUT."  I began following the coast along the mangroves where erosion had completely eradicated the shore, covering the silt fences along the beach, only seeing the nubs of each wooden post peeking out between the crash of each wave.

Mangroves are both important for erosion control and coral, trapping sediment and nutrients that would oftentimes get washed away from waves.  Tourism and beaches have contributed to their removal over the years, rapidly affecting the coastline and reefs, which is why it's illegal to remove them now.

I stopped and looked down at the sea grass, watching the occasional stingray gliding along the ocean floor like flying pancakes.  Small tropical fish wandered in the shadows.  I sat upright, watching the sky gradually sink into the ocean, its peach hue slowly dying through the clouds, on a blue kayak, staring at the sun.

I looked over at the shore, at Kelly reading, swinging in my hammock as she smoked a cigarette, and smiled.  "What a series of fortunate events and a time to be alive…"