The Jungles of Belize

Had I known termites were on the menu for lunch, I’d have eaten a bigger breakfast. We were hiking in Belize’s remote Mountain Pine Ridge Reserve when one of my travelling companions innocently asked about the brown growth on the side of a gnarled tree.

“That’s a termite nest,” said Augusto, our amiable guide.

“Is the nest solid?” I inquired.

“Oh, no,” said Augusto and proceeded to peel off the soft skin, whereupon an army of termites appeared. He calmly poked his hand into the opening. A horde crawled onto his fingers. He looked at us, smiled, and calmly slurped up the creatures. “Want to try?” he asked.

If I’d been forewarned that our serene jungle outing would involve an invitation to ingest live insects, I’d have stayed poolside at Mariposa Lodge, our quiet eco-resort. But, when in Rome… so, I stuck my index finger in the swarming nest, waited for the critters to crawl aboard and tentatively inserted the digit in my mouth.

I bit down. Ten or twelve termites popped in my mouth. “What do they taste like?” Augusto asked.

“Kind of like pine?” I answered.

“That’s because this nest is on a Caribbean pine tree,” Augusto smiled. “On that cacao tree over there the termites taste like chocolate.” I declined his offer to sample dessert.

Most tourists limit their Belizean experience to the white sand beaches and coral reefs of the coastal islands. But this small Caribbean nation has much more to offer. So, after ten days sailing Belize’s aquamarine waters, snorkeling through atolls and coral-fringed cayes, we discarded our sea legs and headed into the jungle.

We had a busy agenda for our inland week: cave exploration, river tubing, a visit to the ancient Mayan ruins of Tikal in neighbouring Guatemala, a night jungle hike, even horseback riding on a mountain ridge overlooking the fertile farmland of Belize’s highlands.

Sharon Brinker, the proprietress at Mariposa Lodge organized all these adventures, for which I thank her.

She is also responsible for our termite outing with Augusto, for which I forgive her.It is hard to envision a more worry-free, uninhibited people than the folks of beautiful Belize, or as the natives refer to it, “The Jewel.” And the biggest beauty in all of The Jewel is its happy people. Shopkeepers, drivers, waiters, humble street-sweepers, everyone we met greeted us with a cheerful smile.

On the long day trip to Tikal, our driver Rosie told stories and joked incessantly. Even a flat tire on a muddy, pot-holed Guatemalan road couldn’t bog her down. “Too blessed to be stressed,” she laughed, tire iron in hand. When I told young Rosie that my wife Florence and I had just celebrated our thirty-fifth wedding anniversary, she guffawed and said, “Thirty-five years. Wow man, back den I was still in my daddy’s nuts.”

The official language of Belize is English, a remnant of its colonial history as British Honduras. But the real language of the people is Creole, Pidgin English developed by slaves working the cane fields of the west Caribbean. So if after dinner you ask for, “La cuenta, por favor” as you naturally would in any Central American country, you’ll get the bill, but with a big fat grin and a “why you askin’ dat, man?

”On our third inland day, we explored Actun Tunichil Muknal (ATM), Belize’s remarkable underground river and cave system. Our guide was Fry Jack, named after the deep-fried dough that forms a staple of every simple Belizean breakfast. But this Fry Jack was not simple. A botanist, historian, ornithologist and intellectual jack-of-all-trades, he fascinated us with his proud knowledge of Mayan history as he led us deep into the recesses of ATM, past a rich tapestry of colourful flowstone, stalagmites and stalactites.

In addition to its amazing natural cave formations, ATM is also a rich repository of sacred Mayan artifacts. Fry Jack’s simple Creole explanations belied his knowledge of and love for the culture of his homeland, “Dis is the real ting man, a rich cee-ave system, you know.”

ATM website photoAfter an hour of wading, crawling and squirming, we entered a vast chamber. Fry Jack quietly pointed. His headlamp shone upon an intact human skeleton. It was strange yet wonderful to see these ancient sacrificial remains on the cave floor, where they had lain undisturbed for a thousand years.

En route back to the lodge after a long, wet day underground, Fry Jack asked if we’d like to sample some local cuisine. (“Sure, as long as we’re not slurping up live insects,” I thought). He pulled over at a small roadside cantina and jumped out. “C’mon, this place sells gibnut.”

“How do you like it?” he asked while we chewed. We answered in unison, “Tasty! Just like little pork riblets,” Then Fry Jack added, “The locals hunt gibnut at night, with spears. Dat’s when the little rodents come out.” I quit licking the sauce from my fingers.On the evening of our night hike we were enjoying a glorious Mariposa dinner, served by Freddie, the lodge’s friendly bartender-cum-waiter. “Look,” he said, “we have another dinner guest.” He motioned toward the open door. A tarantula the size of a Buick was crawling toward our table. “You’ll see plenty more of those outside, in the dark,” Freddie said, happily.

We steeled our nerves with a dram of Belizean rum, donned headlamps and stumbled out into the black night. We stepped warily over a trail of leaf-cutting ants as a troop of howler monkeys roared in the distance. A lonely quetzal called eerily from a treetop. I grabbed Florence’s hand to fend off her unfounded fear.

As we entered the lightless jungle, other headlamps were bobbing in the darkness. A confused voice called out, “Honey, I’m looking at the fruit hanging in the trees but I don’t see any of those gibnuts.” A woman’s voice answered, “Joe, they’re nocturnal mammals, not cashews.”

“Oh,” he said then promptly tripped, toppling off the steep narrow path. We spotted him in the undergrowth, hanging on precariously to a solitary tree. It was our old nemesis, Joe Tourist, the fellow who nearly ruined our trip to India last November and just a week earlier had spoiled a beautiful snorkeling day at Belize’s Great Blue Hole.

There was a bark of pain from the undergrowth. “Joe, that’s a poisonwood tree,” shouted his wife. Poisonwood is like poison ivy but much worse. The sap causes painful burning blisters. Joe Tourist emerged from the dark jungle. We stared at his rapidly swelling, scarlet hands.

“Oh, Joe,” said his long-suffering wife and they stumbled off in search of some sorely-needed third-world medical attention while we traipsed back to Mariposa to check on the status of that dram of rum.

Gerry