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Published: January 15th 2013
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The Great Blue Hole
Looks greater above it than in it. Cay Caulker and the Northern Reef Don't barf first. Don't barf first... This was my mantra as our dive boat flew over eight foot waves, then crashed into the troughs between with bone jarring slaps. My spine felt like an accordion. Debra and I were en route to the Great Blue Hole, a deep underwater sink hole made famous when Jacques Cousteau declared it to be among the top ten scuba diving sites in the world.
My wish was granted. I didn't barf first or even at all. We arrived at the Blue Hole, strapped on our tanks, and one at a time giant-stepped off the back of the boat. But when I hit the choppy water, I found myself gasping for air. I was reluctant to submerge for fear that I wouldn't be able to suck enough air through my regulator into my air-starved lungs. It took me several minutes to catch my breath. I had to descend into the eerie darkness several minutes behind my perplexed group.
I count myself among the divers who are unimpressed by the Blue Hole, which was murky and lifeless. The day before
moray eel
Found this photo of some chick strangling a moray eel. Brave. we dove off of Turneffe Atoll. The visibility was good and I felt confident soaring over underwater cliffs through spiraling clouds of purple fish. I came face to face with moray eels, poisonous lion fish, and giant spotted rays. It was like swimming in an aquarium.
Diving aside, the best experience was discovering Caye (pronounced
key) Caulker, a five-mile long three-block wide island off the coast of Belize. The main street was lined with brightly colored shacks pulsing Reggae music. Every night we ate fresh cheap lobster. A Rastafarian invited himself to join us on the first night. He tried to explain to me that Bob Marley was a god, but got annoyed when I told him that I saw Bob Marley perform in Oakland around 1975. Devout monks must feel the same way when they read that some hillbilly met God in a mall. Where is the justice, Marley?
As I drained a glass of rum on that first night I wondered, how is it that I haven't been to Belize before? Am I the last American to discover this little paradise just two hours south of Houston?
Hopkins and the Southern Reef Back in
Caye Caulker International
This is the main port where the water taxi from Belize City arrives. Belize City we rented a "jeep Suzuki" and headed south on the Hummingbird Highway, purportedly the most beautiful highway in Central America. Renting cars in Belize is expensive because everything has to be imported. Also, there are only a few paved roads in Belize, so all of the "cars" are badly whipped SUVs of one type or another. I had to laugh when I saw our Suzuki. I remembered my father's stories of the awful "jeep Suzuki" he drove when he was doing his research in Guatemala. He loved to tell the story of how the axle broke while crossing a jungle river and he and my mother had to defend themselves against red ants while waiting for help to arrive.
After passing through Belmopan, Belize's new and unimpressive capital city, the Hummingbird climbs into beautiful mountains covered with exotic palms. Beyond the occasional orchards and villages along the highway (including a Mennonite village!), there is nothing but rain forest for hundreds of miles.
Last year at a cocktail party a colleague told me about her manatee research in the village of Hopkins. She described its relaxed Caribbean pace, the Garifunda people who lived there (descendants from two
slave ships that got blown off course), and of course the manatees. A mental image of a jungle village and pools of lazing manatees formed in my head. I silently vowed that I would go to Hopkins.
At the car rental agency (a metal hut) it took me twenty minutes to locate Hopkins on a large detailed map of Belize. I got another hint about its backwater status hours later when we turned onto the punishing dirt road that connects it to the highway. The luggage ricocheted around the jeep Suzuki's cabin as we rocked from one pothole into the next.
The Hopkins of my mental image bore some faint resemblance to the real Hopkins. A few dusty thatched-roof huts dotted the poorly maintained main (and only) road. Traffic consisted mostly of barefoot kids, dogs, chickens, and other SUVs negotiating the ruts and potholes. Fortunately, a small ex-pat community provides decent guest houses.
There are also a few adventures to be had near Hopkins: attending Garafuna drumming performances, kayaking on the Sitee river (which is manatee free), floating down a river on an inner tube, only in this case the river is in a bat-filled cave 300
feet below the ground, and of course scuba diving along the southern section of the barrier reef.
In this part of the reef the dive masters are engaged in a campaign against the lion fish. Indigenous to the Pacific, the lion fish was introduced into the Caribbean when hurricane Hattie washed a tropical fish aquarium into the sea. With no natural predators, the lion fish quickly spread and started to destroy the reef. Whenever we approached one of these beautiful creatures the dive master pointed it out, and then zapped it with his spear gun. We were horrified. The lion fish got his revenge, though. As the dive master was dropping the carcass into a bag, he nicked his finger on one of the lion fish's venemous barbs. Back on the boat the pain had spread up his arm and he became nauseous. He told us that he will need six days to recover.
More photos below
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Robbie
non-member comment
Great vacation, wish I was there.
Love the airport warning; it's like the speed bump warning in Baja with giant bump and the tiny flying pickup.