Monday, May 26, 2003

Note: This is the final entry from the Central America trip journal. Preparations have begun for the next adventure: The Great Baltic Border Expedition, which takes place from July 4 ? 23. I will be traveling to Copenhagen for a few days before joining my border freak pals in a road trip across Poland, Latvia, Lithuania, Estonia, and Sweden. We will also cross into Belarus, Russia, and Norway. You can follow the preparations here. And the journey as well.

And now, finally, the last day in Belize.



Thursday, May 1, 2003
Belize City, Belize

The last day in Belize begins much the same as the previous days: far too early and with far too much heat. Vancouver will take care of the latter, no doubt.

The list of things to do is long, so the early start is actually a good thing. And I can always sleep when I?m old.

The first order of business is packing. In addition to CD rot, Belize has some sort of strange fungus that expands anything you bring into the country. Thus, despite having less luggage to take home (a portion of what I brought down is staying with Brent), it will not fit into my bag. This leads to two questions:

1. Why do I have so much stuff?
2. How the hell did I get it down here?

Now I am jumping up and down on my large bag, trying to fit way too much in a space that is way too small. The seams are beginning to let go, due, no doubt, to years of pushing the laws of physics. I resolve to bring less on all future travels. Really.

After packing, repacking, cramming and jamming, it appears I have accomplished the impossible task. It is all in there, and the zipper is zipped. This bag has served me well, having got it in 1996 at a television conference as a freebie.

I see a terrible site: there, in the corner, stand my hiking boots. I swear they mock me. How and I going to get those in the bag?

The solution: ignore the problem and eat.

Roh is in the kitchen, whipping up some eggs. Brent has gone to the store to pick up some corn tortillas. I love corn tortillas, even though they probably hold the highest concentration of carbs on the planet.

Maybe I can?t get my bag closed because of the 20 bottles of hot sauce I have collected on this trip.

When I am back in Canada, the first thing I have to do is attend a wedding. And that means that I need a gift. Despite the difficulties with my luggage, it dawns on me that I could get a really cool gift here in Belize.

Brent suggests going to the local carver up the street. This sounds like a good idea. At the shop, which is more of a shack on the side of the road, surrounded by logs, the kid inside passes us a couple of photo albums stuffed with pictures of the work that has been produced here. It is exquisite. Ranging from small to huge, covering all subject matter, much of the pieces are carved out of mahogany.

Unfortunately, there is little in the way of pieces for sale. There are a couple of eagles and dolphins, but nothing that really speaks to me. It turns out that I could have ordered up a nice sized custom carving for US$150 ? US$300. And if we?d come in three weeks ago, at the beginning of the trip, then I would be picking up the finished piece now. Shit.

Back at the house, the clock warns that the holiday is coming quickly to a close. I record an interview with Brent in his back yard. I want to do some radio stories on ex-pats, and Brent has a great story.

It?s hot sitting under the old mango tree. As we talk, I realize that I?m going to miss Miss Nell calling Ashee, Ossifer, and the 8 dogs. Well, all the dogs except for the one that hates me. Barky Barkerson, I call it. I think its real name is Princessa.

Roh calls a cab and we say our goodbyes. It has been a great trip here, and I feel like I?ve been away from home for more than three weeks.

Bullet pulls up in his cab. Brent tells me that I have an interesting ride ahead.

Bullet tells lots of stories on the way to the airport. He traveled with Ali in 1974-5. Is this true? I don?t know. But it makes for a great tale.

There is a big bicycle race on, and we are forced to detour. Then we have to stop for gas. And, of course, I have left leaving for the airport far to late. I even have to give Bullet an advance on the fare so he can pay for the gas. The total fare was agreed to be US$20 ? and we this was locked in when I left Brent & Roh?s.

As we careen through Belize City, Bullet and I have a long conversation about the value of travel. How important it is to meet people and understand their daily lives; visit the attractions, sure, but also to take the time to talk to the street vendor or cab driver.

At the airport, we say our goodbyes and I tell bullet that I want to hear more of his stories when I next return to Belize. We exchange cards, shake hands and I put my bags into a figure-four leg-lock as I try to wrestle them into the airport.

Inside it is madness. There are no lines to speak of, just people standing in large groups, all sporting a lost look.

I make my way to the Belize Bank office. I want to convert a hundred or so Belizean dollars back into US cash. Brent has played my cambio for the trip, and before I left his house, I converted more money. The main reason was so that he could get his hands on more US$. And the plan was for me to covert the Belize dollars back to US at the airport.

Instead, the bastards at Belize Bank have taken a two-hour lunch and won?t be back until my ass is 30,000 feet above Mexico. I?m really starting to see why Brent hates Belize Bank so much.

I make my way through the lost groups and eventually I am standing at the Continental Airlines desk. Everything goes smoothly here, except that I am not told where I have to pay my escape fee. Belize charges foreign tourists US$20 to leave the country. This money is used primarily to stock the liquor cabinets of government officials.

After winning the match with my bags, I raise my championship belt high. My luggage, now riding a conveyer belt, disappears behind a wall, destination: the mysterious cargo area.

I decide that it is time for me to go to the departure lounge and visit the highly regarded duty free. This is apparently one of the best duty free stores on earth. One where there is an actual bargain to be had.

On the way to the departure lounge, I squeeze through the stunned throngs and arrive at a little desk. The woman there asks for my passport and my departure tax receipt. Huh? Isn?t this where I pay it?

It turns out that it?s not. That little desk is located back where the throngs are. Of course there is no signage to indicate the location. After several minutes, I find a stressed out woman behind a tiny podium that is labeled Continental Airlines, not ?pay stupid-government-minister-liquor-cabinet-refill-tax here.

A glance over my shoulder reveals that Belize Bank is still closed. Poor dears must be on a long lunch. I pay my US$20 and get my receipt and repeat my journey to departures. I hand my passport and receipt to the same woman and I am granted access to the security area.

It is quiet. Too quiet. The smell of coconut rum fills the air. A couple has had an accident ? they?ve dropped a carry-on bag which had contained a bottle of rum. Now it contains a bunch of glass and soaked belongings. The smell of rum has caused the entire security staff to disappear. I walk through the metal detector, then reach around to get my bag, and continue on. No security, nothing. I can?t even voluntarily present myself.

I am in heaven. The duty free store is amazing. Big bottles of Absolut are going for US$8. Similar prices can be found on all the other items. I settle on a bottle of 12-year old Nicaraguan rum. It sets me back about US$15. I want to buy more ? a bottle of One Barrel Rum perhaps, but decide this will just be more stuff to lug around and Canada Customs will have a problem with me doubling my liquor allowance.

The flight boards, and I wave to the Belikin Brewery as we taxi past. Next stop, Texas. I am sad to see the palm trees of Belize fall away beneath me. The flight goes as planned, though I am squeezed into my seat. Have I gotten bigger? Lunch is served.

Houston, Texas

We are informed that we have to clear US Customs before proceeding to our connecting flights. I have three hours between flights. My original schedule had called for a 40-minute turnaround. I decided that this might not be enough. Thank God I did.

It is chaos at George Bush Moron International. No less than a thousand people are packed into the customs area, trying to get past one of 10 customs agents who are taking their front line role very seriously. Hours fly by and the lines shrink slowly. Panicked people are everywhere ? miss their flights and losing their patience. Yet there is no sympathy from the gatekeepers of America. Every diaper must be checked for traces of anthrax. A young Norwegian woman loses it completely and begins wailing. In a rare show of sympathy, an airport official helps her complete her customs form and takes her to the front of the line. She has already missed her flight.

Roughly 2 hours later, I am the 5th last person to clear customs. Everyone else is gone, and there have been no other international flights arriving.

After going through more security and having to remove my shoes & belt, I am finally allowed the privilege of joining a bunch of Canadian bar owners for a pint in the departure lounge bar. This kills the final hour before hopping on the direct flight back to Vancouver.

Another blur ensues, and before I know it, I am back in the wonderfully welcoming space of Vancouver International. This has to be the best airport in the world. In a word: civilized. It is spacious, calm, and quiet. Just what one needs after a long flight.

Customs is a breeze, but there is a long delay at the luggage carousel. The bags come up from the bowels of cargo slowly. Perhaps one every five minutes. My big bag comes up after a short wait, but there is no sign of the case containing my video gear. I wait and wait and wait, feeling like I?m back in Texas.

A feeling of dread wells up from my own bowels. Due to the intricacies of the insurance industry, I have no coverage on my camera. And as each minute passes, I am convinced that I will never see it again.

I am on the verge of a breakdown as I approach the Continental luggage counter. And then, I see it: there in the fragile pile is my camera. It has probably been there all along. I grab it, and then a cab.

Coming home from a holiday is a weird experience. It is a mix of relief to be back in one?s lair and sadness that another adventure has come to a close. A pile of mail, mostly bills, is a reminder that real life continued while I was away. But it is cool and wonderful. And comfy. And home.

I drop my bags, brush my teeth, and head to bed. It feels nice to be snuggled in my own bed.

The quiet is deafening and I struggle to fall asleep. There are no loud stereos or barking dogs. Just silence.

A highlight reel of the trip begins to in my head. It is done in a ?This is your life,? style. I think Chuck Barris is the host. ?This is your holiday!? he announces. In walk Pandy and Grand Master and Brent and Roh. Chi Chi man is playing his drums. A bottle of One Barrel is opened.

I smile to myself as I drift off?

-30-

Epilogue:

In the weeks since this journey, there have been changes in the amount of work I?ve been doing. The steady gig with CBC kids has all but evaporated. And there isn?t a lot of money left in the bank. This is the hard part about being self-employed. Work comes in fits and starts. After a huge first quarter, it appears that things have dried up temporarily.

To complicate matters is the commitment I have to be a part of the Great Baltic Border Expedition: the third border expedition in as many years. This time the itinerary includes Latvia, Lithuania, Estonia and Russia. And it is a trip I simply can?t pass up. And it begins on July 4.

Luckily, I have US$1200 left over, which should cover the GBBE expenses nicely. But I have to scrape to find the C$1300 for a ?cheap? flight to Copenhagen. Hello Visa card!

Stay tuned!

--30--

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