You Betta BELIZE It!

The pushy Third World-ness of Guatemala follows us all the way to the border.  Just as we approach the Belizean officials, William is attacked by Guatemala's youngest hustler.  "Por favor meester!" he says in his saddest voice, gesturing with a basket of pumpkin seeds and nuts.  "You buy.  I hungry."

"No, gracias."  They are the two must spoken words in the Spanish language.

"Meester!  Meester!  You buy!"  He is mean.

"No, GRACIAS."  This means please go away now.  But he is relentless, nipping at William's heels like a scrappy puppy.

"Hongree!"

"Then eat some of your damn peanuts."  We have become hardened.

"Well, no one's gonna mistake us for Angelina Jolie," I say.

We cross the border into Belize and immediately the people are nicer, English is spoken, lights shine down from the heavens, moods lift.  Actually, it looks just like Guatemala.  Except people really are nicer.  I can't tell if it is the abolition of the language barrier but everyone, from the immigration officials to our cab driver greets us with smiles and "have a nice days."  The official cab fares are even posted on an official government sign right next to the taxi stand.  This is a very welcome sight indeed.  We splurge on a taxi - mostly because the guy is nice and honest - and also because we have no vague clue how to find a bus - and travel about fifteen minutes to the town of San Ignacio, the largest in Western Belize, something of a jungle outpost on the banks of the Macal River.  It is bustling, rough around the endges, ramshackle.  The word "ramshackle" was invented for Belize.  Every clapboard building and faded shack is its very definition.  The two main streets are packed with guest houses, bars, travel agents and a disproportionate number of Chinese restaurants.  It is a great amount of commerce for the middle of nowhere - and everything in English.  We trudge the dusty streets looking for an affordable place to stay.  Prices are significantly higher here.  We decide on the comically named "Hi-Et" Hotel for 50 Belize dollars a night.  Except this is not a multi-national hotel chain high-rise with turndown service.  This is a wooden Caribbean-looking two story home painted maroon and yellow.  To get to our room we must first enter the living area of the owner's house, pass through their kitchen and dining room and up a back staircase.  It is an odd arrangement and feels intrusive.  We are interrupting Grandpa's TV time.  But hey, its Belize, and I guess no one really seems to mind.

Much like Guatemala, everyone is trying to sell you something here - whether it be a caving expedition, a guided jungle tour, a bushel of bananas, or ganja (especially ganja.)  We are literally offered ganja from every single Bob Marley devotee standing on the street.  They appear from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.  It is the unofficial cash crop of Belize.  I wonder if this whole tourist industry is a just a drug front.  Sure, we'll sell you a tour, mon, but what you're really buying is a big ol' bag of weed.  Possibly because of the prevelance of the ganja, the selling tactics aren't nearly as severe as in Guatemala and its all done with a very laid-back "ohwell maybeyawill, maybeyawon´t" attitude that is beyond refreshing.  And it is all wrapped up in that lilting, melodic Creole that instantly evokes reggae and white sand beaches and, well, weed.

"Hey mon, we got stew chicken and rice n beans for ya."

"No thanks.  Maybe later."

"Ok mon.  Ya have a nice day then."

What?!  Where is the used car salesman sleaze?  We love Belize.

After our arduous journey, we decide we deserve to splurge on a meal and a few beers which, truthfully, is what we always feel we deserve after a difficult day of travel, which is at least three or four times a week.  Which is why we cannot stay on budget.  Which is why I will never be a responsible adult.  Which is why I take insane trips like this in the first place.  We have discovered that we are not people who can restrict ourselves.  We cannot resist beer.  So we end up in a Chinese restaurant.  There are plenty to choose from.  This one looks like a vacant wooden barn that should have bloodstains on the wall.  There are a few plastic tables arranged around a bar that is being tended by a twelve year old boy.  We are promptly brought two Belikins - the national beer of Belize - delicious, cool, and refreshing.  William orders a fish burger and I go for broke on the shrimp curry, a massive pile of stir fried prawns and mixed veggies, some of them actually greenm all swimming in a rich, yellowy curry sauce.  It is divine.  A revelation.  I lick the plate. 

We are now over four weeks into our journey.  I wonder if William is getting tired of me.  Curry dripping from my bottom lip, I ask him. 

"Yes."

We decide to celabrate our new good moods.  We stumble upon happy hour at Mr. Greedy´s, a bar with a sand floor populated entirely by tourists - Australians, English, Canadians - and us.  All here for what is surely the country´s best drink special: local Belizean rum and Coke for 2 Belize Dollars ($1 USD).  We have six.  Each.

We love Belize.  We love everything and everybody.  We meet two vacationing Americans from California who gladly hop on our happy hour train and ride it into the wee hours of the morning.  We talk about what every backpacker talks about: Where are you from?  Where have you been?  Where are you going?  Rarely are you asked what you do.  Everyone assumes if you had something to do you would be back home doing it.  We are lost children, all of us.  Trying to find ourselves on the dusty roads of some crazy banana republic.

The night is a blur.  I vaguely remember being at a reggae bar with a dirt floor and a thatched roof and huge thumping speakers.  And at another Chinese restaurant sitting in front of mountains of conch and fried rice.  And at a glistening new casino, wildly out of place in the middle of Belize where we drunkenly played roulette and tried our luck at the slots.  We lose, horribly.  I try to get a cash advance on my credit card.  Which is hilarious for many reasons.  Thankfully neither I nor the casino banker can manage the transaction.  And by the way, what is a slick Vegas-y casino doing in the middle of the jungle?!

But the night is a success.  Our moods have elevated and we feel welcomed into a new country.  We go off to sleep, full, satisfied, and very happy to be here.