A Bamba Klatt Mon! (Day 3)

First of all I would like to say a big "Happy Aniversary" to my Mom and Dad. Congratulations on 28 years of wedded bliss!

The Morning Episode –
Today was my first experience crossing from Mexico to Belize and LORD was it taxing. The Belizean Border crossing is the most old school, crony style, pad the pocket of the man type bullshit. I send the pax through and then I spent the next 4 hours waiting for my papers to go through. I work with a broker who helps speed up the process and he sends out an underling (my guy was named Miranda) to do all the running between offices with my paperwork. At one point Miranda was standing with my paperwork outside an office for about 40 minutes. When I asked why, he told me that the official he needed a signature from was eating lunch. When finally my paperwork was approved, I had to unload all of the gear off of the top of the van solo because the customs official didn’t want to climb up the van ladder to look it over. He wouldn’t even open up the boxes, he would point and have me open them… bastard. After 4 hours of nothing, I got the nod of approval. I picked up my pax and it was off to Belize City to catch the 4:30 water taxi to Caye Caulker.

The Afternoon Episode -
Caye Caulker is a neat little island that sits between the coast of Belize and the Belize barrier reef. The vibe is definitely Chill – lots of Rastas speaking a thick Jamaican style Creole, lots of little Reggae bars, locals relaxing in hammocks and people posting up on the porch watching the barefoot tourists strolling the sandy streets lined with colorful, stilted shacks.

The Evening Episode – I spent the first half of the evening having a “family meal” with all of my passengers at a local place named “Rasta Pasta”. After a pretty kick ass meal, my group and I strolled the quiet streets slowly talking our way from the restaurant to the bar. The bar was called “I & I Bar” – a three story mouse maze of catwalks, swings, hammocks, dreads and rum punch. I hung out and around my group at the beginning of the evening, but soon my group dispersed on the sly, leaving my solo in the bar. I found myself talking to a handful of Estadounidenses when the next thing I knew it was bar time and I was being shuffled outside. I found myself standing outside with an 18 year-old Santa Cruz native, two girls from Las Cruces, New Mexico and Carl a local Rasta. We rolled to Carl’s house, a small shack on the west side of the island. The floors of his house were on a noticeable slant and it was absent of furniture and decoration… a completely empty room save for a shoe box filled with photocopied articles about Rastafarianism, a huge bag of pot and some dried banana leaves for rolling joints. The others smoked a huge spliff while I got the low down from Carl about how to live my life as a Rasta.