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The Two Gringas Mexico leg is done, and that thread is getting to be so very long, that I'm beginning the Belize leg with a fresh one. -Lena

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Two Gringas Drive in Belize

Day 8, Part 2 - Thursday afternoon 23 October 2003 - Belize

"Double your paper, double your fun!"

Well, even tho' we have got *to* Belize, we are not yet actually *in* Belize, and so the story must continue...

Mile 4169 - Santa Elena, Corozal District, Belize

During our loop through the Free Zone and subsequent exit and turn toward Customs and Immigration, we have missed a crucial sign: it says "STOP - Compulsory Quarantine!"

Not that we would necessarily have actually stopped for this sign, as there are no buildings or uniforms of any significance anywhere near the sign - just a couple dusty little shacks among the abandoned vehicles and rubbish and various dusty layabouts to match.

We pause for the first uniform we find, but he just waves vaguely in the direction we're heading anyway, which is toward the obvious customs checkpoint. Which is, of course, exactly not what we're supposed to do.

Now, they've actually got some very nice people here on the Belize side of the border, who wear a (yellow, was it?) tee shirt which has stenciled upon it something like "Customs Assistance", and these nice folks smile genuine smiles and are there for no other purpose than to round up lost souls such as ourselves and put us back on the path of the righteous. Free of charge.

One such angel gets to us just before the scowling uniform at the checkpoint can, and we are given a (to our lunch-less, sun-scorched, addled minds) complex series of procedures to negotiate and are then packed back off to the aforementioned "Compulsory Quarantine!"

This time we do see the sign, after a U-turn, and "STOP!" next to it and wait for something to happen.

Then a dusty, shambling little creature appears from the shade cast by one of the shacks - I am somehow reminded of a sunbaked, Creole version of Gollum - and behind him he is dragging what appears to be an ordinary home-use tank sprayer.

He eagerly explains the process, the fee, the tip he should get in addition to the fee, and then - for some reason - drops his can and ushers me off toward another little shack which turns out to represent one of the three Belizean insurance companies - presumably the one which also gives him a tip to which he is entitled.

And at some point during this show, we are joined by another dusty creature who has shambled across the street, this one young and lanky, who the first creature sternly informs me is "...a liar and a cheat - don't give him anything!" while simultaneously the lanky unit is in my other ear explaining about how he forms the vital link in the process. The stereoscopic effect is highly disorienting.

Denise sits-guard in the car as I am hustled off to the insurance hovel by my entourage, where I buy a month's worth for I forget how little ($30 Bz, maybe?).

Meantime, back at the car, Gollum has done whatever it is he does, and as I return to the vehicle I am presented with a bill for (I think it was) $7 Bz.

As I am pulling out a few US dollars to ransom the Bomber, and dancing back-and-forth in a half-circle to keep Lanky behind me and away from my money, Gollum ushers in the next member of the cast - a very business-like Hispanic fellow with a bulging money belt.

"Dis-a-man give you real good price pesos, U.S. dollar too!"

I am beginning to feel like a nice fat hunk of The Other White Meat, trapped between the back end of my car and the feeding frenzy. I could take any one of these piranha, but I am nearly helpless against the press of numbers. My only hope is to throw chum and get out of the water as quickly as possible.

I give the cambiodor my pesos and he rips me off for about 5%. I know better than to give up any US dollars and, had I been thinking clearly, I would've held onto the pesos too, since I'll be driving down again in January!

I pay the "Compulsory Quarantine!" bill with a $10 Bz note, which Gollum pockets (without regard to subtraction) in exchange for a small stamped paper. Moneybag, meantime, has vanished without a trace.

As I try to make a break for the driver's side, I am headed off by Lanky, regarding whom Gollum seems to have had a change of heart, and now feels deserves a tip for his contribution to the enterprise. I lose a couple more dollars as I dive for the sanctuary of the Bomber's cockpit. In the left-side mirror I see Gollum taking his cut from Lanky.

I start the car - and the A/C.

"What'd he do?"

"Not much, he sprayed some stuff around the wheels, that was about it."

"Was he spraying the undercarriage and all?"

"Nope - just a little squirt on each wheel."

"Well I hope he didn't get any on the paint."

"Not much chance of that..."

. . .

We creep forward a hundred yards or so and debate our next move. We compile and average our mis-remembered misinformation and somehow end up parked in the correct lot next to the correct building.

The instructions were to empty the vehicle and carry all our "luggage" into the Customs and Immigration building for inspection. We look mournfully upon the press of boxes, bags, carry-alls, rubbish, dirty laundry, tools, emergency kit, etc. It's at least 100 yards to the door. There is just no way...

We lock the car and amble off toward Customs empty-handed, in the hopes of pleading or paying for someone to come out to the car for the luggage inspection.

And we're halfway to the door when Denise has a stroke of pure genius - the chick has learned a lot during our short passage through Mexico.

"Hey - we have luggage!"

"Yeah, in spades. So?"

"No, I mean we have luggage, you know, my carry-all, your red gym bag..."

Comprehension passes over my face like sunrise.

"The guy said 'take all your *luggage* into Customs'!"

"Right. And we do, in fact, have several pieces of luggage!"

We jog back to the car and each grab a couple pieces of "luggage." The woman's a genius, plain and simple.

We enter a vast concrete hall which is populated by only a few migrant souls such as ourselves, and a roughly equal number of uniforms and badges. I shudder to think how much time the process would require if a significant number of folks ever wanted into Belize.

We have been worn down. The Mexican uniforms, Belizean uniforms, and all the in-betweeners have nearly broken us. We are in no condition to discuss our purposes in Belize or the importation of the vehicle. We agree on a scenario as we approach the Immigration desk and drop our luggage. Wordlessly, we produce our passports.

"What are you going to do in Belize?"

I am momentarily stumped.

"Visit?"

"Where are you staying?"

"Placencia."

"Where?"

"Uh, a hotel?"

"How long?"

"Uh, a week or two?"

"You've been in Belize before."

A statement; the visas in the passports are obvious.

"Yes, we come a couple times each year."

"And you are bringing your own vehicle?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Again, I am momentarily stumped.

"Uh, so we can see more of the country?"

"Then what?"

"What?"

"Then what will you do with the vehicle?"

"Uh, drive home?"

Evidently the concept "road-trip" has yet to reach this far south; the uniform seems highly suspicious of our intent. The standard Belizean tourist visa is for one month. She gives us ten days. We are too weak to object - or even to notice, actually - not until much later anyway...

We advance slightly to the Customs function (at least they don't insist on putting them in distant buildings like the Mexicans do). Denise is instructed to take both our luggage and exit the rear of the building to wait outside with the other passengers. There is utterly no interest as to what might be in the bags, but-

"You may not come back through! You wait out there for the vehicle!"

Denise trundles off under her double load like a whipped mule. I am escorted back in the other direction by a badge with a clipboard. This is the part I'm dreading...

"Open the vehicle."

Duh. I open both doors.

"And the boot."

And the only thing I'm really worried about is the enormous aluminum cube of the long-range tank which occupies 80% of the trunk. It appears, however, to have become invisible.

"What's this?"

The badge jabs her pen at a fair-sized box jammed in on one side of the tank. It's a top-of-the-line inkjet printer requested by a friend. In the original box.

"Accessory for my laptop."

The pen jabs, "What's this?"

"Emergency road kit."

It's a complete toolset for a mechanic friend. The badge moves to the passenger compartment. She looks in the large plastic bag which crowns the heap in the back seat and discovers ripe, week-old dirty laundry (how'd that get there?).

"What's in there?"

A brown box sticking out from the base of the heap which contains office supplies unavailable in Belize.

"My books."

"And this?"

"My coffee maker."

"New?"

"Oh no, very used! I have to have my coffee in the morning, you know! Would you like to look?" I am anxious to prove the verity of my one truthful statement.

"No."

The badge completes her cursory inspection. I doubt very much that she has bought into any of this. It's just not worth her effort to pursue in the heat of the afternoon.

"Would you like me to open the hood?"

"No."

The clipboard is heading back toward the building. Once again, I am momentarily stumped, but a perfunctory gesture causes me to hastily close up the car and follow my mistress back to receive paper.

I am instructed to return to my vehicle and pass through the checkpoint to pick up my passenger and luggage. At the checkpoint I dispense my paper to the uniform, who inspects is at such great length that I begin to wonder if he has seen this kind of thing before. Eventually my paper is returned and I am waved through. I am still not sure what function the checkpoint fulfills.

Finally, I pull up beside Denise and our luggage.

Denise, who has been forced to stand with the various other passengers, out in the blistering afternoon sun, no seating, no shade or water provided whatsoever - for about an hour. Had it been pouring down rain (as it did that morning), they and their baggage would have been in an alternate predicament. But-

"You may not come back through!"

Denise had tested the rule once, and been so rebuffed. Evidently I arrived just in the nick of time, as she was in the process of heading back in to resume the debate in a somewhat different tone. Lord knows what they would've gotten us for then...

We reload the Bomber. Denise recovers under the influence of sweet liquids and A/C as we pick up speed, heading southward into Belize.

Soon there are cheers, pantomime champagne toasts and hi-fives all around - we made it, we actually made it!



But, alas, the celebration is just ever so slightly premature...

. . .

[b]Clic here to see all Day 8 pix...[/i][/u][/b]

[i]Text and accompanying photographs are copyright 2003 Galena Alyson Canada.

___________________________________________
MissLena is Galena Alyson Canada
Her email is [u]themisslena á gmail ó com
Her personal blog is at galenaalysoncanada.blogspot.com
The new Two Gringas blogsite is TheTwoGringas.blogspot.com

Miss Lena, Sorry for the delay, was out of town.
Thank you, for the last installment. Hope you are enjoying your stay in Belize. Can we beg another chapter? Indygal

Oh my goddess, Miss Lena, remind me never to attempt to drive into Belize from Mexico!

MORE! MORE! MORE! Thanks Miss Lena!

> Oh my goddess, Miss Lena, remind me never to attempt to drive into Belize from Mexico!

OK, now hang on here jussaminnit... My intent is *not* to dissuade folks from driving in Mexico or Belize or from one to the other.

Remember folks, this is storytelling; that doesn't mean anything here is untrue (it's all true and more-or-less as-it-happened), but it does mean that seven minutes spent dealing with a corrupt official makes more story than seven hours of uneventful, scenic road.

There is a disproportionate representation of "interesting" stuff vs. "nice" stuff here -- not much story in watching a sunset from your hammock, but give me a petty official with a bad goma...!

Our trip went quite well -- so well that we're doing it again at the end of January. There are many, many folks who make the trip repeated times and like it (someone out there want to comment on this?).

My only caveat would be your own attitude. You can check that using the following simple quiz:

Q: I look at a flight delay as...
(a) a chance to meet fellow travelers.
(b) don't bug me with your silly questions, my book is just getting good...
(c) an opportunity to ream the counter attendant a new one.

If you answered (a) or (b) don't worry, you're good to go. If you answered (c) you'll probably end up in jail: stay home. ;-)

'Lena

> Can we beg another chapter?
. . .
> MORE! MORE! MORE! Thanks Miss Lena!

Yeah, OK, OK, hang on, I'm workin' onnit... ;-)

'L

Miss Lena, You are just too much fun.

On to Peru!!!!

Oh, Bill don't send Miss Lena off to Peru, she is working on another chapter. If she gets on the road again she won't have time to entertain us. Besides I was hoping to meet her. She is so funny - I'll bet she is fun too.

Miss Lena where on earth are you these days? Or rather where in Belize are you?

Oh, I don't know, I've always been curious about Peru...

Don't worry, I'm actually just finishing up the next episode this morning.

As to where I am, actually I just got back to Seattle for Xmas, and I'll be spending January getting things squared away here and the next vehicle prepped for the drive back down, currently scheduled to start Friday 30 January 2004...

Yep, we're nutz.

'Lena

Two Gringas Drive to Belize

Day 8, Part 3 - Thursday afternoon 23 October 2003 - Belize

"OK, so what's worse than a Mexican cop on the take?"

We were so thrilled to have gotten to Belize, made it in and out of Customs and Immigration, got out onto open highway and pointed south towards "home", that we were completely blindsided by what happened next. Had we maintained the alertness and poise which took us so smoothly through Mexico we wouldn't have been so surprised and upset, but as it was...


Mile 4170 - just south of Santa Elena, Corozal District, Belize

It's a police checkpoint.

No sooner had we got up to cruising speed than we have to brake to a stop. There are two officers blocking our progress, and upon seeing the US plates they immediately wave us off onto the shoulder and ask us to get out of the car.

They have us open doors and trunk and start going through everything.

"You know, they just went through everything at Customs."

"That's Customs, we're the Police."

One pulls out a bag of roasted coffee beans from the trunk.

"Ah, ah, very bad - this is contraband."

"No it's not!" I am indignant.

"Coffee is produced in Belize, importation is illegal."

"If that were true, don't you think they would have said something at Customs?"

"That's Customs, we're the Police."

The other fellow is rifling through the passenger compartment.

"What's this?!" He has discovered Denise's four bottles of Bud. "Oh, this is *bad*, very bad..." The man is almost gleeful as he extracts his trophy.

The senior officer disappears into the guard shack with the "contraband" prizes discovered thus far. Meanwhile, the other fellow is systematically going through Denise's purse. He seems to be looking for something in particular which he's not finding.

"What do you have for money?"

"Credit cards."

He hands the purse back to Denise with seeming irritation, suspends his search, and motions for me (the driver) to follow him inside. As we go, he mentions that there are sure to be fines associated with our attempt to import contraband, but "we can be flexible." Until now I was suspicious, now I am certain...

As we enter the shack, my escort calls out to the other in a theatrically loud voice,

"Sergeant, so what is the current fine for the illegal importation of controlled substances."

And now I've had it. I am utterly livid. And before the senior officer can speak I have pen and paper out and I'm writing as I speak.

"There is something wrong here."

I move from the junior fellow to the senior fellow, walking part way round him so I can read his shoulder insignia.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking down your badge numbers. There is something very wrong going on here."

The senior officer turns away from me, mumbles something and gestures toward the door.

"What now, that's all? I'm free to leave?"

"Yes, yes...go."

Another sweeping movement toward the door as he retreats. The junior officer appears frozen, as if someone pulled his plug.

I stalk back outdoors, slam the trunk as I circuit the car, and flop into the driver's seat. Denise barely has time to get her door closed before I'm spitting gravel as we leave the shoulder. I power-shift through all the gears until we are roaring south at 75 MPH.

Denise has an, uh, "inquiring" look on her face.

"They got your beer and my coffee, but that's all they got."

Nothing was said for a long time. I was furious, and Denise was trying to disappear into the molding. We still haven't had anything to eat. We substitute cokes and candy bars from a roadside stand. Our only goal now is to make Placencia in time for dinner - several hours away yet.

. . .

We burn south to the junction at the cutoff to Burrell Boom and Hattieville, where there is - that's right - another Police checkpoint.

It is dark by now. Again, the foreign plates get us flagged off to the shoulder. We are only a few miles from the prison at Hattieville, and I'm wondering what the women's facilities are like.

The officer wants every single piece of paper we own, and appears to be using them to teach himself to read on the job, with occasional consultations for tutoring from his superior nearby.

Now I have *never* before, in over five years of traveling around this place, had *any* problem of any kind with the police in Belize, but apparently this was going to be the trip to make up for it. Where, in the past, the cops at the checkpoints had always been friendly and chatty, now they were rude and intrusive. My guess is that it was the foreign plates - this heavy-handed, low-grade harassment was to continue for a month until I got the Bomber properly Belizeified.

Now I know they're on the lookout for stolen cars (which are commonly brought down to Central America), but I think they're being pretty stupid about it: the stolen vehicles are invariably newer pickups, SUVs and luxury cars (not 12-year-old econo-boxes), and they're not being driven by white Americans carrying passports, original title, and full import documentation. Nevertheless I got the fine-toothed-comb treatment at most checkpoints, and it was five-times worse if a Mayan associate happened to be driving.

-------------------
Interlude: Belizean Police and the Law

It is worth noting that Belize does not provide the same due process and search-and-seizure protections which we enjoy in the States. Police can search your vehicle at any time for any reason; and checkpoints - both permanent and "surprise" - are just a fact of driving life in the country.

Individuals, citizen or foreigner, can be held incommunicado for 72 hours without being charged, and it is fairly common for the police to round up a bunch of "suspicious characters" when a crime is reported, pretty much without regard to evidence of any kind. Beatings are not rare, at least down here in the south, and admissions of culpability are often accompanied by severe bruising.

This tendency is exacerbated, if not outright encouraged, by the national policy of having police serve in communities well distant from their own. In practice this usually means that the cops at a particular location are culturally, racially, and often linguistically, distinct from the community in which they serve, have no investment in that community, and resent having to be there.

While the capture and search of unindicted people is, unfortunately, legal in Belize; torture (intimidation and beating) and confiscation of personal property is not - and yet both are common. That I am aware, the only consequences for the police perpetrating these crimes occur when a victim dies in custody - which seems to happen once or twice a year.

If I seem angry and bitter, I have reason. I have seen "better-off" Mayans put large amounts of time and money into getting innocent relations released from these random incarcerations - one poor fellow twice.

That incident required an attorney and days and nights and wives and children weeping and calls to Ministers and the Chief of Police in Belmopan. And then, when enough pressure had been brought to bear, they dumped the poor sonofabitch out on the street at midnight in Punta Gorda, three-plus hours drive from where they'd picked him up at his home in Mango Creek, and someone has to borrow my car to go get him (seven hour round-trip in the middle of the night). Somehow he managed to convince someone to let him use their phone, otherwise...

The two others who got rounded up with him were less fortunate, not having relatives with phones, money, lawyers, or friends with cars. They survived their beatings and were freed after 72 hours.

You will no doubt be relieved to know that I have not heard of anything like this happening to anyone with a western passport. But if you're an intoxicated Mayan with no money - watch out!

End of Interlude.
-------------------

Ah, but all of that rant was still in the future...

At the second checkpoint, the document-challenged officer and his boss eventually decided we weren't the fugitives they were looking for after all, and finally let us go.

I continued to drive until we were past Belmopan - and any more possible checkpoints - then gratefully handed the con over to Denise, took a Xanax, put the seat back, and tried very hard to think about absolutely nothing.

Denise steered us down the darkened Hummingbird Highway, through the north end of the Maya Mountains, and down the Stann Creek Valley to the junction with the Southern Highway just short of Dangriga Town, then a right turn and on southward through the darkened citrus orchards, past my village of Maya Centre without pause, and onward to the junction with the infamous Riverdale/Placencia road.

. . .

It was 8:30 PM, we still hadn't eaten, and it was looking tough for making dinner and a room in Placencia before everything closed. We swapped drivers again, as I am familiar with the road and had the best chance of getting us to dinner on time.

Now there are exactly two speeds at which the Placencia road can be driven: (1) really really slow and (2) really really fast.

The exact values in MPH depend on the road conditions of the moment, your wheel size, suspension, load (inertial mass), experience, skill, and daring. We had the suspension (4x McPherson Struts) and load (plenty) going for us, but not wheel size (13 inch); conditions were dry, surface about typically awful. The experience, skill, and daring go without saying. ;-)

We opted for Speed 2 - harder on the vehicle and driver, but left us with some chance of still getting dinner and a room.

Just under half-an-hour later (!), we parked in Placencia next to the walk-out to the Sea Spray and Da Tatch. (Only lost control of the vehicle once... ;-) We practically sprint toward the beach.

We are at our table at Da Tatch by 9:00 PM; the kitchen closes at 9:30. It's Garifuna Dance night, the drums are wild, everyone's there, the proprietors Jodie and Norman, friends in the band and dance troupe wave, gringos and locals dancing, drinking, hugs and handshakes all around; sand underfoot, moonlight on the sea and supper on the table: the fresh shrimp special, please.

Our usual lodging (the seaside cabana) is available and waiting for us. Our first sense of "home" since Seattle.

We made it. Villahermosa to Placencia in one day. Wow.



== End of Day 8, Mile 4385, Placencia, Stann Creek District, Belize ==


OVERALL TRIP STATS
---------

2003.10.16 - mile 0 - odo 77389 - start Day 1 - Vashon, WA
2003.10.23 - mile 4385 - odo 81774 - end Day 8 - Placencia, BZ

Approximate fuel economy: 32.2 MPG

Mildly unpleasant experiences: 3
Really unpleasant experiences: 3
Actual dangerous experiences: 0
----------------
Daily average negative experiences: 0.75

Mildly pleasant experiences: way too many to factor
Really nice experiences: 17
Just incredibly cool experiences: 5
------------------
Daily average positive experiences: >> 2.75

Overall trip rating: Awesome+




[b]Clic here to see all Day 8 pix...[/i][/u][/b]

[i]Text and accompanying photographs are copyright 2003 Galena Alyson Canada.

___________________________________________
MissLena is Galena Alyson Canada
Her email is [u]themisslena á gmail ó com
Her personal blog is at galenaalysoncanada.blogspot.com
The new Two Gringas blogsite is TheTwoGringas.blogspot.com

Thank you for sharing your experiences, Miss Lena, the good, the bad, and the very ugly. What a trip, what a time. I appreciate getting the "real" take on things, it gives me a much better sense on how things are, or could be. Glad you made it, and may your next trip down be a smooth journey.

I wouldn't mind reading about a road trip to Peru, either. Good idea, Bill!

Thanks again Miss Lena. So you are going to do it all again. Power to the Gringas.

Miss Lena,

I've been reading your travelogue for sometime now, with great interest, and want to thank you for sharing your experiences with us. Sounds like all's well that ends well . . . Now I am waiting to read about your next adventure driving from Seattle to Belize. When will you begin that trip? Hope you have had a very Merry Christmas!

Thank you for all the "thank you"s! You are very encouraging, so I'll be writing more soon...

> Sounds like all's well that ends well . . .

Hey, we had a ball. And we're doing it again!

> Now I am waiting to read about your next adventure driving from Seattle to Belize. When will you begin that trip?

Our tentative schedule is departing Seattle Friday 30 January, arriving Bz Friday 6 February.

Again, we should be able to publish the US leg in real time, but the Mexico-Belize leg will probably publish post-arrival due to time/internet constraints.

Write soon... ;-)
'Lena