Saigon to Superior: Chicken Buses and the Queen's Cash

Dock Frolic

I’m staring at Queen Elizabeth’s jeweled crown on my weathered Belizean Dollar bill. A short week back, we were on a well-engineered boat ramp that snaked its way to the river that forms the Mexican/Guatemalan border. Our trusted Mexican guide, Elias, waved goodbye as he headed toward his shiny van and we began the 30-minute voyage aboard a thatch-roofed wooden long boat toward the Guatemalan customs hut sitting atop the mud road on the river’s opposite side. Even the vegetation on the Guatemalan side looked worn down. This realization was put into two simple words by the well-heeled, Jennifer Lopez look-alike, Mexican mom sitting next to me. Pointing east, she exclaimed, "Mexico!" then pointing west, "Guatemala..." No adjectives needed: Guatemala’s trees were dead.

Ironically, the rest of Guatemala was a natural treasure. The town of El Remate is a lakeside paradise and its people a cast of colorful characters that will keep your own travel stories rolling long after you've surrendered your backpacks for your office desk. Tikal, the ancient center of Mayan civilization, is an awesome, jungle-enshrouded gem. You'll just have to baby your kidneys after the San Juan Company's "chicken bus" jiggles them like a paint mixer at eighty miles per hour along Martian roads, with drivers that pick or don't pick you up at their whim and hurl your backpacks around like bags of fertilizer. They're often the only gig in the country, though, and hence, our ticket onto Belize.

The Belize/Guatemala border is another night-and-day comparison: Weathered stucco customs hut to the west with two office windows servicing a sun-baked sidewalk; large shining customs house to the east with twenty-foot ceiling and fans. To the west, Latino agents nonchalantly posting exit stamps; to the east, African and Latino agents asking me, in Queen's English, "How are you doing today Mr. Freshwater?" as they engage in small talk about the world’s current events. Once across the border, we couldn’t find the Guatemalan bus driver who was supposed to drive us on to our destination. But, no worries: The cost of a taxi to the Belizean border town, San Ignacio, was just a few bucks, and a welcome break from our former daredevil driver and his rusted rocket ship.

The wait time for our taxi was twenty seconds. As Guatemala melted in the mirror we entered a new world. Stucco and cement-block buildings quickly gave way to a funky Caribbean architecture using lots of wood. Thousands of miles of thick jungle turned to manicured parcels or tamed brush, their intense spring greenness a lush nod to a forest canopy logged long ago. The cab’s windshield brandished a large insurance sticker. We hadn’t seen any of those in Mexico or Guatemala. I'm not sure they exist.

To be clear, we hadn’t exactly arrived in the Emerald City. A dusty economy was evident in the fading paint and our own driver's worn car, with brakes that began to fail on the edge of town. But within the blink of an eye he pulled over and passed us to another driver, along with his fare. I don't think this would have been a priority in the two countries we had just been. Or perhaps, I am not giving credence to these culture’s road-rocketing psyches, in which most drivers thrive on laughing in the grim reaper's face—who himself is likely perched in place of a guardrail around the next bend. This attitude was no doubt embodied by our terrific Mexican tour guide, Elias, barreling along rural roads at 80 mph without a seatbelt, while I nonchalantly worked at mine from its semi-permanent knot on the ceiling.

Pulling into San Ignacio, another difference between Belize and its Spanish neighbors quickly revealed itself. The Spanish and Mayan titles that grace just about every storefront and restaurant in Southern Mexico and Guatemala were now sharing the sidewalks with English, East Indian, and especially Chinese. Even in a western border town, hours from the sea, the British Empire was aglow. Policemen, alone or in pairs, walked with a polite and polished esprit de corps. This was a sharp contrast from their counterparts in Mexico, who perpetually lounged about in groups, bored from the inactivity behind their armor and sand bags.

This is Belize? I had no idea. Up until now, I had lumped the country together with the rest of Central America, attributing its English-speaking roots to some random anomaly in history that had left a light footprint in language alone. I learned that Belize was settled in the early 1600s by English pirates; its hidden beaches and atolls a perfect place to lie in wait for the passing Spanish Armada, who rode low in the water while loaded with Aztec gold. The men married Mayan women. They had great looking kids. Eventually the Monarch cousins of England and Spain struck a deal, and the buccaneers were forced to turn toward the jungle at their backs to earn a living. They quickly made a fortune in mahogany.

Soon, the loggers were joined by a new race from across the Caribbean. This culture’s legacy began when slave ships crashed off the isle of St. Vincent. The escaped Africans found an agreeable island-home and quickly intermarried with its resident Arawak and Carib Indians. A conglomerate mix of Swahili, Arawak, Carib, Spanish, and English evolved into the language of the Garifuna. They governed St. Vincent for more than 125 years, giving the British a good fight along the way, until finally, overwhelmed by Redcoats, they were sent packing across the sea. When their longboats found Belize, the crown-scoffing former buccaneers were willing to share their beaches.

Energized by the country’s bright rainbow of people, we were introduced to yet another culture a week later. While sitting in the back of typical Belizean transit—a well-maintained used school bus from the U.S.—they appeared. Throughout our ride, we’d been surrounded by Garifuna men in their NBA jerseys, Mayan women in their brightly colored skirts, and Mestizo children in their crisp jeans and collared shirts. Then the bus came to a stop, and on the newcomers came, pale Dutch skin in dark blue overalls, belt-length beards, and round straw hats. As if on cue, Mennonites were suddenly everywhere; at the fruit stand outside my window, clopping by in a horse and buggy, playing volleyball in their traditional dress, even going for a swim in their eighteenth-century uniforms. Wow.

Learning Belize’s history, and then finding a different culture in each new town we stop, a question is burning in my head: What is it about the British Empire that has made so many of its former outposts a rich mix of every culture it once disturbed? It’s as if every town, one hundred years ago, held a Model Empire conference, and all attendees were, for whatever reason or another, forever marooned. Also, why is a smiling Queen still adorning so many of their “independent” bills? I’ve inquired about this with folks from the Yukon to Oceana. Through each response I’ve found a common thread. They’ll make fun of her plenty. Better you don’t. Our Garifuna dinner host revealed this just last night. At my prodding, she chuckled a good bit about Elizabeth’s last visit to Belize. “You’d’ve thought that God himself had come down to Earth!” Whole towns received a fresh coat of paint. But as we sat outside her worn beach-side home, a moment of light reflection came across her face—“She’s a nice lady though.”

(7/29/05)