The itch to move on
After spending a few days on the small island of Caye Caulker, Belize, I got the urge to move on. I opened up the well-worn pages of a Lonely Planet guide to Belize. The book reminded me of my grandmother’s cast-iron skillet with its dog-eared pages seasoned with fingerprints. I flipped the pages and randomly stopped on a chapter called Placencia, a beach resort on the Caribbean coast of Belize lined with palm trees. Perfect.
The Decision
After reading just a few paragraphs, I decided Placencia was my nest destination. While I had the ability to connect to the internet, I booked a 4-star hostel online and mapped out the 265 km journey in my head, but not on paper. I would need to take a boat, bus, and taxi to get to my final destination. By my calculations, if I left the next morning by 10 AM, I would arrive at the hostel before sunset. My goal was to arrive before nightfall, as nothing good happens when traveling alone after dark. Ever.
On the Move
The commute to the water taxi was short, just a few steps from the hostel. Even with the quick walk, I was among the last to board. No one looked interested in making space for me and my oversized backpack. The captain pointed to an overturned dirty white plastic pail next to the engines and bathroom. It was a five-gallon bucket, so it was big enough to sit. I squatted down and squished my backpack between my legs. I willed myself to ignore the loud engines, toxic exhaust fumes, and the bathroom door that hit me and my nostrils every time a passenger escaped the small airless closet of defecation.
60 minutes later, the boat docked in Belize City, and all the passengers rushed down the plank like an army of ants moving towards a pile of sugar. I stood and massaged my butt in hopes of removing the circular indents that made temporary red tattoos on my thighs.
Open Concept
I needed to make my way to the bus station, which was less than one mile from the Marine terminal. Because the city has a sketchy reputation, I opted for an overpriced three-minute taxi ride to Novelo’s Bus Terminal.
The terminal had an open concept. No windows or doors anywhere. Travelers anxiously stood in line for a ticket to somewhere else. Their excited voices echoed off the bare walls. I stepped up to the small man standing behind scratched plexiglass and asked for a ticket to Placenta. He responded with a question. “Placencia?” Ah yes, Pla-cent-cia not placenta. I slid seven USD through the rectangle hole at the bottom of his cage in exchange for a paper chit that would take me to my final destination.
I leaned closer to the dirty partition, my lips practically touching the plexiglass, and asked, “Which bus?” He pointed to one of the eight buses lined up behind me.
Nervously, I asked for additional clarification since I wanted to make sure I would be headed to Placencia and not Guatemala. Frustrated, he pointed to a few busses at the end of the lot. Frustrated, I left. I walked towards the buses that were painted in various shades of green, from army to olive. They looked like they would be transporting prisoners to the local prison, not to paradise. Drivers stood outside their bus like the Queen’s Guard standing outside of Buckingham Palace, minus the fancy hats. I asked one driver if his bus was going to Placenta. He nodded and mumbled something about a transfer along the way.
Stepping up
Stepping onto the bus, I had flashbacks of riding a similar bus to elementary school. The same putrid brown vinyl seats, still sticky to the touch. Rusted metal bars were bolted onto the roof. I wondered if these were for handcuffs or luggage as I heaved my heavy bag over my head onto the rack. I dropped my sweating body onto the seat and easily slid towards the window.
The bus rocked as an old man dressed in a sweaty ripped shirt without a ticket stumbled up the steps. He maneuvered a dirty cooler around seated passengers selling small empanadas.
Not knowing how long my journey would be, I bought one. The cold pastry enveloped an unidentifiable meat-like filling. I ate it anyway despite the odd aftertaste.
Tired passengers lumbered on the bus looking too tired for 11 in the morning. Mothers pushed their kids down in the seat while simultaneously looking at me with interest.
Our driver climbed aboard, sat in his seat, started the refurbished engine, and pulled the lever to shut the door. The bus left a plume of exhaust and dust as it rumbled out of the terminal. For the next three hours, I stared out at the blurring landscape catching glimpses of life in rural Belize.
Transfer
The bus pulled into the transfer station, and the driver found my eyes in his rear-view mirror. He nodded for me to get off. I struggled to pull my bag off of the luggage rack, trying my best not to touch any seated passenger on my way out. My backpack strap tangled in a woman’s hair causing momentary chaos. I quickly stepped off the bus with a few strands of a stranger’s hair flowing from my backpack.
While I stood in line to speak to the counter attendant, a clock on the wall shows it is nearly two o’clock. When it was my turn, I asked the woman behind bars what time the bus to Placencia will arrive. She told me my next chariot will arrive in less than 10 minutes.
The calm before the swarm
An excitable crowd began to swarm around one bus like bees trying to get into a crowded hive. The ticket agent excitedly waved to me and pointed to the bus. I am the last to board, the only foreigner and the only passenger with luggage. Passengers on this bus have claimed space with attitude and aggression and they were not willing to accommodate anyone. Since it was standing room only, I tried to make myself as thin as possible and straddled my backpack lying on the dirty bus floor.
The over-crowded bus began its journey, and I sensed the tension inside could explode with one small movement. I stared straight ahead until my eyes watered gripping a small section of a seatback and clenched harder whenever the bus lurched or turned. I felt like I was a statue trying not to fall as an earthquake trembled around me. One wrong move and I will crumble on the aggravated passengers.
The tension lowered every time a passenger stepped off the bus and took their bad day with them. A seat opens, the bus lurches and I fall over into the empty space with a heavy sigh of relief.
Where am I
Since I didn’t have internet access, I leaned over to a pleasant-looking woman and asked her if I was on the right bus to Placenta. She corrected me and asked…Placencia? I showed her a picture of the bed where I had my reservation. She nodded and stated it looked familiar and assured me it’s just a few minutes from my stop. Over the next few miles, we passed several expensive-looking resorts and I exhaled with relief. Long gone were the one-room homes with barking dogs chained to trees. The bus pulled into a small dusty depot and the driver opened the door. I made my way down the center aisle and felt like an exhausted drunk. “Placenta?” I asked. He nodded and quickly closed the door behind me.
Where I am going?
I had no internet, no idea where I was or where I was going. The sun was setting and my anxiety was rising. I saw a small shop with a real estate sign hanging in the window and walked up the wooden steps. The women inside were happy to help, they looked at my picture of the bed and nodded. “I think it is down the road. Walk down the road, take a left ….” I lost them after the second turn. For the life of me, I cannot remember directions after the first turn.
I thanked them and as I opened the door and tried to recall what she said after the first left. After 10 minutes of walking, I was getting a bad feeling in my stomach. I was running out of daylight and patience. Dogs barked, reminding me that I was in an unfamiliar place and danger may be lurking somewhere close.
My heartbeat quickened as fast as my feet were moving. I cursed myself for not paying more attention to the name of the hostel or the directions. I was deep in my nervous thoughts when I heard a happy hello. A young man waved and asked if I needed help.
I am here
Close to tears, I shouted to him that I was looking for a hostel and only had a picture of the bed.
“Hold on, I’ll come to take a look,” he said. He navigated a small rowboat with a small engine and expertly arrived to the bulkhead at my feet. I showed him the picture and he smiled widely.
“You have arrived.” he said.
Those were the best words I heard that day.
