You Betta Belize It!

Hey mons, did anybody notice that it was bacation time??

I did. See?

This is the beautiful Belize. Having just returned from there, I am happy to report that it is still stunningly gorgeous and full of beer. Well, a little less full of beer than when I got there, but don't worry, there's still plenty left for you. Buuuuuuuurp. When I did all the counting in my head, I realized that this was my fifth--FIFTH!--trip down there. This is bordering on an addiction, I'm afraid. A very expensive addiction.

This trip was a lot like the month of March in that it came in like a lion and went out like a lamb. My general ignorance and total lack of foresight (hello, internet!) left me blissfully unaware that a tropical depression was forming in the very center of our travel destination. My first clue that things weren't going as planned was when the pilot of our big ol' fat airplane couldn't land because he couldn't see the airstrip. Could not see the airstrip. And frankly, at that point, we just weren't that far above it. Ladies and gentlemen, it does not build your flying confidence to be told by your pilot that he cannot land because he can't find the airstrip. And the more he assured us that there was no need to worry because we had plenty of fuel left, the less secure I felt. Fortunately, all the up-and-downing of the plane started to make me feel a little barfy at this point, so I lost interest in fearing for my life in favor of worrying that I might york in the middle of a plane full of strangers. Somehow that seemed worse, because let's face it, nobody wants to be the one to set off a chain reaction.

Fortunately, on our FOURTH PASS, the pilot set us down perfectly on the airstrip with nary so much as a wobble. And that is when the fun started, because guess what? If your big old 737 plane can barely negotiate flying through the murk of a tropical depression, there is absolutely no hope for a 6-seater puddle jumper to navigate its way out to your island home. Nor can a water taxi pick you up and get you where you need to be. And while you might think that just being in Belize would be enough, you have obviously never been to the Philip S. W. Goldson International Airport. While it's true that Jet's Bar (a tiny little watering hole wedged between duty free shopping and gate 2) would be happy to accommodate your drinking needs, Jet does eventually go home and has no hesitation in leaving your drunk, sadass self there.

So there we were, wet and homeless. Fortunately, a kind agent recommended a fine hotel a mere five minutes away from the airport that had shuttle pickup. What more could a person want? The Global Village was all that and a slice of cheese, if you don't mind your cheese presented in a very utilitarian and low budget format. I'm pretty sure at the end of the day housecleaning just turned on a high-pressure hose and washed all the hippie grime down the drain. Here, allow me to illustrate:

This place was the cat's meow, the bee's knees, the standard by which all future accommodations will be judged. Having set up flights out for the morning--because Lord knows we were on a schedule and tropical depression Arthur would just need to move on--a number of us from the airport had made our weary way out there and set up shop for the night. The spartan surroundings were just one big ha-ha on our road to adventure. Everything was tile-covered and dimly lit, along with a television that showed snow. Lots and lots of pretty snow. I found that if I tilted myself slightly onto my left butt cheek while sitting on the bed, I could turn the lights out. With my butt. Very handy, that.

Arthur really got his bad self going during the night and entertained us with practically nonstop lightning and thunder shows. It really just seemed like welcoming fireworks to me and, even then, I was dumbass ignorant of the larger implications of the storm. Come the next morning I was up and eager to get back to the airport on our 8:30 flight. So off we went without checking the weather (unless you count sticking your head out the window) and without checking the status of outgoing flights. Because why would we need to? We had a scheduled flight, after all.

Now all you smarty folks out there have probably long figured this out, but in case the point has evaded you, Belize is pretty much at sea level. So even though the rain had abated, water was still sloshing all around with no place to go. This was especially true on our destination island, which had less land mass to absorb the inches and inches of rain that had fallen overnight. So when we marched right in to get on our plane and fly our happy selves out of there, we quickly learned that the airstrip on the island was underwater and no flights were departing. And no, actually, they didn't know when flights would be available. And no, actually, they didn't know what we should do with ourselves now. And please, ma'am, would you please stop asking stupid questions and go away?

Fine. So we sat and pondered and questioned and weighed the possibilities and finally decided that if an airstrip is underwater, it is highly unlikely that it will be ready to accept incoming planes anytime soon. Therefore we hired ourselves a taxi and told the driver to whisk us away to Belize City, an inviting place noted largely in guide books for its high crime rate. He kindly informed us that the city was quite flooded and impassable but maybe we would like to go to a nice hotel on the outskirts of town. We had so stopped caring by this point that we said yes and that is how we came to spend the next four hours of our lives at the Belize Best Western Biltmore Plaza:

It was lovely and welcoming and, most of all, the water had not yet encroached upon it, so it was perfect. We chatted with other travelers and sent out e-mails letting people know we were okay, (although it turns out that news of Arthur had hardly made headlines in the U.S.--what?!--so there was really no need to bother). And we got a very nice room where we drank whiskey and knitted and ate snacks. And it was good, this one more step on the road to our Eventual Beach Adventure. There's a camaraderie that develops among wayward travelers that makes even the most annoying of snafus okay, because they are shared snafus and we're all going to the beach to drink beer, anyway.


Lo and behold, on a leg-stretching tour of the hotel I discovered that the lobby had cleared out, suggesting--nay, promising!--that flights must be back on! After a quick confirmation with the front desk, we grabbed bags and the first taxi we could get to make our second trip to the airport for the day. A few hours later, we were happily tucked into our decadently luxurious room and enjoying this view:



Ahhhhhhhhh, yes..... A little cloudy, a little windy, but still beautiful, yes? Yes. And with a definite upgrade to the bathroom, I must say:



What you can't see is the swimming pool-sized jacuzzi bath and the mighty fine walk-in shower with a spigot placed conveniently at foot level, the better with which to wash off all that pesky sand at the end of the day. I'm happy to report that the rest of the week was spent exactly as it should be on a beach vacation--drinking beers on the lanai, snorkeling with the sting rays, walking about town, seeing old friends and meeting new.

And as for me, now that I've returned to the landlocked, reptilian climate of my New Mexico home? Well, I've started a new penny jar. For trip number six.