I've never been to a Caribbean paradise. The closest I've come is through the stories of cruise shrip journeys that alighted like mystical floating cities from one point to another; now that I'm in Belize and can hear reports of the ships from actual locals, they seem more like frigates of war unloading wave upon wave of fierce gringo strength upon the islands of mainlands.
Oh, and there were those rum (tequila?) commercials that depicted beautiful young people (faces never shown!) lounging beneath the palm trees on a deserted beach, putting limes in their drinks while "miles away from ordinary" flashed on the screen. Those mainly pissed me off, since they always seemed to air when the New Hampshire winter was coldest and darkest.
In true Let's Go form, my journey to the cayes off the Belizean coast took place in Jack-like squalor rather than Rose-like opulence (Titanic fans, this is your day). I, a scrappy and scruffy young artist who won my ticket in a last-minute gambling spree, still enraptured by memories of freezing Wisconsin lakes and nude Parisian girls posing for my shitty drawings, zoomed from Corozal, a coastal town (really Belize's answer to Coney Island) near the Mexican border, to San Pedro on Ambergris Caye. Luckily, I didn't freeze to death in icy Atlantic waters while my selfish flooze of a girlfriend hogged precious living space on a piece of debris (just kidding, I love Kate Winslet and all of her characters). But I did endure hundreds of stomach-busting jolts as the skiff recklessly careened over the heavy Caribbean waves.
San Pedro is Belize's most popular destination, but the less said about it, the better. It's basically the antithesis of Let's Go frugality, dominated by resorts with clear blue pools glared at enviously by dirty travel guide researchers. Though I did have a great time at a downstairs hostel bar, downing jagermeister shots while the British owner gave me helpful advice amidst loud, drunken, usually short phone calls, most of them drunkenly demanding recognition of his upcoming birthday.
Caye Caulker, just to the south, is the lovable pothead younger brother to Ambergris' obnoxiously overachieving grind. No paved streets, but many Rasta guys and backpackers who want to be them. The first one I met, Gilbert, engaged me in conversation as soon as I stepped off the boat. Within a minute he was accusing me of having tagged his people as illiterate. Not sure what I said, but we patched things up quickly; within a few nights we were sharing a tender moment on the bach, gazing at the moon shining brilliantly onto the tranquil sea, as he told me about his romantic misadventures with a 62-year-old Canadian woman. That's CC: dreadlocked, freindly, and a little forlorn.
