Orange Walk, Belize
At the ruins of Xunatunich, near the border with Guatemala, gun toting Belizean soldiers kept us company. "For our protection", I told my wife. But here in Orange Walk, in the quiet center of Belize, we found only peace, Mennonite farmers, and the striking ruins of Lamanai.
One great fig tree grows from a grassy clearing along the river. A wooden dock extends from the tree’s roots rippling through the lawn. The dock spans 20 feet or so but still remains well within the dripping tentacles of the old tree, its branches decorated with the tropics’ ornaments: numerous epiphytes. As my wife and I approach the dock, a covey of Gray-necked wood rails tear along the riverbank, beating a mad pace into the undergrowth further down the river.
The New River below the dock is dark and still; in fact, the only boat we saw in two days was the skiff that ferried us to the Mayan ruins at Lamanai Archaelogical Park. Within the last hour, our trying bus ride (read ride the express service, not the local) from Belize City had terminated in Orange Walk, a cement knuckle on the banks of the New River in northern Belize. Tomorrow we will journey down the river and into Belize’s past, the Mayan past at Lamanai.
We’d been in Belize for less than a week and already deemed it a place of perfect docks. A day before, while visiting the cayes off Belize’s shore, we wiled hours away on a dock on Caye Caulker, a ramshackle island settlement destined to be blown away by the ocean wind.
The cayes possess a different beauty than the subtropical jungle of Belize’s interior. The locals move at the speed of the lulling ocean that in one way or another supports the entire community. It appeared to require a large group of people, emphatically speaking English words that I recognized, but suddenly made musical, to get work done. The cleaning of the day’s catch drew a good crowd of men to the dock outside our hotel. An antique boombox was produced and the men set to skinning the fish with practiced ease, working to the ubiquitous reggae beat. Occasionally, a fisherman would throw a fish scrap in the air and a circling frigate bird would swoop to snatch it. Work attire is beach casual, hence, I felt oddly comfortable standing on the hotel’s patio watching the morning’s proceedings in my boxers.
Within Belize’s barrier reef, the Caribbean is placid and warm. When the sun is too hot, an ungainly rolling maneuver frees you of your hammock and deposits you for a swim among your dock’s pilings, sharing the shade with fishes like Houndfish, Beaugregory, and Sand Divers.
However, for a real snorkeling experience, a trip to the reef several hundred yards off Caye Caulker should be arranged. Small boats leave from Caye Caulker’s front dock for half-day and day trips. For a parched tourist still suffering from a trans-caribbean flight, the sudden immersion into twenty feet of clear, cool water is a wonderful shock to the senses. Although I was content to perfect my dead man’s float, our local guide, stripped to his cocoa colored briefs, soon gathered us for a swim through the gullies of a jumbled mass of coral. Without the scars of overuse suffered by so many reefs near tourist centers, the Belizean reef is in good shape and harbors a colorful cast of marine characters.
Not too many miles inland, but seemingly in a different world, the boat for Lamanai docked at St. Christopher’s at 9AM. The late start allowed for a morning bird walk through the grounds. The birds here almost made up for the disappointing Belizean coffee.
We share the small boat with two men from Alabama and our serious but enthusiastic guide, Herminio Novelo. Upon arriving in Orange Walk, we had followed the guidebooks to Herminio. Famished from our travel, Herminio thankfully found us a quality café and recounted Lamanai’s history over rice and beans. Dr. David Pendergast of the Royal Ontario Museum excavated Lamanai in the 80’s and Herminio participated. The city’s roots lie in the Mayan preclassic period. Mayans still inhabited Lamanai when the Spanish and later the British arrived upon Dzuluinicob, the Mayan name for the New River. Dzuluinicob translates to "foreign men."
I’d hardly situated myself, my binoculars, camera, raincoat, bird book and water bottle when Dzuluinicob’s avian denizens began to present themselves. Across the river from the dock, a Green Kingfisher perched low above the water. I got my first look at a Northern Jacana; its long yellow toes, splayed like the roots of a mangrove allowed it to hop from lily pad to lily pad. High above, a Collared Falcon ghosted by.
Nearing midday and hour two of our boat ride, the highest towers of Orange Walk’s ancient counterpart, 10 miles upriver, peek out above the canopy. A tower’s exposed cornice suggests a brooding presence beneath the likewise massive guanacaste trees. Lamanai is composed of dozens of temples, many buried under later structures, rich soil, cohune palms, bullet trees, and ceiba trees. Although Lamanai dates through the terminal period of Mayan history, the trees have long since retaken the city.
In Mayan times, the jungle was largely cleared for agriculture and perhaps managed like a never-ending kitchen garden. Smooth paths buzzing with industry would have radiated from the city, running across field, farm and under the eaves of the life-sustaining forest and onwards to distant city-states. Lamanai still hums with industry and people: tourism and tourists. Yet, away from the main temples, quiet paths link less excavated ruins.
Our small group strikes out upon such a trail. I have one eye on the canopy as we walk and my diligence is soon rewarded. Along the trail to the "crocodile mask temple" a Slaty-tailed Trogon sunbathes in the canopy. The same burst of midday tropical sun enjoyed by the trogon illuminates the temple’s title crocodile sculpture. It’s a peaceful scene, one that would be unknown to a resident of Lamanai during its peak inhabitation.
Leaving the crocodile temple, we follow a trail across moist earth to the site’s tallest tower N10-43. N10-43 is the first of several sky renting temples that I doggedly ascend. To the chagrin of my wife, I insist on standing on the tops of each tower and temple. Yet, what better way is there to commune with the Mayans awe for the heavens and respect for grand heights then to stand alone under the thick tropical sky.
The trees at the base of N10-43 soften light and sound and a respectful quiet descends on our small group. Far from any modern town, the ruins of a once grand settlement slumber in a green blanket of disconnect.
Throughout Belize, repose possesses the forested mounds of Mayan ruins like Lamanai, Xunantunich, and Cahal Pech, but the silence of stone lends to easy contemplation of humankind’s past.
Tearing through my meditation, a Howler monkey’s cry signals the departure of the other boatloads of visitors. With the ruins practically empty and afternoon waning, the arboreal caretakers noisily retake the site. Their cacophonous calls increase as our boat heads downriver to Orange Walk.
After dinner is inhaled, we walk the town’s bumpy streets. By the river and along the margins of the forest, the residents fight a continual battle to keep their weather beaten homes insulated from nature. However, they are quick to wave and say hello. Finding a popular pandulceria on Beytias street, we watch the locals pile their sweets on trays and after several encouraging nods and smiles we do so ourselves. My wife and I grab a couple extra for the next day’s bus ride to San Ignacio, a lively jungle city near the Belize-Guatemala border. The directions are simple: take the high speed Northern Highway south to the higher speed Western Highway west.
Although just a two-day detour on the road from the cayes to the verdant Cayo district, the trip to Lamanai provided us with thousands of years of history to ponder. As it turns out, we have many quiet hours to mull over our Lamanai experience. Stricken by g.i. troubles, my wife implores me to find a nice hotel to crash in. We splurge and book two nights at duPlooy’s Jungle Lodge outside San Ignacio. While my wife lounges in a huge hammock strung up in a screened patio, I birdwatch from the canopy-level bar and the hotel’s wooden walkway that snakes through the treetops. Each morning, the resort’s bird guide is on hand to identify the Violaceous Trogons, Crimson-collared Tanagers, and Yellow-throated Euphonias as they move past the bar, several feet from the railing. I kick my feet up on that same railing, sip my coffee, and leisurely contemplate the forested fate of the Mayans.