So, no other guests at this place. The other tables at breakfast totally silent. No inane chatter. No-one to be snarky about. Which saddens me more than world hunger.
And this was EARLY. Breakfast at six fucking thirty. Out on the crappy, dusty road by 7.15am. Heading towards Caracol. It wasn’t far on the map, but after a wee detour when we headed the wrong way, the road was so shitty it took us until nigh on nine o’clock to get to the military escort point. Apparently this road is a good place to get robbed by bandits. The military point was a couple of wooden buildings with an incredibly loud radio. After some talk of marital infidelity and the joys of the Lord, the radio switched to eighties hour. Maniac, Mickey, Uptown Girl, Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This). In the toilet there was graffiti positioned so that urinating men could read it: “Thank God for what is in my hand is not in my ass!” I guess the John McCain would be a fan of these Belizean soldiers’ opinions on homosexuality.
The military escort was, well, I didn’t really notice any particularly military-looking people or vehicles; there was just a convoy of six tourist cars and buses. And the road got worse. Littered with potholes and big rocks, trenches dug out by the rainy seasons. It was genuinely like driving along a dried out river bed.
A brief paved stretch either side of a river crossing, twenty minutes more bumpy, then a lovely road up to Caracol. Paid the $15 (Belizean) fee, and it was Mayan ruin party time. Some fairly big stuff going on. Took a hike up the biggest to the top, which afforded a wonderful view over the top of the jungle canopy. In the distance, ten shades of hills further and further away in the distance. I had my headphones on. And it was enjoyable. For one thing, I’ve not listened to music much since I’ve been here, so it was nice to choose what was going in my ears. And, thinking of what would be appropriate and realising I didn’t really have anything on my iPod, I listened to “Space,” the ambient house album by Jimmy Cauty which still sounds ace, and sounded really great in a sweaty jungle, sitting at the top of Mayan ruins. Try as I might to enjoy it, and to experience some sort of awe, ruins just don’t do it for me. I wish they did.
We had a wee picnic, then took the road back. This time, though, the journey was punctuated with a break at a place called Rio on Pools. I wasn’t as prepared as the others for a spot of spontaneous swimming, as they’d all brought swimming costumes. So, I felt stupid swimming in my boxer shorts, my cock bobbing and flopping out of the flap every few seconds. It was annoying. A nice place, though. Next time I am visiting some ruins I will endeavour to anticipate the need for swimming trunks.
Back at the hotel place, more lovely food cooked by a very friendly young chap called Abner. Frankly, it’s worth staying there for his cooking. And for the opportunity to meet someone called Abner, which doesn’t happen every day.