A hasty retreat
On Caye Caulker, a tiny coral island some thirty kilometres off the coast of Belize, they know all about hurricanes. In 2000 it was Keith, in 1961 Hattie, bringing death and devastation. Now Felix was on the way. The locals, a mix of Mestizos, Maya and Creoles, greeted the news with a shrug of the shoulders. They'd seen it all before. It was my second day in this miniature tropical paradise, once the haunt of pirates and conquistadors, and possibly my last.
Daily life seemed to be following its usual gentle course. The little girl skipping by, her plaits tied with bright yellow ribbons, the guy with dreadlocks selling his pearly, pink seashells by the Rasta Pasta Oceanside bar, his mates chilling nearby with a beer and reggae under the palms. The “Go slow” sign beside them seemed fitting if superfluous, given that golf buggies are the only vehicles allowed on Caulker. Yet gradually I found myself eying simple actions with suspicion - a mother taking in washing, a shopkeeper bundling stock into bags. Were they actually hurrying? Hurrying on Caulker? The Weather Channel didn't help. The word “catastrophic” was starting to feature.
Daily life seemed to be following its usual gentle course. The little girl skipping by, her plaits tied with bright yellow ribbons, the guy with dreadlocks selling his pearly, pink seashells by the Rasta Pasta Oceanside bar, his mates chilling nearby with a beer and reggae under the palms. The “Go slow” sign beside them seemed fitting if superfluous, given that golf buggies are the only vehicles allowed on Caulker. Yet gradually I found myself eying simple actions with suspicion - a mother taking in washing, a shopkeeper bundling stock into bags. Were they actually hurrying? Hurrying on Caulker? The Weather Channel didn't help. The word “catastrophic” was starting to feature.
The night before, the gangly, young Indian running the tiny travel agency told me he would be manning his post till lunchtime next day, then shocked me by implying he'd be one of the few to stay. Just getting back to the mainland, he told me, was not enough. Rumours about petrol running out in Belize City, supermarket shelves left bare and general chaos made that clear. Heading inland was the only solution and that meant Guatemala.
The Indian scribbled his brother’s name on the back of a ticket for the 2.30 bus to Flores, across the border. He would be at the bus station and yes, the bus would be running. Next step was to get off the island. On the jetty backpackers and Belizeans were filing towards an open boat with serious faces. The ever-present reggae, normally the perfect soundtrack to Caye Caulker’s langorous setting, was starting to grate.
Relieved to be on the move, everyone clambered aboard and squeezed up to make room for others, bags balanced on knees. At least I’d sampled the world-class underwater wonders of Caulker before things turned ugly. The American couple sitting opposite had only just arrived. Their frantic calls to Belmopan, Belize’s capital city, situated well away from the coast, had found not one free hotel room. The backpacker beside me remained engrossed in her book despite the splashes falling on the pages, obviously taking things philosophically. I tried to do the same.
Back on the mainland, my Indian friend proved true to his word. His brother checked my ticket and nodded reassuringly. The bus station was humming. Water-taxis arrived periodically with news. Five hundred people were still waiting on the dock to leave San Pedro on Ambergris Caye, Caulker’s more upmarket big sister. The sight of more and more locals spilling out of the water taxis, clutching blankets and toys, was worrying. Belizeans, normally laid-back and unhurried, were talking frantically on mobiles, mothers clasping babies to them, a second and third child clinging to their skirts, perhaps a fourth on the way. An enterprising teenager in a battered baseball cap made his way through the crowd selling flashlights, bundles of them dangling from each skinny wrist. The Flores bus eventually materialised, looking well past its prime but as the slips of paper in our hands felt like winning lottery tickets, we weren’t about to complain. Our luggage was heaped on the roof and secured with ropes and the motley crew of backpackers with a sprinkling of Belizeans bundled on board. Our initial sense of urgency soon drained away as we sat cramped and sweating for an hour until our driver arrived.
Relief melted into cameraderie as the bus left both Belize and the projected course of Hurricane Felix behind and six bumpy hours later we rolled gratefully into Flores. Guatemala lay hidden under a cloak of darkness, an unplanned treat to be savoured in the days to come. Felix, we heard later, eventually changed course and, this time at least, Caye Caulker was spared.
Back on the mainland, my Indian friend proved true to his word. His brother checked my ticket and nodded reassuringly. The bus station was humming. Water-taxis arrived periodically with news. Five hundred people were still waiting on the dock to leave San Pedro on Ambergris Caye, Caulker’s more upmarket big sister. The sight of more and more locals spilling out of the water taxis, clutching blankets and toys, was worrying. Belizeans, normally laid-back and unhurried, were talking frantically on mobiles, mothers clasping babies to them, a second and third child clinging to their skirts, perhaps a fourth on the way. An enterprising teenager in a battered baseball cap made his way through the crowd selling flashlights, bundles of them dangling from each skinny wrist. The Flores bus eventually materialised, looking well past its prime but as the slips of paper in our hands felt like winning lottery tickets, we weren’t about to complain. Our luggage was heaped on the roof and secured with ropes and the motley crew of backpackers with a sprinkling of Belizeans bundled on board. Our initial sense of urgency soon drained away as we sat cramped and sweating for an hour until our driver arrived.
Relief melted into cameraderie as the bus left both Belize and the projected course of Hurricane Felix behind and six bumpy hours later we rolled gratefully into Flores. Guatemala lay hidden under a cloak of darkness, an unplanned treat to be savoured in the days to come. Felix, we heard later, eventually changed course and, this time at least, Caye Caulker was spared.