I hadn't intended to come on line today, because I'm not doing much, and it's so expensive. But I find this sort of place (with coconut palms hanging over pristine white beaches and turquoise seas, and so on) so dull that it's a choice between this or turning to drink before six o'clock. I would honestly rather be in Pinvin - at least there I could spend a happy couple of hours skimming stones on Piddle Brook or examining the fine Medieval frescoes in the parish church. Well, I exagerate, but tropical paradises just aren't for me.
The local people here are lovely, particularly my landlady. She's a very dignified woman of about 60 who, I guess, is mainly African by descent but with European blue eyes and facial features that must be Mayan. When I first arrived, soaking wet and probably looking quite wretched, she sucked her teeth and said: "Here's the key, go and get warm, don't worry, pay tomorrow." So yesterday I went to settle up with her. When she realised I was British she wanted to talk about the Queen, almost as though she was an old friend. She told me how she had seen her on the last royal visit to Belize about 15 years ago: "I was in the city shopping and her car came down the sidestreet and it was only me there - so I got a wave, all for myself, all for myself." She had a wistful, faraway look as she stroked the royal face on the money I had handed her.
The British influence here is quite pervasive, but elusive. You can certainly see it in the cemeteries. In Mexico, as I think I've mentioned, they are like miniature versions of the towns; brightly coloured, laid out in grids and plastered all over with exuberant signage. In Guatemala they are more distinctly Mayan; ramshackle and covered in colourful ribbons that flutter in the wind. Here they are very low-church Anglican; understated, modest clusters of white marble, with the occassional statue of an angel mourning with a stiff upper lip.
Would it be going too far to call this blending of cultures Afro-Saxon? After all Rastafarianism more-or-less began while Haile Selassie was enjoying his exile in a nice little Georgian villa in Bath.
This place is also a magnet for retired American blokes, who grow big white beards, buy Hawaiian shirts and go off for a Hemingway adventure. They're all over the place, somebody should start a look-alike competition. There's one I particularly like - he's about thirty stone and gets about the place on an electric golf buggy. Earlier I saw him parked up outside a bakery shouting through the mosquito net: "Hey buddy, how many doughnuts you got left?" Moments later I saw him again - trundling along with a big bag wedged between his gut and the steering wheel looking very pleased with his catch.
More distressingly are the bongo players, who have haunted my steps throughout this journey and are congregating in particular numbers here. Like a plague. In my life I have met two or three people with mastery of this instrument, and they are capable of making a reasonably pleasant noise. But as for the rest of you, may I take this opportunity to ask, please, stop it. In particular, when you see a pink plump English bloke sitting on a quiet corner of a beach, or under a peaceful shaded terrace, do be sure that he in no way wants to hear you pat a stretched animal skin, rhythically or otherwise. If it continues I will dig out my aluminium kazoo and respond in kind by tooting out a medley of Black Sabbath's greatest hits when you're trying to do your yoga. And while I'm at it: French people. If your business at the cash machine is really so much more important than mine, then, please, be my guest, push in. But don't then spend half an hour arguing with your wife about which card to use. And Israeli hippies - please let the ghost of Bob Marley rest in peace. These anthems of the oppressed and occupied really don't work with your accent - "nuh vooman nuh krai" - just isn't right. And 'massage therapists' from Nebraska: please, for the love of all that's holy, shut up. Sorry, but sooner or later the dam had to burst. I feel much better for that.
The map at the top of this entry show my route so far. On Saturday, or perhaps tomorrow, I will be taking a three-day yacht tour down the coast of Belize to Palencia (not as expensive as it sounds).
My friend Steve from New York has already been kind enough to put map links onto recent entries, these can be viewed in the comments section. He's also started inserting some links in the text (the underlined blue words).
The other pictures show a local farmer who looked like Wurzel Gummidge pedalling his vegetables around the town, and a pleasingly ramshackle house.
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