As the motor thunder liquefied to a little cat murmur and our vessel cuddled up to the Caye Caulker wharf, we did a snappy stock check. Moving palms, tick. Sun blanched shoreline, tick. Island saying, “Go Slow”, painted apathetically on a signpost stuck in the sand, tick. I gave my accomplice in wrongdoing a private grin. This was the place. We’d escaped…for now.
Weaving here and there against a small Belizean island on the Caribbean Outdoor Jacuzzi Guys first script. The arrangement had been to fly into Belize for a brisk taste of eco-enterprise before slipping over the Guatemalan fringe. In any case, we’d got insatiable, and after four days, we were still there with our hands got in the activity shake. Wilderness climbs, eco-visits, Jaguar spotting, give in tubing, Mayan vestiges and mountain bicycle treks. Where might it end? The tropical warmth was on. We’d required a place to hide out for a few days. Some place a man could locate a confined shoreline and lie back and consider England, or anyplace else he’d rather not be. In the wake of making a couple of circumspect request we knew there was just a single place to stow away, and just a single man sufficiently effective to help us arrive. The man referred to just as, “The Marine Terminal ticket office fellow”.
So we paid for our watercraft goes in little, unmarked bills, bounced on board the primary vessel destined for the islands, and left the riches of terrain enterprise afterward. Not that the warm blue seaside waters were tricking us. Home to more than one hundred and seventy islands, or cayes, and the world’s second biggest obstruction reef, it wouldn’t be anything but difficult to keep our hands off an abundance of amphibian fun that has enticed voyagers since Blackbeard and his Buccaneer group traveled these waters back in the 1600’s. However, as we remained on this unassuming wharf and viewed our getaway vessel haul out of dock, the skipper swung to us with some consoling expressions of counsel, “Unwind mon. You’re on Caye Caulker time now”.
In the event that Gilligan had ever taken up land advancement, Caye Caulker town would have been his Big Apple. Snoozing gently on this slip of an island, the group of splendidly painted weak shoreline hideaways, left shoreline parts, scattered angling water crafts, palm trees, sand floor eateries, plunge hovels, and salty old mariners propping up bars at 11am in the morning, makes for the ideal getaway safe house.