The coast of Utopia: Barefoot life at its best

By Alison Humes

Updated: 5:46 p.m. ET Sept. 19, 2007

To be overly dramatic, I could say that we were marooned in the Sapodilla Cayes, a small group of Caribbean islands belonging to Belize that sit in the coral-riddled crotch of Guatemala, between the legs of Belize and Honduras. A few of the cays are privately owned, a few so small as to have room for only a couple of coconut palms, and others — among them, Ragged, Lime, Hunting, Frank's, and Northeast — are loosely confederated within the fifty square miles of the Sapodilla Cayes Marine Reserve.

We had set out from Punta Gorda, a town in the south of Belize, in the Long Gone, a thirty-foot sailboat captained, crewed, and slopped by Mark Leslie, a charming Belizean who put me in mind of the young Giancarlo Giannini — handsome and muscular, but English- and Creole-speaking, with a soft spot for the yearning ballads of classic rock. He has pirate blood, he told us, being descended from the European buccaneers of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, who knew well the ins and outs of Belize's treacherous reef and who eventually settled along the coast, cutting logwood. The water was as blue as the sea in “Swept Away,” but unfortunately for Mark, his passengers — my friend Cynthia and I — did not add up (our exacting standards and not insignificant allure notwithstanding) to Mariangela Melato.

About halfway out on our first day (the islands are forty miles offshore), we started to notice the smell of the engine when we were under power. Smelled a bit like smoke. Mark checked the water, checked the antifreeze and the gas — all looked good. Oh, well, we were moving, the day was beautiful, nothing for it but to keep going ...

Like a sailor, the traveler exploring the Caribbean coast of Central America quickly discovers that enjoying unanticipated opportunities to rest, refresh and repair is the only way to get in the groove. Railing against the gods, bureaucracy, the climate, missed connections, or broken engines is frankly childish; it spoils not only your own pleasure in paradise but that of everyone else around you. If you forget this lesson, the gods, etc. — perhaps particularly in Central America — will generously give you the opportunity to revisit it. I was able to profit from this teaching numerous times.

South of Mexico, the coast of the western Caribbean meanders to South America over 1,900 miles like a lazily drawn reclining S. I was able to trace aspects of this sinuous line in three trips: to Belize and Honduras with brief stops in Guatemala; to Nicaragua and Costa Rica; and to Panama. Only bits of this coast are well traveled — notably, along Belize, the Bay Islands of Honduras, and the southeast of Costa Rica.

I have been in love with the Caribbean Sea since 1959. When I was four, my father upped and moved to St. Martin — he thought it was a good place to write, perhaps even to create a floating university, one that would move from place to place via the trade winds in perpetual pursuit of the accretion and exchange of knowledge — and the rest of the family followed him. There were only thirteen people on the island then for every hundred there are today. Tiny fig bananas grew in the backyard; fish was purchased on the main beach; people jabbered in Creole, French, English, and Dutch. I can't remember ever wearing anything but underpants. There were no cruise ships, no resorts, and few cars.

Easy living: The River View Suite at Costa Rica's Pacuare Lodge

Now, I was looking for places where I could, if not play in my underpants, at least go barefoot for days, where the infrastructure might not be great but life is generally relaxed and low-key. The coastal culture, which is unique to the shores of Central America, is a combination of communities: Indian peoples — Maya, Miskito, Bribri, and Kuna among them — who have lived here since before the Age of Exploration; the Garinagu (or Black Caribs) and more recent immigrants from Caribbean nations, particularly Jamaica and Barbados; remnants of various European colonial societies; and contemporary international First World refuseniks.

It's not surprising to find towns that are waterlocked — accessible only by sea. For the most part, tourism is still on a community scale. But not for long: The two words on the lips of many travelers I met in Central America were real estate. Among them were individual investors looking to retire or escape as well as corporate and state developers. The coast is beautiful, paradisiacal — with reefs, white-sand beaches, miles of mangroves. The people who have traditionally lived here are poor but not hungry. Although they have been able to carve out a fairly dignified living from fishing and farming, there is eagerness for economic growth. Everyone I met was enthusiastic about the area's potential, happy to share it with and show it to travelers, and hoping to find a place for themselves in the expansion of tourism. The challenge will be to manage change in a way that doesn't shred the unusual social fabric.

If anywhere can be said to be the cultural center of the Garifuna people (Garifuna being either an adjective or a singular noun, Garinagu the plural noun), it is Dangriga, a town about halfway down the coast of Belize. On the outskirts of Dangriga is the relatively new Gulisi Garifuna Museum. Our guide, Charlie Gamboa — whom we met while hanging out at the Riverside Café, after a satisfying and entirely typical lunch of fried fish, rice and beans, and potato salad — told us that it wasn't to be missed. At first glance, Charlie — snaggletoothed, his hair in small puffy braids, and clearly at loose ends — wasn't too prepossessing. However, he soon ingratiated himself with both the breadth and depth of his local knowledge; once given the nod, he masterfully shepherded Cynthia and me around during our stay. As we made our way to our rental car, Charlie bummed a cigarette from Cynthia and then told her, "You sit in the back." We headed out on the main road ("Step on it," he said) and then, at Charlie's direction, turned into a big field with an enormous, seemingly abandoned monument in the middle. Next to it was a building, small by comparison, which housed the museum that tells the story of the Garinagu — meaning "People of the Cassava Clan" in Garifuna, an Arawak language. Charlie, who seemed to know practically everyone in town, introduced us to Peter Ciego, the curator, who explained the exhibits. The Garinagu's ancestors, the Black Caribs, came from St. Vincent. The tools I saw in the museum for making cassava bread I later saw in communities in Honduras, Guatemala, and Nicaragua, sometimes for sale in crafts shops, sometimes drawn on buildings that were dance halls or community centers.

Helping hand: Little Corn Island, off Nicaragua, hosts plenty of Casa Iguana's namesake inhabitants but only 750 people, most of whom make their living lobster fishing.

All along the coast on November 19, Garifuna Settlement Day, the Garinagu reenact and celebrate their arrival in their new communities. Early in the morning, the ladies of Punta Gorda, many dressed in traditional full skirts and head scarves of checked gingham, lead the parade to the dock waving cassava and palm fronds. They are accompanied by young men playing mahogany drums and turtle shells. Everyone greets those "arriving" on the boats, offers thanks and praise, and then wends their way to the Catholic church for Mass.

Print this Email this Blog this  IM this

MORE FROM TROPICAL GETAWAYS

Tropical Getaways Section Front

Ten ultimate rainforest adventures Experts: Warming to change travel patterns Disney plans Hawaiian resort for 2011 The quest for Cuba's finest cigars The coast of Utopia: Barefoot life at its best Hawaii's sexiest beaches Americans break the law to visit Cuba Hawaii's gnarliest surf spots Hawaii's hottest bartenders (and their drinks) Top 10 Hawaiian adventures Tropical Getaways Section Front   Add Tropical Getaways headlines to your news reader: