The Permanent Tourist

Belize and Guatemala turned out to be a fantastic way to knock off my 39th and 40th countries visited in my 40th year on Earth. We booked a G Adventures tour and let someone else handle the logistics, which was a relief given how the days leading up to departure went. It was the third most frantic pre-trip scramble I’ve pulled off (India and Morocco are the definitive silver and gold medalists for this award). A barrage of dozens of last minute work emails that absolutely would not wait, packing done in a caffeinated blur the night before, and a grand total of four hours of sleep before the alarm went off at some ungodly hour to make it to the airport on time. Somehow it all came together, bags zipped and inbox mostly under control, and we stumbled onto the plane running on fumes and adrenaline — which, in hindsight, is basically the standard opening act for any of my trips these days. Off to country #39 — Belize.

Rolling into the Ramada on the coast of Belize City, our room wasn’t quite ready for us, so we ambled down to the hotel restaurant to kill time in the most responsible way we know how… ordering drinks and food. We put in a request for a couple of fruity adult beverages requiring mint and jalapeños poppers, only to be told that they were fresh out of both mint and jalapeños. Out of jalapeños? In a country that’s basically next door to all things spicy? I was suspicious. After some hasty menu renegotiations, we landed on new drinks and a plate of nachos instead. And wouldn’t you know it, in a plot twist dripping with unpoetic justice, our nachos showed up generously topped with (you guessed it) jalapeños. Out of peppers, huh? I call shenanigans.

From the outside, the hotel put on a convincing front — freshly painted, polished. Step inside the actual rooms, though, and the illusion fell apart fast. We were met with moldy and rusted-out tubs, doors so worn they looked like they’d survived a war, and walls and floors cracked enough to make you wonder about the structural integrity. The pool, meanwhile, looked less like a relaxing amenity and more like a set piece from a low-budget horror film. The entire first floor was mysteriously shut down for “repairs” that showed no visible signs of ever happening. The gym rounded things out with about half its equipment non-functioning. G Adventures we need to talk about your hotel selections. This was not your first indiscretion.

My research had made one thing very clear… the part of the city south of the river came with a caution label, courtesy of its reputation for crime. Ever the reckless adventurers, we did dip a toe south a few times, but strictly during daylight hours. What we found was a steady chorus of locals calling out to us with various inquires… did we need a ride? Drugs, perhaps? Or, in a slightly more unsettling tone, did we need… help? Imagine creepy… ominous… up to no good. A shout from an alleyway isn’t just a shout, it’s a shout with intentions. Apparently, subtlety is not our strong suit because we clearly stuck out like a sore thumb, broadcasting “please approach us” in neon letters. The moment we crossed back north of the canal, though, the pleading offers evaporated, replaced by a much friendlier soundtrack of cheerful “good mornings.”

I’d walked in expecting Belize City to serve up the classic Caribbean postcard look — turquoise waters, powder white sand, the whole tropical fantasy. What we got instead was a city that juts out into the sea while offering none of the pristine beach glamour with water lapping onto the shore that I’d mentally pre-ordered. In place of soft sand, there are sea walls, built to hold the ocean at bay and pushed even farther out over the years as the city expanded. And the sea itself? Not exactly jade or sapphire — more of a murky brownish hue everywhere we looked, which I can only assume was thanks to runoff from a bustling city doing busy, bustling city things. Undeterred, we wandered along the seawall anyway, admiring the fact that whoever built it had the genius idea to paint it turquoise. From a distance, it created a mirage of a gorgeous jade waterline glittering along the coast, right up until you got close enough to realize it was just paint’s reflexion. Sneaky little fuckers really played us with that one.

Since the husband and I had flown in a couple of days ahead of the official tour start, I’d taken matters into my own hands and arranged a private cave tubing first to dodge the cruise ship crowds, saving the ruins for afterward when they’d be blissfully deserted. Erick worked through Belize Exotic Adventures, and I’d booked us online for a private tour — just the two of us, which, as it turns out, was exactly the group size Erick preferred too (smart man). And Erick was right on the money with regards to the order of activities. Cave tubing was light on cruise ship members, and the ruins were 100% deserted when we got there. He even swung by our hotel, door-to-door service delivered with a smile. Ten out of ten I would get abducted by Erick again.

Erick, as it turned out, was a man who never met a silence he didn’t feel the need to fill. He was an extremely talkative gent who lived near the Belize-Guatemala border and commuted into Belize City via public bus, a three-ish hour journey each way that apparently doubled as his personal comedic material. He regaled us with tales from those bus rides… some blessed with miraculous air conditioning (rare), others so packed he couldn’t so much as wiggle an elbow, and others featuring strangers using his shoulder as an impromptu pillow for the long haul. Little did we know we’d soon be starring in our own version of these exact scenarios with the tour group — foreshadowing, if you will. Anyway, Erick liked to talk. A lot. About anything and everything, with zero topics off limits. Once he found out what the husband and I do for a living, it was like unlocking a whole new wing of conversational territory. He was friendly, sharp, endlessly knowledgeable, and seemed to have a local contact stashed in literally every corner of the country. We liked him so much that we hired him two days in a row.

Consider this your locally certified how-to guide on the sacred art of eating a meat pie. Erick escorted us to Moe’s, conveniently located next to our hotel, for a breakfast of meat pies, which are exactly what you’d imagine. While you’ll be tempted to sink your teeth into the golden parcels of joy, absolutely do NOT under any circumstances. Doing so instantly outs you as a tourist and, more importantly, will scald your mouth so thoroughly that plenty of poor souls end up abandoning their pie entirely, tossing it out in defeat. Such an unnecessary loss. The proper method, as Erick taught us, was to gently remove the top, blow on the tender steaming meat hiding within to help it cool, and then repurpose that top as your very own edible scoop to shovel up the saucy, meaty goodness inside. Class dismissed… go forth and eat your meat pies like a local, not a rookie.

During the long drive out to the ruins, Erick educated us with local intel, delivered in Erick’s fashion — taking zero breaths, matter-of-factly, and some bits mildly alarming. I’ll begin with cartels and crossing the border. He explained that the cartels target tourists that are driving through Central America and Mexico. On a felonious note, Erick could offer travel and protection services from Texas south, so as long as you pay the little protection fee. Just don’t expect anyone to be strolling around after dark. By nightfall, everyone retreats to their rooms and stays put until first light, when the whole area springs back to life, cars get packed, and everyone clears out of the “the cartel zone.” And in case you were hoping the authorities might save the day, Erick was quick to clarify that the cops along the route are just as crooked as the cartels. He even described disguising an F-150 with cardboard and temporary paint, bumpers removed entirely, just to sneak it through Mexico undetected, since apparently cartels have a very specific taste for targeting F-150s. Showing more of his upstanding citizen insight, Belize health care and prescription insurance are subpar, so Erick used his uncle, the pharmacist, to peddle drugs. Cheerful stuff for a road trip!

Erick told us cruise ships were flat out rejected from docking until the early 2000s, with locals literally hurling rocks and sticks at tour buses to keep tourism away. Eventually, though, someone did the math on the financial windfall of a single cruise ship, and the resistance evaporated. Tourism has been Belize’s number one industry ever since, dethroning sugarcane. More information one can only get from a local… we drove through one particularly irreverent little village whose official motto, proudly displayed, was “Welcome Dickhead.” Erick also introduced us to the royal rat, an adorable little critter that’s a nocturnal, forest dwelling rodent. Erick encouraged us to Google why the people of Belize eat this creature. Of course, we did, so I will save you the hassle of doing it yourself. Queen Elizabeth II was served the stew version of the rat at a banquet in 1985. When the British press caught wind that Her Majesty ate RAT, international headlines made the nickname, Royal Rat, stick forever. They are considered prized bush meat, regardless of what hunting regulations may tell you.

Over our two days with Erick, we knocked out a total of three activities: the ruins at Altun Ha, cave tubing at Nohoch Che’en archaeological reserve, and the Belize Zoo. Erick, ever the tactician, had the timing of day one (Altun Ha and cave tubing) down to a science, having clear insider knowledge the cruise ship schedules. The ruins were completely deserted when we arrived, and stayed that way right up until the moment we left. This ancient Mayan city sprawls across roughly 6.2 square miles, with the star of the show being the largest temple-pyramid, “Temple of the Masonry Altars.” It was the quintessential Mayan structure. Just as we were climbing back into Erick’s van to head out, right on cue, a fleet of coach buses came rolling in, unloading crowds by the dozen. Spot on, Erick!

From there, it was on to cave tubing at Nohoch Che’en archaeological reserve, where we began our trudge to the cave on the tail end of the cruise ship folks. He mentioned that on a bad day, the caves get so packed with tubers that you’re basically playing bumper cars the entire way through, which thanks to our fearless leader, we blissfully avoided. The real gem of Erick’s perfectly orchestrated timing was getting to stop dead center in the cave to sit in complete and total darkness. No ambient light, no distant chatter, nothing. Just pure black stillness. It was genuinely astounding. I almost forgot about Erick’s exclamations of “Butts up!!!” when we waded into shallower waters.

Zoo day with Erick again on day two. The man showed up spoiling us before we’d even buckled our seatbelts by bringing us a powder bun for breakfast. The Belizean powder bun is lightly sweetened baked pastry, somehow managing to be crumbly and fluffy in the same glorious bite, traditionally enjoyed with coffee or tea. The first bite melted in my mouth, and left me craving a second, third, and probably fourth.

On the drive to the zoo, Erick also dropped a delightful bit of local trivia: apparently the road bump signs are shaped like two boobs, a design choice specifically intended to make sure male drivers actually pay attention. Belize, never short on personality — even in its road signage. On to the most glorious zoo I have ever set foot in…

The Belize Zoo turned out to be one of those places that quietly blows your mind. It is a twenty-nine acre wildlife sanctuary home to over 175 animals spanning roughly 48 species, every single one of them native to Belize. And unlike your average zoo, nothing here was plucked from the wild for display — every resident is a rescue, an orphan, an injured survivor, or was born right there at the facility. The whole place is built around preserving the natural tropical forest and savannah with gravel pathways winding you through untouched vegetation. Along the way, you get face-to-face with jaguars, Baird’s tapirs, howler monkeys, pumas, and even the notoriously rare harpy eagle, with nothing but chain-link fencing separating you from animals living in something close to their natural habitat. For the wildly reasonable price of $5, you can pick one animal for an up close and personal encounter. The husband and I went straight for the jaguar, a one-eyed feline named Edgar. We climbed into a chainlink enclosure while the caretaker entered with fresh meat, coaxing Edgar through a series of tricks to earn his prize, all while we watched from what felt like an alarmingly close distance. At the conclusion of our jaunt through the zoo, we devoured the zoo’s upgraded version of the Belizean fried jack, a decadent fried dough. This was leaps and bounds the most authentic and astounding zoo.

The following day we would meet up with our tour group. Originally, the joining hotel was listed as the same shit-hole we were staying at. Apparently, a revision was made unbeknownst to us, and the hotel we now needed to get to was four kilometers away. We’d just lunched at the fancy Vino Tinto, a rooftop restaurant, and upon return to the hotel, we were promptly accosted by an aggressively pushy man absolutely demanding that we use HIS cab and tour services. Given his charming demeanor, we impolitely declined and made a beeline for the lobby. Once we’d packed up, we came back downstairs and asked hotel security to hail us a legitimate taxi, only to watch in real time as he flagged down the same jackass we’d just banished. Cue: aggressive price gouging, the going rate for rude Americans. Karma, was that you?

Yes, we absolutely did eat and drink our way through Belize.

March 2025