But I am jumping ahead. Leaving Wildtracks was both exciting and sad, but in the end, my time had come and it was on to the next stage of my journey. But not before I was reminded one or two times of the kindness and general loveliness of the Belizean people. Dionicio, the driver and knower of all things (I often turned to him for his always accurate weather and mosquito pronouncements), drove me to the bus station at the bleary eyed time of a quarter to five in the morning. As we waited for the bus driver to arrive, he was affectionate and emotional, and his tight hugs and fatherly kisses, though perhaps bordering on creepy old man, were a reminder of the really basic generosity and warmth of humanity. Or maybe I was just in a vulnerable place and he could sense what I needed. Either way, it made me feel a little less sad about leaving what had been my home for the past seven-odd weeks (and the various people and animals I was leaving too).
I got on the dim bus a little weary, but utterly confident that I would get to my destination, Belize Airport. Any other town in the world, my situation may have been considered scary and dangerous; sitting in the dark on an old American yellow school bus that was parked in a rubbish strewn, deserted depot, with two young public transit workers milling around me. But in Sarteneja, there was a trust and familiarity that made me feel safe. And small towns are small towns after all, where very little often happens in the way of serious crime.
I had decided to take the early bus on recommendation from the volunteer coordinator, who had joked that at least if the bus broke down, I’d be able to take the next one. I had laughed it off at the time, but lo and behold, two and a half hours into the trip (and another hour and a half from the airport), the bus did in fact break down. The day was hot, the bus was full, and as soon as the tyres screeched on the road, leaving black marks on the ash grey tar, the passengers disembarked, dragging their bags and children off the bus. Some started the mile trek back to Orange Walk where they could take another bus, others walked quickly up the road, flagging passing cars, but most of us just stood on the side a little befuddled, waiting for the broken bus to move out of the way and allow any passing bus to stop. I wasn’t too worried because I had several hours until my flight was due to depart, but it was still a major pain in the arse. I noticed a man wearing an Avianca shirt, and using my amazing detective skills, concluded that he must work at the airport. He was travelling with a stunning, tall woman, perhaps a flight attendant, so I edged next to them and started a conversation about the next bus to the airport, throwing in a completely random question about whether they were headed there too (unsurprisingly, they were). We stood around on the side of the road for a minute or two, and then they went onto the road and tried to flag a passing car. As the car passed, its windows open, the man flung his hands up in frustration and screamed out “why?”, adding a few other polite curse words. I was surprised at his brazenness, assuming it was just a random passerby, but then the car stopped and the two of them moved towards the car. The man turned and asked me if I’d like to join, telling me I could just offer the driver a quick fiver. Naturally I took him up on the offer, and we got into the car, which happened to be a Department of Transport vehicle taking a customs officer to work. Being the small world that it is, it was soon evident that they all knew each other quite well. The two complained about the bus situation, the woman rued that the driver had not answered his cellphone, and they chatted convivially about stuff (“stuff” being the only vague subject I could conclude, seeing as the conversation was in Creole). Our driver was not the most patient person in the world, chattering angrily and throwing his hands up at slow drivers, the customs officer remained staunchly quiet, and after about ten minutes of general conversation, the other bus passengers fell asleep, while I stared out the window, grinning and musing over the joys of travel.
They dropped me right outside my airline check-in area and I waited for the desk to open. The driver came in and was familiar with everyone, giving me a friendly wave as he walked past, again reminding me of the relaxed warmth of these people. Through immigration and waiting at the gate I ran into another Wildtracks volunteer and two Americans she had met at the taxi stand; we were all on the same flight to Houston. We chatted for a couple of hours and the two Americans ended up travelling through to my final destination, so we shared thoughts about life, the universe and everything until the taxi stand in New York City, several hours later, where we parted with plans to meet sometime in the week (which did not eventuate because, that’s life, and I was too lazy to contact them).
My hostel was in Queens, not your usual Borough of choice when travelling to NYC, but I had been to Manhattan a couple of times and didn’t want to be anywhere near the tourist districts. I had planned to see some art and stuff in this land of culture, but I was honestly so overwhelmed by the noise and people that I ended up doing very little. Life in Central America had been so much simpler and slower, calmer and carefree, that the only thing I could muster on my first day was a ferry ride, giving me wonderful views of the city.
A sculpture of the famous “Lunch Atop a Skyscraper” photograph was parked around the corner from my hostel, and that was always a nice touristy thing to see every day.
But mostly, I ended up doing really exciting things like going to the hairdresser, where I tried red on for size (now a faded pink) and shopping, visiting my favourite shop, REI, and my second favourite shop, Target, the red spot boutique, where I could feel a little normal. A ridiculous thing, perhaps, to seek out a suburban department store in order to feel normal, but four months is a long time to be on the road, or away from home, so it was a home comfort (of socks and underwear) that I needed. Going grocery shopping and making my own meals was another thing that gave me a really boring sense of satisfaction. And catching the very easy and functional subway was an absolute delight.
As was strolling the streets, because you really just never know what you will run into.
I walked to Roosevelt Island and ran around the weird mix of nursing homes, state housing and really pretty parks.
And I had a few nice IPAs at the hostel bar, retiring early every night.
And then New York was over and I was sitting in traffic on my way to the airport. I was finally getting ready to leave the United States, my home for two years, with mixed feelings and an uncertainty about whether I would ever return, and here I was chatting to the Ecuadorian driver about my travels in South America. The adventure never ends.
a bodacious adventure 