Belize (October 11th-20th)

Three flights and a stale pack of marginally salted peanuts later, The Big Man trod upon Belizean soil for the very first time. During his fourteen-hour voyage the unthinkable had happened: He had realised that The Writer had been correct all along…Escape by Rupert Holmes was “sum bullshit, yo?”

Back in April his old pal had stated, loudly and repeatedly, that the infamous ‘Piña Colada Song’ was amongst the worst ever committed to vinyl…and oh, if only The Big Man had listened. Since then he had wasted so much of his time…such a vast chunk of his life.

Thusly, his very first acts in Belize were to find a computer; to plug in his brand-name mp3 player-cum-telephonic device-medium; and, his thick tears salting the keyboard, to delete the worn-out recording of his favourite song forever. He was tired of his lady, my friends. They’d been together too long…

Emotionally wrought, he stumbled from the internet cafe and discovered, to his dismay, that nary a single ATM in the entire airport was making with the cash. Belize City Airport, God bless it, sure as heck ain’t London Stansted (considered by many ‘in the know’ to be the very finest airport in existence) and The Big Man had no desire to be stranded there. He, therefore, did what any right-thinking fellow of sound mind and decent-enough bone structure would do in such a situation – and sold his Celtic body to the highest bidder.

The highest bidder, in this particular case, was an Arizona lass by the name of Sierra. She was a volunteer aid worker of sound moral fibre…though these sound ethics proved malleable enough to make The Big Man work a great deal for his trip into the city…

*

Once safely in Belize City Port, The Big Man was set upon by two further Yankee maidens, both of whom were hitting the rums with extreme prejudice. While this pair were two-thirds of a very serviceable, premiership-standard front row, our hero was in sore need of a drink, so he accepted their kind invitation and drunk much of the afternoon away. They then tripped over towards the speedboat which would take him to Caye Caulker – the tiny island just off the Belize coast where, in theory, his hostel awaited him.

The heavens promptly opened, the rains descending like a million watery rats ‘doing one’ apace from a leaky, celestial ship. The American ‘gals’ chose to enjoy the cooling deluge, giving The Big Man the chance to nip below into the hold and demolish the remainder of their rum and beers. They found him sound-asleep, with a broad smile on his face and empty bottles strewn around him. They were unimpressed. He did not, it goes without saying, give much of a monkey’s.

Caye Caulker, one of the quintessential backpacking destinations ye find knocking around these parts, is home to a good few hostels. The dive chosen by The Big Man was, of course, the very cheapest on the entire isle. One of its many idiosyncrasies was the fact that it boasted the most cacophonous air-conditioning unit in the western hemisphere. This made conversation somewhat difficult:

“HELLO THERE!

“G’DAY!”

“I’M THE BIG MAN.”

“WHAT?”

“I SAID, I’M THE BIG MAN!”

“OH..TOO EASY, MY NAME’S SAM AND THIS IS OLIVIA.”

“G’DAY!”

“HI!”

And so on. This lovely couple from Byron Bay (for they were, necessarily, Australians) were enjoying a jaunt from Mexico to Panama, and it became clear that the three would become fine friends. They were joined by yet more Americans and they set off together in search of multitudinous beers.

Many a place was visited, including a high-class establishment by the name of ‘Dirty McNasty’s’ where the rum was potent and on the house, so long as one agreed to shoot never-ending games of pool with the owner – a fella by the name of ‘Smooth’. Cigarettes were smoked that eve, of a significantly jazzy variety…

*

The main reason The Big Man had decided to grace this particular place with his presence was the excellent diving to be enjoyed in the waters surrounding Caye Caulker. Ever since the Australians made the wise and sagacious decision to destroy their own barrier reef, Belize has boasted the largest living coral reef in the world – and he was, therefore, desperate to get beneath the surface and see what was what.

His first dives took place upon a part of the reef known as ‘Esmeralda’. Who Esmeralda was, one does not know – but she was clearly a fan of sharks. The bastards were everywhere, so they were. Mostly one saw nurse sharks, harmless enough to humans of heft and courage…but they were not alone.

The Big Man glided through the waters in a deep, lasting peace, gazing all around him at the swirling colour and boundless marine life. Two lasses were diving alongside him, Samantha and Denise from Bordeaux, France (and by ‘Bordeaux, France’, one of course means Sydney, Australia). All was perfect and fine.

Things became rapidly less ‘perfect and fine’ when a twelve-foot hammerhead swung by and bit Denise upon the flipper. This raised much wrath in The Big Man, who swam around and punched the offending shark square in the middle of its ‘hammer’.

Now, back in verdant Waterford, Ireland, The Big Man’s right hook was known far and wide. He had, it was rumoured, once knocked out two Kerry cattle who had ‘looked at him funny’. This shark had, therefore, it is safe to say, never experienced anything quite like it. It swam off at a rate of knots, followed by many a nurse shark offering to nurse its new-found concussion.

Back above the waves, the two Australian girls beset The Big Man with salty kisses and, once again, he was flavour of the month, week and year. Many a toast was raised to the shark-puncher that night upon the isle of Caye Caulker, my friends, and all were most merry.

The next morn they set off early to dive the famed ‘Great Blue Hole’: Being over 300 metres across and 100 metres deep, it is, undeniably, a great, big hole. It is also notably blue, so whoever came up with the name was really bringing the goods.

Adrenaline flooded through him as The Big Man descended into the deep. Far away to each and every side he could barely make out the far-off bedrock, but that soon was lost, away in the darkening murk. He had long-loved diving, and this had been an ambition of his for many years. He could not quite believe he was finally doing it, and his grin was so wide his facemask could hardly contain it.

On his third and final foray into the sink-hole, he saw them. The bruised and humbled hammerhead from the previous day had tracked him to the hole, slipping into the atoll and across the shallows, unnoticed by the boatmen above. It was flanked by endless Caribbean reef sharks, two, three metres in length and with murder in their eyes.

“Ah shit,” thought The Big Man, slowly unsheathing the knife lashed to his ankle and staring down his fishy foe.

“I say, old bean,” called out the hammerhead, cigarette hanging loosely from its multitudinous teeth. “You know, you really made a fellow look like a prized arse in front of those Aussie chicas yesterday!”

The Big Man shrugged, kicking unhurriedly towards the surface.

“So, you know, what with me having a bit of a reputation to uphold around these parts, I thought, you know, it might be best to get a few of the lads around and, you know, tear you to pieces.”

The Big Man said nothing, mostly because his mouth was full of scuba gear.

“So, what ho, no time like the present, what?” said the shark, suddenly accelerating towards him, its foul mouth gaping open.

At the last possible moment, The Big Man cut through his weighted belt and shot upwards. He swung his legs up above him as he rose and reached downwards with his blade, stabbing his watery assailant right at the base of its hammer.

“Aarrghh…you Irish bastard! You think oikish tricks like that will save…say, lads, fellas, what’re you doing, boys? Aaaarrrrghhh!!!”

The hammerhead’s posse of reef sharks, never enormous fans of its supercilious tone, had taken the blood gushing from its head as a formal invitation to dine. As The Big Man hastened back towards the boat, they went at their former ringleader with relish – hammerhead being, of course, the tastiest of all the sharks.

The guests and staff of the hostel were beyond keen to hear this tale told near a thousand times, once he was back ashore. Yet two marine tussles in as many days had worn The Big Man down no end, so, politely declining all offers of beers and company, he turned in for the night. The next day was, after all, a travellin’ day…

*

After Caye Caulker, came San Ignacio, a pleasing little town filled with bustling markets sitting upon the Belize-Guatemala border. He travelled now with Sam and Olivia, and, after so long living on fast-food and bar snacks, it did The Big Man much good to get involved with some healthy home-cooking at their lodgings. A nice little gathering soon followed and the local beers and herbs and foodstuffs kept them going long into another pleasant night.

The next day he went for a run about the town and stumbled upon a nearby Maya temple, around which he pottered for a while. Upon returning to the house, they all set off to the river, where canoes were hired and an impromptu expedition into the jungle was made. The rapids flowed and the monkeys chirped, and The Big Man felt that he could get used to all this tropical stuff, if only it wasn’t so damned hot. A particularly stern set of rapids then capsized him, cooling him down immediately.

After San Ignacio, would come Guatemala. This is, however, a story for another day. Let us leave our hero, therefore, on a chicken bus (not, as one might hope, a bus full of chickens – rather a refitted US school bus, the like of which fill the streets of Central America) to Flores, Guatemala.

Upon said chicken bus, he ponders his time in Belize: Aye, the diving was fabulous, though Belize City itself was not quite to his tastes – somewhat over-priced and overrated. The people, however, were mostly excellent, and he had greatly enjoyed sampling the local alcohols and learning some Belize Kriol. Overall, ‘Culdmann!’, as one might say, were one that way inclined…