Boarding a 38' launch in a tiny southern town in Belize bound for Honduras, we were ill prepared for the 'adventure' that lie ahead. A dozen or so Westerners expectantly took their pews and looked forward to a 2 hour crossing across the bay to our destination. Huh. We rode through mangroves to a dock where we completed immigration formalities before continuing. Here the fun and games started. Two and a half hours passed before we were stamped out of Belize - a country which will not be featuring in our top ten. At this point we came to realise that not only was one of the engines out of action, but that 60 locals would join us, together with their individual cargos of cardboard boxes tied with string. We plodded out into the open seas and swayed for hour after hour.
With land in sight and less than two miles from dry land, we ran out of petrol. Yep. Thats right. One local overheard our moans and sighs of disbelief and said 'welcome to the Third World'. Third World maybe. First World bloody prices pal. As the swell rocked our boat we awaited rescue. An outboard was soon on its way with a drum of fuel, though it too broke down! The captain, a Garifuna type, had a terrible habit of blurting out updates in Creole. Each sentance started in legible English before disseminating into jibberish. For example 'we are totally out of blib plub chub lib.' Seems funny now. Our new travelling companions, Rick and Dolly, somehow eased our frustration.
We eventually limped into the grubby port town of Puerto Cortes 6 hours late. It doesn't end there. We negotiated with a taxi driver to take us 20 km along the coast to an acceptable town for an overnight stop. We asked for a cash point, which he explained was 8 km in the opposite direction. Having upwardly renegotiated, we hopped in, turned the corner and there it was. The cash point. By now the locals had us beat. At least we had left behind the hoards of crappling money exhangers keen to relieve us of our Belize Dollars in exchange for their tatty worn Lempiras.
The town Omoa shortly arrived before us. A power cut that lasted until mid way through the night made chosing between an array of ultra basic, stifflingly hot rooms, a real chore.
Having refreshed ourselves with cold water, delivered through a pipe protuding from the wall, slightly above head height, we ate and guzzled a few cold cervezas. As we walked the dusty road back to our modest accommodations, our torch picked out something that resembled a dog faece. It was infact a Tarantula. A big, fury Tarantula. We approached a little too keenly and the hairy bleeter jumped forward at a speed slightly quicker than that which light travels. Backing off, we headed for bed. What a day. PaS