Dreadlocks & Voodoo (3 of 4)

Different People

Although Punta Gorda is only about a hundred miles south of Belize City, it is in a different world. For example, Belize City receives about eighty inches of rain annually, whereas PG receives around one hundred and eighty inches. Fifteen feet! But in May, when we were there, it was dry. Which means that when the rainy season is in its stride, you’d better have your kayak handy.

Along with the climate, there is another difference: the people. What follows is a historical narrative as told to me by a black man native to PG.

“Them blacks up around Belize City ain’t the same as us down here. They come from slaves. We don’t. Our people was on a slave boat, but it crashed and sunk near Saint Vincent Island a long time ago. (St. Vincent Island is approximately 250 miles north of Venezuela.) Lots of black people swum to shore and mixed up with the Carib Indians on that island. Pretty soon there was black Indians. Some folks call’em Black Caribs. We call ourselves Garífuna. We got our own history and our own language. An’ we ain’t like them blacks up north.”

Thinking about the story, I asked how his people got from St. Vincent Island to Belize?

“Oh, long time ago the English come and gathered us up and put us on a boat, ’cause they wanted the island for themselves. They took us to Honduras and dumped us off. Some of our folks made their way up to this area. That’s how we come to be here now.”

Dark, Sinister Cave
We met with the outgoing and loquacious Charlie two days after our arrival in Punta Gorda. He seemed to know everyone. Because he had no automobile, we drove him to a meeting with Maya Indians at a village west of town. Charlie was the spokesperson helping the Maya try to resolve a problem with the government. He was respected by different ethnic strata in Belize because his mother was Maya and his father was Garífuna. Raised in his mother’s village, Charlie spoke fluent Maya (Kekchi), as well as Garífuna and English.

When he found that we were interested in caves, Charlie guided us on a hike to a twenty-foot high cave at the base of a mountain. Lianas hung down like a bedraggled curtain in front of the yawning entrance. A stream of clear water issued from the cave’s mouth. The interior was dark and forbidding. Charlie quickly volunteered to stand by outside, not wanting to disturb the netherworld of his ancient Maya ancestors (although he would not admit to that).

With flashlights and camera, we honeymooners approached the grotto. Cautiously we entered the dark unknown. Did I think about wicked-fanged venomous snakes possibly lurking inside the cave? Did I consider that the ghosts of fierce vindictive Maya warriors might be awaiting fresh victims in the dank bowels of the cave? Of course I did! That’s why I allowed Donna to lead.

Going into a commercially-lighted cavern, led by a knowledgeable guide, is a rewarding experience. But going into a jungle cave, in a foreign country, on our own, equipped with only flashlights and rubber-cleated running shoes, was an exhilarating experience.

Climbing over damp slippery boulders and mounds of calcium carbonate, and wading through knee-deep water, we crept around bend after bend, penetrating further, and still further, into the gut of the mountain. The beams of our flashlights caused eerie shadows to flitter about on the walls, like black ghosts. Suddenly, as we felt our way around a bend of almost ninety degrees, a room of startling white formations greeted us. Resembling a delicately carved chandelier, a stalactite hung from the ceiling. Several other ceiling formations looked like long, white icicles. Another was shaped similar to a clutch of giant bananas hanging from a stalk. But the one that sent shivers down our spines was back at the far reaches of our flashlights. For a second, with the shadows playing tricks and our imaginations running wild, we thought we were looking at the dagger-like teeth of flesh-eating Tyrannosaurus rex, the most fearsome predator to ever tread Planet Earth. What we actually saw was a group of evenly-spaced sharply-pointed stalactites grouped in a semi-circle on a beam of rock forming part of the cave’s ceiling.

Growing from the floor were stalagmites. Some were as rounded as the top half of a giant basketball. Others were slender, straining to reach the ceiling. Still others were stately columns, joined at both floor and ceiling. Several creepy nondescript formations made us think of helmeted, fat aliens from a faraway galaxy.

Exposing our only roll of 35mm film, we turned back. How far did the cave extend into the mountain? Where did the stream originate? Were Maya artifacts hidden in a remote section of the grotto? We cannot answer those questions for you. Ask the spirits of the Ancients, they can tell you. If they want to.

Read Part 1, Part 2 and Part 4 of Dreadlocks and Voodoo.

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