Chicken Caye

K.L. McKee (1991)

I knew this was to be a memorable expedition when we set out one morning after only fifteen minutes of preparation, a last-minute scramble to collect whatever leftover food was in the kitchen at Carrie Bow Cay, the site of the Smithsonian Institution’s field station in Belize. Wilma, the Belizean cook, fortunately was looking out for our welfare, even if we weren’t. She packed some beans and rice, a few bananas, a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread. Candy, our fearless leader, is one of those people who likes to flirt with danger and eschews safety precautions like the plague, which is one reason she ended up a few years ago floating alone In the ocean, watching her unoccupied boat disappear over the horizon—but that’s another story…

I always thought I was a rather spontaneous traveler until I met Candy. I hate to make plans too, but do like to at least have some basic supplies, like fresh water and extra gasoline. However, this level of preparation is likely to take the edge off the whole experience, in Candy’s way of thinking. When I asked where we were going to sleep, Candy replied, “I thought we would just sleep on the beach. It doesn’t look like rain.” Upon hearing this, I quietly pulled the sheets from my bed and stowed them in my backpack.

The ostensible purpose of our expedition was to check out a report of a massive outbreak of leaf miners in the mangrove forests somewhere in the Punta Ycacos Lagoon, near the Honduran border. To the ears of Candy and her mentor, Dan, both of whom are fanatical bug lovers, this news was like catnip. Our plan was to take a boat, one of those rugged Mexican jobs, down the coast and try to locate this putative outbreak. Candy enlisted the capable guidance of Ishmael, a local fishing guide, to drive us. Ishmael had accompanied the group of scientists who initially surveyed the Punta Ycacos Lagoon and had reported the leaf miner outbreak. We figured he would be invaluable in relocating the site of the outbreak, but this assumption turned out to be a minor miscalculation.

We set off relatively early under clear, sunny skies and quickly reached the Pelican Cays range, south of Carrie Bow. As we cruised between the mangrove islands, several dolphins appeared in our bow wave and followed us for a short distance. The water was perfectly calm and transparent here, and we could clearly see the variation in the mottled skin pattern on the dolphin’s backs.

They soon lost interest in us, however, and moved off in search of other fast-moving objects. A butterfly then played tag with us for a while, fluttering alongside the boat, then landing on our hats periodically for a rest. The sea later became a little choppy, and those of us near the front of the boat were taking a mild pounding. I concentrated on keeping the top of Candy’s bug box from flying off.

Finally, after about three hours of traveling, Ishmael pointed out the entrance to the lagoon, and we motored into its calm waters. After consulting the maps in the report, we stopped at one of the sites previously described. I took measurements of the soil and water, while Candy and Dan looked for evidence of leaf miners. Noah wisely took a nap in the boat. No leaf miners.

We cruised around the lagoon looking fruitlessly for leaf miners, but there were none to be found. After a couple of hours of this, we gave up any pretense of conducting a legitimate scientific survey and proceeded to sight-see. Dan and Candy oohed and aahed over various ant species vigorously defending their territories, or more precisely, extra-floral nectaries, which are plant structures that exude a sugary solution—sort of an ant candy counter.

I snapped photos of the multitude of epiphytes—brightly colored sprays of orchids, huge bromeliads perched like giant bird’s nests on mangrove branches and prop roots, and thick ropes of cactus winding up the tree trunks like fat, green boas.

As we cruised farther up Freshwater Creek, as it is locally known, we came to a vast stand of dwarf red mangrove trees, which were standing in about a half meter of water. We joked that we should change the name of this growth form to something more politically correct—like vertically-challenged mangrove. These trees, which are not much taller than my waist and resemble Japanese bonsai, are actually more than one hundred years old. We know this because each stunted branch contains over two hundred leaf scars, bunched so close together that they literally run into each other. This means that there is very little stem elongation between production of each leaf pair. Also, we know that the rate of leaf production is usually no more than about one pair per year. Thus, at a minimum, a tree with two hundred leaf scars has lived for one hundred years. There is no other way to accurately age mangroves, or other tropical trees for that matter, since they do not produce annual growth rings like most temperate tree species. Unfortunately, these stunted forests are often considered to be unproductive and therefore targets for destruction to make room for shrimp ponds or tourist resorts.

Farther up the creek, we came to another area of dwarf trees, each of which had a large bromeliad perched on it. Many of the bromeliads had produced a red-colored inflorescence, which looked like so many jaunty flags attached to the tiny trees. The late afternoon sun striking this unique community produced a splendid sight that made me wonder why anyone would think that these trees were any less spectacular than their full-sized counterparts.

As the afternoon sun sank lower, we began to head out of the lagoon to look for a place to camp. Ishmael remembered a caye nearby with a fisherman’s camp, so we headed there. We passed a number of deserted islands with nice little crescents of beach peeking out of the water, which I futilely pointed out with a yearning expression on my face. All to no avail. Ishmael insisted that the fisherman’s caye was the premier spot to camp, and we zoomed past these idyllic havens, without a backward glance.

Just as I was anxiously calculating how long we had until darkness descended, Ishmael triumphantly waved his hand toward a small island with a mixture of mangroves and coconut palms growing together in a haphazard fashion. As we approached the caye (which was unnamed at this point), I noticed that projecting out of one end of the island was the ubiquitous outhouse precariously perched over the water at the end of a rickety pier.

Several other buildings were visible through the trees near the middle of the small islands. It also became apparent that the island was currently occupied, since we could see several men, women, and children poking their heads around the sides of the houses. I also began to notice an inordinate amount of garbage scattered about the island. At this point, the debris was just in the periphery of my attention span, since I was more concerned about the reception we would get from the island’s inhabitants.

I had no reason to be concerned, however, since these poor fishermen and their families quickly offered to share with us what little they had. I suspect they felt sorry for us, since we obviously did not know what we were doing and were ill-prepared for a night on the water.

Once I had ascertained that our sudden invasion would not be met with any hostility, I took a closer look at our surroundings and became fascinated with the extent of the garbage collected on the island. It did not look as if it had just washed up with the tide, because there was not a stratified quality about the pattern. Instead, the large quantity and more random nature suggested that at least some of it had been deposited there by humans.

Perhaps the fishermen had scavenged various items from the sea and stored them here until a use for it arose, but made no effort at sorting it? Or maybe the island was just a magnet for various flotsam floating by on its way down the coast? Whatever the reason, some of us began thinking that “Garbage Caye” was an appropriate name for our Belizean “bed and breakfast”. Of course, we didn’t voice our impressions to our hosts and behaved as if we had just stepped into the Ritz-Carleton from our stretch limousine.

The fishermen, who spoke only Spanish, generously offered their kitchen to us as shelter. Ishmael acted as translator, but it still was unclear to me what the attraction here was, other than familiarity. Our hosts graciously cleared their stuff out of the building and indicated with various gestures that there was plenty of room for us.

Although the fishermen also offered us food, we assured them that we had brought our own. As we broke open our supplies, we discovered that although we had brought knives and forks, we had no plates. Someone came up with the idea to use zip lock bags (of which we had plenty to store all those miner-infested leaves) in place of plates. Because we were so enamored with this solution to our plateless condition, we insisted that Ishmael, who had brought his own bowl and utensils, also use a zip lock bag to hold his dinner of beans and rice. He gamely complied, although I could tell he was thinking that there must be better ways to make a living than baby-sitting a bunch of nutty scientists.

After eating, we turned to the problem of where to sleep. When faced with this type of situation, people tend to be very selfish. It’s every man (or woman) for themselves. Ishmael, again, was the most prepared. He had brought a large sleeping pad, which he unfolded on the floor of the kitchen. His mistake was offering to share it with Candy, not because of any sexual overtones, but because whenever either one of them turned, the pad would squeak and groan, waking the other. The next morning, Candy said that she doubted that either one of them got much sleep.

Dan and I independently came to the conclusion that the hot, stuffy kitchen would not be very conducive to sleep (in addition to the squeaking pad), so we opted to set up our “beds” outside. Dan had earlier scarfed up most of the life jackets, which when placed together made a more comfortable roost than the bare ground. He set up his nest along the path to the outhouse and settled in for the night.

After casting about for a comfortable spot relatively clear of garbage, I finally just plopped down on the ground between Dan’s spot and the kitchen. I pulled out my sheets and wrapped myself in them after donning a long-sleeved shirt. I found that if I completely covered all exposed skin and used my backpack as a pillow, that I could remain relatively comfortable. Unfortunately, the hardness of the ground, the light from the moon floating overhead, and the unfamiliarity of the surroundings made sleep impossible. There was also a rooster somewhere that crowed periodically, even though dawn was some hours away. I tossed and turned, wound and unwound my sheets, but sleep would not come until early in the morning.

I had been asleep for about two hours when the no-see-ums came out. If you’ve ever been camping in a coastal environment, you’re probably well aware of how miserable these gnats can be.

Not to worry. I dragged out my cache of Avon Skin-so-Soft, which works wonders in repelling these insects, and liberally applied it to my face and hands. I wound my sheets tighter and drifted off again. I next awoke to the feeling of something tapping my head. A chicken daintily pecking at my scalp! Actually, a flock of chickens, which according to Dan, had been circling me for some time before they actually made contact. He apparently had not slept much either, and had been amusing himself by watching the chickens stalking my prone body.

I decided that it was time to get up. I surreptitiously took a few photographs of the island and the garbage. We gathered our few belongings and piled into our boat. As we pulled away, looking glum and bleary-eyed, someone asked, “What was the name of this island again?” I don’t remember the response, but in my mind, it was a toss-up between “Garbage Caye” and “Chicken Caye”.

Postscript: We ultimately made it back to Carrie Bow without any major mishaps, but only after almost running out of gas. We stopped at a small village to fill our tanks, but discovered to everyone’s annoyance that no one had thought to bring any money. Why would we need money in the jungle? Anyway, we ended up calling the Pelican Beach Resort in Dangriga. The hotel manager vouched for us with the gas station and promised to reimburse them for the amount we spent. It’s nice working in such a small country where everyone knows everyone else.