I am sitting on a lumpy mattress, staring at my bare feet, in my second-story concrete bunker—a very basic and functional hotel room with every necessary luxury. The bed, which appears to be a basic double bed, more than fills the half of the room on the side closest to the street. A tiny two-inch-long pale-yellow lizard shares my sleeping quarters. I first noticed him as I attempted to squeeze my way along the spacious ten-inch pathway between the foot of my bed and the opposite bare off-white wall, which impeccably matches the other bare off-white concrete walls.
As I near the window, I duck and twist, maneuvering my way around a small homemade shelf—a four-foot high shelf made from two grey twelve-inch right-angle brackets and a sixteen-inch square of raw unpainted half-inch plywood. On top of the makeshift shelf sits a small twelve-inch color television, which remarkably picks up over one-hundred channels with near-perfect reception. The majority of the channels are English speaking from the U.S., with some Spanish channels, and a mixture of other channels from China, Japan, Israel, and India. Behind the television, I discover the only electrical outlet in the room—giving me the luxury of being able to plug in my camera battery charger—or perhaps my laptop once the battery is charged.
The four-foot-square window is the nicest I have had in almost four months. This two-piece sliding window actually has two glass panes, with vertical bars on the outside and a full window screen to keep the mosquitoes out when the window is open. The deafening noise outside the window is beginning to die down as evening traffic starts to settle. Throughout the afternoon, the echoes of loud trucks and buses have constantly reverberated throughout my room. But even still, occasional noisy cars continue to drive by, some being kind enough to serenade me with loud music on their stereos.
A huge downpour suddenly drowns out all other outdoor sounds. The roaring hum of the drenching storm is hypnotizing, bringing a refreshing energy to the dark streets below. This is the second such downpour of the day, the first happening early this afternoon while I found myself sprawled out on my bed enjoying a much needed post-travel nap.
And speaking of my bed, the headboard appears to be a stylish remnant of the 1970’s—the kind with the small shelves that have sliding wooden doors in front—but my headboard is missing the doors, and the maple finish appears to still be the vintage original, with a large portion having worn down to bare wood. The bed contains all of the necessary luxuries—a single white fitted sheet. Who needs a mattress pad anyway? And I kind of like the feel of worn mattress coils massaging my tired back. As I checked in, I was given a blue top sheet—a smaller sheet that when stretched out nearly covers the top of the bed. And who needs blankets? It feels warm enough here that I just might be able to survive the night without them.
A single long-life bulb lights my room from the center of the ceiling. Two feet away from the bulb, a hanging ceiling fan quietly whirrs away, providing me with a gentle breeze to help circulate the cool evening air. Interestingly enough, the shadow of the slowly-spinning fan creates a psychedelic light show in the room, helping to test my sanity as I watch the rapid pulsing of light and dark all around me. As far as I can tell, I must be quite sane, because I somehow manage to mostly-ignore the constantly penetrating strobe-light effect.
The floor is adorned with large twelve-inch tiles, a checkerboard that alternates between grey with dark speckles and pinkish-salmon with dark speckles. And oh, I omitted a few important facts about my ornately decorated walls. All around the room, the bottom three feet are lined with beige tiles, and I even have a thirty inch square mirror by the door with two nearby chrome bathroom hooks on which to hang something. To complete my matching set of furnishings, I have a basic two-drawer nightstand and a small homemade wooden chair. What more could I ask for?
In a second-floor common area, I share two toilets and two showers with other guests—but I have yet to encounter any other guests. One toilet and shower are in the same small room with no shower curtain. The other toilet and shower are in separate rooms. But hey, there are toilet seats on both toilets. And here, unlike Cozumel and the Yucatan, I actually get to flush the used toilet paper. How luxurious is that?
All fun set aside, I actually am quite pleased with my functional hotel room. At a price of only $17.50 US, it is the least expensive hotel in town—a small town located about sixty miles down from the northern border of Belize—a quaint little town of about 15,000 residents called Orange Walk.
Another Goodbye
My time in Cozumel ended so very quickly. Of my five days of stopover, three were consumed with doing taxes, visiting friends in Playa Del Carmen, and writing. Between countless other errands, I also managed to squeeze in three short swimming excursions and two delightful visits with Eduardo.
Saturday seemed to arrive all too quickly. For the first time all week, I was able to spend the whole day—my final day on the island—with my dear friend JayDee. For almost four hours we explored isolated white sandy beaches, searching for washed up treasures such as driftwood, shells, large nuts, and broken glass. The turquoise waters on the east side were unusually calm, while the skies above reflected a beautiful blue and a scattered thin cloud cover kept the sun at just the right temperature. We could not have wished for a more perfect day.
Engaging in deep conversation while walking barefoot through the warm sand was a deeply meditative experience—a shared experience that captivated us entirely in the present moment, temporarily removing all thoughts of the outside world, freeing us both from any and all worldly concerns.
Saturday evening I found myself enjoying a street-side buffet dinner with JayDee while we prepared to watch the first parade of Cozumel’s annual Carnaval celebration. The cold north winds were blowing down by the waterfront, creating an unseasonably cold evening; but the elaborate spectacle was well worth a few hours of bundling up in the frigid temperatures.
For the better part of an hour we watched as a delightful and almost continuous chain of extremely creative floats cascaded by—most with Disney, ocean, or movie themes. The thousands of people, riding and walking, women and men, adults and youth, grandparents and children, were almost all dressed in elaborate and ornately decorated costumes.
Once the procession completed its long northbound march along the shoreline, it flipped a U-turn for a return trip back to the south. By the time the floats passed us by for the second time, nearly an hour later, both the float riders, and especially the street dancers, looked utterly exhausted. Many of them had been energetically gyrating and twisting their bodies to loud music when they passed for the first time. Only a few remaining stalwarts managed to maintain their energetic zeal during the second pass—and many of the younger children seemed to have disappeared completely.
As I scrambled late that night to repack my backpack, I found it difficult to fathom the idea that not only would I be leaving Cozumel early the next morning (Sunday), but I would also be on a quick journey to exit the country. My 180 day Mexican tourist visa was about to expire on Monday.
With absolutely no advance trip planning, I would soon find myself embracing the country of Belize.
Destination Belize
Anxious excitement filled my veins as JayDee drove me toward the waterfront early on Sunday Morning. After several mental wrestling matches between my head and my heart, I decided to leave my bicycle behind for this trip—a trip that will surely involve second-class bus trips and possibly even small boat rides. Dragging a bicycle around with me might just prove to be logistically difficult and inconvenient. Internal instincts encouraged me to travel light and flexible.
For the first time in my life, I was embarking on a trip with absolutely no advance planning. As JayDee dropped me off at the ferry terminal, I had no hotel reservations, no bus ticket, and no idea where I was going—other than the fact that I was headed south toward Chetumal, Mexico, and then on to Belize.
Just a few weeks ago, I had fully intended to hurry off toward Guatemala just as soon as my foot healed enough for me to travel; but the tiniest of synchronous experiences caused me to shift my plans.
It was early Saturday morning, January 23, 2010. I was lying in bed while feeling slightly stressed—stuck in my head and worrying about how little time remained before I needed to leave Mexico. As I began to meditate on the decision, a simple and unexpected sequence of thought suddenly entered my head.
“I should just relax in Valladolid for two more weeks. Then I can just take a short trip to Belize. That will take away all of my time pressure, and I can even spend a few days visiting friends in Cozumel along the way.”
The thought of these words brought such a feeling of peace and relief—as if the weight of trying to plan had been lifted from me. Yet I was still sitting on the fence.
Amazingly, just a few hours later, I was talking via Skype to my dear friend Michelle when out of the blue she brought up the subject again.
“Brenda, my son just watched a movie about Belize.” Michelle began. “He asked me where it is and I said I didn’t know. When we looked it up on the internet, we learned it is right below you.”
Goose bumps formed on my arms as Michelle spoke those innocent words. She had no idea about my meditation earlier that morning, and a conversation about a country such as Belize was the last thing I had expected her to bring up.
From that moment on, I knew without any doubts that Belize would be my next destination. While feeling a slight pull toward the town of San Ignacio, I had no idea where in Belize I might actually travel, or for how long. I did know, however, that I was not supposed to preplan any of it.
Smooth Traveling
Having woken up early on Sunday morning, I was already packed and ready to go by 6:40 a.m.. I had originally intended to catch the 8:00 a.m. ferry, but when the thought “Don’t wait … go for the 7:00 a.m. ferry” hit my mind, I ran with the idea. Ten minutes later, JayDee was dropping me off and hugging me goodbye at the ferry terminal.
The north winds were still blowing heavily and the ferry continuously bounced up and down, repeatedly heaving from side to side as we glided over the huge waves that ran parallel to our large passenger boat. But as I eagerly stepped onto the dock in Playa Del Carmen, I felt no sense of nausea—none whatsoever. I had already survived the roughest part of my day’s travels. The rest was child’s play.
Making a beeline for the nearby ADO bus station, I discovered that there were plenty of available seats on the next bus to Chetumal. Soon I was walking away with a ticket for the 9:20 a.m. first class bus. The only unexpected twist was that I needed to walk with my heavy backpack for an extra ten blocks to the other ADO bus station—the one from which my southbound bus would be departing.
But the extra walk was not really a problem, because I conveniently had over an hour to make the walk, allowing me plenty of time to enjoy a delicious buffet breakfast along the way.
“Yes, I won’t need to travel hungry.” I cheered myself on, as I realized that I had not even begun to think about how I would eat during my travels.
As the bus got underway, I quickly brushed away a twinge of fear and doubt that tried to sit down beside me. I had my favorite seat—seat number three on the front row, on the aisle just opposite the driver. I was not about to share my incredible view out the front of the bus with a doomsday companion named fear.
After a short stop in the city of Tulum, I began briefly chatting with three girls seated in the row right behind me. When I asked them about their destination, I learned they were excitedly headed to spend a week on a tiny island off the coast of Belize—a sandy paradise called Caye Caulker—a place that I had never heard of. A feeling of fascination filled my mind as I imagined the many other places that I might visit.
Almost immediately, I retrieved my Central America travel book—the one that dear Conny from Germany had given to me on Christmas day. For the next few hours I devoured the fifty page chapter containing basic information about Belize. Having started out knowing absolutely nothing about the country, I was already beginning to feel quite at home with my destination.
Belize is a country slightly larger than the state of Massachusetts, with a population of about 312,000 residents. Originally a colony of Great Britain, in 1981 the colony of British Honduras became the independent nation of Belize. English is the predominant language, although Spanish, Garifuna, and Creole are also spoken. The language does not always sound like English, having a distinct Jamaican-like accent with very local dialects. The Belize dollar is tightly tied to the U.S. dollar—with the exchange rate being locked in at $1 US being equivalent to $2 Belize.
After putting my guidebook down, I relaxed peacefully during the remainder of the 4.5 hour bus ride to Chetumal. Intuition brought joyful confidence to my soul. I now knew that my first stop in Belize would be the small town of Orange Walk, a place where I would participate in a Jungle River Tour to the ruins of Lamanai.
Shortly after 1:30 p.m. my bus began to wind its way through the city streets of Chetumal, a city of about 135,000 residents that is situated about eight miles north of Mexico’s border with Belize. Near, but not on the Caribbean, the city instead rests on the edge of a large saltwater bay.
Just minutes later, the air brakes on our large tourist-class bus screeched as we pulled to a stop at a large bus terminal situated about 2 kilometers north of the city center. As I began to explore the inside of the terminal, I felt prompted to strike up a short animated conversation with an older American couple that I had seen in the back of my bus. In the midst of a delightful conversation, I found out that they were from Minneapolis, Minnesota, and their names were Judy and Steve.
When I asked if they too were traveling on to Belize, Judy told me “No, we’re planning to stay in Mexico, catching another bus into the southern Yucatan to go visit a Mayan ruin. We probably won’t even spend the night here in Chetumal.”
Not giving Judy or Steve a second thought, I wished them well on their journey before turning to my own next task at hand. After opening up my travel book and grabbing my cell phone, I dialed the number of the only Chetumal hotel that was listed in my book—a small budget hotel located near the historic city center. Ten minutes and a short cab ride later, I was checking into my tiny hotel room—no internet, no television, no blankets, and almost no hot water. But hey, the price of 200 pesos ($16 US) was perfect, and I had a reasonably clean and comfortable bed on which to sleep.
That evening, for the second night in a row, I was treated to a delightful spectacle of Carnaval parades. Just eight blocks away from my hotel, the long, slow-moving parade gradually wound around a winding bay-front street that paralleled the uneven shoreline. The floats were not as plentiful or as elaborate as those in Cozumel, but the variety of people and elaborate ornate costumes more than made up the difference. The parade was both a delight and a beautiful sight to behold.
Late that night, feeling happy, peaceful, and one hundred percent stress free, I closed the shutters on my windows, stuffed ear plugs into my ears, and was soon exploring dreamland.
My first day of completely unplanned traveling had been a delightful and carefree success.
Belize Or Bust
My travel guidebook indicated that there was a bus station in Chetumal where I could catch a bus that would take me across the border into Belize—but a few minor details were left off—details such as the name and exact location of the station.
Monday morning, after gobbling down a few light snacks for breakfast, I casually threw my backpack over my shoulders, checked out of my room, and set out in search of answers.
The clerk at my Hotel walked me over to a map on the wall. After pointing to where we were, he showed me the location of the ADO bus station where I had arrived on Sunday afternoon. The station was a little more than a mile almost due north of the hotel.
“If you can’t find a first class bus at the ADO station,” the clerk said as he continued pointing at the map, “you can most certainly find a second class bus here by the main market.”
With nothing more than a memorized image of the map in my head, I set out walking to the north. After two blocks I saw an empty cab approaching. My legs were already feeling tired under the weight of my pack, so I eagerly stuck out my hand to get the driver’s attention. Just a few blocks after I climbed in, the driver stopped to pick up yet another woman. I first experienced such odd taxi behavior in Valladolid. In an effort to collect multiple fares simultaneously, the driver will often pick up several passengers, provided that the passengers are all going in the same general direction.
After leaving the cab, a quick tour around the ADO bus station did not give me any useful answers. The ticket seller told me that they don’t have ADO busses to Belize, and then he pointed to an unmanned booth across the station.
“They probably have a bus at 11:30 a.m.,” the ticket man told me, “but you will have to buy your ticket over there, and no one is at the booth yet.”
A quick glance at my watch revealed 8:15 a.m.; I was eager to get an earlier start, and an unsettled feeling inside pushed me to abandon the idea of a first class bus.
“It is time to check out the second class buses.” I told myself as I followed the intuitive feeling and set out on foot.
After walking five long, hot, sweaty blocks to the exact spot on my imaginary memorized map where the hotel clerk had told me to go, I came up empty. Not only was there no bus station in sight, but there was no bustling Market either, zilch, nada.
Swallowing my pride, I flagged down a nice young man that happened to be walking by.
“Excuse me,” I began in my very best Spanish, “can you tell me where I can catch a bus to Belize?”
“Yes,” he replied, followed by a very long pause. “Go back two blocks that way and then turn right. You will see a large water thing above you.”
Then he held his hands over his head and drew an odd shape in the air.
“Can you please tell me how far it is after I turn right?” I queried, attempting to understand a little better.
Pointing down the street that we were on, the young man looked at a building about two blocks in the distance and replied, “About as far away as that.”
Still feeling somewhat confused, I retraced my steps two blocks in the hot sun and turned right, down the indicated street. After walking about two additional blocks, I noticed a large market on the right, a big parking lot filled with cars, and a small restaurant with a large rectangular shaped water tower dominating the skyline above.
“Surely, I must be close to the station.” I reassured myself as I approached a man operating a shoeshine booth, once again asking for assistance.
“Yes, the buses start right here in this parking lot,” the man told me, “but they don’t start running until about 9:45 a.m.”
Now I was really confused. I saw no bus station anywhere, no ticket booths, and no buses—yet the shoe shine man acted like he knew exactly what he was talking about.
Just then, an older African American man walked out of the restaurant, and from twenty feet away he waved and called out “Hello” to get my attention. His “Hello” was the first English I had heard all morning, and his easily recognizable American accent was very reassuring.
Motioning for me to come and join him at his outdoor table, the kind man proceeded to explain that there is no bus station here.
“The buses are mostly old school buses imported from the U.S. after they have been driven too many miles.” the man began to educate me. “As many as five or six of them line up here at a time. You simply buy your ticket from the driver. The buses don’t start until a little later in the morning because the Belize border guards don’t like to open very early in the morning.”
I visited with Efil (Life spelled backwards) for almost an hour and forty-five minutes—and what a fascinating visit it was. Efil moved to Belize over eleven years ago, but for several reasons he now lives in Chetumal. Originally from Maryland, Efil was born in the early 1930s, and is now 76 years old—but that is just the beginning of the story.
Efil fought in the Korean War, and was later a major civil rights and labor union activist during the turbulent 1960’s. In 1963, shortly after Medgar Evers was gunned down in front of his home, Efil flew to Mississippi as a black labor union representative. During that period, Efil met extensively with local black leaders, including Charles Evers (Medgar’s brother) who later became Mississippi’s first black mayor in 1969.
For those of you not familiar with civil rights history, the Medgar Evers shooting is one of the major rallying events in the early civil rights movement.
Efil told me story after story about his hair-raising adventures, one of which was about his attempt to take photographs at a Mississippi Ku Klux Klan rally shortly after the Medgar Evers murder took place.
Soon, our conversation drifted into spiritual and philosophical topics. I was surprised to learn that many elements of Efil’s life philosophy closely parallel ideas that ring true with my heart. I could have sat and listened to Efil’s fascinating stories all day, but alas the first bus of the morning—a 10:30 a.m. express bus to Belize City with only a few stops in between—was finally ready to board. After Efil and I exchanged goodbyes, I was off on my next great adventure.
There is no doubt that Efil was exactly where he needed to be on that Monday morning in Chetumal. I was deeply grateful for his assistance with the second class bus system. His presence helped me easily and seamlessly transition across the border into Belize. As the bus pulled away, I looked back through the window to wave goodbye, but Efil was no longer anywhere to be seen.
Border Crossing
Twenty minutes later we arrived at the border.
In perfect English, the driver told us to get off the bus to clear our passport with Mexican Immigration, situated in a small booth on the right hand side of the road. In a very quick and simple stop, the Mexican official collected my 200 peso exit fee and stamped my tourist visa. Soon, we were all back on the bus, driving several hundred yards further down the road.
As we pulled up in front in front of a small building containing Belize customs agents, our bus driver again instructed us to get off the bus. After gathering all of our belongings and luggage, we were instructed to enter the building.
Soon, I was answering detailed questions for an English speaking border agent. Seeming satisfied by my answers, the agent waved me through without searching any of my belongings. Fifteen minutes later, as I examined my visa stamp on my passport, I noticed that I had only been given twenty seven days instead of the allowed thirty days to remain in Belize. All I can assume is that the agent added one month and subtracted one day—forgetting that February only has 28 days. Oh well, I guess the universe is telling me to move on a few days sooner.
The final hour of my bus ride was very pleasant, driving through countryside very similar to that in the Yucatan. Unlike most of the buses, mine was not a school bus. It was a very old tourist-style bus. It was air conditioned, had a luggage compartment, and stopped only at major cities. Orange Walk was the second stop.
Shortly after 12:30 p.m., I stepped down into a gravel parking lot in front of a small outdoor market. As I heaved my backpack onto my shoulders, wondering what I would do next, I was immediately approached by a very helpful man from “Jungle River Tours”. Before I knew what was happening, I was whisked away in his van, given a quick tour of the town, dropped off at the hotel of my choice, and had a ticket in my hand for 9:00 a.m. Jungle River tour to the Lamanai ruins on Tuesday morning.
What more could I ask for?
Orange Walk Belize
One of the first things that seemed bizarre to me in this small town of 15,000 inhabitants was that almost all of the signs were written in English. But I quickly learned that many of the residents continue to speak Spanish when conversing with each other.
Another thing that struck me was the mixture of nationalities. My hotel is operated by a Japanese family, and several Chinese and Japanese restaurants are scattered around town. The majority of residents have either a Spanish or Mayan feel, but there is also a small presence of Mennonites, and a very clear presence of African Americans—Creole descendents of African’s brought to the Americas during the slave trade. As I reflect back on my time in Mexico, I only recall meeting a few African Americans in that country, and most of them were tourists.
But even though most people here speak English, it is often difficult to understand them with their Jamaican/Caribbean-like dialects. In many ways, I feel as if I am currently on the Caribbean island of Jamaica.
The layout and architecture of Orange Walk remind me of a small Yucatan city, yet a surprising difference is the prevalence of many wooden homes and homes with peaked roofs—something I rarely, if ever, saw in Mexico.
Being quite hungry, I quickly discovered a small diner called Juanita’s. The main item on the menu is a delicious plate filled with rice and beans with chicken—a meal which I have now eaten five times. For only $3.50 US, I can fill my stomach with this simple, but tasty and nutritious meal.
A huge surprise blew me away on Monday evening, just after I finished ordering my second meal at Juanita’s. As I was leaning back in my chair, two familiar faces walked into the room and invited me to sit with them. It took me a minute to place them, but they were Judy and Steve from Minneapolis, Minnesota—the same couple I had met at the bus station in Chetumal. Having changed their minds about continuing their travels in Mexico, Judy and Steve ended up sharing a table with me in Orange Walk. To take synchronicity one step further, they had already purchased tickets for the very same jungle river cruise on Tuesday morning. Not only did the universe provide me with assistance in reaching Orange Walk, but I was also given instant friends with which to share my tour.
Monday evening as I began writing about my room accommodations, my amazing day was almost complete. Even though I turned out to be quite chilly in my blanket-less bed, my heart was radiating warmth. The universe was blessing me in big ways, and I could not wait to see where my guidance would bless me next.
Monkey Business
Tuesday was a delight in every possible way.
Our small boat was the perfect size for thirteen—consisting of our boat captain/tour guide, an assistant/spotter, and eleven paying guests. I sat right next to Judy and Steve at the front of the boat, having a beautiful view looking out of the left side.
The thirty-four mile boat ride took us more than two hours—the main reason being that we stopped frequently to examine small crocodiles, sleeping bats, a large variety of birds, and even a Spider monkey that likes to hang out waiting for tourists. After Steve gave the monkey a banana, the little fellow climbed down from his branch and decided to walk around the boat to see if anyone else happened to have some food to share.
At one point, someone spotted a large six foot crocodile, but when we turned around to get a closer view, it had long since submerged. The same thing happened when the boat captain spotted a large manatee in the middle of the jungle-lined river.
The scenery was often gorgeous and breathtaking as we sailed down the frequently glass-like waters of the “New River” past the thick jungle vegetation that was intertwined, snarled and twisted along the shorelines.
Occasionally we passed signs of civilization—a home, a fisherman in a canoe, a bridge, a sugar factory, and the like. We even passed a large Mennonite settlement called Shipyard. But the vast majority of the shoreline was untouched, pristine jungle.
Finally, at around 11:30 a.m., our boat entered a large lake, on the far side of which was a small dock—a dock with a sign announcing that we had reached our destination, the ruins of Lamanai.
Halfway through our several-hour tour of the incredible jungle-surrounded Lamanai ruins, several Howler monkeys began to climb and screech in the trees above and around us. The sound is quite difficult to describe—a very unique and very loud low-pitched screaming roar that somewhat reminded me of a cross between screeching elephants and roaring jaguars.
The thick and lush surrounding jungles added greatly to the amazing energetic feel of the very impressive ruins, many of which date back into the Pre-Classic period. Archaeologists estimate that people lived here as early as 1500 BC, with the first stone buildings dating as early as 600-800 BC. The tallest or the four structures that we explored towers 111 feet from its base, providing a beautiful view of the lush green surrounding jungle landscape, as well as the lake in the distance.
Eyeglass Intuitions
All throughout the journey to the ruins, I had the strangest premonition that something was going to happen to my eyeglasses. With intense focus, I held onto the frames as we zoomed around narrow bends into the headwinds created by the momentum of our boat. The last thing I wanted was to loose my glasses into the green crocodile-infested river waters below.
After reaching the ruins I relaxed and let my guard down, but still had this interesting intuition that my glasses were not safe.
At the end of our tour, we had ten minutes to visit the restrooms and the small museum. By now, I had completely forgotten about my prior intuitive feelings. While engaging in a brief conversation with a young thirty-something traveler from Southern California, I suddenly found my glasses slipping off my face, through my hands, and onto the hard floor below.
I almost laughed when my left lens popped out of the frame and rolled a foot or two away. The lens was unbroken and the frame unharmed—yet neither I nor my California friend were able to push the lens back into place.
For the entire journey back up the river to Orange Walk, I laughed and giggled on the inside while I struggled to see with only one eye on the outside. Fifteen minutes after returning to the town, I managed to find a small general store with a small display of precision screwdriver sets. One of the tiny screwdrivers fit my eyeglass screw perfectly, and my dilemma was short lived.
I have yet to figure out the meaning of this experience—but one thing is perfectly clear in my vision: I have no doubt whatsoever that I was forewarned about my eyeglasses, and in a strange way, I know that the situation needed to happen exactly the way it did.
Orange Walk Wrap-up
As I sit in my hotel room, on my blanket-less springy bed, intuition tells me that I will soon be moving on to my next destination—perhaps Caye Caulker, perhaps San Ignacio, or perhaps the southern end of Belize.
In my heart, I know that the decision does not really matter. Something tells me that any of those decisions would be right—that I am free to simply follow my heart’s delight—free to enjoy my time here in Belize with no stress or worries—free of shoulds and musts—free to fly wherever my wings want to take me.
Excitement swells in my soul as I contemplate just where my next landing might be.
Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved