Proper words and pictures coming soon.

N: What can I say about Belize?

Z: It’s wet and green. And it doesn’t have roads.

Most of Belize is jungle, which in some areas looks primordial and huge – all tangled canopies and gigantic ferns and tree roots the size of my leg – while in other places it looks more like a dense European forest (if European forests were in the habit of housing jaguars). Because I’m ignorant I thought the forest was really old, but most of it sits on top of the Mayan cities of old – it appears that pretty much wherever you dig your pickaxe you’re guaranteed to stumble on an ancient settlement, provided you had substantial time and money and energy for this pickaxing- which isn’t excavated due to insufficient funds.

In a way I found it a comforting idea – that nature persists even if a civilisation perishes- and have ever since had postapocalyptic visions of my living room with giant roots and glossy ferns growing from the floorboards, their droplet-covered fronds refracting light.

I think it says a lot about Z and me that we invested so much more effort into planning our honeymoon than we did our wedding, and we chose Belize since it promised to cater to both of our passions: exploration (his) and lazing on books with beaches (mine). We went there in January 2007 and ever since it’s been our reference point for Things That Are Magical.

Although I had been apprehensive about navigating a foreign, densely-jungled country in airplanes the size of my sofa nothing untoward happened and I’ve ever since felt that pilots who don’t saunter up to you in shorts and slippers while chucking away the remains of a cigarette just aren’t living the right kind of life. Our first five days were spent in the jungle-happy mainland (Orange Walk) in Chan Chich lodge on a private nature reserve.

It was a breathtaking place – vivid with birds and monkeys and fermented oranges. The first couple of nights howler monkeys having it out sounded like someone being murdered, but eventually we more or less just slept through them. Between the fragrant air, the high ceilings and walls-as-blinds it was essentially like going to bed in the open – falling asleep was like floating in space with the occasional dream of jaguars . The 11 cabins of the Lodge were set far apart from each other and the seclusion of the place could be deceiving which everyone learned to their regret one day as on the way to dinner Z and I were treated to a full-frontal vision of a fresh-from the shower neighbour.

wonky table

A whimsical Jesus

The view from on high

More
The Southern Coastline by night

What other ficcuses aspire to be when they grow up

My homage to sorceresz and the micro-perspective function on the camera

Attack of the jazz hands

, and still more here

It had:

Tide mandated parking

Porno Mermaids

Lovely scenery

Now I’m back in London, quietly expiring on my day off while the neighbours upstairs seem to be having sex and doing DIY at the same time. More power to them.

It was beautiful. Like another world entirely, and everything seemed curiously slowed down, like the world inside a dream.

We landed gently as a leaf does.

Spent the day very pleasantly being driven around Blue Mountains (so called on account of the bluish haze that forest of Eucalyptus trees produce) and looking at various cliffs and rock formations and people patiently bearing with me taking pictures of every tree, and soaked in a hot tub thingie and then we had some Japanese food and went to a dyke night at some pub in NewTown.

NewTown is for me scarily reminscent of Old Belgrade in its architecture and streets (well aside from being cleaner and not derelict or homophobic). I’ve been noticing this about Australia lately – how much chunks of it remind me of Yug. For instance, Port Stephens was for me very similar to Montenegro (well aside from also being cleaner and with helpful people), and the hostel where we are staying right now (Sydney Railway Square) is next to a railway station which seems the spitting image of the one in Belgrade. From our bedroom window we can see the trains and I (at best equipped with only the vaguest sense of direction and plan) can’t shake off the feeling that I’m meant to be somewhere else, going to an important destination I’ve all but forgotten about.

It’s been great being here. We’ve done lots of intersting things and had the most fabulous food – we have been living in this food court which sells Asian food, working our way slowly around the menus (I’ve never had that much octopus in my life as in the two weeks here).

It seems a wonderful country, and pacing its streets I of things I will miss, although I am not sure how I feel about the isolation of Australia – the inescapable fact that it is soooo far away from everywhere and everyone else. That here you never escape from the sensation that you truly area castaway at the far end of the world.

I’m still getting the leaving syndrome though – this idea that there are always all sorts of things left undone and that if I just had one more day, or a couple of days then I would somehow accomplish more. It hasn’t happened yet. There is never enough time for anything, or anyone you fall in love with.

Lynne and I think that Oz combines pretty much the best of things both British and American, on top of being beautifully civilised and well-behaved as a country. Not to mention the fact that the weather is nice.

Of course, I realise that it’s not perfect. For one thing water doesn’t go down the pipes the wron way. And then it’s so remote (whereas Europe seems nestled in this lovely hub of activity where most people I need are just a couple of hours away).

Then in Sydney at least, there are the weird traffic lights which stay green a very very very short time causing me to have to spring across streets (to more melodious cries of Ouch Shit Motherfucker, as my knee protests vociferously). And the cabs look like police cars and I keep getting unerved by the amount of police presence in the streets before I realise that they are just taxis.

But aside from that, it’s just lovely.
It’s got the vast open spaces and friendly people of America but they seem to have the civility, politeness and the very fine wit of the British. On the other hand they aren’t steeped in the Brit jaded cynicism and are unfailingly obliging and kind (even the xenophobic ones).

Thus far in Australia we have encountered:

The Friendly Hostel Keeper Hostus Splendidus

The Very Helpful Bus Driver Charioteerus Compassionatus

The Arrogant Italian Dolurus in the Buttus (and thankfully not a native species)

The Born Again Christian Christianus Renaissansus

as well as The Friendly Local and The Crushingly Good Didgeridoo Player.

And it is with a sense of real regret that I face the thought of coming back to the UK on Friday (amplified by the dread of the long flight on a plane whose seating seems to have been designed for Lilliputians).

However, we still have one more full day here and we aim to spend it in the Blue Mountains.