I have realized that the key to a fun adventure is a golf cart. My afternoon of hunting for a crocodile w
ould have been far less amusing if I had been in just a plain old car. But one of the great things about the Caye Islands of Belize is that the main mode of transportation is the golf cart. The other great thing the close proximity of the reef means, you can get up at a reasonable time, do a couple of dives and still have the afternoon free to accomplish other goals...like photographing a wild crocodile!
I have shot photos of caiman and alligators in the wild...but the croc has been elusive…until this trip (and it turns out that I totally forgot about the crocodiles that I snapped photos of in Africa…oops). Suited up with a hat, sunscreen and my trusty camera – we boarded Golf Cart 26 (possibly the slowest cart on the island) and set off to search for this massive reptile at about 8 mph.
We headed due north…for the more abandoned portion of the island to scour the salty mangroves…Tricia eyed me skeptically as I pulled over to a lagoon, not too far o
ff the dirt trail we were following. But looking at that lagoon…I could sense it would be teeming with crocodiles! So I hopped out of our golf cart and proceeded down a tiny seashell path (literally a path of teeny seashells) towards the lagoon…my excitement reached epic proportions when I spotted crocodile footprints in the dried mud shore…convinced the beast was within my grasp I turned off the path to follow the tracks…and then the earth gave out.
The dried mud shore, which at first glance had appeared to be a field of solid dirt was indeed a bog. A bog for those curious readers is defined as “wetland that accumulates acidic peat, a deposit of dead plant material”. A bog is not stable ground on which to step, so when I went charging onto it, following the tracks of a probable long extinct ani
mal, it is of no surprise that I floundered. Actually floundered is putting it gracefully – I immediately sank up to my knees in smelly bog, fell backward on my butt (luckily on the seashell path) and my feet popped out of my flip flops showering me with bits of bog. Ignoring the stabbing pain in my ass from the millions of little seashells and the bits of bog now in my hair, I frantically called for Tricia to come and help me dig out my shoes for the bog had rapidly digested my only remaining pair of footwear. It seemed to take Tricia a minute to realize the severity of the situation - she was just staring at me as I frantically dug through the stinky, soft mush screaming “my shoes, my shoes”. It took her another minute to decide that she liked me enough to dig into this disgusting marsh with her bare hands to locate my flip flops.
It took about 5 min to find my shoes (honestly), 10 min to walk barefoot along the sharp shell pathway and another 15 min to find a spot to rinse our hands (and my shoes and legs) before we were able to resume the hunt. So, thirty minutes later we were on our way again, a little smellier (bog takes more than a quick rinse to come off) but still determined. It seems as though we had been driving forever, but at 8mph I really doubt we got that far, before deciding to see if the southern tip of the island would hold more promise for us.
As we putted back to town we passed a couple of young men hitchhiking…and while I am generally against picking up strangers in an abandoned area of a foreign land, I made an exception here. (Had they intended to harm us, they really could have jogged, or walked briskly, upside the cart and yanked us out) My luck was starting to change as our new passengers (which I think slowed the cart down by at least 1 mph) were local tour guides brimming with
advice on where to find the most reliable crocodiles on the island – this was just the break we needed!
With a renewed sense of confidence and knowledge, we dropped off our hitchhiking buddies in the town of San Pedro and headed south, to “a lagoon near the water tower”. Just a few minutes later when I turned to chat with Tricia, I caught sight of our new “hitchhikers” – or rather stowaways. Two enterprising youngsters had hopped aboard the back of our golf cart in the hopes of catching a ride part of the way home. I was less concerned about the riders as I was about the possibility of kidnapping charges being filed in Central America…again. But I also didn’t want the scene of throwing to local boys off the back of our cart – so we agreed to take Marcus and Damien part way home. While chatting with the boys, we explained that we were trying to find a crocodile.
We headed due north…for the more abandoned portion of the island to scour the salty mangroves…Tricia eyed me skeptically as I pulled over to a lagoon, not too far o
ff the dirt trail we were following. But looking at that lagoon…I could sense it would be teeming with crocodiles! So I hopped out of our golf cart and proceeded down a tiny seashell path (literally a path of teeny seashells) towards the lagoon…my excitement reached epic proportions when I spotted crocodile footprints in the dried mud shore…convinced the beast was within my grasp I turned off the path to follow the tracks…and then the earth gave out.
The dried mud shore, which at first glance had appeared to be a field of solid dirt was indeed a bog. A bog for those curious readers is defined as “wetland that accumulates acidic peat, a deposit of dead plant material”. A bog is not stable ground on which to step, so when I went charging onto it, following the tracks of a probable long extinct ani
mal, it is of no surprise that I floundered. Actually floundered is putting it gracefully – I immediately sank up to my knees in smelly bog, fell backward on my butt (luckily on the seashell path) and my feet popped out of my flip flops showering me with bits of bog. Ignoring the stabbing pain in my ass from the millions of little seashells and the bits of bog now in my hair, I frantically called for Tricia to come and help me dig out my shoes for the bog had rapidly digested my only remaining pair of footwear. It seemed to take Tricia a minute to realize the severity of the situation - she was just staring at me as I frantically dug through the stinky, soft mush screaming “my shoes, my shoes”. It took her another minute to decide that she liked me enough to dig into this disgusting marsh with her bare hands to locate my flip flops.
It took about 5 min to find my shoes (honestly), 10 min to walk barefoot along the sharp shell pathway and another 15 min to find a spot to rinse our hands (and my shoes and legs) before we were able to resume the hunt. So, thirty minutes later we were on our way again, a little smellier (bog takes more than a quick rinse to come off) but still determined. It seems as though we had been driving forever, but at 8mph I really doubt we got that far, before deciding to see if the southern tip of the island would hold more promise for us.
As we putted back to town we passed a couple of young men hitchhiking…and while I am generally against picking up strangers in an abandoned area of a foreign land, I made an exception here. (Had they intended to harm us, they really could have jogged, or walked briskly, upside the cart and yanked us out) My luck was starting to change as our new passengers (which I think slowed the cart down by at least 1 mph) were local tour guides brimming with
advice on where to find the most reliable crocodiles on the island – this was just the break we needed!
With a renewed sense of confidence and knowledge, we dropped off our hitchhiking buddies in the town of San Pedro and headed south, to “a lagoon near the water tower”. Just a few minutes later when I turned to chat with Tricia, I caught sight of our new “hitchhikers” – or rather stowaways. Two enterprising youngsters had hopped aboard the back of our golf cart in the hopes of catching a ride part of the way home. I was less concerned about the riders as I was about the possibility of kidnapping charges being filed in Central America…again. But I also didn’t want the scene of throwing to local boys off the back of our cart – so we agreed to take Marcus and Damien part way home. While chatting with the boys, we explained that we were trying to find a crocodile.
Travel tip** If you want to find a large, dangerous reptile – ask a small boy. Upon hearing of our plans to find a crocodile, these two little 9 year olds realized how inexperienced we were in this field and took it upon themselves to personally escort us to a secret spot. I know what you are
thinking…did we really just use two boys as bait to lure a crocodile out of a lagoon? And the answer is yes, that is exactly what happened. If it helps…I knew at the time it was wrong…and I struggled ethically with the dilemma while taking some great photos.
The good angel on my shoulder eventually spoke up and common sense set in when the large monster started to make his way out of the waters and rather close to young Marcus…Tricia and I grabbed the boys, ran for the golf cart and peeled out of there...at 8 mph….
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