Gary Guinn

Literature of the Ozarks

Month: January 2017 (page 1 of 3)

Caye Caulker Last Day

Caye Caulker to Belize City to Houston to Northwest Arkansas.

The things I’m going to miss:

The quiet, sea-smelling dock first thing in the morning, doing a little yoga. The pelicans.

Sitting under the palm trees reading, the ocean breeze brisk,  wind surfers, paddle boarders. The sun bright off the ocean. The palm fronds shifting gently overhead.

Street-food lunches–Chef Kareem’s grilled chicken, Otis’s pork chops, and especially the little red shed and their jerk chicken, rice and beans, grilled plantains, slaw, and onion sauce.


Sunsets from the dock with a glass of 1-Barrel Rum. How things got quiet and slowly dark. Bellikin Beer.

Wish Willy’s.

Our neighbors Chris and Wendy.

Frigate Birds.


And more than anything else, spending long lazy days with my lover, Mary Ann.





Caye Caulker Birthday

Muddling along on Caye Caulker, I woke up this morning and lay face to face with my sixty-ninth birthday.  I don’t do much about birthdays. I have never been bothered by the decade years–you know what I mean, the “Oh my God, I’m forty” or “Oh, my God, I’m sixty” thing. Today is a beautiful day, with a clear sky and a soft breeze off the ocean. And it has started perfectly. I slipped out on the porch as Mary Ann finished sleeping and the sun finished rising, and sat in the cool air and listened to the mourning doves calling. The yellow-orange blossoms of the oleander moved in the the breeze. An oriole fluttered around in the leaves, flashing its yellow and orange feathers.  An old Belizean man, his head wrapped in a white bandana, rode by on a bicycle and waved hello. The long fronds of the palm trees across the street waved slowly above clusters of coconuts. Frigate birds patrolled the air above.

When Mary Ann got up, we walked down to the dock for some quiet yoga. The dock was ours, as it is every morning. The peace of the wavelets slapping against the piers, broken by the occasional whine of a small boat headed out into the bay. A pelican or two gliding across the surface of the water. The two of us moving slowly through our sun salutations. A dozen sailboats rocking gently, moored in the bay, aligned with their noses into the wind.

A half hour later, our joints and muscles loose and warm, and our hearts and minds relaxed, we headed out for a birthday breakfast at a new little French cafe right on the beach, just around the corner from our cabana.  They make their own jam, sweet and a little spicy, on toasted french bread. Strong coffee.  Fresh orange juice and pineapple juice.

Now I’m back on the porch. Happy. Waiting for the day to come to me.

Back to those first waking moments this morning. As I lay there in the cabana,  watching the ceiling fan turn lazily, listening to the mourning doves calling back and forth outside the window, the question did cross my mind, What have I done in sixty-nine years? But I tossed that useless question and replaced it with, How have I lived my life? Who have I been? The questions that really matter. Much too big to answer here. Maybe later.

Aside from the obvious things that give life meaning–my wife, my kids, my faith, my friends (all of which give deep and true meaning to life)–the thing I felt intense gratitude for at that moment was the students who became part of me over the 35 years I taught at the college. Someday I’ll write an open letter to them all, because it will take a while to explain how it is they who make it possible to look back on a life that has no grand accomplishments and to feel a deep sense of satisfaction,  a sense of having spent those years on something worthwhile. And so . . . for now . . .

Being this age, on this day, at this moment, in this place, with my heart beating and the air sweet in my lungs, content, and a day spread out in front of me that holds . . . what? It’s enough.




Flores, Guatemala

Thursday we left Caye Caulker for a long weekend, a little change of pace. Took the water taxi to Belize City, then caught a bus to Flores, Guatemala, a small town that covers an island in Lake Peten. The five hour bus ride, including a lengthy border crossing between Belize and Guatemala, was taxing, but Flores was beautiful and friendly and relaxed. The kind of place where you take a deep breath and feel all the tension slipping away.

We traveled with our Canadian neighbors, Chris and Wendy (think Red Snapper, think Lobster Tails, think all good things Caye Caulkian), and with two other Canadians, Grant and Michelle, and two Americans, Ron and Susie. A good group of people who have similar travel styles, probably the most important characteristic of travel partners. Went to a sweet lakeside restaurant for dinner. Ron, the American, had a birthday , and guess what–they do the same silly thing in Flores that they do in the U.S. They did the embarrassing Happy Birthday song. They even put a pink clown wig on Ron and wore masks to sing. Okay, well, whatever.

Friday, six of us went to Tikal, one of the biggest Mayan sites in Central America. You gotta love those places. Incredible temples, pyramids, courtyards, houses. Fascinating civilization. Easy to imagine Indiana Jones at the Temple of Doom and the priest pulling the guy’s heart out. There’s a slight problem with the movie, of course. The movie has the priest sacrificing some poor schmuck of a working class guy, while in Mayan culture, it was the royalty who got sacrificed. They were the only ones good enough for the gods. And there’s that whole thing about the Mayan soccer/basketball game where the winners are sacrificed, not the losers. So we were joking about just how obvious it might have been when a team was trying to throw the game.

And one more thing. I ate some live termites. Our guide showed us how. Poke a stick in the nest, pull it out and slurp them off. They taste like carrots, Really. So take that, Bob Gustavson. Termites on a stick.


Older posts

© 2019 Gary Guinn

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑