A mother-and-son Belize adventure
Travelling with a child can offer access to a wondrous new world filled with curiosity
Years ago, I watched someone fling a message in a bottle into the Strait of Gibraltar. It bobbled there on the surface, this container of mystery and love, before it was pulled away with the current.
I think of it again this spring, eyeing my travel companion in Caye Caulker, Belize. The water is teal, warm, and silky with salt. Beneath us, the second largest barrier reef in the world teems with colourful tropical fish. We happen upon two manatees that look like great grey barrels, and we pause to peer at each other curiously.
My travel partner is snorkeling for the first time, and he wobbles on the surface like a buoy. He doesn’t know how to swim, but he’s wearing a life-jacket and is gripping another one as the guide tows him around. Suddenly the waves crash higher and for a moment, I worry that he’s going to be whisked away like that bottle.
I worry because this is my sevenyear-old son, Everest.
As someone who prefers to travel alone, I never thought I would have a companion for my far-flung journeys.
My first solo trip was in 2010, when I backpacked around the world to complete my mom’s travel to-do list while she was in a memory care centre, dying of early-onset Alzheimer’s disease. Though I was alone, I carried my mom’s spirit along with my backpack.
She was there when I watched the sun rise over Mount Sinai or when I danced a tango in Buenos Aires. And yet, every path I took was joyously my own. For the first time, I felt like I was actively living rather than letting life happen to me. It was my mom’s final gift. After that trip, I was hesitant to have a child of my own. Knowing there’s a hereditary component to Alzheimer’s, I didn’t want my son or daughter to endure the same erasure I witnessed with my mom.
Plus, I had finally ignited my wanderlust, and a child seemed like a surefire way to derail travel, spontaneity and adventure. I worried that being a mother would mean missing out on the world instead of engaging with it.
After a lot of consideration with my husband, we decided to try for a baby anyway. I determined I was more afraid of never making memories than of losing them. Then along came Everest, a child whose first words after “mama” were “let’s go!”
We have since travelled widely as a family. Road tripping through Alberta. Eating our way around Mexico City. Revisiting the temples I loved in Thailand and Cambodia.
But spring break in Belize is the first trip with my son, just him and me.
I rent a Jeep, and I hand Everest a map, making him the navigator. He likes maps anyway, but it helps that Belize only has four major roads.
“Let’s go,” he says, buckling his travel booster seat.
From Belize City, we head to the jungle town of San Ignacio. On our first full day, we explore the labyrinthine grounds of Cahal Pech, a Maya archeological site that dates back to 1200 BCE. We are the only people there.
“I feel like Indiana Jones,” I whisper, wandering through a stone gate and spying a blur of toucans in the tree canopy.
“Who?” Everest says. “You can be California Mommy.”
The day takes a steamy turn while we’re visiting the Green Iguana Conservation Project, the kind of weather that begs for a cold dip. Our modest lodging doesn’t have so much as a puddle, so we opt for nature instead. I negotiate the Jeep over a pocked road that resembles the surface of Mars until we reach Mountain Pine Ridge Forest Reserve, where shallow pools are surrounded by smooth rocks and waterfalls.
From San Ignacio, we head to the verdant foothills and lush rainforest of Toledo, the southernmost district of Belize. We spend time with the Maya family behind Ixcacao Maya Belizean Chocolate, who preserve their cultural heritage through chocolate, making bars by hand using Indigenous cacao grown on their land.
We zigzag around the country, from pristine beaches on the Placencia peninsula to the northern district of Orange Walk, a place that smells like burnt crème brûlée from the slash-and-burn farming of sugarcane fields. We visit butterfly houses, hike through caves, picnic at Blue Hole National Park, boat to the archeological site of Lamanai, and say hello to every cat and dog.
On our way to stay the night at the Belize Zoo’s Tropical Education Center, Everest sees a road sign advertising a Nepali restaurant called Everest, in the city of Belmopan. I stop, assuming we’ll take a photo with the sign and order a samosa to go — but when the proprietor hears Everest’s name, we become family. He ties an apron around my son’s neck and pulls him into the kitchen, dancing and singing as he teaches Everest to make momos, dal, aloo ko achar and heaps of rice.
“Mom!” Everest hisses as he drags a wooden spoon through a pan, mustard seeds popping in hot oil. “This is amazing. This is once in a lifetime.”
The owner’s wife gives us warm hugs. They paint our faces with holi powder and feed us spoonfuls of aromatic spices. What was supposed to be a quick stop turns into the ceremony of an unforgettable five-course meal.
Over the course of our two-week trip, the texture of travel changes. It’s deeper, more robust. I marvel that I ever thought Everest would cause me to miss out on the world.
Rather, I want to inhabit his world. It’s a place where every animal wants to cuddle, where every human is a potential friend. He loads his pockets with rocks and seeds, because they are sources of wonder, and he wants to hold such magic close. He even saves a wisp of dandelion fluff; he believes it’s a hummingbird ghost.
Our final stop is Caye Caulker, an easygoing island with no cars, where we ride bikes long after the sun sets and the sky is stained purple. It’s also where we take our snorkeling trip through a marine reserve.
At one point my son is surrounded by nurse sharks and stingrays. It’s a magnificent swirl of activity as they bump into his body like playful puppies. Somehow I hear Everest giggling through his full-face mask, and I realize this is the destination I always wanted to reach — living in this sound, this golden moment, riding a current that could take us anywhere.
Over the course of our two-week trip, the texture of travel changes. It’s deeper, more robust. I marvel that I ever thought Everest would cause me to miss out on the world