Tuesday, March 22, 2011

La Ruta Maya River Challenge

For the last fourteen years Belize has been home to a monster of a canoe race called “La Ruta Maya.” I have heard that it is the 5th longest canoe race in the world. Or was it the 5th hardest? Both or neither may actually be true, but it is a four day, 170 mile trek that spans the entire width of the country. From San Ignacio in the west, to downtown Belize City in the east. There are always some confused Peace Corps Volunteers that decide to put a crew together, and it took about three seconds after hearing about it for me to sign on.

I must admit that I did not know entirely what I was getting myself into. Although back in the States I did canoe and kayak quite a bit in the summers, this usually involved a case of beer, swimming breaks, and a cookout at the end of the day. I figured this experience was sufficient, and began assembling a team.

For this I did not have to look to far. My fellow Maya Mopan training friends Dan and Mallory were as excited as I was for the challenge. The only problem was that Dan and I both live in remote villages, and usually only see each other a couple times a month when our market days happen to coincide. Thankfully Mallory took charge of arranging absolutely about the race, and did a great job (In reality she is the best person for the task. I mean she has been interviewed for TV more times than Obama, single handedly runs an entire government organization, and hell someone she met half a dozen times named his granddaughter after her. I hear talk that she is even in the running for Prime Minister. This is clearly the person you want in charge of your PR). I didn't know anything about the race except that it was long. She found our canoe, paddles, life jackets, sponsor (WIN Belize) set up our trainings and arranged our support crew. It is not an exaggeration to say that we would not have made it to the race if not for her. When pressed by a skeptic about doing everything for our team she simply replied “I'm getting us to the starting line, and they [Dan and I] are getting us to the finish line” words of a champion.

Finding time to train was difficult because of our busy schedules, and while we were taking it seriously, it was very much secondary to why we are actually here. Being away from the village a lot to practice paddling just isn't possible, even though everyone in the village was pulling for us to win and have a big party. However, feeling intimidated by another Peace Corps team that was allegedly practicing multiple times a week, and receiving warnings of how hard the race would be, we did find the time to practice a bit in the weeks leading up to the race.

The race was set to begin on Friday at seven in the morning, so Thursday we were to all meet in San Ignacio (where the race would start) in the afternoon. We wanted to practice in our race canoe (which we had not even seen yet) and take care of all the last minute things before the start. This is when the curse began.

First, Dan and Mallory didn't show up with the boat until around 7:30 p.m. So there goes practice. Apparently they were waiting all afternoon on the guy with our boat. To make things worse, it turns out the BDF (Belize Defense Force) gave us a lemon. This boat was a POS. For starters it was not a racing canoe. This thing was wide and deep. Also, it has a huge dent in the front right side, which made it almost impossible to turn to the right. The front seat was even held on by thin wire on one side. I did not see it until about an hour before the race, but my first thought was the we got screwed with the bad canoe, BDF had several other, nicer, canoes in the race. Let’s call it a gringo tax.

Whatever, we can still do this. We are not quitters, let’s just get in the water. Thirty minutes until race start. “Where are the life jackets?” I can’t remember who told us they had them for us, maybe the same guy from BDF, but we got screwed again. Now it’s a mad dash to find jackets so that we can even get in the boat. Thankfully minutes before the race was to begin Florence, our wonderful sponsor from WIN Belize (Womens Issues Network) begged some from the Coast Guard team. “All you owe is your first born child” she tells me as we crawl in the boat, relieved and nervous. You can have it, now let’s do this.

The start is completely insane. We try to get a feel for our canoe on our short paddle to the starting line under the large suspension bridge, but we notice that it is not responding as easy as the one we trained in. We don't have any time to focus. There are about one hundred boats around us, and in a few minutes the starting horn is going to go off. The first team to get to the small wooden bridge about 1,000 feet downstream wins a couple thousand bucks, the horn sounds.....madness ensues.

Instantly the water goes from a gentle current to a class three rapid. We shoot forward the best we can, screaming information about the boats smashing into each other and tipping over all around us. Somehow we weave in and out of the mess of people, paddles, and overturned canoes. Boats are crashing into our sides, the banks are lined with screaming onlookers, and fog is just staring to life off the water as we plunge chaotically downstream. We crash through the low wooden bridge as we are assaulted by canoes on all sides.

People are gathered in clusters on the bank cheering the racers along. We begin to notice that people are yelling “Go Taliban!” at us, along with “Go Bembes!” which means “strong women” in kriol, and is the name of our team (as well as stenciled on the side of the boat). Apparently Dan's massive Jew-fro (which he has draped with a bandanna and secured with a sweatband) and bushy terrorist beard made him look like a Muslim extremist. I wonder if it is a sly comment of Belizeans opinion of America's war on terror that they were cheering “Go Taliban!” and not boo Taliban? Probably not. Dan just looked silly, and as if he was on Jihad. I on the other had look like a border patrolmen with my plain black hat with badanna tucked in back, dark sunglasses, and big bulky life jacket. Our boat was a utopia. A symbol of how women, terrorists and hillbillies can all work together. If only the world would listen...

An indeterminate amount of time goes by in a flash. An hour? A year? The mess of boats begins to thin out, but the morning sun is still hanging coyly just below the trees. We are attempting to learn how to control the boat and sink into a rhythm as Mallory sings our chorus. “One, two, one, two, one, two.” “Why can't Dan guide the boat? Damn this boat!” We are unable to get into the same rhythm we had in training; me in front setting pace with Mallory in middle following suite, and Dan in the back guiding us along. The boat just won’t listen. If we would have only been able to accomplish that pace in the race.

We have to make a whole new strategy. We will all have to continually be thinking about the boats direction and work to correct it together. It is big and dented, and we all have to paddle hard on the left for it to even inch right. The curse. All of a sudden I am on the floor of the canoe. The seat which was held together with wires gave way. I try to paddle on my knees for a while, but grow sore quickly and am forced to turn around in a crouch and try to twist the wire back together. I do. It holds, but it is obvious that it is only a matter of time before it snaps for good.

Moments later the unimaginable happens. As I am paddling on the left side of the boat, my paddle snaps in two in my hands. I am angry, very, very, angry, I turn around screaming that this whole thing is cursed, holding the broken paddle above my head. Dan and Mallory can only laugh at the ridiculousness of the entire morning. “one, two, one, two.” We go on, me using my half of a paddle. When we see a boat that we have chatted with some before (they commented that they have had our boat before and could not be paid to get back in it) that only have two people we ask if they have an extra paddle we can use for the day. Thankfully they do. We are off. After a switch of me and Dan (so that I am now in back and Dan is in front) we are on our way to getting in control of the massive crippled boat and the beat goes “one, two, one, two.”

The day drags on and the sun rises in the sky. We manage to stay mostly in control of the boat, but it is heavy and slow. The seat breaks on Dan. He spends the day balancing on the front part or kneeling. A tougher crew I could not have asked for. There is no one I would rather be in the canoe with me. Mallory is able to give the count after hours of paddling. I still hear it in my head. My dreams. Hear it as I see the river winding, turning endlessly into the unknown, chasing what is always disappearing just beyond. Into the mist. Boats glimmering in the distance. Keep putting the paddle in the water. Dig. Harder. “one, two, one, two.....” Go. Harder. Nothing existed before. Nothing is after. Just go. “one, two, one, two” Boat coming up behind. “Mallory stay right.” Don't let it get to you. Catch the boat just in front on you. You can get them. Don't listen to your aches. It's too early to hear. “Everybody on the left.” How can we move faster? More rhythm. Get in sync “one, two, one, two.” It's a long race, better go somewhere else, leave this body to its work. No need for the mind to stay here. Where to go? The song. “one, two, one, two.”

Hours go by. Our support crew drops us water and food as we yell to them that we need a new seat and paddle. A whole new canoe if they can manage. More time disappears as we paddle endlessly. We see signs and know that we are in Belmopan. Not far from Banana Bank where the camp is the first night. We get a second wind and dig in for the last hour of the day. Then we see it. The big sign that says “FINISH” stretched out on a rocky island. We bring out all that we have left. 49 miles on day one. We left everything we had on that river. Our support crew isn't there yet. Turns out that we are faster than the two other Peace Corps teams, and the Peace Corps team WIN sponsored last year. I flop down into the cool water and float away as Dan and Mallory make up from the day’s quarrels. Thirty minutes later the next Peace Corps team comes in as we cheer them on.

In camp that night we eat as much as we can hold and get “icy hot” massages that are out of this world. All paddlers and support crews trade stories and advice for the next day. We are in bed early for the 6:30 start the following day. 55 miles, the longest stint of the race, and the day the curse hits the hardest.

Day two. Up before dawn. Great left over pasta for breakfast (I love non breakfast foods in the morning). We are down by the river by six. No luck finding a paddle that we can use the rest of the race, but thankfully Collin, who lent us the paddle the previous day on the river, says his third person isn't showing up until day three, so we can use his again for the day. Miles is at work attempting to rig the front seat up for the day until he can get to a hardware store and properly fix it. His solution is an empty beer create and some parachute string. It is the best we can do. We will have to make it work for the day.

We are in the water by a quarter after and try to find a spot in the middle of the pack. We finished with about 16 boats behind us the day before, so we want to be behind all the canoes we know we can’t compete with so that that don't slam into us as they fly by, but in front of the people who are in boats almost as bad as ours. Mallory is fiercely competitive, and after all the work she has done to get us here, Dan and I fear castration if we don't beat as many people as we can, given the circumstances.

The sun is still hiding behind the hills, and there is a thick fog hanging over the river that lends a profound eeriness to the morning. Mixed with this strangeness is the anticipation of another intense start that will commence the longest day of the race. We try to stay in our spot, but the current is moving all the teams forward, past the starting line. We all have to back up before they will give the horn. As everyone tries to reverse against the current it becomes evident that this will be a difficult start. Paddles are knocking into each other and boats are separated by mere inches. Finally the horn blows and again the water surges madly. Everything begins just where it left off the following day. Over the shouting of directions, Mallory sings the chorus, and the curse of the Bembes wakes bitterly from a bad night’s sleep.

As soon as we leap forward we see that there is a problem. From my view in the back it is terrifying. Each time Dan paddles on the left the boat tips hard in that direction, bringing the top ridge of the canoe within an inch of the water. The crate and string are still leaning to the left, causing Dan’s weight to be constantly tilted. Not good in a boat that already pulls to the left. We make a point to keep conscious about our balance, but it is going to be a very long day.

Not twenty minutes after the start we encounter a hard turn, with fast moving water and rocky banks, to the left. As we enter the turn we try to keep our weight to the right side of the boat, but it is futile. We are in the water. As we pop up we try our best to push the canoe to shore to dump out and start again, but it was a horrible place to turn over. The shore is jagged rocks, and the current is moving fast around the narrow turn. We are able to get the boat upright again and we all craw back in, but as I push us off and jump in the back the strong current of the narrow turn pushes us to the right, causing our weight to shift slightly to the left. This is all it takes for the crate to slide, and for us to be over the left side for a second time. Worse this time. We lose our bag of food, my sunglasses, and Dan loses his bandana and sweatband. There goes the cheers of support of the Jihad. Dan has to swim hard across the current to be kept from being swept away (a mental image that after the fact still makes me laugh). Back in the canoe again after seeing all the other teams float by, but this time we are on our way again. We are dead last, but dig in hard for the next couple hours to regain our position from the previous day. One by one we pass the other boats, powering through the whole morning.

By midday we are alone. No canoes can be seen ahead as we come onto long straightaways, and no one can be seen behind as we turn off of them. The rhythm of Mallory's “one, two, one two” fades on and off into conversation. If not for the painful chaffing burn on my stomach and arms from the bulky life jacket we could just be out for a nice day of paddling in the rain-forest. Dan even throws out the idea of stopping for a little swim, but thankfully he gave a disclaimer of “I know you guys are gonna say no, but.....” so that Mallory didn't knock him out cold with her paddle.

As we come onto a long straightaway we decide to take advantage of the idle time and get our pee out of our system. As we pass around the bail one person stops to pee and the other two keep paddling (This is our system for eating and drinking as well, except that when eating you paddle while you chew). As we are finishing up with this we are at a wide right turn, so we lazily turn the boat broadside facing right to allow the easy current to push us around the bend. We see a stick in the water, but it turns out to be attached to tree and not just floating as it appeared. No big deal. We are barely moving. Mallory even reaches out her hand to push us off it. Sadly our out of balance canoe gets us again. We gently hit the obstruction, but because it strikes the bottom left side of the boat we are in the water scrambling for the third time of the day. The bank is muddy but we are back on our way in a few minutes, digging hard, and laughing that Dan got his wish of a nice afternoon dip.

Things are going steady now. Making up for some lost time and getting ever closer to ending the longest day. Seeing the day’s drop point raises our spirits. The drop goes smooth, but we had to get all the way over to the right bank. As we are screaming all the information to our crew we get caught broadside on a downed tree only a few feet downstream of the drop point. This is where we broke the curse.

We were caught broadside with the tree on the right hand side of the boat. We all throw our weight to the right to keep from going over. For a minute we are unsure of what to do. If we go straight out the fast current could dump us out just like it did when after we recovered this morning. I think maybe we should try to push our way through the web of limbs behind us and go over the whole mess out of the current. Dan tries to chop the huge fallen tree with his carbon-fiber paddle. Finally we decide to just go for it. There is a big branch hanging low over the boat that we each have to bend down for as we go out, preventing us from entering the current with any power. We take turns lying down in the canoe as we sneak forward. We do it. This time we conquer the curse of the Bembes, and it dies for good. A boat shot by us while we were stuck on the tree and we dig hard for the next hour to overtake it.

A little while later we hit the rapids we were warned about the night before. We maneuver through them perfectly and use the white water to gain speed. Proof that the curse is gone. The finish line appears a couple hours later after a curve and it looks even sweeter than the day before. We burst across the line relieved to see our friends ashore. Miles gets to work on properly fixing the seat as the next Peace Corps team comes in, just five minutes behind us.

More great food and massages help us unwind from the day. Our worst day is behind us, and tomorrows 40 miles seem doable now that 104 lay conquered to the southwest. Our crew managed to borrow a paddle from the BDF that we can use the rest of the race. Another early night to bed as we hear a party raging not far away. No beer tonight, motionlessness is all I crave. As I try to fall asleep I feel the ground tipping to the left.

Day three was wonderfully uneventful. The curse had been broken, and Miles had fixed the seat perfectly. No longer did we have to worry about our weight leaning to the left. We had worked out our new strategy for guiding the boat, and were communicating well with each other. Everyone was beginning to feel the miles however, and the start time of eight in the morning still put us on the water during the hottest part of the day. The river was very windy, but we were able to maintain about the same position in front of more than a dozen boats. BBQ sandwiches for lunch gave us a second wind, and Dan hardly noticed that Mallory dropped his in the dirty water of the bottom of the boat (some things don't need to be known until you’re on land again). When we finally see the finish we yet again leave all we have on the river. I am so relieved to be done with all but the last day that as soon as the front on the boat is grabbed by out crew I roll out and lay face down in the cool water. I am joined shortly by my team, and minutes later we cheer in the next Peace Corps team who join us in our submerged celebrations.

Camp is much the same that night as always. We get a hot shower in a nearby hotel that some friends are staying at. All the paddlers with Peace Corps secure bed space for themselves in the air conditioning. Sleeping on the ground and paddling is what I signed up for, so I stay in camp. Too bad for me that the partiers that follow the race were not as polite on the last night. I am woken up regularly by the drunken yells. At one point someone even fell on my tent.

Morning comes and so does the last start, and it is as crazy as all the rest. By now we are accustomed to it and go hard to secure our same position for the day. Going hard every day has killed my shoulder muscles, but now they are past being broken and have adapted to their new role. I feel great. The river runs by the road almost all day, so people are contently cheering us on. We know that we are near the sea when we see dolphins jump from the water ahead of us. Thankfully none knocked over our boat.

We reached the canal that is about an hour from the finish far sooner than we thought we would. It led us narrowly through mangroves and trees and resembled the swamps of lower Louisiana. We emerge from the channel and start our mad dash to the final finish line. We give everything we have as Mallory continues the chorus “one, two, one, two.” Then we can see it off in the distance. The people, the bridge, the finish sign. We start to howl and call like animals possessed, paddling furiously as we close the final feet of the 170th mile. We have seen every inch of this river from Cayo to Belize and now it is almost over. We push past the finish line to the sound of the cheering crowd and the blow of the horn.

Total relief. We are done. Dan and I raise our paddles and scream in our 65th place victory. We nearly simultaneously hit Mallory in relief, victory, joy, and love who moans sharply. We come to land near the bridge in a spot that smells worse than a garbage dump, trash littering the murky water that is crystal clear 170 miles upstream. All of our friends are there and it is dirty hugs all around. We made it to the finish line and now it is time to celebrate.

An award ceremony starts a short time later under a hot tent. We watch as the winners get their trophies. They were far from us the entire time, but I guess it was a hell of a race. First place was Zipliner team at 18 hours and 4 seconds. Second Place was Belize Bank team at 18 hours 5 seconds. We came in first of the three Peace Corps teams at about 26 ½ hours, maybe 25 minutes in front of the next PC team. We gladly accept our wooden medallions and retreat to our friends for a much needed shower. When we entered the apartment the smell was so abhorrent that he handed us towels and insisted on us putting everything we had in the wash, and showering immediately. We complied graciously.

That night we joined our sponsor WIN Belize for some photos and dinner. We talked about the race and watched some videos that had been taken. I went to bed far too late that night, and all I could think the next day was how much I missed being on the winding river, paddling as hard as I could and listening to the sweet chorus of “one, two, one, two.”