A British Interlude

Crossing into Belize, the scenery doesn’t seem to change much, but everything else feels like a shift into a different rhythm.

by Akis Temperidis
photography: Akis Temperidis & Vula Netou

This tiny nation—Central America’s only former British colony—gained independence in 1981. With just 450,000 people today, Belize is a cultural stew unmatched in the region. Half the population is Mestizo, a blend of Mayan and Spanish ancestry. A third are Creoles, descended from African heritage. Then there’s the Garifuna, a fascinating 6%, with African roots woven into Caribbean tribes. Toss in Mennonite farmers from northern Europe, Indian merchants and Chinese shopkeepers and you’ve got a vivid mosaic of humanity squeezed into a country no bigger than the Peloponnese.

Belize boasts tropical rainforests inland and a sprawling chain of islands along the world’s second-largest coral reef—second only to Australia. If your dreams lean toward jungles alive with adventure and postcard-perfect islands where white sands meet swaying palms, Belize delivers. Offshore escapades like fishing and diving are the main draw, but this time, we stuck to the mainland.

Why? Budget constraints. Leaving our trusty Iveco for a pricey island hotel (where a triple room runs $80–$100 a night) didn’t quite fit. Still, memories of St. George’s Caye in 1995—when we celebrated the finish of the Camel Trophy Mundo Maya—linger vividly. And who could forget Caye Caulker from 2009’s The World Offroad journey, where reggae vibes danced with the salt air and Caribbean aromas?

This time, we headed south to Placencia, a once-charming village now gripped by American real estate developers shaping it into a miniature Cancún—or worse, Miami. (A quick look at realestateplacencia.com tells you all you need to know). En route, we rolled into Hopkins, where the laid-back, hippie vibe still thrives. There, we parked right on the beach for three glorious days.

Dangriga (on the main picture), the heartbeat of Garifuna culture, felt like another world entirely—a town steeped in Afro-Caribbean rhythms. And then there’s Belize City, the nation’s largest and most timeworn place. A little gritty, a little grimy, but alive with stories if you care to listen.

What’s life like in this curious land, once known as British Honduras? A miracle of coexistence, for starters. So many tribes, so few knives. Some locals chalk it up to the widespread love for marijuana and the steady flow of dollars (clean and not-so-clean) into Belizean banks from their northern neighbor.

The recent independence, coupled with a lingering cultural legacy—King Charles III still holds a ceremonial place here—has forged a strange unity among the nation’s people. English may be the official language, but most Mestizos still speak Spanish. British habits endure in work schedules and other quirks, lending the place a peculiar charm.

But why, in a land of lush farms and sugarcane fields, are prices closer to those in the American Midwest than neighboring Mexico? According to a Garifuna local, it’s a cocktail of colonial-era taxes, sticky bureaucracy, and modern-day corruption. Belize also claims the region’s highest fuel prices (€1.5–€1.7 per liter), a detail that makes everything just a bit steeper.

We stayed only ten days, far short of the month those islands might have lured us into, and now we’re back on the road to Guatemala. Not the tourist Guatemala of backpacks and Airbnbs, hopping buses like last spring. This time, it’s a deeper plunge into the jungles and highlands, with our Iveco as our steed.