This ash thing in the UK is hilarious. Ah, a country, its media and its politicians always need to manufacture a crisis (bird flu, swine flu, maybe gerbil next) – and here’s a big grey one landed in their lap. I can almost sense their exhilhiration from here – their uncalloused, sweaty sausage fingers rubbing together in glee, their booze-swollen spongey noses twitching excitedly as they sniff out some new twist every day.
In the jungle I’m on a news blackout, so I heard the news from locals in Sarteneja in north Belize. Over here, even the Spanish-speaking guys speak ‘Henglish’ with a Caribbean haccent. So they when we learned of the Icelandic ‘hash’ grounding everyone, I thought it was the promising beginning of some laid back new era. Initially we thought that a kind of psychedelic cosmic event had caused an entire continent to suddenly snap to its senses and get stoned as one, making the whole concept of travel pointless – and also terrifying.
If so, the media would have unlimited crises to stoke up, as a hashed-up nation could be easily spooked. You could run scare stories, for instance, about 24 hour garages shutting down, thus making urgent access to munchies and cigarette papers limited.
Having looked at the BBC news website only once or maybe twice the whole trip so far, the daily freakout passes me by – the news vulture flys by toward a pile of reader carrion whose nerves it can better gnaw on.
Bless wee Willie Winy Walsh, hurling himself into the cloud, like the President of the USA of America in that corniest of popcorn flicks, Independence Day. Why the hell didn’t big Gordy Brown jump into a silver cat suit with red lightning flashes and jet into the heavens in a rocket-powered jumbo jet screeching Bible passages back to Earth via live satellite feed – crazed Earth saviour, David Icke, could have piloted him into the heavens. Surely, our political leadership couldn’t get any dafter than it already is. Big opportunity missed there, Gordy, and in an election year.
Aye it’s like Hell, in a way, being held in the grip of constant crises, the way the politicos like it fine enough. Fir me, it was a different kind of hell today – we went through the gates of the Mayan underworld.
Unlike being roasted over the devil’s bbq in the fiery pits, the Mayan underworld is cool, oh so cool, and an incredible respite from the oppressive, heat and humidity of the Belizean jungle. The entrance to the great Jaguar god’s kingdom is through Actun Tunichil Muknal cave, where we waded, swam and climbed through the 9 levels of darkness.
Here, we crawled and clambered back 5km through a rock, and hundreds of years through time, trancing out in our swaying torchbeams in the dark, and the Mayan shaman rituals and sacrifices to the great, dark god that sprang up in our imagination.
Anyway, it’s morning now, and as I plug this into the old jungle mojo wire (blog), the forest is screeching and the sun is rising. Another hot one in front of us and 6 hours of rickety old buses on dirt tracks criss-crosing the country.
Ah well, it’s a fine enough way to spend the day. As for you Britain, hang in there – get some hash goggles and stock up on munchies.