In the early 90s, I flew down to Belize not only to dive but also to immerse myself in what I expected would be a unique culture in Central America because Belize is a British protectorate nestled among Spanish-speaking countries that are more prone to poverty and less likely to serve peas and toast. I had been riveted by Jacques Cousteau’s Belizean diving adventures and wondered at the mythical “blue hole.”  However, on this sunny morning I was heading to a remote beach to snorkel. One of the greatest pleasures of the cayes is walking barefoot, toes deep in the soft sand of a silent jungle road canopied by vaulting palm trees. Having nearly been consumed by Dennis’s jaguar the day before, I padded quietly past his white frame house where the enormous feline slept warily on top of an old washing machine on the screened porch. I had found out the previous evening that the big cat was not, in fact, inviting me to come in and be his human friend. No, the fire in those eyes was not a longing for companionship, but simple meat hunger.  The two red dents resembling a vampire bite on the side of my neck to proved it. The previous afternoon, Dennis  had yelled “Hit him in the head” when the jaguar had stood up and put his huge paws on my shoulders, heavy and strong, and proceeded to put his mouth around my neck. He was not going to nestle against me affectionately after all. I had hoped, in my Animal Planet naivete, to stroke his spotted fur and make him purr. No, he wanted to eat me, a compliment I am sure on some primal level. I instinctively interposed my fingers between his canines and my jugular vein. They felt like slabs of hot ivory and pressed against my neck with crushing power while Dennis yelled “Hit him in the head now!”  I did – smacking the butt of my hand square between his eyes. He lurched back on all fours just long enough for me to retreat out of the screened porch. Dennis locked the door.  “I’m sorry, mate,” he mumbled. I later discovered that the jaguar had mauled others on the island and realized that Dennis, like many other island dwellers I’ve met, suffers from “island fever” and would be certifiable anywhere else.

On the far eastern end of the island, a construction company was denuding the palm forest to build what the sign claimed would be a five-star resort, it’s sleek balconies already populated by little cartoon tourists. Chugging, beeping backhoes sliced into the morning calm to make way for progress. Next to the white sand road were a series of mesh trash bins where the crew was disposing of construction detritus. Something caught my eye in one of them – in fact, eyes caught my eye. I squatted next to the bin and stared into the empty eye sockets of a human skull. Several skulls, in fact, were buried beneath cardboard, plastic water bottles, and chunks of concrete. I dug two of them out of the dusty trash and set them on the sand in front of me. One was missing its lower jaw. Both skulls had sloping, flattened foreheads which I knew was the Maya ideal of beauty, achieved by binding children’s heads with cloth. One had filed teeth, a painful process undergone by Mayan warriors to appear fierce.  I could not leave them here to be shipped out with tourist trash. The teenage construction foreman shrugged and waved when I held them up, so I carefully wrapped them in a towel and placed them in my rucksack. My boyfriend was not happy to have them in our condo, so I placed them out on the deck so that they could see the night sky again, stargazing lovers side by side. Maybe Dennis was not the only one with island fever.

When our departure date neared, I was unwilling to part with the Mayan duo for whom I had now imagined an entire life lived thousands of years ago on Ambergris – canoeing to the coast to participate in huge ceremonies at the Jaguar Pyramid in Tikal, the couple had fallen in love as children. His name was Coatl, and hers was Lalopek. He hunted sea turtles and she prepared mango salad, hoping that he would not be caught in a storm on the way home as had so many of the husbands of her kinswomen.  I bubble-wrapped the two and placed them carefully in my Dana backpack. We landed in Miami on a Sunday afternoon in August. A Mormon missionary had been sitting next to me, regaling me with stories of her community achievements in Banana Bank with the native heathens. We had been given customs forms, and I had dutifully written “skulls” under items I was bringing from Belize. The customs agents surrounded me as we deplaned, taking my bag and marching me into a room with a table. Others were led into this room as well, including the Canadian woman. “I notice that you are bringing back skulls,” noted a beefy, red-faced agent. “What kind of skulls are these?” I placed my rucksack on a large metal table and removed Coatl and Lolopek. I unwrapped them slowly. I heard the Canadian woman gasp in shock. Other customs agents gathered, and the beefy one called his supervisor. An interview followed. I had no fear of being detained;  Belize is sadly bereft of laws protecting culture, I knew. NAGPRA protected native tribes in the States, but such laws did not exist there. The skulls would have been destroyed in a callous manner.  I was an anthropology student. All of this was true, but I still felt like a dastardly villain there at the Miami customs station.  After a long consultation, the supervisor told me to re-pack Coatl and Lalopek. Those who had been friendly to me on the flight now gave me a wide berth as if I were in infectious leper. Coatl and Lalopek now rest together in a sacred site, side by side and looking up at the stars.