Two weeks later, our port call here repeated itself. That was roughly the time interval between each of our visits. The boss honored our agreement, so I was assigned to shoot outside. Everyone was happy with that solution, myself most of all. I was to shadow a more experienced colleague who would explain what exactly we were doing there.

We started very early, as always, to have enough time to do the job properly. The goal was to photograph everyone, from the first to the last guest, meaning this tour consumed our entire day. From early morning until the ship set sail, we were out in the field. Fine by me.

We took the first tender and then continued to the bus. To use military jargon, we needed to “take up a position” on the riverbank. Once “deployed,” all that remained was to wait and photograph every incoming bus full of guests, similar to what we did in Honduras.

The buses were almost identical to those seen in American movies transporting children to school. Which is to say: quite old and without air conditioning. As much as the guests hated that, I loved it. An exotic journey awaited us, not a luxurious one. Just as it should be in Belize. Being early morning, it wasn’t too hot yet, so we could “survive.” Honestly, I had misjudged the distance to our location. The drive to the destination took more than an hour and a half. To help us and “shorten” the time, we had a local guide on the bus tasked with introducing us to the local situation and customs. Right at the start, we received a gem of information! The entire country of Belize has three traffic lights!!?

So much for the development of the state! Nothing more needed to be said; any comparison with back home instantly became pointless. We passed all three lights while exiting the city. The rest of the road led toward the interior, toward the jungle, where hardly anyone cared about traffic signals.

We could see for ourselves that the guide wasn’t lying. There was no talk of traffic lights or intersections along the way. The road we traveled was, categorically, closest to our village dirt roads. Alongside such a road, an occasional old shop would appear, looking as if it had stepped out of the 1950s or 60s. Old American-made cars passed us by, completing the impression.

We sat near the front with two guides assigned to our bus, who would assist us during the river tour. Although they were visibly in high spirits and ready to talk, every attempt I made to communicate with them was largely unsuccessful. Their English was that of a “broken” pronunciation—Creole, as they call it here. Out of five sentences they spoke, I understood two at maximum. It was literally like trying to have a conversation in a heavy, rapid-fire dialect from the deepest backwoods where you catch only every third word.

Fine, even those two sentences were enough for basic communication. After about an hour and a half, we were close to the goal. Or at least, so I thought.

We arrived at the destination. We stepped out, and just as I stretched from a light nap, I realized this was only the end of the first leg. We were “transferring” here.

This was where guests had to rent rubber water shoes for wading through the water and jungle, and simultaneously leave their valuables in lockers. I still didn’t know what all this was for, so the whole situation was quite intriguing to me. Everyone did their job, preparations were made, and in the meantime, other buses arrived. We had to transfer into these to continue the journey.

According to my colleague, these buses would take us to our actual spot. We had another fifteen minutes of driving left, literally through the jungle itself. Soon, all the guests finished their prep, and we set off. Passing through the dense forest was a great feeling. A road leading toward… something. The passengers and I shared the same enthusiasm. Everyone was smiling, sitting on the edge of their seats, snapping photos of everything around us. Even though, in the end, all the pictures looked the same. The surroundings were quite uniform—a vast expanse of green where, after five seconds, you couldn’t distinguish one thing from another.

But at least now the guests knew what to expect. We weren’t going to a shopping mall; we weren’t looking for boutiques and sales. We were looking for something wild. We arrived at this new destination. And there—another surprise. Piled around the bus were heaps of large tires. What is this for? Again, I didn’t know what was happening, but the “whole package,” if nothing else, seemed very interesting. Each passenger was supposed to grab one. These tires looked exactly like tractor inner tubes.

The point of this entire tour was for the guest to carry the tube with them, hike through the forest to a specific spot where the trail crossed the river, sit in the tube, and float down the river, through the caves, back to where we started. I didn’t know what to expect from all this, but it sounded genuinely interesting. All that was left was to walk the short remaining distance and see it live.

Half the guests were as excited as I was, while the other half grumbled—albeit mostly to themselves. After all, not every American is thrilled about carrying something and hiking through forest and undergrowth. They probably thought porters should have been provided, but that’s their problem.

I fared better than them, as I was only burdened with my camera, no tube. From there, we all set off on foot…