During our stay in Placencia, we selected to take a jungle river boat tour.  At sunrise, my daughter and I delivered ourselves to the resort's whaler captain, Cagey.  We came armed with bug spray and bottles of water ready for a real jungle river experience.  Leaving civilization as we know it, our search was about to begin for the much-touted Black Howler Monkeys, or as the Belizean natives call them “Baboons”.

Through broken English, competing with the whine of a Vespa-like motor, Cagey tried to answer my questions about this region of Belize.  His inability to communicate exactly where he was taking us other than full-speed ahead concerned me only until the Monkey River Town came in view.

The town appeared unattached to operating a conservation area; no ranger station, no official patrol boats, no checkpoint to collect fees.   We arrived to roosters scattered their flock along the riverbank, local fisherman sitting on a log sharing tales of yesterday's catch, and a lone dog perched on a stranded sandbar longing for the return of his owner from the sea.

Our river guide approached us from his clapboard hut as if he just finished his breakfast of champions.  Like a choreographed dance, he pounced on our boat with binoculars and machete in hand.  We quickly learned his name was “Barrie” that sounded like “Bar-re”.  His appearance was stamped laid-back with Rastafarian hair and a smile as wide as the horizon.  He proved his value immediately by guiding Cagey around and away from the other tour boats that belched enough smoke to choke out even the elusive toucan.

The white noise of insects magnified as the strength of the sun's lamp grew brighter and warmer.  Peering through Barrie's binoculars, an unexpected roar startled me as it bellowed out from the dense growth near our boat.  I looked at my daughter with excitement, could this be a Jaguar thirsty enough to come out of hiding?  When another intense burst of thunder bellowed out from the trees above, we finally saw what produced this cacophony heard for over a mile.

A troop of Baboons, each weighing no more than 15 to 25 pounds, moved their slender catlike bodies from one limb to another as if playing tag.  A bone in their throat acts as an amplifier to give them their “King Kong”-like clamor.   Munching a mango in one hand, an adolescent Baboon used his invisible microphone to produce a ferocious rendition of “Hit the Road, Jack”.

"Fire ants, you say!"

Taking heed of their suggestion, our guides suspended the river cruise for a jungle experience on foot.   At the start, we were warned to protect ourselves from fire ants and mosquitoes.  Faster than the Basilisk lizard, we donned sneakers and drenched our bodies with bug spray while noting that our hearty guide did neither.

We intrepidly followed Barrie and his machete along an unmarked path lined with Travelers palm, thorny vines and Banyan trees.  The breath of the forest washed over us as the buzz of insects quieted to our presence.  It did not take long for Barrie to discover a boisterous family of Baboons in a set of palm trees.  It was likely they found us as the troop wasted no time in sending a “get lost” message by lobbing branches down like grenades on the enemy.

Further down the river, the boat beached at our next stop on a secluded sandbar.  A buffet setup displayed grilled spicy chicken with a sweet mango salsa, veggie pasta salad, a mixture of tropical fruit and tart lemon bars for dessert.  To help us avoid becoming lunch for a hungry crocodile, our faithful guides offered a watchful eye as river centurions while we sought relief from the heat.

While sun-bathing like the iguana on a neighboring tree, my eyes became heavy from the humidity and buzz that flavor the tropics.  This tour had offered much reward, especially for those who seek to find the infamous howler monkey, or the Belizean Baboon.