Now, I was looking for places where I could, if not play in my underpants, at least go barefoot for days, where the infrastructure might not be great but life is generally relaxed and low-key. The coastal culture, which is unique to the shores of Central America, is a combination of communities: Indian peoples—Maya, Miskito, Bribri, and Kuna among them—who have lived here since before the Age of Exploration; the Garinagu (or Black Caribs) and more recent immigrants from Caribbean nations, particularly Jamaica and Barbados; remnants of various European colonial societies; and contemporary international First World refuseniks.

It's not surprising to find towns that are waterlocked—accessible only by sea. For the most part, tourism is still on a community scale. But not for long: The two words on the lips of many travelers I met in Central America were real estate. Among them were individual investors looking to retire or escape as well as corporate and state developers. The coast is beautiful, paradisiacal—with reefs, white-sand beaches, miles of mangroves. The people who have traditionally lived here are poor but not hungry. Although they have been able to carve out a fairly dignified living from fishing and farming, there is eagerness for economic growth. Everyone I met was enthusiastic about the area's potential, happy to share it with and show it to travelers, and hoping to find a place for themselves in the expansion of tourism. The challenge will be to manage change in a way that doesn't shred the unusual social fabric.

If anywhere can be said to be the cultural center of the Garifuna people (Garifuna being either an adjective or a singular noun, Garinagu the plural noun), it is Dangriga, a town about halfway down the coast of Belize. On the outskirts of Dangriga is the relatively new Gulisi Garifuna Museum. Our guide, Charlie Gamboa—whom we met while hanging out at the Riverside Café, after a satisfying and entirely typical lunch of fried fish, rice and beans, and potato salad—told us that it wasn't to be missed. At first glance, Charlie—snaggletoothed, his hair in small puffy braids, and clearly at loose ends—wasn't too prepossessing. However, he soon ingratiated himself with both the breadth and depth of his local knowledge; once given the nod, he masterfully shepherded Cynthia and me around during our stay. As we made our way to our rental car, Charlie bummed a cigarette from Cynthia and then told her, "You sit in the back." We headed out on the main road ("Step on it," he said) and then, at Charlie's direction, turned into a big field with an enormous, seemingly abandoned monument in the middle. Next to it was a building, small by comparison, which housed the museum that tells the story of the Garinagu—meaning "People of the Cassava Clan" in Garifuna, an Arawak language. Charlie, who seemed to know practically everyone in town, introduced us to Peter Ciego, the curator, who explained the exhibits. The Garinagu's ancestors, the Black Caribs, came from St. Vincent. The tools I saw in the museum for making cassava bread I later saw in communities in Honduras, Guatemala, and Nicaragua, sometimes for sale in crafts shops, sometimes drawn on buildings that were dance halls or community centers.