BELIZE -- There are many ways to end up alone on a desert island. The most obvious -- by shipwreck -- was too easy. We were no castaway cliche, my bride and I. Neither were we deposed royalty, which ruled out forced exile.
''Reality" TV temptations bored us, and a self-supported paddling expedition was, for practical reasons, out of the question.
That left tourism. In Belize, a little coastal country bordered by Mexico and Guatemala, there were islands to spare.
Left alone on a tiny spit of sand, we would relish the wind blowing through the open windows of our wooden pink-yellow-green cottage. We would be the only people there, surrounded by coral, waves, and an ocean of sun. There was indeed a place where we could do this, an islet between mainland and reef that could, for a fee, be completely at our disposal.
We would not go there directly, however. We would save our island treat for dessert, the sweetest release after more than a week of strong-plate sampling in the rest of the country. In fact, I worried that our itinerary, which formed a squiggly plus-sign on our map of Belize, was overly ambitious.
But how could we sit idly on a single Caribbean beach when there was so much else to see?
''Keep it simple," said my innermost Zen traveler in a relaxed, even voice.
''Make it active!" screamed his restless, red-eyed rival, tugging his hair and waving us hectically through the plane door.
Fortunately, my travel and life partner was game for anything, so we hit the ground running and made straight for the mountains, ascending to the Pine Ridge and Hidden Valley Inn. There, cool streams sprang from the ground and fell toward the sea, deep blue holes strung like jewels between babbling branches, all shaded in greenery and awash in waterfalls with names like ''Secret," ''Butterfly," ''Devil," and ''Hidden." We claimed our pool and picnicked on burritos, fruit, and warm champagne after a bracing dip. At night, the fireplace in our cottage burned warm and dry with pine, and outside was wild with insects and owls.
We continued west to the top of El Castillo, a Mayan temple rising above the Mopan River Valley. We tried to picture the ancient city of Xunantunich before its collapse: 10,000 Mayans living, farming, playing, and praying right where we stood. We discussed the image with a pair of smooth-faced, teenage Creole soldiers atop the 300-foot-tall pyramid; they cradled M16s, sucked at cigarettes, and laughed at the good fortune of their assignment (protecting tourists) as we all enjoyed a backdrop of clouds, treetops, and, in one stunning shaft of 4 o'clock Guatemalan sunshine from across the nearby border, a fat rainbow.
