“Look, there!” says Clive, our river-boat guide, pointing to a semi-submerged log next to the river’s mud bank. My eyes focus on it, yet I see nothing out of the ordinary, just a small log nearly covered by mud and dead leaves. Other passengers on the small outboard motor boat are excitedly pointing and taking pictures. Then the “log” moves, and two bulbous eyes and a tail emerge from the muck. The yard-long (1 m) baby crocodile wiggles before slipping sinuously beneath the water, leaving its protective-coloring leaves swirling atop the water.

The hair prickles on the back of my neck as I nervously note how close we are to the creature. Of course, we’re perfectly safe onboard the boat, but it’s a well-documented human response; the human brain is hard-wired to fear such creatures. It’s the first time I’ve seen a crocodile in the wild — in the wilds of a remote river in southern Belize, no less. My husband, Eric, and I are on a river cruise up the murky and mysterious Monkey River — one of the country’s major waterways — with seemingly endless jungle on both sides.

A boat ride up Monkey River offers glimpses of alligators, howler monkeys and numerous species of tropical birds.

There’s no other boat traffic here, just us and the wilderness, as we motor past lush, impenetrable foliage topped by towering cabbage palms. Startled by the boat’s motor, a yellow-crowned night heron wings further up the river; a blue heron on a stump takes a “freeze-frame” approach, blending in with the shadows. Eric motions to a snag on the left bank, and I’m startled to see an iguana, the biggest I’ve ever seen — it’s the size of a small dog — perched motionlessly atop it like a gargoyle, its tail curled downward.

Clive, who speaks English with a Creole patois, explains this mysterious place to us. He should know — he was born and raised in a small native settlement on the river, and his knowledge is experiential. Moments later Clive nudges the boat’s bow into the riverbank and we climb off and onto a narrow path that winds through the undergrowth.

Pointing at a pod-shaped brown lump on a palm tree, Clive notes that it’s a termite nest. “If you are lost, you can eat them,” he suggests. “Yeh, LOT of termites in there.” In his grandparent’s time, they burned these nests and made a paste with oil to patch their dugouts, he says. Today, he sometimes takes the nests home and chops them up for the chickens.

A five-minute walk from the river, Clive motions to us to stop and be silent. There’s a soft murmuring. Clive raises his head, cups his hands, makes a sharp barking sound, then claps loudly. A howler monkey, a male, roars at us. The sound is startling, similar to a lion’s roar. Branches shimmer as baby monkeys shift farther from us, and the male shouts his challenge again, his neck expanding massively as he roars ferociously. Even though the monkeys are clearly not a threat, for the second time today I feel a visceral sense of alarm, and am glad to be in the company of a knowledgeable local guide.

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An hour later it’s lunchtime, and Clive edges the boat up to a dock at Monkey River Town, a small, roadless settlement of 200 near the mouth of the river, where he lives. The village is about 15 boat miles (24 km) southwest of the rising tourism destination of Placencia, where our tour started. A former center for the lumber and banana industries, Monkey River Town had 2,500 inhabitants around 1900. With the decline of these industries the population dropped significantly, but the historic designation of “town” was retained nevertheless.

Delicious stewed chicken, rice and beans is the meal of the day in the cement-block diner, the only commercial establishment in the village. And those of us who just came off the boat are the only customers. When I buy a Coke, the curvy glass bottle is a throw-back to the 1950s. Barefoot kids, home from school for lunchtime, meander into tidy weathered shacks with chickens pecking in the yards. The setting is rustic, but life here seems much simpler and more relaxing.