Hopkins, Belize Is the Best Caribbean Beach Town You’ve Never Heard of 

You hear it in the late afternoon. It starts as a walking beat: one, two, one two. Then it becomes something else, something more powerful. One-two-three one. A percussive pounding, a series of ritual punches that cut through the sea air and find you wherever you are.

This is the rhythm of Hopkins, a maritime metronome rooted in the venerable centuries-old traditions of the Garifuna people that call this place home. 

It’s hard to go far or long in this coastal village in the southern half of Belize without hearing the drumming; sometimes it’s from a Garifuna drumming master; others it’s the work of a visiting neophyte on his or her first lesson. 

It’s a sound that defines this remarkable place in the Stann Creek district of Belize that is the cultural heartbeat of the Garifuna: the African-Amerindian people who originated on the island of St Vincent but who have found a home for more than two centuries in the central coast of Belize. 

Today, Garifuna culture is an essential part of the rich cultural tapestry in Hopkins, a quirky, lovable village that manages to double as an absolutely marvelous beach town. 

It’s the sort of beach town you dream about: a long, calm stretch of sand ridged by rows of palm trees, colorful buildings and barefoot beach bars, joined by Belize’s impossibly diverse universe of flavors that marry the tastes of the West Indies, the Maya and, of course, the Garifuna. It’s a world away from the world, the sort of spot where they escape to at the end of the heist film. 

There are some lovely hotels, from the luxurious Seiri Del Mar (a terrific villa-style hotel with the island’s best restaurant, rooms from $289) to the dive-focused Hamanasi down toward the end of town. 

And you’re just short drives from many of the natural wonders that make Belize, well, Belize: the jaguar preserve and the zip-lines and the hiking and the waterfalls. 

But it’s the food that first gets you here. I’m sitting at Ella’s Upper Deck in the middle of town, chatting with an affable barman who says his is name is Smokey Robinson, Jr (it isn’t), and he tells me he may or may not actually work here. As he’s pouring my glass of 5 Barrel rum (from Belize), I hear it again. 

More drumming. 

But this time it’s not a calf-skin instrument. And it’s stronger. One! Two! One! Two! Now, it’s the chefs in the kitchen mashing plantains into Hopkins’ Garifuna equivalent to Puerto Rico’s mofongo. 

The towering cone of plantains accompanies a Garifuna dish called “Hudut.” It’s a whole fried fish submerged in a spicy coconut broth that gets its kick from a massive habanero pepper hidden away in the creamy bowl. It’s astonishingly good, a fresh, fiery grouping of flavors you don’t often find on the other side of the Caribbean. 

As with everywhere in Hopkins, there’s no distinction between the locals and the visitors. Everyone is at home here, everyone has found their Caribbean fantasy in Hopkins. And you feel it everywhere. 

After a stop at Ella’s, and a stroll past the beloved street food stand called Sexy Dog (Hopkins’ only hot dog stand) I head to Driftwood, one of a several lovable beach bars in this town, but one that is the instant favorite. 

It’s not open every night; but when it is, it’s the pulse of Hopkins, drawing everyone for its exquisite mix of local bands, ice-cold Belikin beer and what were easily the best fish tacos I’ve ever had (replete with some Marie Sharp hot sauce, of course). And then you hear it again: the drums. First the chumba, then the segunda and in a matter of moments more than half the guests at Driftwood, the college students and the retirees, the vacationers and the beach-seekers, are on the dance floor, moving to the rhythmic rumble.

Hopkins doesn’t feel like anywhere else you’ve been in the Caribbean. And it certainly doesn’t sound like it. It does something to you, something wonderful. It takes you to a far-off corner of comfort and cool. It’s authentic, pure. It’s a beach town’s beach town that defies categorization.

I take a stroll from the Seiri Del Mar where I stayed down to where the creek meets the ocean waves. There’s a man in a beach chair fishing at the corner of the water. Seems like he’s been fishing here for decades. 

“Catch anything?” I ask him. He nods, and looks back at the water. 

“A buzz.”

Getting to Hopkins typically means flying to Belize City’s international airport (you can find options for flights here) and driving about two hours south. It’s well worth the trip.