In the early 1990s, as a young STAB infantry officer, I volunteered for a trawl that was looking for exercise umpires for the Belize battlegroup. Of course, the VC10 flights ran midweek, and the exercise was due to start at the weekend. And the flight before the exercise was full. So, we flew via Dulles (on Bill Clinton's inauguration day) and arrived a week and a half before anyone wanted us.
A bunch of us sorted out a sub-aqua course on an island called Ambergris Caye, and stayed in a town called San Pedro; we did the diving at a reasonably luxurious hotel (with thatched roofs, but then they all seemed to have them) a km or two north-east of the town. That first weekend, who should appear but a Puma load of the RAF's finest out of APC, including some female officers. The pilots removed growbags to reveal their swimming cossies, and to our eternal shame, beat us at volleyball before heading off to their lunch (our excuse was that as a random bunch of UK-based types, our skills could not match those honed on a diet of "Top Gun" and sunshine).
Needless to say, on hearing that they were going to do some flying into Guatemala (legally, as it was a disaster recovery gig) we suggested that they drop us off at one of the larger and more famous stone ziggurats in the area, and pick us up on the way back out. They wouldn't go for it, for some strange reason...