The End of Part 1

With a little over a week to go before I leave Benque for home for the holidays, I couldn’t be more of a mix of emotions. I’m excited to see my family and friends. I am excited to see the Christmas Season, for to admit it, it’s really difficult to get into the Christmas season when the temperature is still about 70 degrees and the flowers are still in bloom. And I am so proud of my progress here. My students have made real progress in their English. They know what a sentence fragment is; know the meaning of the word ‘crumple’ and can even write poetry. We discovered a joy for reading, creativity in writing, and confidence in speaking that I can only hope to foster in the next 5 months when I make my return. And to top it all off, I feel a tinge of sadness that I am leaving.

I am making my return in just 3 short weeks, and thus it seems silly to be having this feeling, I mean, am I not going to my real home? With my family, friends, hot showers, cheese, and Christmas cheer all waiting for me? It seems almost irrational to have this feeling. But I have it, and as I was walking home from school at the end of a long day of students, papers, and chalk dust, I began to understand why.

The town of Benque is a relatively small town, in comparison to my hometown of Louisville, KY, and I make the same paths everyday—from home to school, school to church, church to home. The streets have become familiar to me now, as have the people. We exchange greetings and smiles as we pass each other in the streets, and, when running into the occasional student, we exchange hugs. The students at school, the other teachers and volunteers, the SOLT community, and the many varied people in the town that I see, talk to, or play “trompos” with, have become a part of me, and I a part of them. I am no longer just a small gringo here to lap up a little culture and humility, but a teacher, a friend, and to some, a sister. Even when taking the public transit I will run into people that I know, whether it is through the school or through the Church. Belize is not my long term home, and probably will never be, but at this moment, it is home. For it is here that I truly feel a part of something, and in a very special way a part of the community. The people have accepted me as the norm in their lives and their hearts, and it is such a blessing to know that there will always be a place for me here.

As far as my own personal successes, there are so many that it would be difficult to recount them all here. I have done things that I never thought that I would be brave enough, or ever have the opportunity to do in my life. I held a shark, bathed in a river, exterminated a rat, and rode a motorcycle. I spoke in public about myself and about my faith (something I would have never done before), danced in front of an audience of screaming students, played street basketball, and ran a 5K. These might seem inconsequential to some, but to me, they are moments that I may never forget. I came here feeling as if Benque was the last place I would ever want to be in the world, but now that I have spent time here, and had so many varied experiences, it would be difficult for me to imagine my life without this opportunity.

But among all these things, the thing that has meant the most to me have been the people I have met. Nothing can bring my heart more pleasure than to hear a student come up to me and say, “Miss, I’m going to miss you when you are gone.” Or, “Miss, you are like a sister to me!” Just to get a hint that my presence here, with all of the struggles and speed bumps, has had an inkling of an impact, means that I have done something right.

I wanted to immerse myself. I wanted to form relationships. I wanted to make a difference. But most of all I wanted to lose myself to find myself. I must admit, these are not accomplished in full, but I’m not disappointed—its only the end of the first half, and there’s still so much more to be done.

Letter's Home

Often plans are made to be changed, and my plans for Belize were enhanced in a great way when I was invited back to the states for an interview for graduate school. The school’s reluctance to reschedule due to my circumstances gave me an excuse to make it home for one of the happiest and most amazing experiences of my life—the birth of my first nephew, Noah. It was a whirlwind of a weekend, and when I returned to Benque, it all seemed like I had lived a very vivid dream of baby’s being born and hot-water showers.

One of the most difficult things for me to do before I was able to make this short journey was to tell my students that I was leaving. It would be the first time I was to be gone, and I wanted to make certain that they would not think that I was simply abandoning them. I told them the whole story—the interview, the dreams of being a doctor, the very pregnant sister and my yearning to be with her. They were nothing but understanding and encouraging, but mostly they were excited about the possibility of free class periods.

The days before my departure quickly approached, and my anticipation and nerves were building exponentially, but at the same time I felt bothered at the thought of it. It felt like I was leaving right in the middle of some important business. I had Bible history to teach, Marian doctrine, Verb tenses, and reading comprehension. And I was just going to bolt for 2 days of class and miss out on all that opportunity. But alas, the trip was set, and I had to postpone my class projects for another week. I entrusted my class to capable substitutes with ample instructions, and bid my hasty farewells.

As I was about to leave my English class for the last time before my trip, two students approached me with letters.

“What are these?” I asked

“Just letters for your family, to tell them how you are doing here”

And of course I took them. By the end of the day there were three letters (and ample requests for “sweets” and “skinny jeans,” but those were just ignored), just waiting to be carted through planes and customs and eventually to the hands of my parents. They had been sealed by their authors, and I glanced at the home-made and decorated envelopes many times during my long day of travel, burning with curiousity about what the contents might be.

As soon as I was leaving the airport in Cincinnati, having been reunited with my family, I was asking them to open and read them, for I couldn’t contain it any longer. The letters were written to thank my family for having “shared your daughter with us.” “I like the way she explains things” they said about my teaching, as well as “She is very playful.” They talked about their own lives, their aspirations, and their own struggles. They opened themselves up to people they didn’t know in order to show their gratitude that was in no way asked for, and to share themselves with others to make this world one step smaller. To state the obvious, I was moved beyond description.

This was such a small act, but it is such a huge demonstration of the generosity of my students. I did not ask them to do this, and I hope that I would never make them feel required to feel gratitude for my being there. They simply did it as a gift for me, and it did nothing but encourage me that I must be doing something right in my teaching, and to give me every reason to make my hasty goodbyes to my family and warm showers and return to Benque before Monday classes began again.

The first day back was met with jetlag and many papers to grade; but the moment I stepped into that classroom and heard the excited chatter of students who were all a twitter to tell me about the days without me washed all worries away. I was home again, and where I am meant to be.

All Soul's Day

Part of living in a completely different place is getting the opportunity to share in all the different cultural practices of that society. That opportunity arose in a big way during the Halloween season.

It was difficult to get excited about Halloween. The absence of cool weather, football games, jack-o-lanterns, and an excess of costumes for sale at the local department store caused me to almost forget the holiday even existed, except for our group’s grand plan to hold a costume party. The holiday came and went and with no real acknowledgement. The idea of dressing up and having silly parties is not the most popular idea for Belizeans. Only the youngest of the children dress in cute costumes to beg candy from strangers.

Though one practice that has been ingrained into our psyche had been utterly dismissed from our yearly experience, we were introduced to a much more unique and beautiful tradition.

The day following Halloween is All Saint’s Day. Back in my youth, we would get a holiday from school, but besides that, we would not place any more weight onto the occasion. Here we had school, but the people place a much higher value on the occasion. Church was packed for the evening service, and after mass, we were invited to join the procession to the Cemetery. We lit candles, grabbed our rosaries, and began to slowly walk from the church to the nearest local cemetery. We prayed the rosary in Spanish—luckily I had learned to pray the prayers of the rosary in Spanish way back in highschool—and slowly proceeded to our destination. I became so mesmerized with the slow and steady chanting and the flickering of candles that when we reached the cemetery, I almost had forgotten where we were going.

Traditionally cemeteries are considered scary places, especially at night. This evening, though the sky was overcast and the time of the year and the sound of barking dogs and hushed voices were ideal for moving thoughts towards the more macabre. But this was far from that type of experience. The cemetery was illuminated with tiny flickers of candle light and the murmurings of people in prayer were heard amidst our continued prayers. This was not a deterrent, but rather a pleasant invitation for all those in the procession. We made our way into the middle of the cemetery to finish our rosary and to say our prayers for the deceased and the intentions of the Holy Father. Though I was not fully able to understand all that was said, I could sense the power and respect for the people of the past. It was such a powerful sentiment that I couldn’t help but be stirred by the act. As the prayers ended, a reverent silence fell over the crowd. We moved around the cemetery, looking at the tombs as well as the makeshift shrines of flowers and candles assembled with care. We observed the scattered groups of families, gathered in prayer and remembrance of their loved ones. As I walked around I couldn’t help but feel that I was intruding on private, family moments, and so I quickly removed myself from the vicinity.

The processions continued, with the biggest evening being the night of All Souls. We celebrated mass in the park, and then proceeded to the cemetery. That evening the whole cemetery was alive with loving murmurings of prayer and was brightened by the flickering of candles to remember the lives snuffed out by death and suffering. Sitting in that cemetery, celebrating, remembering those of Benque, I was completely and utterly moved. I was inspired to start this tradition back at home, because it is such a beautiful sentiment—to remember those that had been a part of lives and are now simply memories. And how often I had simply avoided remembering because of the pain it might bring, instead of celebrating the fact that they were people I had known and loved, and their memories bring such joy to my life.

This experience also caused me to stop and look back on where I had been just one year prior. I had been in a cemetery, but not to honor the dead. We had been searching for ghosts, playing around, making something so natural into something unnatural and trying to make it into an ugly and scary place. If only I had known then, as I searched for ghosts and tried to get scared or haunted, that just one year later I would be in a cemetery in Belize, but for a completely different reason, I would not have believed it. It is funny how lives go, and the places we end up. The things we learn and the experiences we gather; the memories we make that will last for eternity.

Elvira

With this post, I am breaking my own self-imposed rule. I had promised myself, and had been faithful to it up ‘til now, that I would not refer to any persons met in Belize by name. My intent was to protect the innocent. It was a noble intention. But I feel that there are some things that need to be shared, and this young lady who has shared so much with me deserves much more than these paltry words can give her.

Elvira is one of my first form students in my Basic English class. She has a smile that can light up the room, and deep, dark eyes, full of understanding beyond her years. The first thing I ever learned about her was that she had a three-year-old daughter at home. It turns out she had been raped at 14 and conceived a child from it. She is, without exception, one of the hardest-working students in my classroom—she loves to tell stories and always eagerly awaits every opportunity to share with me what she has learned.

One Friday afternoon, while I was giving a break during a 2 hour period, Elvira comes up to me and asks if I can come over to her house after mass and hang out. Wishing to take every opportunity to get to know my students, both in and out of class, I readily agree. Sunday comes, along with Hurricane Richard. I go to mass, where I usually see Elvira and little Joanna, but there was no shining smile to greet me that morning. Thinking she had forgotten me, I went to mass and returned home to prepare to brace the impending storm.

Class was out for two days, along with the electricity and the water. By Wednesday the country had recovered enough for classes to resume, so we made our way back to school and continued with our lessons. As I am walking into class on Wednesday, I am greeted by a distraught Elvira.

“Miss! I am soo sorry I was not at mass! My mother would not let me go for the rain! Please can we try again this Sunday?”

Of course I forgave her and agreed to try again for the next weekend.

Next Sunday rolled around, and as promised, she met me at the church. Elvira greeted me with her beautiful smile, and after mass, we made the long trek to her house. The road was rough and the sun was beating down upon our heads. As we were walking, all I could think was how not only does she make this trek every Sunday to church, just her and her daughter. ‘Why does the rest of her family not go with her?’ I wondered.

‘They just don’t come. I’ve never asked why’ was the simple reply.

We arrived at her house. A small but stable-looking structure perched against the side of the hill. We approached the house, and were greeted with the clucks of chickens and the smell of horses. Nothing too terribly unusual for a small Belizean family from what I have observed in my time here. We enter the house. It was a room. Three beds; a couch, a table, a television. And all of the other things necessary for people to live. All within the confines of four walls. I tried to think of a time when I would have been comfortable sleeping in the same room as the rest of my family. To not only share your sleep space, but your living space, your changing-your-clothes space, and all semblance of privacy. The kitchen was behind the house, further up the hill. A small hut containing a wood stove and a pot was the home for years of family meals. And the restroom? I never spotted one. Most likely another small hut somewhere on the property.

I was presented to the family as “the maestra” and attempted in my broken Spanish to show my gratitude for them inviting me into their home. From the few moments of interaction I learned very little about her family, except that they were generally pleasant and seemed genuinely pleased that I had come to visit their home.

I was then whisked away by Elvira and Joanna to talk and play. Back into the house to look at pictures, and play dolls with a three-year-old. Joanna is a typical three-year-old. She likes to throw dolls around, and she has a great smile that never goes away. Her laugh is contagious. Within moments, Joanna and I were sitting on the ground, just laughing at a stuffed bear, who at the push of a button would state “I love chocolate.” It was all very hilarious. I had not laughed so long or so hard than with Joanna in a long time. How freeing is laughter sometimes, its almost cleansing. And at that moment me and Joannita became friends. She had to show me her pollitos (chicks) and the horses that she rides. In 20 minutes she brought me as much joy as my heart could muster. Oh the wonders of happy small children.

The visit continued. Elvira, Joanna, and I shared tangerines, freshly picked from the tree just outside, and then we sat on the bed, just like any friends would do. I played the keyboard that had been hiding under Elvira’s bed and tried to remember as many songs as possible. And we listened to songs as we tried to put Joanna down for a nap.

As I was sitting here, on this bed situated in the corner of this one-roomed-home, observing one of my students mothering a child, I suddenly became overwhelmed with the situation. I was suddenly not just hanging out with a student and friend, but observing a life that was so different than my own and a life I know I would never have been able to handle. Here was a girl, raped at 14, who conceived a child from this terrible act of hatred, who chose to keep the child, and is now the mother of a three-year-old child. All at 17. I don’t know what cares I had at 17 besides college shopping and after-school-jobs and friends, but they are nothing compared to what this girl has gone through, and will always live with. Not only does she make the long trek to school every morning, after having to wake up early and help clean the house and take care of Joanna, but she has to worry about homework, friends, family. She has to be a daughter, a student, and a mother—and all by choice. And nothing can compare to the bravery of a girl who chose to let an act so vile become such a source of joy.

It is not easy—it can’t be—for any person to have to go through what she has gone through, and she faces it with such joy and determination. Words can’t even describe how humbled I was in that moment. Who am I that I can teach her anything? Are verbs and vocabulary and story plots even worthy of what life has brought her?

But she wants to learn. She studies hard in school so that she can be a teacher one day. She wants to ‘Be someone that her family can be proud of.’ So that is what we talked about on the way back from her house. What we were going to do in English class. What stories we were about to read, why the vocabulary test was difficult, and how she was nervous about the upcoming science quiz that was coming up. All very important details for a girl who just wants to be a little girl again, but will never be able to come home from school to just sit in front of the television and do homework, with no other cares.

This is a terribly difficult story to tell, but one so worth telling. I wonder now, what my problem with it is. Perhaps it is just because it is a life that I know I would not be able to handle. Perhaps it is that I would never be able to wish this life on any person, and it is almost painful that I now know someone who lives with this reality. But perhaps the most difficult thing for me to handle is that someone who has been through things that I don’t even understand and never will was able to help me and teach me so much—to give me so much of what I did not have. And I have nothing to give her in return. Nothing I have is worthy of her.

It is now over two months into this journey of living, learning, and growing. I look back on the day I flew in, where I was thinking that I was absolutely insane for coming to Belize and teaching for a whole year. Now, between all the experiences, the people I have met, and the changes I feel slowly creeping over myself, I now wonder who and where I would be without Belize and without people like Elvira to show me how strong I could be, and to show me that no hardship in life is bad enough that you can’t live and live well. Such lessons they have been, and so many more to learn, and how grateful I am that I have had this opportunity to learn them

Teaching #2

In this life of teaching, there have been quite a few adventures without even leaving the classroom. Teaching is fraught with successes and failures, and just down-right funny tales worthy of taking note. Here I will try to impart some of the funnier of the experiences and make note of the few successes I have had along the way.

I am not going to lie, there are those mornings where I roll out of bed at 6 am and the first thing on my mind is “I really don’t want to teach today.” But I get ready and make the trudge through the dust and exhaust fumes to school, sign-in in the teacher’s lounge, wait for the bell to ring, then gather my books and papers and make my entry into the classroom. At the beginning, I had no idea what situation I would enter upon. But now, having taught for 8 weeks now, I have come to see the pattern of students behaviour in correlation to time of day. So here’s the breakdown.

8am: the students are silent and solemn. They’ll take anything you give them, but don’t expect them to be as excited about verb tenses as you feign to be.

9am: “Miss, please, just stop talking! I can’t focus for one more minute!”

10am: the students are in a state of minor chaos, for they have just made a mad rush for the snack shop and back. Sugar, salt, and carbonation are flowing through their bloodstreams, and they are ready for anything you have to give them.

11am: The students’ only thought is of lunch time. They need a bathroom; they need substance, and they have no interest in any poet you have to offer them.

12pm: This is one of the toughest hours to teach. The students are either severely hyper or lost in a food coma. They range from crazy/chatty/hyper to slumped over their chair and unresponsive. I only teach this period once and it is the Friday afternoon. I plan at least 30 minutes in my 2 hour class for saying the words “Girls!! We NEED to be quiet! We have to get our lesson completed!” or “No, we can’t go outside, we have to get our book read!”

1pm: This is siesta time. The blood has all moved from their brains and the heat of the day inhibits any greater response than the blank gaze, pleas for the bathroom, and the doodle.

2pm: Last period of the day. Absolutely the toughest period to teach. The student does not want to be there, you don’t want to be there, and its just a steady crawl to the finish. You are split between wanting to get through the lecture and just giving the free period.

If, perhaps, you walk into a classroom with the intention of administering a test, absolute panic awaits you. You barricade yourself from the questions such as “The test is today?” or “Miss, is it hard?” “Can you give us real quick, or I will forget now??”

“Settle down, pens out, books on the floor, lets get ready to go!”

“Hay, miss!?!”

“Sooner you do this, sooner we can get our tests…”

“Hay, miss…”

“I’m serious, now. Bags and notebooks on the floor!”

It would almost be worth never giving an exam, just so you don’t have to have this conversation. Unfortunately, I give at least 3 quizzes a week, so this becomes almost an everyday occurrence.

Daily class can range from calm to unpredictable. Some days, all the pieces can come together. The lesson is well-planned and you enter a class of eager and sweet students excited to learn and be with you. This is a rare occurrence. Then there are the days where the students are utterly out of control. Talking, walking around, ignoring every plea for silence and attention. They have even gone so far to moving people and desks around during the middle of my riveting discussion of Trinitarian doctrine. And then there are those moments where I simply have to stand up there and yell at the top of my lungs, threaten jugs and demerits, and then count to ten before I explode. But those, too, are rare days.

Most days are a healthy balance of both. I will enter, give the girls some time to settle down, listen to excuses about why the homework is not on my desk. These range from the understandable to the ridiculous.

“I was at my mom’s and then at my dad’s and it got lost in between”

“My other teachers made me work on their work instead…”

“My social studies teacher stole my notebook”

“Hay, miss, can I just rewrite it?”

And then I begin my lecture about verbs. We review. I ask them to remember about irregular verbs. Why are they called ‘irregular?’ Silence. Utter silence. It is only then that they do not speak. Most instances I am begging for silence and attention. We are at a standoff. Either I will break down and tell the answer, or they will break down and look in their notes. The clock ticks. A tumbleweed rolls by. I stare them down one-by-one with the hopes that someone is courageous enough to answer.

Finally, a girl takes a guess…

“An irregular verb is not normal”

“Good! And why is it not normal?”

Silence. What have I been doing in class? Talking to a wall? Eventually the answer comes, but it could not have been more of a battle. Then comes the battle of the chatty teenage girl. No matter how interesting your lecture might be, the conversations they are having about the cute boys or the latest novellas are much more interesting, and much more important. As I write notes on the board, I am constantly hearing the low muffled chatter. I turn around. I give the stink-eye. They finally notice. The mumble quickly hush.

“Do you have any questions about the lecture?’

“No, Miss”

“Any thing interesting to share with the rest of the class?”

“No, Miss…”

The lecture continues. And such is a typical class day.

Despite the apparent frustrations, teaching does have its many oddly-shaped rewards. One class, after having lectured on Marian apparitions for two hours straight, I looked down to see one of my students creating quite the masterpiece, with no attempt to hide the work from me.

“Is my lecture really that boring?” I asked

“No, but I’m just….so….bored!” was the sheepish reply.

I feigned hurt and threatened detention, but on the inside I was reeling with memories of my own doodling masterpieces. Near the end of the day, the student came to the door of the teacher’s lounge and called me over to the door (The students are not supposed to enter the teacher’s lounge. It is our sanctuary, you know). I came over, and with the same sheepish smile, I was presented with the masterpiece, now personalized with my name upon the design. Though I realized that this was created in the midst of a lecture I had spent hours preparing, I was still grateful for the gesture. The art now hangs at my desk to remind me that sometimes the important thing is to just be patient and let things slide a little. A little understanding and empathy go a long way.

Recently, a family member asked me if I enjoyed teaching. And honestly, I’m not sure. Grading, lesson plans, detentions, lectures, homework assignments, and chalk-dust hands do not excite me as they might do other people. But learning about my students, seeing a girl’s face light up when you recognize her improvement, watching students turn tables into arks, and talking about favorite foods and making poems about them? That is something worth waking up at 6am for.

Hospitality

This past weekend, I was given the opportunity to partake in a completely unique experience from all the rest since arriving in Benque—visiting with my students outside of the school environment. It all began when one of my students approached me after class to announce that she would be receiving her First Communion the following weekend in Melchor, Guatemala. Conveniently, her ‘madrina,’ or godmother, (Unlike in the States, the godparent role is not fulfilled at baptism, rather, it is to be compared to a confirmation sponsor. Students will frequently ask teachers to be their godparents, despite the cultural discrepancies) happened to be one of the other female volunteers and I was invited, as her religion teacher, to come and witness this auspicious occasion and show my support.

That Sunday morning, we made the trek across the border from Benque to Melchor, only a 10 minute drive, and went to mass at the local parish. While in the States First Communion is a given a much greater deal of attention, it was special to witness my little student in her little white dress so nervous and excited to receive such a precious gift for her life. And after mass, we got to see the joy on her face that, not only did she finally get to partake in the sacrament, but also had people come to support her. We got to meet her family, have her picture taken with her, and take pictures of her and her family. And then her family invited us over to lunch. We were quite honored by the invitation, since we were practically complete strangers and, though busy and in need of a laundry/lesson planning/grading paper’s day, the promise of homemade tamales was too much for us to refuse, so we agreed to meet in one hour to walk up to the house.

To fill the hour, we decided to walk around the market in Melchor. The only way to describe the market is to say it looks just like a market in a developing country that you would see in the movies. Clothes, shoes, and wares of all types lined a narrow street covered in tarp and tin. And all the clothes, purses, and shoes looked a tad too familiar. Hollister; American Eagle; Ecko; Roxy. Did the mall in America get transported into Guatemala? Hardly. More like a Korean manufacturing company in Guatemala City had overflow and a bus ride later, here the clothes were—in a shadowy street market, destined to make my students much more stylish than I.

As we walked through the market, we were stopped at a certain booth by a familiar face—one of our own students. Her family owns the booth and all of the siblings, ranging in ages from 18 to 8 work diligently in the store. Their small house resides on the outside of their booth, and everyday they have to bring all of the clothes into their house and back again at 5 in the morning. That is a way of life that many of my students share.

While most highschool students would duck away or turn at the sight of one of their highschool teachers, she excitedly came out to meet us and immediately found us chairs and invited us to come and sit and talk. Never had I been treated like such royalty, especially after intruding in someone’s work space. We were introduced to her family, coca-cola’s were purchased for us, and a fan was moved into our path to keep us from cool. It was just plastic stools and cheap pop, but knowing how far out-of-the-way these people went for us was humbling, to say the least. It gives all new meaning for the term ‘Southern Hospitality.’

Though customers sifted in and out of the store, forcing readjustments to our sitting situations, the conversation between the volunteers and the student and her family continued to flow effortlessly. We talked about her family, her sisters, sports, school, and the pet bird. How different from my past experiences in student/teacher relationships? When I was in high school, I would have never given an hour of my weekend to chat with teachers, and want my picture taken with them, and use them as my confidante. This experience most definitely places a different spin on my role as a teacher here. I am not just a person who teaches verbs and gives homework, quizzes, and detentions 5 days a week. I am a friend and someone who could be a positive influence everyday at even the most unexpected times. This was only exemplified when one of my students spots me while working in her parent’s store and comes running out of the store to give me a hug as I walked past. What a great blessing to have such an influence on a student that they are more than willing to see you outside of school! I would have never been that exciting to see any of my teachers outside of school, especially in high school.

After the market we met with the First Communicant to make the long trek to her house. Her family was waiting to greet us with open arms, as if we had known them all of our lives. They also treated us like royalty. Though we had come bearing only meager gifts of homemade cards and First Communion figurines, they presented us with their best. Without letting us move an inch in their aide, they presented us with a lunch of chicken tamales, which, as we were told, take a whole day to prepare. And they were delicious. Nothing was too much for us, and no words could describe how grateful for the kindness and hospitality shown us.

As we were leaving to make our ways back to Benque, the whole family gathered to thank us for coming and to wish us off. We did not just receive well wishes, but hugs from every member of the family. In that brief moment, we became family. Not just gringos from a foreign land coming to capture a small dose of culture, but people who at any moment one would be willing to share his house or his life. Instead of asking us to make the long trek back to the border on foot, the family offered to escort us on the back of their motorcycles. My first motorcycle ride.

On Monday I will see these students and we will interact as we always had. But knowing just a smidgen about their lives outside of school will give me even more incentive to show them as much kindness and understanding as they showed me—a silly gringo from the States—at all times. They also taught me a very important lesson in hospitality. I hope that when I return home I can place as much effort in creating family wherever I go. Antoine du Saint Exupery writes about tearing down walls between peoples and in that freeing ourselves as a society. How much rewarding would life be if we were to kick down those walls—social, moral, and emotional—that separate us from those around us? What if we welcomed everyone in as a family member after knowing them for less than a day, or even an hour? What a society we have the potential to be if we could just extend a fraction of the hospitality that we were shown on this day.

This is only a futile attempt at putting into words an experience that seemed so ordinary on the surface, and yet was so extraordinary. An experience that, in its lack of ‘extraordinariness,’ has created such a extraordinary impression on my heart and mind. All I can say is, never in a million years would I have guessed that one day I would be escorted to the Belize/Guatemala border on the back of a motorcycle after having lunch with a Guatemalan family. My life amazes me sometimes, and no amount of babbling on paper could ever do it justice.

Food

Part of any experience is the food. When you travel to Italy, you immediately think of the pasta, the pizza, or the gelato. Spain the tapas, Philadelphia, the cheese steak, Japan the sushi. It’s all about what new and exciting foods you are going to try. Belize is not much different. I was very excited to live not only in a new place, but experience a completely different diet.

The food here has been its own, somewhat lackluster adventure. The Belizeans only take so much pride in food. The food somewhat lacks in exotic spices or flavors that you would expect from such an exotic and tropical location. But the familiarity of the flavors and the repetitiveness of the diet is a comfort so far from home. Often we volunteers, on our trek to the rectory for food, joke about what our next meal shall be.

“What do you think we will eat today?”

“I don’t know, but I really hope its rice and beans.”

“Or maybe beans and rice?”

We are rarely disappointed. Beans and rice, or rice and beans (The variation comes in whether the beans are mixed with the rice or cooked separately. I have yet to learn which is which) are the staple throughout the whole of the country. And, as volunteers trying to embrace the culture, we share in this food almost everyday.

There were a few surprises on my dinner plate that I have encountered in Belize. The first is the prominence of coleslaw. I never expected to see it outside of the Midwest, let alone in Belize. I believe its prevalence comes from the ridiculous amounts of cabbage that the Belizeans consume weekly. My love affair with cabbage has been another pleasant surprise. Cabbage with the chicken, cabbage with the Chinese food, cabbage in the coleslaw, it is there and it is delicious.

My newest food love affair has been beans. I remember when I was younger and my mom would cook baked beans or put beans in the soup or the stew and I, spoiled child as I was, would pick around them and waste them. I grew out of that after spending time in the Dominican Republic and partaking in the delicious beans and rice there, but now, beans and I are practically involved. We see each other sometimes for 3 meals a day and we have become quite close. For breakfast there are beans on toast, for lunch I see beans in rice, and for dinner I see beans and scrambled eggs. When there is that rare meal where beans don’t make an appearance, I do miss them.

I suppose now is the time to mention that I eat scrambled eggs almost every night for dinner. In the states we eat our eggs for breakfast. Not here. That is strictly dinner fare. But these eggs are not just scrambled; they include peppers, onions, tomatoes, cilantro, and even potatoes. I am unsure how they can make them so exquisite, but they are different every evening. (I suppose I should pause here and give praise to my momma’s eggs. I miss them. So delicious. But when in Belize…) I never thought that I would someday eat eggs, beans, rice, all mixed in a tortilla shell. But it is an excellent combination here.

With all the celebration of beans and eggs and the other Belizean..ahem..delicacies, there are a few things in the dietary world that I miss. Number one on the list is the Dairy products, especially cheese. It must be imported, therefore it is incredibly expensive. I have had cheese once since I have been here. My goal is to save up my money to buy some cheese to make a grilled cheese sandwich. It might be heaven on earth. Along with the dairy disappointments is icecream. In some parts of Belize you can get some delicious ice cream, but here in Benque, it is but a melted then refrozen scoop of bitter disappointment. Good thing they have vanilla-flavored popsicles named ‘ideals’ that only cost 25 cents to be that cool and refreshing treat I need to sustain me. The only other food item that I really miss is fresh vegetables and ranch sauce to dip them in. And chicken nuggets. But the foods I missed are compensated by the new foods I have discovered, like salbutas, chicken chow mein, and of course fresh frozen pineapple.

As far as the beverages are concerned, it is not terribly different than in the states. Coca Cola has a monopoly on the whole country, so their products are everywhere, but in glass bottles and with real sugar. Automatically an upgrade—everything tastes better from a glass bottle. They also have pineapple flavored soda, a new addiction of mine (unfortunately it will never replace my love of sweet tea, absent from all of Benque). The last noteworthy beverage is a bag of water. Yes you read it correctly, bag of water. It is a plastic bag of water, you bit a hole in the corner, and you drink it. Genius, pure genius.

Teaching

The greatest reward in teaching is seeing your students succeed. As I have trudged through the first three weeks of teaching, this reward seems so near, and yet so tantalizingly far. I want so much for my students, and I have quite the challenge. Teaching English as a second language a task I was not mentally prepared for in coming here, and religion is the most terrifying subject to teach. It is one thing to have to form their minds and make them up to a government standard, but with religion, it is the soul that is in question. If I teach them falsehoods and they live their lives believing some heresy, who is going to hell? Me. That’s who. That’s just a little pressure.

Just to give you a idea of what my life has become, I shall now proceed to give you a day-in-the-life of Miss Katie, volunteer teacher extraordinaire.

I walk to school every morning, dressed in my teaching best, albeit I usually leave my nice shoes at the school, so as not to ruin them in the morning trudge. Though early, the sun is already hot, and you can feel the sweat drip down your back as you walk up and down the hills of the city. The city is already buzzing with students, mothers walking their students, taco vendors setting up shop, and taxis driving up and down the boulevard. As you approach the school, you see students everywhere, in their khaki skirts or trousers, crisp, white blouses, and for the girls, white knee socks and black maryjanes. I walk through a sea of students, and listen to the “Morning, miss! Hi miss!” and “Hello miss!” that greet me in the school yard.

I’m not going to lie, this is not back-breaking work. I usually go straight from the school-yard to the teacher’s lounge, sit at my desk, and play on facebook. Of course I have to prepare for class, grade papers, and do research on what I’m teaching, as well. But for the most part I just sit there, at my desk, and devise new ways to inspire my students. Then the bell rings, and I must head to class with my papers, books, and of course my piece of chalk. In the past I had a severe fear of public speaking, but now I have had to put that behind me. I come to class, enter with a “good morning, ladies!” and wait for them to settle into their desks and prepare for class. Depending on the class, we do a variety of things. For religion we talk about God, the trinity, the angels, the saints. I want them to know the ends and outs of their faith, but I want them to develop a passion for it most importantly. It is not so much knowing the Bible by heart, but being able to know the Bible enough to live by it. Ultimately that is my goal for that class. I also want to be a good resource for my girls. I have been in their shoes before—though not too long ago. But if they need to talk, they know I’m around.

My English class is quite a bit different. Not only is English the second language for these girls, it is the first year for these girls. It is a learning experience on both of our parts. Vocab, spelling, grammar, reading comprehension, writing, speaking. It’s a lot of stuff to fit into 6 hours a week. Somedays we lecture, someday we spend a whole class period trying to think of the craziest verbs to use in a sentence. And somedays we just play hang-man. All marketable skills, I hope. Mostly it is just a lesson in patience.

“Quiet, girls”

“Clear your desks”

“Really, girls, I want silence”

“Do I have to separate you?”

“Do I need to repeat myself again?”

By the end I feel as if my voice or sanity could flee at a moments notice. And it is such a split. Do I be a super-strict teacher whom my students fear and loathe, or do I let them get away with things, and just hang out in the classroom doing girl talk? At this point all is trial and error. Besides this, my biggest challenge is getting excited about the subjects I’m teaching. There is only so much energy for nouns I can muster. After 5 days, I just get relieved to move on to verbs. Here is the point where I have to practice my patience and my selflessness. Not only do I have to take my own interest out of consideration, but be able to wait on my students to catch up. It’s all quite the learning experience. Perhaps I should have trained for this. I must say it has become easier. By the end I should be an old pro.

The end of my class day recently has involved volleyball or meetings. Staff meetings, department meetings, presentations on ancient Mayan cultures have been the end of my already busy days. Volleyball has been a blessing, and a good way to see my students in a new light and be seen in a new light. It has also been an opportunity to meet some of the boys, and influence them in the only way a young female teacher can sometimes—persuade them with my feminine charm to get rid of that unsightly facial hair and cleaning themselves up.

Often my days don’t come to a close until 5 in the evening or 6. Then there is dinner, mass, and home to continue the lesson planning and grading, preparing for the next day in Benque. The days are long, but they move quickly. Besides in the teacher’s lounge, you are hardly just sitting around looking for something to do. And as the weeks go by, the work gets more rewarding. You get to see the progress and growth, and you can’t help but feel proud of your students, and accomplished in yourself.

Though not much time has gone by in this school year, through in-class assignments, out-of-class conversations, and one-on-one time, I have gotten to know a number of my students and little-by-little hear their stories. I feel that the more I learn, the greater will be my ability to reach out to them in a more effective way. It is a process, because trust does not come easy, not just to high school girls, but to girls who have spent their lives being told no and having people let them down.

I asked my English students to write about the “best day ever” for them. It could be one they had had, or one they wanted to have some day. One of my students, a 16-year-old with a 3-year-old daughter conceived by rape responded: My best day ever was the day I heard I was going to go school so I could work hard and someday be somebody my family could be proud of.” Many of my other students had similar stories to tell.

How ungrateful had I been as a high school student? It boggles my mind how much some of my girls have to sacrifice just to be at the school. One of my students wakes up at 4:30 every morning to get to school and does not return home until past 5. Many cross the border every day from Guatemala for school. Those students really appreciate the sacrifice they and their families make so they can go here.

It has been such a joy to get to know my students, and to begin to foster relationships with them, I am beginning to get really excited about what the year will bring. And this connection has only made me want their success so much more. I am constantly thinking, fretting, and praying that what I am trying to teach them, whether it be about God or sentence structure, will get through to them. And all the while I am hoping everyday that what I can do for them in the short time I am here will make a lasting impression. For this experience, it is much more than the teaching. It is the presence, the discipline, the encouragement, and the conversations about our lives that will really make a difference someday. And the hope that I do not become one of the people that lets them down. I can’t let that happen.

I’m excited to see what the next few months will bring here in Benque and Mount Carmel High School. Hopefully there will be more success, more friendship, and more learning on both sides of the desk.

Roughing It

When I came to Belize to work as a missionary, I thought I was going to be roughing it. Cold showers, no TV, beans and rice 3 times a day—and no sign of sweet tea. I clearly had no idea what roughing it really meant.

I learned the true meaning of the phrase “roughing it” in my time at Black Rock. Several of the volunteers, after a spontaneous trip to the river for some tubing, decided it would be quite the adventure to go camping in the jungle there the following weekend. So, after a busy week of lesson planning and lectures, we decided to head out to the Belizean wild to get some camping in. Saturday morning we packed our bags, but not wanting to be an inconvenience, we packed as little as possible. All that I packed I could fit into a gallon-sized Ziploc bag. Sunscreen, camera, Long-sleeve shirt, and a pair of scrub pants. Not even a blanket. The reason we were told to bring so little was because we were going to have to cross a very fast moving river to reach to the camp site. Hence the Ziploc bag. We got our stuff together and then we were ready for our big adventure.

The most popular way of private transportation in Belize is in the back of a pick-up truck. You see people of all ages being chauffeured throughout the city and throughout the countryside, whether they are on their way to Church or off to the construction site. So naturally, we felt that, as temporary citizens of Belize with little options, this would have to be our mode as transportation as well. So we pile ourselves, the inner tubes and our supplies into the back of a friend’s truck, and head out, stopping only for supplies of water and hot dogs.

The Belizean countryside is a beautiful mix of the rural and the tropical. Orange groves coexist with cow pastures, and the hard-wood plantations add to the landscape in addition to the palm-trees. The roads are rough—unpaved, narrow, and winding. These details make for an exciting and sometimes dangerous trip out into the jungle. But, despite the bumps from the road and the constant pummeling of the wind, there are things you can only soak in from the back of a truck. You can watch civilization slowly fade away to leave space for pristine countryside. The hills, mixed with the tropical foliage make for a beautiful landscape pictures cannot do justice.

About 30 minutes into the car ride, we arrive into the jungle. Back in the states, there are those theme parks that have the ‘jungle adventure’ rides, where they give you the ambience of the forest. They are pretty accurate. The truck is winding down a side of a cliff, jostling very similar to a theme park ride, and we begin to smell the aroma of the jungle. You begin to hear the birds and feel the mists and, just to top it all off, a waterfall comes out of the jungle near the side of our car, bringing the experience full circle.

The truck drops us off and all around us is unspoiled, pristine, nature. A roaring river punctuates the bottom of a magnificent view of jungle and cliffs. I paused to take in the beauty of the moment, but then reality sank in and I begin to wonder “well, where are we going to be spending the night?” You look all around you and see no surface suitable to camp on.

“The beach is on the other side of the river.” Was the confident reply of out guide, Matteo. And no, he is not Belizean by blood, but has lived in Belize long enough to know the ins and outs of camping in the jungle.

So with out plethora of supplies, from inner tubes and a cooler to two very long baguettes given to us from a pleasantly French mother, we hiked down to the river and proceeded to cross it. Because it is the rainy season in Belize, the river was high and fast. I was a little nervous about crossing it at first, especially with all the luggage we had brought with us, but the men of the excursion were confident in our abilities. They tied up the inner tubes with rope, and asked the girls to sit inside of them. They then piled as much as the supplies as possible on top of us. They then pushed our make-shift raft out and guided us down the river, across the rapids, and to the beach just downstream. It was more exciting than any rollercoaster, to say the least.

After we arrived safely and piled our supplies onto shore, we were able to survey the surroundings. It could not have looked more like a scene from a movie. A small beach, flat rocks, black as asphalt, smoothed away by the river, and palm trees and jungle surrounding the site. This was certainly unlike any camping trip I have ever been on.

The group got settled, made a rudimentary shelter made of branches and palm leaves, reminiscent of the Swiss Family Robinson, and proceeded to make a fire to cook our hot dogs on. We swam in the river and fought against the current, being careful not to be taken downstream. We enjoyed good company, good weather, and were able to watch the sun sink down behind the cliffs, far too early (For in Belize, due to its proximity to the equator, the sun sets at 6pm. It has completely messed up my sense of time).

As the darkness came, so did the bugs. I must admit that, at the beginning at the school week after this trip, my students stated that my legs looked like I had the chickenpox. Surrounding the campfire, we cooked our food and admired the stars. By 9pm I was laying on the ground, trying to find comfort in the sand using a rock and a very small backpack as a pillow. The experience of sleeping with the stars as your blanket, the rocks as your pillow, and the bugs and howler monkeys as your lullaby can be quite the amazing experience; but to be perfectly honest it is also the most uncomfortable feeling as well. The sand shifts and gets everywhere, the bugs crawl all over your body and face, and after the fire dies, you get incredibly cold. We were truly roughing it, and our 2am efforts to find firewood in the dark was only the topping of the experience.

By 4am, the group was awake and praying for the sun. And it came, sure enough, creeping over the cliffs and revealing itself ray-by-ray. As it neared sunrise, I was able to climb out onto a rock overlooking the river, and watch the water turn to gold. Tired, cold, and hungry though I was, I have never been in such a state of serenity. It was at that moment that I had to pinch myself to make sure this life I had taken upon myself was not just a dream. I was truly living in Central America, and able to meet such amazing people and have such incredible adventures.

We enjoyed of morning of relaxation, swimming, and enjoying the scenery before the exciting but treacherous and exhausting adventure of crossing the river again, against the current, and hiking out of the canyon, supplies in tow. We climbed back into the truck and drove back to the comforts of our temporary home, where we enjoyed our cold showers, fresh clothes, and sleep before Sunday evening mass and the beginning of a new week here in Benque.

Life in Benque

A busy highway, roosters crowing, a mother doing laundry, music blaring over a static radio, the honking of angry drivers. These are all the sounds that pound my ears from the minute I wake up to the minute I fall asleep. All sounds that make for life in Benque. While the town seems small and slow-moving, it has a lot of character and a constant flow of activity.

When in Benque, I rarely ride in a vehicle. I walk everywhere. Home; Church; school; supermarket. There and back again. (On a random sidenote—my egregious use of fragments here make me seem a hypocrite, since I just told my English students that they were the greatest sin of English writing of all…) I never realized in the states the true beauty of walking. When you are in your car you jam your music, blast the AC, and try to get to your destination as quickly as possible. You are in your own isolated universe. But when you are walking, you get to truly study the patterns of the road. You see each bump, each crack, each person, each chicken, each flower. You get to feel the sun on your back, or the rain. You get to appreciate the temperature of the outdoors. You can choose the pace. Often I am rushing to make it to mass on time, or rushing to school to make copies, but mostly I am just walking. With aim, but without hurry. And how refreshing it is. I can pause at a moment’s notice to examine a flower, to watch the men in the feed store work and to ask about someone’s day. And while everyday the paths are the same, the scenery never remains the same.

It seems that in the states people remain indoors, lounging in their air-conditioned prisons, hiding away for fear of what might be outdoors, whether it be heat, strangers or the general unknown. But here in Benque people do not have such luxuries as AC, the internet to escape to, and are blessed with no unknown to fear. Because of this, you are never alone on the streets. You constantly pass by people lounging on their porches or in their hammocks (which are the national porch furniture of the country, speaking to the laid-back nature of the Belizean people). The children are playing futbal, basketball, or riding bikes. Or even sometimes they are throwing rocks at each other, as I was horrified to see one evening. As you past by, the people say “hello”, or “good morning” and offer a wave or a smile. And then there are those men who offer their opinion of you, in a not-so-gentlemanly fashion (You just ignore those greetings). The only real form of danger the city presents is the vehicles that wind through the narrow streets of the city.

A curious thing about this town is the presence of Asian community where you least expect it. Zhen has as much a monopoly of this town as Coca-Cola has on the whole country. Zhen’s Supermarket. Zhen’s Hardware store. Zhen’s restaurant. We are as dependent on this Zhen character as my family is on Kroger’s. And Chinese food holds the country fascinated. For a town that only has a handful of restaurants, the majority of them seem to be Chinese. And on the storefront of each of these restaurants, the slogan “Welcome, and Good Luck” graces the front. “Good Luck for what?” I once asked. Good luck eating the food without getting sick? Good luck that you are you not eating dog? Good luck that you will ever make it out alive. I’ve tried the Chinese food here, because let’s face it: who doesn’t love Asian food? And I must say I was impressed. And I survived to tell the tale.

One more interesting feature about this town that my first two weeks have taught me: dogs. Sad dogs, yappy dogs, emaciated dogs, happy dogs. I have never hated dogs so much. When I was in Peru the dog population was terrible. There were 3 dogs per 5 yd². Here it is not quite that bad, but they have to be 3X more annoying. You can’t help but feel bad for some of these dogs as you walk by. You see the ribs, the momma dogs with no milk for their young, the doleful eyes. But the yappy dogs are really yappy dogs. As soon as you decide to lay your head down on a pillow, they start to fight and bark and bark and fight. It's all very annoying. You wish you had windows you could close, or a rifle. As an American with a soft spot for any kind of animal, I am torn between sympathy for the sad dogs and just utter annoyance. According to the stories, the dog problem used to be worse, but then the town of Benque decided to go around and collect all of the dogs in the night, and have a mass extermination of them. It was probably sad for the people of Benque, for a great majority of my students (all of which are female) stated that their favorite animals were dogs. All of the cool animals in this country that you can practically see in your backyard; toucans, monkeys, lizards, jaguars, and the girls chose dogs. It’s way beyond me.

It will be interesting to see how my relationship to this town changes in the next several months. Now I have this romantic notion about the simplicity of life and yada yada yada, but will I feel that way in May? Who knows? I don’t.

First Days of School

In the past, when I have done missionary work, I gotten out of bed at the crack of dawn, put on my oldest, rattiest clothes, put on my sunscreen, and got to work. I would sweat and work, work and sweat, until the sun went down. Then I would go to bed, and my whole body would ache like I have been hit by a truck. And then, after the time is up, I return home, eat a lot of fast food and ice cream, and look at my pictures and realize the good times I had and miss the people I met. Needless to say, this experience is quite different.

My work does not consist in handing medicines out in landfills, or digging holes in mountains. It is a much simpler work. But just as important. Or at least that is what I am telling myself. Contrary to my own fears I am not teaching physics or music, but English and Religion. I am teaching English as a second language to girls from Belize and girls from across the border. They are young for high school, some only 11. And some are too old for first form—almost 16 or 17. This age discrepancy leads to a variety of difficulties both in academic level, maturity level, and in a level of discipline. But they are all similar in some ways.

As a first assignment, and to gauge where they stood in there levels of English composition, I asked them to tell me about their homes, their families, and two of the most interesting things about themselves. Many of my girls had such dreams. To graduate, to become psychologists, to become chefs, to go to college. The students all love their families, though sometimes there are no parents, or they are spread out between here and Corozol, or even the States. This left me initially with a firm desire to become their friends, to know their stories, and then to make them able to speak, read, and write English to the best of my ability.

But teaching is not the easiest sport, and after a day of fumbling through a basic lesson and letting the snide remarks of the girls wear on my patience, I’m beginning to doubt not only my purpose, but my ability. Am I really going to be able to do this? It seems like it would be fun for a day, maybe a week, but a whole year? Can I really make that much of a difference? And it doesn’t even feel like I’m doing missionary work anymore. It feels like I’m just working for free. And just drudge work. Lesson plans, grading papers, trying to find two hours worth of materials to teach. Sentences, the History of the Bible…all things that I either know too well or don’t know well enough. It’s all very new to me. And worst of all, while it feels like I have been here for ages, it has only been 5 days! And I have only had a subject to teach for 3 days! It’s already wearing down on me, but maybe I should give my self a few more days at least.

Classes can only get easier as we progress through the year, and I will just have to realize that what small role I am playing in their lives will benefit them in the end. And disciplining them is for their own good. That’s the part I hate most—having to be mean. I want to be their friends, to play games and have fun, but in this role, that is not what I can be.

It will be a constant struggle, but if it wasn’t a struggle, would it really be work?

As the weeks progress, I will have to constantly question why God decided to send me to Benque. There are some small things that make me realize the reasons I am here. The girl who gives me an “assignment,” asking me where I am from, when I go to church, or if I ever back talk to my parents, or the young girls who simply need a strong female in their lives to tell them that it is ok to dream bigger than themselves, and that it is ok to not have a man in their lives to make them feel of worth. If that is all God has sent me here for, than it will have to be given in the best of my ability. I’ll just have to play some basketball with the locals to make my body feel like its been pummeled by traffic…

First Impressions

Though I have only been in Benque for a mere 2 full days, it already seems like I have been here for quite a while. It was quite natural to fall into the natural rhythm of the Belizean way of life; and though I will never be quite in their time zone, where everything will happen when it is meant to happen, I’m beginning to appreciate the slower way of life. You walk the streets here and you see all the residents out and about--especially during the early evenings. The women are hanging the laundry to dry, the boys are kicking soccer balls or riding bikes, and the men are sitting around listening to the radio. I don’t know them yet, but I am hoping that soon I will blend in a bit more and be able to talk to the people. I wish to get to know them, form a relationship with them, allow them to take part in my life leave an indent in my heart. It may take some time though, but I seem to have plenty of that. Or do I?

Tomorrow is the first day of school and I have yet to learn what I am teaching. I am crossing my fingers that I will be teaching English, but I have this fear that I will be teaching math. Apparently I can switch with the optical engineer student who was assigned English. Its funny how we all have been assigned these subjects and for the most part, we are flying by the seat of our pants. Only few of us have ever been teachers before, and while its really scary, its terribly exciting. I just want to be good at it. My only fear is that of failure. I want this journey to be a success in so many ways. I know the teaching doesn’t have to be the greatest but I do want to make an impression on my students. I want to foster their dreams, foster their passions, and be a person whom they will remember fondly long after I am gone. Even if there are only a few students who remember me. That would be a success. At least in the teaching realm of this journey.

I feel like I put so many expectations about what I should get out of it that it might be impossible for me to achieve them all. Find myself. Form relationships with people from Belize. Form relationships with the other volunteers. Form relationships with my students and teach like my hair is on fire. See Belize (And some of Guatamala). Learn Spanish. Learn to better deny myself. Become a generally better human being who will return to the states ready to conquer the world..and at least have some answers about what the next step of life will be. Can someone really achieve all of these things in just 9 short months? My experience in travelling has been that the first half of the trip seems like an eternity, and the second half half flies by. But this is no ordinary trip. I’m not just visiting, I’m living here. I should take a cue from my new neighbors and just let things happen. But at the same time keep the impending departure, that while still in the distance will come sooner than I could ever imagine. As always it is a question of balance. In the end, the question is how to quickly get into the groove of living Belizean style without stealing from the philosophy of living simply and simply living—and taking life one day at a time, with no question of tomorrow. .