The Mango Tree

In the middle of the school yard here at Mount Carmel High School there stands a mango tree, and underneath the mango tree sits an old wooden picnic table. There is nothing particularly special about the mango tree; for mango trees grow in every corner of Belize, and there is most definitely nothing special about picnic tables, no matter where they stand. This particular tree and table have been home to many of my memories while in Belize, and it is the memories that give an object any particular significance.

It was this mango tree that gave me shade on some of the hottest days of the past nine months when I was in desperate need for escape from the teacher’s lounge. I’ve sat under this tree with so many different people for so many different reasons. It was a place to get counseled in teaching by my mentors. It was a place where I learned so much about teaching skills and strengthened my resolve for my education goals for the year. It was a placed where I met with students. There we talked about our lives and found connections and helped each other learn Spanish and English. I watched countless sporting events, from futbolito to softball from the vantage point of this tree (and dodged a few flying objects from this seat coming from said event). I received guitar lessons from talented teachers, and choco-bananas from generous students. I have taken my English classes to this tree to discuss books and write poetry about mangoes and nature and learned a lot about the joys of spontaneous bursts of creative teaching. It is at the picnic table under this mango tree that many of my fondest memories of Mount Carmel High School will be set.

This tree is not only hold special significance for me but for all of those who have become part of the Mount Carmel family. As the tree has grown and matured, so has the school that has grown up around it. What was once a small, last-chance school in a far corner of Belize has now blossomed in the last 20 years to a place where hundreds of students can come to learn and grow and take a chance at having the most fulfilling future life can offer. And every year there is a new class that is prepared for release into the real world. As the year goes by and the final ripening of soul and mind take place, the mangos that form from the blossoms of this tree in the middle of the school yard also grow and ripen. The fruits hang from the tree, watching all that grows around them and silently awaiting the moment in which they will serve their purpose. It is tradition at Mount Carmel High School to let these mangoes ripen until the end of May. No one is allowed to steal a mango from the tree. No one, no matter how much they beg or bribe you, is allowed to help themselves to these delicious fruits for theirs is a special purpose.

At the last assembly of the year for the graduating class of 2011, the principal gathered the school for the send-off, and then sent the fourth-formers to pluck their mangoes as tradition holds. At the sound of go, the 46 fourth-formers were running from the basketball court to the mango tree. Up the tree they climbed, and suddenly there came a rain of mangoes, dropping towards all those eagerly waiting underneath. In a matter of minutes the tree had been stripped of its fruit and the seniors were walking off to their classes with bags bulging with the fruits. Mangoes were distributed to all the seniors and all those whom the seniors wished to share with (There were many more mangoes then seniors). Sticky fingers abounded and the sweet smell of mango wafted through the teachers lounge as we too shared in the success of our students.

This tree will continue to grow and continue to bear fruit, just as the Mount Carmel family will continue to grow and continue to send forth its own fruit into the world with every year that passes. I am proud that I too have become part of this tree, part of this family, and part of the beautiful work that is being done here in this little corner of the world.

What is the Meaning of Success?

It’s hard to believe that there are only 4 weeks left of school. Difficult to believe that I have spent 9 months living in a random corner of the world, and difficult to believe that I have entered classrooms now for nine months and filled countless hours with that strange thing called ‘education.’

Education is a strange thing. Once you release it, it can sprout and blossom. Or it can simply die. I have released this thing into the world through my words and actions and can only hope that it has not just fallen on hard ground and withered away. Despite the frustrations that have followed me throughout this great endeavor, I have been able to witness some of the buds that have grown from my efforts.

One of the easiest ways to see progress is to start from the very bottom. I was assigned the Basic English class and was placed in charge of girls who could barely get past basic conversation let alone read and write in English (I don’t blame them. They either live in Guatemala or have parents who don’t speak a lick of English). The ambitious, literature-loving me began the year with visions of inspiring my students with Shakespeare, Milton, and all the rest of my favorite authors. I foresaw deep discussions, well-written reflections on themes and symbolism, and just inspiration, pure and simple. But my ambitious delusion was put into perspective by week two of teaching. (The first week was filled with introductions and icebreakers. I didn’t really have much time to figure things out before, especially since I didn’t know what subject I was teaching until the first day of classes.) I had assigned a poem to read entitled ‘Life’s Success’ It was a fairly simple, straightforward piece of art that I thought even the least literary inclined could handle and enjoy at least a little. We went through the poem. The students have a natural inclination for music and enjoyed listening to the rhythm and meter of the poem, even if they couldn’t fully grasp its meaning. We finished the reading and I looked around at my smiling students.

“Alright girls, can you tell me what this poem is about?”

Silence. The first time the chattering had stopped all semester.

“Surely someone can tell me what this poem is about?”

Is it cliché to say that I could hear a pin-drop? Because that would be a pretty accurate description. I had to change my strategy.

“Are there any words in this poem that people don’t understand?”

“Miss,” one brave girl replied, “What is the meaning of ‘success?’”

I was floored. How could they understand the poem when they could not even understand the main word in the poem’s title? My dreams of a year of Wordsworth and Steinbeck had been crushed. I had to make some new goals, and, as we were already two weeks into the term, I had to make them quick. My dreams of literary analysis swiftly morphed into dreams of basic vocabulary skills, basic writing skills, and basic reading comprehension. I plugged away at it all year, lecturing on verbs and prepositions, quizzing on vocabulary words, reading stories paragraph-by-paragraph, wondering if we would ever make it to the finish-line with such a slow trudge along the way. Instead of O. Henry and Guy de Maupassant (Two authors I loved when I was in highschool), I was forced to enlist the help of some of my other favorite writers, from Roald Dahl and Shel Silverstein to my own dear friend, Sarah Cramer. Instead of Dramas and Sonnets, I changed my tune to Fairy Tales and Limericks. It was a much more enjoyable compromise.

Months passed, and I could only hope that some of the seeds that I had planted had taken root. What I discovered was a pleasant surprise and some comfort in the fact that the year is quickly coming to a close. We were reading our final selection for the year, “The Alchemist” by Paolo Coehlo. Due to my lack of copies, we can only read it during class time and quite honestly, it’s slow-going). It’s not a difficult read, by any means, but leaps and bounds more advanced from what we began the year with—so many big words! One afternoon in this past week, we were sitting outside and reading the story aloud in turns (Their ability to read aloud and enunciate properly has been one of their greatest improvements. I blame Mrs. Malone for burrowing proper reading skills into my head, making it necessary for me to pass them on.) and we came across a rather dense section of writing—plenty of big words and abstract descriptions. I was almost nervous to ask the meaning of the phrase “The crystal retains the aroma…” (It seems trite, but English can be a little tricky sometimes when don’t know the meanings). But I did it anyway.

“It means that the cups they’re placing the tea in can hold the smell well.”

Leave it to little Beatriz to make my day. I let out a giggle of delight and my students probably thought that I had had too much sugar today. It’s not a big victory, and I know I can’t take all of the credit for it, but it felt like we had finally made it somewhere. In teaching, it’s the little things that make your day, and I’m glad to get a small glimpse of the progress I have worked towards all year. The success of this year is knowing that, even if we haven’t quite reached the finish line, at least we’re moving in the right direction.

Semana Santa Part 2

It is now Easter Sunday and I sit here trying to re-cooperate from what has been a crazy but wonderful week in Benque. The week was filled to the brim with traditions, customs, and activities that both enthralled and brought me closer to the true meaning of Holy Week. There is so much that happened that I feel that recounting it will take some time and effort to share every detail, but I will do my best to rack my brains and bring this colorful celebration back to life.

Holy Monday: On this day that would usually have just passed by as a normal day in the States we began the marathon of processions. Though mass was at 7 pm and most people would be want to come to such a late service, the church was filled to the brim. And after Mass the procession began. There was only one float—that of the most sorrowful mother of Jesus. At first glance these floats don’t appear as if they carry that much significance or weight, but I was wrong on both assumptions. And for this float, it was the women that bore her. To begin the procession, the Calgadores (float bearers) filed into the church, wearing purple robes and black veils on their heads. They picked up the float that was seated at the altar and filed back down the aisle and down the stairs to the street, led by torch bearers and incense and followed close by the marching band. To follow close to the traditions of the Guatemalans, who inspired Benque’s Holy Week festivities, the Calgadores swayed the float in unison, and would occasions move backwards (Thank goodness we don’t fully follow the traditions of our neighbors, for their float moves three steps forward and two steps back throughout the whole procession.) After we watched the float pass, the procession continued with the congregation holding candles and walking in two straight lines. Around the town we slowly, slowly trudged. The marching band played somber music to match the solemnity of the occasion, but I couldn’t help but chuckle when the “Sounds of Silence” made it to the playlist. Two and a half hours later, we made it back to the church, exhausted. And this was only the beginning.

Holy Tuesday: I now know why our school gets the whole of Holy Week off. After not getting home on Monday night until 11pm and then having to wake up on Tuesday for school, it was all I could do keep myself going. (and I can’t even imagine how my students felt!) Today was promising to be another intense day. Especially since we found out today that we had been volunteered to be Calgadoros for this night’s procession. It was the last day of school, and it was all I could do to keep my restless students’ attention and then say my goodbyes for the next week. Though break had begun for us all, vacation surely had not, for we had a lot of stuff to do before we could relax.

Today the procession was to be before the mass. Dressed in all black, we met at the Church to begin our journey. It is an honor to be one of the Calgadores, and this was the day that I was officially inducted into Benque’s society. While waiting to be called for our task, I sat and talked to two of my students that were also to take part in the procession.

“Miss, how many times have you carried [the Unde (floats)]?”

It was almost embarrassing to admit that we didn’t have such traditions in the States. When I explained what our Holy Week festivities consisted of (which didn’t take too long) my student’s response was simply “But that’s so…boring!” And indeed it is.

Minutes later, the women to take part in the procession were separated into groups based on height. This is one of the most essential elements of carrying the Unde, for any variations of height can bring a lot of discomfort to the carriers. Humorously enough, I was placed in the ‘tall’ category. This procession was to commemorate the point in Jesus’ passion when he met his mother and St. John. Because of this, there were three floats in this procession: one of the Mary, one of John, and one of Jesus carrying his cross. The procession began separated. The men went with Jesus and the marching band, and the women were to accompany the statues of Mary and John.

One of the biggest hurdles to cross of the whole experience was to get the float out of the church and down the stairs to the street. There was a lot of “hold it up!” or “Lower it, LOWER IT!” from the float coordinators. Finally we were on the street, and trying to coordinate our swaying and balancing the float on our shoulders. It was very, very heavy. Even with 6 girls on either side, it was as if I was lugging a 50 pound bag of feed for two miles. The people of Benque refer to this task not only as a great honor, but as their form of Lenten penance (the look on their faces as they carry it reflects bold determination and suppressed pain, telling me that this statement is very true. I can only try to imagine what my face was reflecting as I carried it.)

One of the most beautiful parts of this procession was the silence. The women’s procession was led in complete silence to recognize the sorrow that Mary must have felt at this point in her son’s passion. As we walked through the streets, it was as if there had been a tacit agreement with the whole town. Usually the streets are filled with the reverberations of dogs and cars and stereos, but that night the only sounds I could hear were the occasional whispers of the crowd and the sound of gravel being tread underfoot. After what seemed like forever, our group finally met up with the men’s procession. The two floats were placed face-to-face in the boulevard to symbolize the meeting of mother and son, and then the final trek to the church was made. All in all this was one of the most beautiful processions of the week, but I must admit, I woke up the next morning with very sore shoulders.

Holy Thursday: Today was the first day of what is called the Triduum. The church was crowded and busy with people cleaning and decorating the sanctuary and the floats, practicing for the passion drama, and dying sawdust for the alfombras that would soon be lining the streets. By the end of the day, my hands were completely painted yellow and green to show what part of the preparations I helped with.

The mass was celebrated to commemorate the Last Supper, and to celebrate, 12 men processed into the church dressed as the apostles. In the midst of the mass, the priest knelt down to wash the feet of the apostles. (This is something that churches do in the States, but I am a tad embarrassed to admit that I had never been to on of these services before, but I have plenty of time to make up for it…) After the mass was complete, the priest carried the Blessed Sacrament out and around the church and into the Parish Hall, where they had set up an adoration chapel. The whole congregation went into the Parish Hall for adoration, which lasted until midnight. It was a beautiful sentiment, but it was another late night with the promise of an incredibly busy day to follow.

Good Friday: Its 6 am and I am walking through town to help with the creation of the alfombras. These colorful carpets decorate the paths with which we will walk in the final major procession held later this evening. This time of day would usually find the streets of Benque virtually uninhabited, but this morning the mist had not even cleared from the hills before people were awake and hard at work on their creations. The construction of an Alfombra is a pretty straightforward process, but, as we had never made on in our lives, it was a process of touch-and-go. Luckily, we had the neighboring alfombra-creators to spy on and imitate as we saw fit. The first layer was wood chips to give the carpet some substance and cushion. These carpets are not just to be decoration, but are used as a respite of the weary feet carrying the floats that evening. The next step was to apply the sawdust, which has been so refined that it takes the appearance of sand. It is a delicate process of trying to make the layers level and smooth and to add enough water that one gust of wind does not destroy your hard work. (This was at one point our biggest hurdle, for we didn’t have a hose and had resorted to using our hands to sprinkle the water from buckets. Luckily, someone felt bad for us and donated a hose for the cause.) I also discovered in this process is how dedicated and artistic our students can be. While several were busy working with their families and friends on their own carpets, several came out to help with ours, which was for the school. They spent their morning cutting out stencils from cardboard boxes and gingerly placing sawdust onto the carpets in intricate patterns. It was a lot of work for a project that just hours later would be trampled on by thousands of people, but by far of the coolest traditions I have gotten to experience.

By 9 am I was off to the next major event of the day, which was the passion drama. I was one of the two volunteers who did not have a role in this production, but I was responsible for capturing all of the exciting moments on camera, which was harder than I thought it would be. After waiting an hour for the production to begin (Darn my American punctuality! You would think that after 9 months I would have learned that nothing ever starts on time.) I was pleasantly surprised at how professionally the production came off. The setting was Benque, and the scene was set when Pilate’s palace was one of the nicer looking porches on the Boulevard. From there a very realistic-looking Jesus, complete with blood stains, a scraggly beard, and an emaciated frame (one of our students played Jesus, and after a drastic hair color change, I barely recognized the kid.) After the condemnation was played out, we followed Jesus as he carried his cross through the streets of Benque, complete with soldiers on horseback leading the way.

One of the most difficult but probably more realistic aspects of the drama was the mob. Hundreds of people were following the actions, and it was crazy to try to see what was happening in the drama while trying not to get trampled by the people. The only downside to this was at times Jesus was walking right next to someone trying to capture his picture with a camera phone. But I just had to think of this as a modern interpretation of the passion. We followed Jesus through the “Stations of the Cross”, even up to the point were he was hanged on an actual cross on the hill in front of the church. It was quite the spectacle and such a beautiful way to remind us what Good Friday is really commemorating. After the drama was completed it was only two hours until the next event, which was the Good Friday service followed by the 4-hour procession through the town.

The final procession of Holy Week promised to be full of all the drama and splendor of any parade you could find anywhere. The Unde they had been preparing for weeks was finally revealed, and it was a heavy work of art. Weighing approximately 2000 pounds, this 30-foot long float featured several statues and centered a glass coffin containing the Corpus-a statue of the crucified Jesus. 40 men were commissioned to carry this float through the whole town of Benque in the longest procession of the week. In addition to this float, the floats of Mary and John were also to be carried in the procession. Two marching bands and several other characters were also part of the spectacle.

Just minutes before the procession was to begin its journey, I was accosted by one of the procession organizers. Apparently they had forgotten that the John float was supposed to be in the parade, and needed people to carry him. Something that I have learned in my time in Benque is that my role here as a volunteer encompasses so much more than just teaching. My title incorporates all aspect of my life, from cooking and cleaning, to construction work, and yes, even carrying a 400 pound float on my shoulder for 4 hours around town. (I believe I’m going to remember this moment of my life to bring up to St. Peter if my entrance into heaven is ever in question. ‘Do you remember that one time in Benque where I carried that float? Doesn’t that count for something?’) Instead of merely following the procession, I was bringing up the rear with St. John on my shoulders, but I suppose there are worse ways to spend your evening. I must also add that our trampled Alfombras were the cushiest of any of the carpets I trampled all night. Such a proud moment, but so difficult to see all of your hard work destroyed. Four hours later, St. John was safely returned to the church and I went to bed with aching shoulders and feet. It had been a crazy day, but certainly one to remember. The most exciting Good Friday of my life was complete.

Holy Saturday: Though the rest of the week had virtually exhausted us, there was still plenty of work to be done to prepare for Easter. I spent the afternoon cleaning and cooking and just barely had time to get myself ready for the Easter Vigil mass. It was my first Easter vigil, and thus I was pretty clueless about the happenings at such an event. The only knowledge imparted to dispel my curiosity was that it was very long. This just made me worried and in need of lots of caffeine.

In true Belizean fashion, the event started precisely 30 minutes behind schedule. A fire started in the park as the faithful gathered around holding their candles. Father blessed the fire, and then lighted the Easter candle. From there it was a silent procession through the dark streets of Benque following the candle. “All who dwelt in darkness have seen a great light.” The time had come for Easter. What followed was a 4-hour-long service in Spanish, most of which took place in the dark. I cannot lie and say that I did not doze throughout, but I also can say that it was one of the most beautiful services that I have ever attended. By the time the final Alleluia was sung, I was feeling the full impact of the joy of Easter. So much so that I spent the next 2 hours serving Bollos and coke to the crowds that came to the ‘Resurrection party,’ while sporting high heels (The one and only time I have worn heels my whole tenure in Belize and I just had to reprise my waitress role.) By 2:30 am, the crowds had dispersed and it was time for us to go home and try to get some rest before our Easter celebrations continued later that day.

All in all, this was one of the coolest but one of the most exhausting weeks of my life. It made me realize how much we are lacking as far as traditions are concerned. Sure, it’s not necessarily feasible to spend four hours parading around the city while carrying a 2-ton float, but it’s the sentiment that counts. It’s the fact that people of all ages, demographics, and religions were willing to come together for a whole week to celebrate one of the most significant moments in human history. It certainly gave the holiday much more meaning for me. Don’t be surprised if next year I turn the driveway into an alfombra. It could happen.

Semana Santa Part 1

It was a much earlier start to my Sunday morning than usual. And instead of the church being my first stop of the day, I made my way to the entrance of the village of Benque. Awaiting me was the first procession of Semana Santa, including music, hundreds of people, and even a donkey.

In the past, holy week has been merely the final stretch of lent, and a signal to the end. On Palm Sunday we hold our palms and grumble about an overly long Gospel, Good Friday I might go to the shortened service, if I wasn’t too busy of course, and Easter I would eat some chocolate, go to a crowded Easter service, and then head to Grandma’s for the traditional Easter egg hunt. But the small but colorful town of Benque promised to make this Semana Santa one of the most unforgettable experiences of my time in Belize and give the season of lent much more significance then I have previously given to it.

When I arrived at the entrance to the Benque, I was met with a scene fairly typical for Belizean-organized events: a pick-up truck with large speakers, women with their parasols, and the ever-present curious porch-dwellers, who are always there for the show. This Palm Sunday procession was to honor Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem. To make this as accurate a portrayal as possible, the procession included a man portraying Jesus, and 12 men of various ages and sizes as his apostles. The added touch was the small donkey, much too small to support a man of Jesus’ stature, who was to lead the way. Before I knew it (Due mostly to the fact that it did not start 30 minutes late, like most Belizean organized events do), the priest had started the service and blessed the palms (I might add here that just one day prior to this occurrence the rectory yard was covered with palm scraps as people worked diligently for hours separating the palms from each other. It was quite the tedious task). We were then handed the blessed branches and instructed to line ourselves up behind the procession. Under a blazing morning sun, the music began and we held up our palms and followed the Donkey. Down the streets we slowly tread singing along to the music blaring from the truck leading the pack; young and old, parishioners and curious tourists here to experience something truly unique to Belize. We processed up and down the hills of Benque and eventually processed right up the stairs and into the Church.

What followed were the celebration of the Mass in a stuffed church and the promise of an exciting week. Processions almost every night of the week, elaborate floats to be carried, a passion play using Benque as its backdrop, and beautiful carpets made of dyed sawdust to line the streets. All of this to celebrate the promises of Easter fulfilled.

This is going to be an exciting week in Benque.

Calla Creek

“Miss, come to the river this weekend in Calla Creek!”

This has been the hopeful plea from little Marelis for quite sometime now. To come to her house in Calla Creek and to play in the river, the main past-time for Belizeans, especially during the scorching heat of the dry season. This is something that I had been wanting to do for a long time, since Marelis is one of my sweetest students, and so I readily agreed. The following Sunday, Elvira, Joana, Miss Betsy and myself would make our way to the little village of Calla Creek to visit Marelis and my other student Tania.

Calla Creek, in comparison to Benque, is scores different. This village is set back amongst the foot hills and cow pastures, and is only accessible by one unpaved road. This road winds through the country-side, then ends suddenly at the hanging bridge crossing the river. Crossing this bridge always brings back memories of Indiana Jones and that bridge that suddenly becomes cut and they’re forced to climb out of a treacherous crevice. Just intensify the swaying and erase the treacherous crevice. Beyond the bridge is a dirt road the leads passed the small church and primary school and, much further along, a series of farms devoid of water and electricity. Like many other developing or third world countries, it’s the urban villages that suffer the most from the poverty. Even the poorest in the cities can find some resources, while those separated from the rest of society are lacking in even the most basic needs. Every day is a struggle to make ends meet, whether it is raising your food or collecting water from the river, which makes all other life just seem a walk in the park.

When I had agreed to come to Calla Creek to visit Tania and Marelis, it was with the understanding that we were supposed to meet at the hanging bridge. And so I arrived, with Elvira and baby and Betsy, at this bridge, only to find no Marelis and no Tania. Luckily, Calla Creek is not the most expansive village, so we were quickly directed to Marelis’ house.

Though I have lived in Belize for eight months, the poverty that I am surrounded by can still surprises me. It’s so far from anything I have even known before. And seeing Marelis’ house brought back this feeling of surprise and discomfort—the knowledge that people can live with so much less than you would ever be able to. We pulled up in front of her house and before I knew it she was running out to greet us and leading us to the river. At this point the only person missing from our party was Tania. Her family lives on a farm about a 30 minute walk from the bridge, and so while Betsy left to fetch her, I stayed at the river with Marelis and Elvira.

The river on a hot afternoon is really the only place to be. Kids and families had staked their spots along the banks and were simply cooling of in the water or jumping into the river from ropes precariously looped over tree branches. The girls and I chose the sitting option, and so we sat there in the sun, eating popsicles and watching the other visitors enjoying the river’s comforts. I spent most of the time shooing fish away from my legs and feet and grimacing at the thought of them gnawing on my skin. At one point we had to vacate the river, for a neighboring rancher was bringing his cattle for a brief water break. I still shudder at the memory of watching the cows relieve themselves in the river and just seconds later watching kids dive into the river face first (but that could just be the American in me…). Before we knew it, the sun was waning and an afternoon of socializing Belizean style had almost come to a close.

After drying ourselves in the sun, we made our way to Marelis’ house for some food that she had graciously cooked for us. As we walked along the road through the village, I asked Marelis about her family. I asked where her dad worked, and he apparently is a night guard at some farm somewhere. Then I asked about her mom.

“Miss, I have no mom”

And we continued walking, while my mind churned with this new bit of information. After having been her teacher for 8 months, I feel like I should have been aware of this reality, but I had not. And this new realization practically knocked the wind out of me.

We reached her house; a humble concrete structure with a kitchen on the outside and a nicely groomed yard. Inside the structure contained the humble contents of any house, just less and a little dingier. We were shown the table and I was given the only actual chair in the whole place. The rest were given just buckets. Marelis then served us a delicious but overly generous helping of rice and beans. A meal that she must have cooked her self for her siblings. Though I was not that hungry, having had eaten lunch not too long before, I ate every bite of that rice and chicken. It would have been an insult not to.

At this moment I was incredibly humbled by what had been given to me. I had come to serve, and serve people just like Marelis. A girl who walks two miles just to get out of her village before she could even catch the taxi for the morning commute. A girl who works so hard but with all the odds stacked against her, for she never really learned English at home. And a girl who is so grateful for what she has and is willing to come home from school and help take care of her family. And here I was being served by her. And just praying that the work I was doing this year had in some way helped her. At this point all that I have done for my students never seems enough in comparison for all they have given to me.

It was not until after this meal that Betsy had returned from her trip to the Xis farm. Tania is in much the same situation as Marelis, except that her father was taken from them through violence. She could not come to the river that day, at least not for pleasure. There were clothes to be washed and chores to be done.

My experiences in Calla Creek served to remind me of the reasons I had come to Belize in the first place and helped me to fall even more in love with the people I am serving. There are hundreds of kids at this school and hundreds of unknown stories of their unique struggles. I know that in my limited time in this place, I will be unable to learn them all. But all I can do is love and hope that what little I can do for them will someday make a difference.

Generosity

One of the most beautiful things about the people in Belize is their openness and generosity. I have been showered with gifts left and right from my students, from earrings and jewelry to drawings, letters, and snacks and candy. It also turns out that the culture behind this generosity is one to get used to and learn from.

In Belize, if someone offers you something, whether it be a snack, a piece a gum, or a glass of water, it is generally the polite thing to do to accept that generosity, whether you are trying to just be polite or are really are not interested in what they have to offer at all. This is a tough thing for me to accept. I like to graciously decline offers of food or candy or whatever, especially if someone spent their money on it and there’s not much to go around. But this hesitation recently got me in trouble.

The final bell of the day had just sounded minutes before. I was all packed up and heading off the campus when I was accosted by some of our male students who had just stopped at a street snack shop.

“Miss, it’s hot today, no true?”

I responded that it was indeed a hot day. And it was, with a heat index of over 100 degrees. The dry season in Belize had officially reared its ugly head. (There was one Belizean who told me that it was going to get so hot that all I would be able to think was “God, what did I do wrong that you would send me to Hell early?”) We walked together a little further, when one of the students offered me the popsicle he had just bought minutes before at the snack stand. Popsicles are heavenly, but I felt bad because I had just seen him buy the thing for his self just minutes before.

“Are you sure? Because I don’t need it, and you just bought it…” was my confused and trying-to-be-really-polite-but-failing-reply

“I want you to have it.”

“Thanks, but I really can’t, you just bought it, are you sure?”

And with a smug little grin on his face the student responded: “I want you to have it, so take it and stop complaining about it!”

I was silenced at that moment and slightly embarrassed. But I quickly recovered and, thanking the student and saying my good-byes, I quickly walked away from them and their continued snickering in the direction of home, while eating that delicious green popsicle.

It was in those moments walking home that I realized that in my own life, even when I don’t have a lot to give, I like to give what I have to those around me. It’s a blessing to be able to have anything to give. And for that student, it must have been the same way. And my refusal, though polite, was an insult to that blessing.

It just still goes to show that, even after 8 months of living in this community and as a part of this culture, I still have a lot to learn.

La Ruta Maya

“One minute ‘til go!”

The only noise you could hear was the roar of oars being tapped against canoes. The sound reflected the excited fluttering of the hearts of those both in the river and on land. 81 boats were being bracing themselves for the final buzzer to start their journey of 4 days and 170 miles across the country of Belize.

The bull horn sounds and in a flash the clash of canoes and the cheers of the crowds erupt in sync. It’s a mad rush to the next bridge, and after that a steady pace downstream to the next stop.

The Ruta Maya is not just a race, but a commemoration of what was once the only means of travel from the Western Border of Belize to the sea long before the highways were built. A tradition that reaches back in history to the Mayans, and shapes the formation of the country much like the river itself shapes the diverse landscape it runs through. This river is as much a part of Belize as its people, and for one weekend a year, it becomes its focal point. People come from all over the world to conquer it and uncover the beautiful country it centers. It has become a test of physical and emotional endurance that has been elevated to mythical proportions. To be a part of it in any way is quite the adventure.

Since the first time I had heard about this race I had wanted to be a part of it and some way, and I was given the opportunity to join the experience by way of support team for the canoe team of ‘Wen Green go Down D Riva.’ I knew being on the support team would be a lot of work, in addition to four days of sleeping in tents without the comforts of home in the middle of Belize. But in the end it was the travelling across Belize following the river’s path with a different campsite each night, a different location to explore, and the opportunity to see the real Belize. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, and one I was so glad to get no matter how much work was involved.

The first day began with an early morning of double checking bags, oars, lifejackets, and supplies and then heading to Cayo to start the race. Just as the sun was beginning to peak over the first bridge, our canoe and the canoes of 80 other teams were lined up impatiently under the bridge bracing themselves for the beginning of this grueling marathon ahead of them. The support team, including myself, Nick the candidate, and Pio, the Bristolian Benquenian with years of support team experience were readying ourselves for our long weekend ahead while we perched ourselves above the river to watch the first takeoff. The announcer counts down. 5 minutes; 1 minute; standby. By this point our hearts are pounding along with the racers in the boats and the hundreds watching along the river. Finally the bullhorn sounds and before you know it the canoes are out of sight. It was time to pile into the old pickup truck and move to the first check-point.

The sun was making its way to its apex when we were making our way to the Spanish-Lookout ferry. As we walked to the shore-line, the mist was still rising off the green waters while birds and iguanas perched high above in the trees. Only 10 miles down the river, it was only a quarter of the day’s distance, but a good place to drop food and supplies for your team. Many of the more dedicated support crews would jump in the water and swim out to the canoes as they passed to ensure that the supplies would make it in safely. I was not that dedicated, and chose other ways to make sure my team got food.

The next stop was a bridge, upon which you could watch the teams, but also where you could get food and water to the teams by simply dropping it into their canoes as they passed underneath. I supplied my team with peanut-butter sandwiches, Snicker bars, and bags of water in much the same way. By this checkpoint half of the day’s distance had passed, and each team looked quite relieved to be receiving any sort of nourishment.

Finally it was time to make our way to the first camp site in Banana Bank to set up. By the time we had arrived, there were already tens of campsites to where it looked like a miniature tent city. We pitched our tents, started our fire, and waited anxiously for the first team to arrive. Exhausted and hungry they came to the end of the first day of 46 miles. After getting more supplies for day two, it was an early night; off to bed before 8:30, for I had a lot to do for the next day.

By 3:30 in the morning I had given up trying to sleep amongst the sounds of dogs and howler monkeys. By the light of the fire, I made sandwiches for my team and prepared to cook breakfast by campfire. Before the sun had even finished rising, we had sent off our team to make their way down 60 miles of Belizean river. Then it was time for up to break camp and prepare for the following day’s work.

The next stop was in the heart of the Creole community in a little town of Double Cabbage Head. The closer we got to Belize City, the more excited the crowds became for the arrival of the first boats. It was not just the other support teams we had to compete with for space, but the hundreds of people who had come to join in the fun. But we were able to find a spot behind some old house, and though the ground was hard as rock, it was close to the river, far from a bulk of the noise, and a nice cozy place to cook food and wait for our team. It was 3:27 exactly when our boat came around the bend (I only remember because Nick and I had made bets for when our team would come in, and he was right to the minute. He won a coke) and our weary but triumphant team had conquered the first day after a few mishaps of tipping the canoe. To reward them for their longest day, we prepared a meal of steak and potatoes. Fighting the darkness and the bugs we were able to cook a delicious meal, one my mother would be proud of, for it was my first meal cooked since in Belize. And yet again it was off to bed, this time being lulled to sleep with the sounds of music playing and partiers continuing the revelries.

The third day began in a much more leisurely way, since the time to start was 8:30. Our team set out, determined to ‘go hard’ and make improvements on their time and position (the goal the following days had been merely to ‘survive’) and I was given time to clean up a little, for two days in the dirt and sun using port-o-potties does little for the feeling of cleanliness. It was off to the river for me, to bathe in solitude with only the sunshine, the minnows, and little wading birds to keep me company. We then packed up the truck to make our way to the final campsite. While waiting for my companions to finish their own bathing, I was accosted by a group of Creole kids wanting some sweets. Though I had no ‘sweets’ I was able to offer some chips, and there was sat eating chips and talking to each other about canoes, the river, and just life. Though Creole is not a language I will ever master, we were able talk to each other in our own languages. It was then I realized the fullness of my experience here in Belize.

It has come to the point where I don’t even notice how different of a culture this world is compared to my own. I hear the sounds of Spanish and Creole being spoken and see the tiny shanties that people exist in, and don’t even feel out of my element. Sometimes I need to be jolted back into the fact that I am a visitor, and observer and that this is not how I’ve ever been used to living. Talking to those kids helped me to remember that I was so different, but the whole reason I had come to Belize was to learn, observe, and love—and through that make the world that much smaller. It was a big moment for me, and I’m incredibly grateful that I got to have that reminder of my purpose here.

It was then off to the third and final campsite in Burrel Boom. The crowds had infiltrated and what had only two nights before been a relatively chill camping experience became a noisy and crowded city of tents, trucks, and trash. Though the sign “No Litta Di Riva” was hung over looking the river to serve as a reminder to the people about preserving the pristine beauty of their natural scenery, it did very little to keep the trash from being scattered over acres of riverfront. Our team arrived, and had had a very successful day for they had passed 24 boats and improved their rankings by 11 from the first day. But this was the hardest day for them, and it was all they could do to keep themselves awake and cognizant for the rest of the afternoon. The next day was the last day and being only 4 hours, my team was determined to give everything they had to finish strong.

Because of the proximity to Belize City, we had many opportunities to follow our team as they made their way to the finish line. At the first observation point, as we were anxiously awaiting our team’s appearance, we were graced by sightings of the beautiful Belizean wildlife. As one canoe passed through, a dolphin jumped 8 feet out of the water, almost over their canoe. Before we were able to get over the shock and awe of what we were observing, the dolphin came up for a second jump. It looked as if it had been planned as a side attraction. It was an incredible sight, and let us know just how close we were to the ocean itself and how far we had come from Benque.

It was before we knew it we were on the final bridge in Belize City, waiting for our team to cross the finish line. After 29 hours of canoeing, 4 days of camping, and a whole country travelled through, our team made it to the end triumphant and full of stories. Just hours later, we were back in Benque, and looking out at the river and its beginning. Who knew that what was such a source of life for this society could be the source of an incredible, crazy, exhausting adventure?

Lorenzo

One of the greatest differences in living in Belize and living in the States is the obvious different in treatment from the surrounding people. In America, especially for a blond-haired, blue-eyed girl, it’s very easy to blend in to the crowds. And for any person, very little attention would be placed on your presence. In Belize, the complete opposite is true. My fair skin and light eyes have become quite the attraction with the neighbors, and they are not afraid to show it. Whistles, cat calls, honks, and other various greetings have become standard at any part of the day or any place in Belize. Initially you believe that this sudden attention has to do with your newness. Even in rural America if someone of a complete opposite race came in and moved next door, you would probably be intrigued. But it’s been seven months now, and I have yet to make a public appearance with out at least one comment from the Benqueneans, or Succotz people, or any Belizean that passes my way. Honks from truckers, kissy noises from passer-bys, and ‘hey baby’s’ from the random male have become as commonplace as the sound of dogs and roosters. I’m afraid my ego will deflate enormously from the lack of attention and ‘special-ness’ that my return to the States will bring.

There have been some specific episodes that have commented on this one major cultural difference. The men here are so forward. The things that have been said to me here may be thought in the States, but no one would ever dare to affront you about them. And this openness has been the cause of both humor and concern. To share an example of each….

It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon and I had high hopes of getting some of my Christmas shopping completed before I made my way home for the holidays. All the other volunteers were busy with their various affairs, and I planned on making the mile trek to Succotz Village to shop at the stands by myself. Though not suggested to make any treks alone, I felt that the sunshine, the highly populated roads leading to Succotz, and my own bull-headed self confidence and independent nature led me to take on the journey on my own. So I headed out of the house, and made my way to the Western Highway. No sooner had I left my house than I was called.

“Miss! Miss!”

I continue to walk, turning only slightly to make sure I wasn’t ignoring a student.

“Please, miss, I want to tell you something!”

I walk faster, and as he follows close behind, consider turning back. However, I recognized this character as a person who lived just across the street. He knows where I live. There was no escape. So, sensing that he had no harmful intentions, I continued to walk towards Succotz, hoping my naturally fast pace and determination would deter his efforts. But he persisted in relaying his message.

“Miss, I want to tell you that I love you, and I want to tell you that I loved you from the moment I saw you.”

I’m unaccustomed to such open flattery, but I had to keep a cool head.

“But you don’t even know me. How can you know that you love me?”

“I just do. I love you and I don’t care what you say.”

There was no arguing with the kid. And he was just a kid. I asked questions to try to get some information about my ‘suitor.’ His name he was Lorenzo, and he had once been a student at Mount Carmel, before he was expelled. And boy was he persistent. He stayed with me for at least a half a mile, spewing love-nothings in English and Spanish, talking about his Corazon and my beauty and all sorts of things. Suddenly he stopped, the sun and the heat finally hitting him, and claimed that if I didn’t stop he would just turn back. I took this opportunity to continue walking, and his figure slowly faded in the distance. At this point I thought I was scot-free and so I decided to continue my trek, laughing to myself about silly Belizeans and their ideas.

Minutes later I heard his voice calling behind me. A tap on the shoulder later he was with me again and insisting that I let him take a picture of me with his phone. This was the final straw. I had to get stern with this kid. So I turned my teacher voice on and told him to be gone before I found someone who could make him. I must be really convincing, or butch, or both, for he quickly moved away. And so I continued my day.

I’m writing this for humorous purposes, and not to bring attention to the fact that I shouldn’t be walking alone from village to village. So, family, and other concerned readers, don’t fret. I only walk with others since this instance—at least for any considerable distance. I feel safe in Benque. The creeps are creeps, but they’re familiar creeps. And Lorenzo still loves me, or at least claims to, but proclaims this from the safety of his front porch, which I pass at least 3 times a day.

The openness of the Belizeans’ infatuation with me has not always been a source of humor or just blatant frustration. And that was showcased in recent weeks at the school. High school, home of the Belizean adolescent; where hormones run high and the blond-hair, blue-eyed teacher just feeds into the fantasy.

I was fortunate enough to not be assigned any boy’s classes, and this became so apparent the other day. It was 7^th period, and I had been assigned a substitution for a first-form boys’ class. I was doomed from the start. Limited work, last period, appearing like a 15-year-old girl—the cards were stacked against me.

I make my way into the classroom, and try to settle the boys long enough to give them the assignment of math problems. But sugar from lunch, 7 hours sitting in the cramped wooden chairs, and the proximity to the end of the day made their level of hyper-ness through the roof. Sheep-herder, lion tamer; babysitter. In that moment I became everything but a teacher. Papers were being tossed about, students were talking, and a few gems were actually working on their homework and begging to be let outside to work where the noise was much less. As I walked around, I was summoned by a few of the boys from the back of the class.

“Miss, how old are you?”

“Take your best guess”

The chaos continues, and I yell, but my voice is stifled by the chatter. I lay desperate plans of punishment, but in the end, all I can do is sit and wait to be saved by the final bell.

And then there was one persistent boy. I didn’t know who he was at the time, but quickly learned. He had once told me about his desire to have ‘blue-eyed’ children before, and decided to make his intentions known again.

“Miss, would you wait for me to turn 18?”

I can keep my cool for these types of comments, and usually am able to ward off such inquiries with the response about being too short or too young. But he was persistent. It got to the point to where he was getting down on his knees and begging for my hand in marriage and claiming that “I will wait for you forever!”

This is not the situation you want to find yourself in the midst of trying to control a whole classroom of boys, mostly because they are just waiting for your reaction to exaggerate it to incredible proportions. There are three possible ways to deal with this.

1) You can laugh. This is a terribly dumb but instinctual reaction to such ridiculousness as a desperate proposal. The boys go with your reaction and amplify it with shrieks of their own prepubescent laughter. This reaction also symbolizes your acquiescence to the request. Not the message you want to send.

2) Telling the kid he’s lame. This sounds like the obvious choice. Embarrass the kid and put him in his place. Not so, in Belize. This is not the right way to go in a class of boys. Tell the kid he’s a loser and the other kids start shouting at the kid of his loser-ness. The class erupted in shouts and guffaws, so much so that teachers from other classrooms visited to make sure all was in order.

3) The correct response. Ignoring the comment and moving on. This is the best situation, but in a substitution when there is nothing to move on to, it is very difficult to move on to, well, anything. All I could do was the first two of these responses. And I utilized them both, to the worst of results. Shouting, laughter, chaos, and finally, me standing in the midst of it scarlet red and embarrassed. I had lost control.

What occurred after was a standoff between me and the class of 1H. The bell sounded for the end of day, but there we sat. I wanted 5 minutes of quiet and I wasn’t going to budge before I got it. The room was hot and sticky with hormones and stubborn wills, that finally ended with an intervention with the principal. Voices were raised, threats were made, and my humiliation was complete. Perhaps teaching adolescent males should be crossed off the list of possible vocations.

After my story of the multiple marriage proposals was shared with the administration, the one persistent student was given the final demerit necessary for his expulsion from the school. I begged for his sake, and refused to give the demerit myself, for I know the limits that come from lack of schooling both here and everywhere. But my forgiveness was not enough, and in the end he was asked to leave the school, with only my guilt to keep his memory at Mount Carmel.

Belize is a beautiful country, and part of its beauty is the openness of its people. If they have a thought, they share it. If they have an opinion, no matter how crass, they give it. I’ve never before thought of how wonderful it could be to blend in, and be completely ignored. I’ve never appreciated gentlemen so much, or my freedom of being able to be a young lady and not feel like a spectacle. But I suppose that’s part of the fun of my current adventure.

Teaching #3

I feel that as a blogger, I’m not very good at keeping this updated. We are now in the 6^th week of our semester, and I have not talked once about how school is going. I have to preface this one because it became more of a therapeutic rant about the troubles of teaching. So sorry...

To be quite honest, the past few weeks have been rough as far as school is concerned. I had really high hopes for this semester. I thought that teaching would be a breeze. I knew my students, they knew me, I knew what I wanted to teach, and I had a grasp on how things were run at the school. Boy was I wrong.

There are three problems that have run rampant in my classes. Laziness, attitude, and apathy. These have made my class and life full of frustrations. Allow me to elaborate.

Laziness is one of the most trying things for any teacher to deal with, but especially myself (I was a super overachiever in my youth.) There were 24 students in my English class and 28 in my Religion class, all with unique hopes and dreams, as well as unique personal struggles. In a country like Belize, it isn’t n any way required to attend high school, yet it is a huge opportunity if you want to more in your life than just drive a taxi or sell tacos on the side of the road. And I know that most of my girls want much more for their lives than just selling tacos. But they refuse to do the work. I will assign a simple assignment: Read two chapters of the book Matilda, and the next day I will come in and quiz them on those 15 pages, and it turns out none of them have read it—well, a majority have not. And to them its not much to fail. A 0% on a quiz is not of much consequence. Another example of this laziness is the quiz I warned them about for a week and spent the whole day before reviewing for it. The next morning I walk into class.

“Class, find your seats and clear your desk, its time for our quiz.”

“We have a quiz today? On what?”

“I told you this, capitalization and punctuation; we reviewed yesterday”

“Hay, miss, but I didn’t study!”

I wish I could say that was only one student. But it was several. And they just don’t care about homework, about any work, and about success in general. How do you teach a student to want to work, to want to succeed? The mindset here is to just pass. A 72% is good. But in my youth, there was nothing good under an 85%. These are the people to settle for just enough.

I pause to wonder why that is. I’m so used to America, where every person dreams of the “American Dream” and try to follow in the footsteps of Abe Lincoln and the hero of “The Pursuit of Happyness” and, who made themselves great from nothing. The people of Belize do not live under such delusion and with no such inspiration. I haven’t been in this country for too long, but it seems that the kids grow up with the impression that what their parents have will inevitably become their inheritance, no matter how much or how little. There is no climbing up the ladder of betterment and fulfillment; at least not to their knowledge. The boys will inherit their fathers’ taxis and the girls will become mothers and sell tortillas out of their houses.

It’s difficult for a person coming from a very goal-oriented environment, where one is always working towards the achievement of their dreams to have to fight just to get people to want something, anything for their selves. I want so much for my girls. I want them to graduate, I want them to become biochemists and teachers and fashion designers—anything they could ever dream of, and I just don’t know how to make them want it enough to try. It’s terribly frustrating.

My second struggle is with attitude. It seems with the three-week break my darling, sweet, innocent girls forgot how to be darling, sweet, and innocent. There are countless times that my girls have had to be corrected for talking back and giving ‘lip.’ At the moment it’s difficult to recount a specific attitude episode, but they have been trying as ever. Oh the joys of teenage girls. One minute they want to be your best friend, the next day they are cursing your name in Spanish under their breath.

Apathy. One of the most frustrating of all the diseases of this world, and this one runs rampant in Belize. Perhaps it is the lack or news infiltrating Benque streets, or that there is just too much to worry about in their own lives that its difficult to think of anyone else, but its here to stay, and I’ve now become determined to fix it. One of the examples I have to share is the showing of the movie “The Human Experience” It’s a documentary about 3 men who went out into the world and tried to discover what it means to be human and how we can make the world a smaller place. I was so excited to show this to my students and see how excited they could become about gong out into the world and make a difference. Boy was I disappointed. They were distracted, were more concerned with trying to sneak food and not get caught, and could have cared less that there were people in the world who suffered much more that they. (This is especially difficult considering that these kids have really rough lives themselves. I often wonder if its too much to ask them to be more worldly minded, when they have experiences in their lives that I have never had to have or ever want to have…) And when the class was over, and I asked “Doesn’t this make you want to go out and do something with your lives that’s so cool and so beneficial?” They just shrugged their shoulders.

For these issues I don’t know how to fix them. Is it just enough to show my passion, and hope that they can catch a little fire? Or can I simply accept that some people aren’t meant to feel passion, ambition, and a burning desire to make their lives great and worthwhile—at least not in high school?

Such is my teaching struggles. Not every student is lazy, and not every student spends all of their efforts to make my life more difficult than it needs to be. But, like in every situation, the whispers are drowned out by the shouts, and their voices get lost and forgotten….

Fear

One of the day trips we have taken this new semester was taking Elvira and little Joanna to the Belize Zoo. When we first walk into the zoo, the first animal we see is a rather large Boa Constrictor, just sunbathing on a tree trunk out in the open. There was nothing separating us. One of the zoo keepers came and picked up the snake like he was merely a rubber toy, and offered me the chance to hold it. Without really thinking about what I was doing, I readily accepted and before I knew it, a full-sized boa constrictor was sitting around my neck. I sat there, triumphant. Then, I felt the muscles of the snake tense up and felt that potentially harmful power around my neck. I suddenly realized that, well, I was kinda afraid of snakes.

“Katie, you’re shaking!” my friends proclaimed.

And sure enough, I was. Visibly trembling. And my heart was pounding out of my chest. I quickly returned the snake to his zookeeper with a nervous smile of gratitude and quickly made my way to the back of the group, far away from the snake. There’s a picture of me holding the snake, with a very nervous smile on my face, but it’s still proof that I held a giant snake.

This seems to be a pattern for me. In the moment I forget my fears, and then they come streaming back into my subconscious, paralyzing me. The first time I really experienced this was when I was rock-climbing in Colorado. I was so excited to climb up the mesa, that I scurried up the rock-face. About 40 feet up, I looked out into the great expanse. It was an amazing view, but so far down. I froze. I was 10 feet from the top and I couldn’t go any further. My hands were shaking, my legs were shaking, and the horrible reality of my fear of heights came streaming back to my mind. Looking back I wish I could have just finished the climb.

There are a lot of things that I am afraid of. I fear heights, snakes, spiders, and public speaking. But most of all I have a huge fear of failure. The first of these are easy to conquer, especially when I live in a tropical country where tarantulas run free, you can hold Boas at the zoo, and my present occupation is speaking in front of people everyday. But failure is one that sometimes can’t be avoided. No matter how much you want something, or work towards it, it might just never happen. And just thinking about that right now makes me worry.

One of the things I worry about failing at is teaching. There are so many things I want for my girls. I want them to be able to read and write as well as anyone. I want my religion students to learn to love their faith. But above all, I want them to want success. I want them to dream of a great life for themselves, and to want to work hard to make that happen.

I only have 3 months left with these girls, and I’m not sure if I’m going to succeed in my mission. It’s terrifying, but I know for this experience, I can’t just stop 10 feet from the top and leave always wishing I had just conquered the climb. The only difference is, teaching is a two way street, and there is only so much I can do. We shall see!

The River

As a girl from Louisville, KY, having a river in winding beside my town has never been anything special. I grew up assuming that rivers were a part of every major city. I have never lived far from one, and Belize is no exception. One of the first memories of Belize was seeing the Mopan River for the first time, and being told that we were ‘almost home.’

While in Louisville the river is a source of entertainment and is a pretty sight, the river in Benque holds a much greater significance in the life of the town. It is a rare day that I do not see river speckled with people on its banks. Laundry is dipped in and rubbed clean on the rocks by the mothers, while the children splash around close by. Men are bathing themselves or their taxis or their horses or dogs; rowdy young boys are swinging from limbs or braving the rapids. The river is the ultimate source of life and fun for these people, and we as short-time inhabitants have yet to fully engage in the river’s potential.

The river, besides being a source of cleansing and fun, plays another important role for this town. Since there is a significant lack of seasons here, the river is the only way to tell what time of year it is. When I first arrived in Benque, it was the rainy season. The rains had come and with them washed the muck from Guatemala, turning the river brown and raising it much higher than what is considered safe. It acted more as a barrier and an enemy, and at one point separated families from each other for weeks at a time.

But the rains settled, and with them the river. The color faded from brown to its natural green and it settled in temperament. It no longer separated, but invited people to enjoy it and cross it without fear. As the temperature increases, so does our affinity for the river and its comforts. Already we have come to the river to enjoy its cleansing power (after the hurricanes left us with no other bathing options), but now it is a source of entertainment. Just a few tubes, some rocks to sunbathe on, and plenty of sunshine is a source of entertainment and comfort for hours. Give us a canoe and some paddles and the river can be the source of one of the greatest adventures yet.

The Rutamaya is a 4 day canoe race spanning the whole of Belize by river. Since my first days here people have been talking about this event and their yearnings to be a part of it. I too wish to take part, but do not think that I will do so in the back of a canoe. Each team requires support, and while pitching tents for 4 days does not seem like it would be so much an adventure, sleeping in a different part of the country each night, meeting people from all over the world who come to take part in this race, and discovering the country by way of river does seem like the opportunity of a lifetime. Hopefully someone will let me be on their support team. That will be another story.

In the book Huck Finn, the river is the source of tranquility and escape from society and reality. I think that rivers will always hold that romantic notion. You could just get in and allow it to take you away from everything you know and lead you without you having any say. In Benque the river serves not as an escape, but rather lives in harmony with society. It is a part of the people and the people are a part of it. There could be no real existence without it, and I will never think of Benque without seeing the river in the back of my mind. It was my first greeting and will be my final farewell when I take my leave. It will wind through my mind as the backbone of my memories of Belize. And, years later, I hope it will still be here to greet me when I will inevitably make my return to this place.

“I am she who is the deep and the shallows

A thundering waterfall and a quiet tongue

In every drop of milk and blood and tear

You will find me in every thorn and flower, seed and fruit

There is no life without me

I am libation and baptismal pool

I am your sprinkle of holy water

I am older than man and light

I am of god, not god

But like god, I am also inside of every man….

~The River Speaks Frank X Walker