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.