Rock Soup and Lemonade

I awoke to the melody of raindrops and the sound of my alarm clock rustling me awake in our dark bedroom.  Watching the heavy drops roll off our roof past our window and the subtle blue glow of the clock display, I opened the mosquito net that hangs over our bed and turned off the alarm.  Looking at how peacefully my wife was sleeping next to me, and staring down a wet, muddy and cold wait for the 5 a.m. bus, I decided to climb back into the still warm sheets of our bed.

You see, the night before, I got a wild idea: travel up to Belmopan for the final soccer match between the three PCV cohorts serving in Belize.  It was to be a farewell to the volunteers leaving next month, and more importantly, a chance to see everyone from the north and central districts that we live too far from to visit.  I was excited all evening after making my spontaneous decision, because it hadn’t rained for two days and the river that usually blocks our exit after heavy rain would not be flooding anytime soon.  I packed my bag, went to bed early, and grew more excited to see my friends.  Breezie decided against going, because she had been traveling all week, and wanted to relax at home.

You can imagine my dismay at the sight of the huge raindrops falling from our rooftop when I woke up the next morning.  After resigning myself to the bed once again, I found myself unable to go back to sleep, despite it being four in the morning.  I got out of bed after about ten minutes, when the rain stopped and I grew hopeful that maybe it hadn’t rained hard enough to flood the bridge (which lately seems more like a dam).  I showered, put together a small package of food and kissed Breezie goodbye. 

I walked down to the river, which is about a third of a mile from our house, and was delighted to see that it was only slightly flooded, but not nearly enough to stop the passenger bus whose driver’s family depends on its ability to cross such floods.  The driver comes from several villages out, and has much invested in crossing the bridge even when it is unsafe.

I walked back to my bus stop by the house, and after a mosquito-ridden  and muddy-footed wait, boarded the bus that would take me to a junction where I could head north to see the friends I hadn’t seen in months.  About five minutes later, the trouble started.

As the bus approached the bridge, I could see that in the five minutes between checking it that morning and now, it had flooded past the point of crossing.  I was very disappointed, because if I couldn't cross get into town, I couldn't catch the highway bus up north.  As I was ready to give up hope, one of the villagers from Santa Teresa (a village ten miles away from mine) mentioned to me that there was an important meeting that he and his village council needed to attend in town.  They had commissioned a farmer who lives near the river to take us across, two at a time, in his tiny canoe.  As I stood in the muddy marsh at the bank of the river, I watched nervously as the villagers crossed the rocky waters to the other side.  When it was finally my turn, I took a deep breath, and climbed into the canoe with my backpack.  To give you some idea of how shaky this canoe was, its height and width was roughly the size of a hollowed out watermelon, and probably about as stable. I didn't exhale until I was on the other side. 

Climbing out from the brush that surrounds the river, I hitched a ride into town in the back of a farming truck where I was hoping to catch the 8 a.m. bus to Belmopan.  At this point, I would miss the game, but still get to see my friends.  However, because of flood conditions elsewhere in the country, all buses had been cancelled until at least ten that morning.  Not having a ride back to my village, I decided to eat breakfast in town and wait out the weather.  I continued to monitor the flooding up north, and at 10 a.m., the bus service decided to let us board and travel north.  I put on my headphones and prepared for the five hour bus ride.

As we approached the Kendle Bridge (which I famously nicknamed the "Candle" Bridge, because it seems to go out after a single rain drop; although nobody seems to think this is as clever as I do), my heart sank (again) at the sight of 15 abandoned buses and twenty cars and trucks; the bridge had not gone down in time to cross.  As patiently as I could, I pulled out a book (a well-worn copy of "All the Devils are Here", a recap of the most egregious violations of public trust before and during the current financial crisis) and sat for two hours while the river went down.  Finally being able to pass, I just had three short hours until I reached my final destination.  I found out later that it took me twelve hours to cross 100 miles.

All in all, days like this remind us how frequently we need to laugh in order to keep from crying.  We face nearly daily setbacks in both our village and post, and have used humor and patience to get through it.  It is incredible how much you appreciate convenience when you get it (which is rare), and even more remarkable how much you appreciate small things like a good shower, a pleasant rainfall in the morning (when you don't have to travel) and the smell of fresh brewed coffee.  There are plenty of things to be thankful for during our Peace Corps experience, but I know that the person I am becoming will be most thankful for the days you have no choice but to dine on rock soup and make lemonade.