A LONG LONG LONG overdue update!

Danny and I spent the summer finding our bearings and adjusting to life in the bush. People always ask us how we are doing out here and my answer is usually the same…”every single day life gets better and easier.” We had to learn so much in such a short amount of time and when I really stop and think about the past 7 months I realize that how far we’ve actually come.

Community based training, although only a few months ago, now seems like a distant memory. Since our plane touched down in Belize we’ve moved a total of 9 times between hotels and host families. We’ve lived with 3 Mayan host families making up a total of nearly 20 people. We’ve learned how to make Mayan food and how to say about 200 words in Q’eqchi. We’ve seen weather ranging from a cool 78 degrees to a scorching 115 degrees. We’ve logged countless hours on buses and I’ve read 17 books. I think of these numbers and many more and still can’t believe we’ve been here for 7 months. The time is going by so fast. We are thankful because we miss our families, but as the weeks fly by we are constantly reminded to live each day to the fullest.

Our site is nestled in the forests of Belize. As I was walking down the only dirt road that runs through the village, a blind man in our community walked by. He’s a former Tumul K’in student and I was fortunate enough to see him graduate in June. As we passed I called out “Yos, shikwe” and he said “gud aftanoon”. It still amazes me how quickly people switch between English, Mopan, Q’eqchi, Spanish, and Creole. I’ve listened to one conversation between two people that included all of those languages rotated with perfect fluency and ease. Anyways, as we passed I started to think about the sounds of the village. I am continuously in awe of the magnificence of the trees, river, thatch houses, etc., but I had never simply closed my eyes and listened. As I walked I paid special attention to the sounds of the village and this is what I heard: chickens clucking, ducks splashing in the mud, children playing, horses clomping on the dirt road, trees rustling, dogs barking, marimba music, a motorcycle passed, the river calmly swooshed under the bridge, crickets chirped, the list could go on and on. I realized that even though the village is small made up of only a couple hundred people, it is completely alive. The peaceful sound of people living simple happy lives is something that will stick with me forever. There is nothing like the sound of kids playing in the river. They are so happy and carefree. This is a great place to grow up.

Speaking of moments, sights and sounds that you never forget….last week I was teaching my “life skills” class to a group of 25 kids under a thatch roof when all of a sudden the rain started pouring down. I could never accurately describe what rain on a thatch roof sounds like, but it’s safe to say that it is one of the most peaceful and serene sounds in the world. It’s a sound that slows your breathing down and makes you stop for a moment to give thanks to the universe. Yes, it is that wonderful. So, there I was teaching Mayan high school kids the importance of setting goals and advocating for themselves while the rain pours down onto the thatch and drips down in perfect little beads off the edge of the roof. It’s hard to explain, but in that moment I gave thanks for all the people who helped me get to this place in my life. Life isn’t always easy here, but moments like that serve as a constant reminder that in the Peace Corps and beyond life is made up of those little moments. It’s our responsibility to notice them, appreciate them, cherish them, and live for them.

Danny is sick of me saying this, but I truly believe that “you see what you look for”. I am choosing to look for beauty and magic, and I see it all around me.

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.