how much our life revolves around doing laundry.
Monday, February 6, 2012
White Eggs
I had the good fortune of being able to watch an episode of one of my favorite television series while I was with friends in town last week, and the strangest thing happened while I watched the characters making breakfast. I found myself puzzling over what they were making to eat, when I realized that they were using white eggs, something that I haven’t seen in nearly a year. In Belize, the eggs are small and brown, and they are never refrigerated in the shops. This was a big adjustment to make when we first moved into site, because I didn’t trust eggs that hadn’t been refrigerated (assuming, of course, that the American and best way to store eggs was in a cardboard carton in the refrigerator). Even the process of buying eggs seems so normal to me now that it should be pretty funny to go back to a grocery store to pick up eggs when I return home. “Going to the store” now consists of walking down the dirt road through my village to the muddy path lined with palm trees and thatch houses to the Ack Shop, a small family home that doubles as a store front. Eggs here are three for a Belizean dollar ($0.50 USD) and literally come from the chickens you step over to get inside the shop. They are small, sometimes speckled, and always brown. The family keeps them in a large egg holder on the table at the front of the shop, and gives you a “shilling bag” (a small bag that holds about one shilling’s worth of masa, hence its name) to fill with eggs.
This shop is incredible because it not only sells eggs, but masa (ground corn for making tortillas on the comal), raw rice and beans, as well as ice-cold glass bottled Mexican Cokes, butter, laundry soap and, on some special occasions, frozen Snickers bars from Guatemala.
On warm evenings I’ve been known to wander down towards the river and stop by the shop for cold sodas to have down by the water as the crickets and gentle breeze take turns stealing the show in the night air, as the burnt orange sunset sneaks behind the lush green hills of the Maya mountain ranges. As my young host brothers and sisters greet me excitedly on my walk back to my home in the village, jumping up and down and grabbing my hands to “satul” (a Maya word for “to twirl”) them by taking their arms and swinging them in circles, I realize how easily the time passes in such a beautiful, life affirming place.
If missing the comforts of home means listening to absolute silence interrupted only by the wind in the high grass and the constant conversation of the clear water over the impossibly smooth river rocks by our bridge, then I think I can put up with missing white eggs for a couple of years.
This shop is incredible because it not only sells eggs, but masa (ground corn for making tortillas on the comal), raw rice and beans, as well as ice-cold glass bottled Mexican Cokes, butter, laundry soap and, on some special occasions, frozen Snickers bars from Guatemala.
On warm evenings I’ve been known to wander down towards the river and stop by the shop for cold sodas to have down by the water as the crickets and gentle breeze take turns stealing the show in the night air, as the burnt orange sunset sneaks behind the lush green hills of the Maya mountain ranges. As my young host brothers and sisters greet me excitedly on my walk back to my home in the village, jumping up and down and grabbing my hands to “satul” (a Maya word for “to twirl”) them by taking their arms and swinging them in circles, I realize how easily the time passes in such a beautiful, life affirming place.
If missing the comforts of home means listening to absolute silence interrupted only by the wind in the high grass and the constant conversation of the clear water over the impossibly smooth river rocks by our bridge, then I think I can put up with missing white eggs for a couple of years.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Merry Christmas!
With a belly full on pancakes I sit in Dangriga wearing my brand new Christmas pajamas compliments of Patty O'Neill. It's not a bad way to start Christmas morning. Being in Belize during the holidays is a bittersweet thing. It is the first time Danny or I have ever been away from our families at Christmas. I remember driving away from my mom's house on Christmas last year in tears because I knew how much I would miss it. I can't believe a year has passed since that night. Christmas has been everything I could have ever asked for here. We decorated our house in the village with Christmas lights and potpourri from Dad. Christmas Eve was spent relaxing on the docks in a hammock reading and joking around with a dear friend.
Our Christmas Eve eating included: cinnamon rolls, coffee, pizza, Doritos, coke, peanut butter cookies, jelly beans, peppermint bark, muddy buddies, lobster, mashed potatoes, green beans, fried chicken.....................and the list goes on and on.....I'm surprised we didn't get sick. It was glorious.
We are eternally grateful for our extended Belizean and Peace Corps family. We have been welcomed here with open arms and couldn't be happier to be right where we are. We miss everyone back at home like crazy, but the time flies by and we will be right back there before we know it.
Our Christmas Eve eating included: cinnamon rolls, coffee, pizza, Doritos, coke, peanut butter cookies, jelly beans, peppermint bark, muddy buddies, lobster, mashed potatoes, green beans, fried chicken.....................and the list goes on and on.....I'm surprised we didn't get sick. It was glorious.
We are eternally grateful for our extended Belizean and Peace Corps family. We have been welcomed here with open arms and couldn't be happier to be right where we are. We miss everyone back at home like crazy, but the time flies by and we will be right back there before we know it.
Happy Holidays!
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Kamiko-tan
We have a new addition to our little jungle family. She is a stray jungle kitty and her name is Kamiko.
Here is her story....
I chased Kamiko all over campus this summer but could never get close enough to pet her. She was very shy and spent most of her time in the bush. One day she came close to our house. I quickly went to the fridge and found some bread. I made a trail of bread crumbs to our door and to my surprise she fell for it! When Kamiko first came to our house she was so skinny and had patches of missing fur. She also had a gigantic tick on her neck.
Over the course of a couple weeks she began to trust us (or at least trust that we would feed her several time a day). With gloves and tweezers we removed her tick. That was perhaps the most disgusting thing I've ever done. A few days after that I gave her a bath in our little rain collection bucket. She was amazingly cooperative and I'm pretty sure she is the first cat in Belize to ever smell like lavender.
Now Kamiko is fluffly and healthy. She sleeps on our front step and occasionally snuggles with Danny in the hammock. She will never replace Rupee cat back at home, but we love her very much.
Here is her story....
I chased Kamiko all over campus this summer but could never get close enough to pet her. She was very shy and spent most of her time in the bush. One day she came close to our house. I quickly went to the fridge and found some bread. I made a trail of bread crumbs to our door and to my surprise she fell for it! When Kamiko first came to our house she was so skinny and had patches of missing fur. She also had a gigantic tick on her neck.
Over the course of a couple weeks she began to trust us (or at least trust that we would feed her several time a day). With gloves and tweezers we removed her tick. That was perhaps the most disgusting thing I've ever done. A few days after that I gave her a bath in our little rain collection bucket. She was amazingly cooperative and I'm pretty sure she is the first cat in Belize to ever smell like lavender.
Celebrate good times-come on!
Hello Everyone!
Today is Danny's golden birthday and we celebrated last night with friends in Punta Gorda. Yesterday was also "t-gives" aka Thanksgiving in Toledo. I am thankful we have such great cooks in the Peace Corps! There was a traditional thanksgiving spread along with lobster and conch ceviche that one volunteer actually dove for in the ocean!
Things are going well in the village and in Belize in general. Danny and I have been very busy now that school is truly in full swing. One of the unexpected joys in my life is teaching 'life skills' to all four forms (grades). I teach a wide range of skills becuase anything really can be considered a 'life skill'. My two favorite lessons are conflict resolution and meditation and mindfullness. Both were eye opening experiences for both me and the students. I don't think the kids ever expected to do a 'eating meditation' with raison bran, but they were good sports. We talked about the interconnectedness of the sun, earth, water, etc and made a conscious effort to thank the universe for coming together to make the food we eat. The best part is, it fits in completely with the Maya Values they are taught growing up. The ideas of interconnectedness and interdependance are not necesarrily new to them, but practicing meditation as a way to gain deeper insight and awareness was certainly new.
I am also gearing up to facilitate a full day board leadership retreat for Tumul K'in's board, some PTA, student leaders, and management. It has been an incredible experience to condense all my knowledge of governance, community development, and leadership into one retreat. I keep having to remind myself that it is only a ONE DAY retreat! Once I get going on those topics I can't stop and I'm afraid if I'm not careful I might keep them there all night. It's a beautiful coincidence that I am able to volunteer at a Mayan NGO in 2012. It's a very important time here. Our organization sees it as a fresh start and a time to incorporate a new way of thinking and acting. Everyone I work with is excited to move forward and work towards realizing their vision for this community. It's an exciting time to be in this place and I feel very lucky to be a part of it.
Monday, October 17, 2011
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.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
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.
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.
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