(This is the first installment of a series of posts describing my experiences in the Mayan village of Santa Elena. Subsequent posts will follow very soon.)
Giddy excitement swells in my soul as I gulp down my late morning breakfast of French toast—a very interesting recipe made from tiny cross-sections of a small baguette roll. Stepping out of Gloria’s restaurant, I pace quickly down the one block stroll to my tiny hotel room at St. Charles Inn. I am bubbling inside, eager to get moving, gleefully anticipating an adventure into the unknown.
The remaining thirty minutes seem to drag on ever so slowly. My bags are packed, and I have already double checked three times to make sure that none of my personal belongings have been left behind. In an attempt to occupy time, I aimlessly scan the channels of a small television, but find nothing interesting to distract my wandering mind.
Finally, the long awaited moment arrives. Just minutes after 11:00 a.m., I hobble downstairs with my heavy backpack and surrender my room key to an elderly oriental man in the small hardware store below. I am ready to begin my short quest—a quick three-block hike to a nearby street where I will supposedly encounter a row of old school buses lined up for mid-day departures.
“Look for a bus labeled either ‘Chen’ or ‘Chon’,” the lady at the tourist information office had told me. “Some of the buses will have signs in the window, but there will be others that don’t. If you can’t find a bus to Santa Elena, you can always ask any of the drivers for help.”
Finding the row of old beaten-up school buses proves to be easier than I expected. Approximately eight of them are parked on the small neighborhood street just two blocks north of the center of town.
As I stroll alongside the weathered and rusty multicolored buses, nowhere do I see a bus with a sign reading “Chen” or “Chon”. But in one window, the word “Jalacte” captures my attention. I had seen this same name just yesterday while traveling from Placencia to Punta Gorda, and had been very curious as to where this town might be.
Glancing at a small map, my face forms a large grin when I realize that Jalacte appears to be further down the exact same back-country dirt road that passes through the village of Santa Elena.
“Does this bus pass through Santa Elena?” I eagerly query the driver, searching for an expected confirmation.
“Yes, it does.” He replies matter-of-factly.
As I follow the driver to the back of the bus, I am quite surprised by what I see. Large off-white woven-plastic gunny sacks are piled everywhere. These huge overstuffed bags are stacked three high, not only filling up the rear cargo area but also overflowing into the long and narrow passenger aisle, fully consuming the walking space between the rear two-thirds of the seats.
With my backpack safely stowed atop the heavy load, I return to the front of the bus and quickly ascend the steps. The front five rows of seats are already occupied, so without a second thought, I instinctively climb on top the bags and awkwardly crawl on hands and knees toward an empty seat a little over half-way back. Swinging my legs off to the side, I slip down into a seat on the right side of the bus, placing my small daypack beside me.
I would love to know what is inside these huge bags—bags that surely weigh at least one-hundred pounds each. “These must contain some type of beans, corn, or other small grains.” I speculate—but alas I allow my curiosity to go unanswered.
Finally, at just after 11:30 a.m. on Wednesday, March 3, I giggle inside as my rickety old school bus pulls away from the curb and begins to wind its way—first through the small narrow streets of Punta Gorda, and finally onto the open highway headed slightly to the north and west.
I am not totally sure what type of reception awaits me, nor do I have more than a clue as to exactly how long I will stay, but one thing is certain: I am following my blind trust forward into the unknown, and I will have an incredible adventure in the process.
Mayan Immersion
As I glance around the bus, I quickly realize that my very presence is the obvious elephant in the room. Everyone else has very dark brown skin, deep brown eyes, coal-black hair, a very typical Mayan nose, and could not possibly be over five feet in height. I am obviously the only non-Mayan on the entire bus—a bus that gradually begins to fill as we repeatedly pause to take on more passengers, all of them Mayan.
After thirty minutes on the main northbound highway, we slow down, follow a small bend in the road, and then pass right by what I believe to be our dirt-road turnoff leading out into the back country.
As the bus begins to pick up speed, I start to wonder if perhaps I boarded the wrong bus. But then the driver again slows down, makes a sharp left-hand turn, and proceeds to pull into an old dilapidated gas station—a rundown isolated station that I remember seeing just the day before on my southbound trip to Punta Gorda.
As the bus’s rattling diesel engine falls silent in front of a rusty, silt-covered, most-likely-red gas pump, the driver quickly hops out to fill our tanks. Then to my surprise, many of the bus passengers also exit and disappear into the small gas station.
Remaining in observation mode, I am still, almost motionless, completely silent, simply watching the unfolding events with fascination.
Minutes later, the driver is back in his seat, waiting patiently for the remaining passengers to filter out of the gas station’s interior. Gradually they make their way back onto the bus, one by one, many of them carrying a small snack or a soft drink.
With the engines once again rumbling loudly, our bus pulls back onto the highway, proceeds several hundred yards southbound down the asphalt pavement, and then reassuringly turns toward the west onto what is immediately a very bumpy and dusty gravel road. But the gravel quickly gives way to a rut-filled rocky dirt base.
As the landscape continues to grow increasingly wild and hilly, I notice that we begin to stop more frequently, picking up and dropping-off passengers. At one such stop, with the bus filled to near capacity, a Mayan woman begins her awkward crawl toward the back, atop the piled-up bags of mystery-grains. Not sure where she intends to sit, I pick up my daypack and place it on my lap. The woman makes eye contact with me, smiles, and then without saying a word climbs down into the narrow spot beside me.
I continue to simply observe.
After about forty-five minutes on bumpy, hilly roads, winding back and forth, climbing up and down, we pass through the town of San Antonio—a relatively large village of over 1000 Mayan residents. I notice power lines, a large towering water tank, and even an occasional car parked in front of a few small humble homes. Some of the residences even looked quite nice.
I begin to wonder, “What will Santa Elena be like? How big will it be? Will there be electricity … cars … or water tanks?”
As I begin to ponder this question, our driver parks in front of a tiny store and silences the noisy engine. As before, almost half of the passengers climb out of their seats and disappear into the humble building. Several minutes later, with some riders still straggling, our driver taps loudly on his horn, as if to say “Hurry up, it is time to go.”
Finally, after waiting several additional minutes, we are again underway. With every stop, the hills grow taller, and the wild remote jungles continue to feel increasingly thicker and greener.
At one quick stop near the top of a hill in the middle of nowhere, an elderly Mayan woman stands up and walks toward the front of the bus. The driver exits in front of her, places a small stool on the ground, and takes her hand as she steps out of the bus onto the rocky ground below. As the bus begins to pull away, I notice that the woman is barefoot as she proceeds slowly down a narrow dirt path that soon disappears into the green leafy jungle.
Thirty minutes later, we pass through the small village of Santa Cruz. In this long, spread-out village, I notice a water tank, but no signs of electricity.
Less than fifteen minutes later, the driver’s money-collecting assistant climbs back to my seat and asks where in Santa Elena I want to get off the bus.
“I don’t know,” I begin, “I have never been there. I need to find the home of Dionicio Choc (pronounced D’yo-KNEE-siyo choke). I will be staying at the guest house that he operates.”
“I know right where to take you.” The young man replies with a smile.
Less than a minute later, we crest another steep hill as a small Mayan community comes into view. This is the smallest village so far—appearing extremely remote and rustic. Seeing no signs of any water system or electricity, I feel deep peace in my heart that this is indeed the right place for me to immerse myself into a beautiful culture.
Seconds later, the bus stops near the bottom of the hill right before a small stream. The assistant then motions to me.
“This is your stop,” he tells me. “Dionicio’s home is that one right over there.”
Trusting The Process
As the bus pulls away ever so quickly, I find myself momentarily paralyzed, swallowing a small lump of both fear and anticipation.
I take a long deep re-centering breath.
“I can do this.” I calmly reassure myself. “Everything is going to work out wonderfully. I am going to have an incredible experience. I just know it.”
Taking another slow deliberate breath, I am determined to face my usual shy nature head-on. With a feeling of reserved, but forced, confidence, I heave my backpack over my shoulders and slowly approach what I believe to be the home of Dionicio Choc.
As I look around, I am not quite sure to which building I am walking, as there are actually four small buildings right in front of me. On the left is a small blue-green wooden structure with a peaked roof of corrugated metal. Just to the right is an unpainted wood structure with a tall thatched roof, and directly behind and above that are two more wooden buildings with similar thatched roofs.
“How or where do I knock?” I think to myself.
After pausing for yet another moment, I approach the building in the middle and call out in a quiet but resonating melodic voice, “Hello?”
Soon, a fifty-something Mayan couple appear from around the back corner of the building on the right.
“Hello,” I begin, “My name is Brenda. I’m looking for Dionicio Choc. I would like to stay in the village guest house for a week or so.”
“I am Dionicio.” The man replies hesitantly.
“But I’m not quite sure what to tell you.” He continues. “The guest house is not usable right now. The roof was damaged in that severe wind storm we had last week.”
As I momentarily reflect on his words, I realize that Dionicio is talking about the very same wind storm that nearly blew away our tents last Wednesday evening, during the second night of my sailboat adventure in Tobacco Caye.
With a very puzzled and clueless look on my face, I swallow a huge lump in my throat and respond, “What do you suggest I do? There are no more buses today, and I’m not sure where else to go?”
Dionicio first glances at me, then makes eye contact with his wife, before turning warmly back to me.
“You can stay in our home.” He volunteers with a reassuring smile. “Maybe we can get the guest house roof fixed tomorrow so that you can stay there during the rest of your stay.”
Immediately, a feeling of deep peace returns to my soul.
Dionicio and I begin to get acquainted, talking about where I am from, how long I want to stay, and what types of things I would like to do in the village.
As I begin to tell him “I probably want to stay about a week, possibly a few days more than that,” I notice that Dionicio’s wife Heralda and a handsome teenage boy hurriedly disappear into the blue-green building with a broom and some bedding.
Just minutes later, the two of them emerge to retrieve me.
“This will be your room tonight.” Heralda says, as she leads me into the small building. Inside, I discover a single large room, perhaps fifteen feet wide by twenty-five feet long. The floor is a smooth, clean, almost-polished concrete. The wooden walls are made of three-quarter-inch thick lumber nailed to the outside of a wooden frame. Small gaps between the boards allow a tiny bit of light to leak in from outside, with the only other source of light being two homemade doors and two makeshift wooden windows that allow both the sunlight and the fresh mountain air to enter freely when opened.
In the corner, I spy a small homemade wooden bed frame. On top are a mattress with clean sheets, a small thin blanket, and a full mosquito net hovering above.
“You can sleep there.” Heralda tells me with a smile.
“Is there a bathroom I can use?” I naively ask Dionicio, quickly realizing the silliness of my question, wishing I could take it back.
“Yes, that tiny little yellow building right over there, down that small path.” Dionicio replies with a smirk on his face.
“Of course they have an outhouse,” I think silently to myself. “With no electricity or water system, what else would they have?”
“Why don’t you get some rest for a few hours while I get things arranged for your visit?” Dionicio’s statement was more of a request than a question.
Very soon I am on my own. As I begin to unpack a few things from my bags, I pinch myself to make sure I am really here. Utilizing the only chair in the room—a plastic lawn chair—I sit and meditate in the sunlight at a back doorway that overlooks a small stream below. The surrounding village and scenery beyond are beautiful, breathtaking.
Eager to briefly get my bearings and to explore the village, I soon set out on a small walk. I discover that the village is wholly contained between the crests of two small rolling hills. The heart of the village is a tiny stream running through the rounded out valley in the middle. As I walk across the small bridge over the stream, I notice a group of women and children slightly upstream, standing knee-deep in the cool waters, socializing together while washing dishes and doing laundry.
The vast majority of buildings in the village have wooden plank walls with thatched roofs. Some have the luxury of concrete floors, but many have nothing but hard, uneven, dry dirt as a base. As I walk along the narrow dirt road at the south end of the village, I am surprised to see both a tiny three-room school, and a large soccer field.
Dionicio later tells me that about 250 residents call the village home, with these villagers being grouped together in approximately 35 small household gatherings.
Attempting to downplay my role as tourist, I try to keep my village photo opportunities as inconspicuous and low key as possible. I am extremely sensitive to the fact that I am an outsider, and do not wish to make the villagers feel uncomfortable with my intrusion into their privacy. Yet, when I believe no one is watching, I capture as may photos of village life as possible.
As the afternoon grows late, I return to my room and pick up my Spanish books to begin studying—something that I have not done for a few weeks. Soon I hear some giggling in the background. As I turn around I see two beautiful young boys with huge glowing smiles, standing in the opposite door, having the time of their lives by simply watching me. I joyfully giggle back at them, having the time of my life simply being watched by these incredible souls.
I later learn that these are two of Donicio’s grandsons, Leroy and Elroy. Leroy is seven and speaks just a little English. Elroy is five, and has only been learning English for a few months. Mopan Maya, one of many Mayan dialects, is everyone’s first language. When speaking in their own homes, or with each other, these beautiful people all speak in the Mayan tongue. It is only in school, or when speaking to foreigners that the villagers speak English—which is a second language for all of them. Most of the adults speak English quite well, although I soon learn that a few of the elderly adults have never learned English.
Approximately 90 children from the village attend classes in the small school building. One classroom houses the Infantile 1 and Infantile 2 classes. Children begin Infantile 1 at age five. Combined, these two years would be equivalent to an extended two-year kindergarten program where the children begin to learn English. The other two classrooms house grades one through three, and grades four through six—which the locals call “Standard one through Standard six.” All children in the village receive the equivalent of a sixth grade education for free.
At the end of grade six, however, the youth are given standardized testing. Those students who perform well on the tests are given the option of attending what they call “High School” in Punta Gorda. But this is not free. Families must pay a total of $250 BZ ($125 US) per year for a student to attend this school. For the families, many of whom are extremely poor, this involves a great financial sacrifice. And for the youth, this is a great sacrifice of their time as well. These incredible youth eagerly take a bus every school day at 5:00 a.m., and do not return to the village until just after 5:00 p.m.—a long school day plus over three hours of bus time, day after day after day. Those who do choose to attend high school (many call it college), end up finishing the equivalent of a tenth grade education.
As Leroy and Elroy lose interest in giggling at me, they disappear and I return to my meditative studies. My stomach begins to growl, and I realize that I have completely forgotten to ask Dionicio how the meals will work during my stay in the village. Another little voice in my heart coaxes me to simply continue what I am doing and to “trust the process.”
Facing Food Fears
With the evening sun rapidly approaching the western horizon, Dionicio finally pokes his head into my room.
“Brenda, it is time for your dinner.” He begins. “Willmur here will take you.”
A young man named Willmur has been sent to fetch me. With a big smile on his face, Willmur tells me to follow him—but he is quiet and shy and does not talk much during our five minute walk.
Soon, as we reach the other side of the village, I am guided into a small ten by twenty foot home with a concrete floor. The back of the room is partitioned off with a small divider, forming a private sleeping space for the family. As I pass through the door, I look to my right and notice another small thatch-roofed building with a dirt floor, a room which I later learn is a separate kitchen area.
In the front left corner of the room, near the door, I notice a small table, a lawn chair, a plate of food, an empty coffee cup, and a hospital mug filled with hot tea.
“Please have a seat.” Glenda tells me, after we briefly exchange names.
Feeling quite surprised, I expected to be eating dinner with the family. Instead, here I am in the interestingly awkward situation of eating by myself with an audience watching me. Glenda sat on a hammock about five feet away while nursing her beautiful one-year-old baby girl, Marlene.
Keying my behavior to her very quiet personality, I keep my questions to a minimum. I have no desire to come across as a pushy tourist. My style is to gradually win confidence through genuine heartfelt caring.
“This is good, is it chicken?” I ask as I begin eating a plateful of white clumpy food having a texture and taste that somewhat reminded me of my favorite meat.
“No, it is Jippi Jappa.” Glenda replied with a smile. “It is from a plant that we find in the jungle. We also use the same plant to make baskets.”
“Wow,” I think silently to myself. “This is going to be an interesting week.”
For anyone who knows me well, you know what a picky eater I am, and have been through my whole life. As a child, I maintained a huge mental list of foods that I refused to eat—foods which I absolutely knew I did not like, even though I had never even tasted most of them.
As an adult, even though this mental list of avoided foods has continually grown smaller, I am still very cautious and reserved about trying new foods. Given a choice when it comes to food, I still tend to choose the familiar over the unknown.
So, while sitting at Glenda’s table with a spoon in my hand, I began to mentally review my lifelong food phobias. Throwing caution to the wind, I realized that the only way I will make it through this week without offending my dear sweet hosts it to simply eat and love everything that is put on a plate in front of me. With a huge focus of will power, I proceed to eat, and eat, bite after bite—having no concrete idea exactly what it is that I am placing into my mouth—other than that it is called Jippi Jappa.
And then there was the tea. I have never been a tea drinker, and what little tea I have tasted on occasion has invariably tasted quite bitter and unpleasant to my taste buds.
So when boiling hot tea is placed before me as my only drinking option, what do I do? I simply drink it of course. A sense of knowing in my heart was clear in telling me to do absolutely nothing to offend the genuine hospitality of my hosts.
The highlight of my meal was the incredible homemade flour tortillas—the best I have ever eaten.
Into The Darkness
Even with all of the camping that I have done in my lifetime, I have never developed an appreciation for what it is like to live without electricity. I have always had flashlights, bright lanterns, and campfires to provide ample lighting and warmth—until now that is.
While returning from Glenda’s humble but beautiful little home, slowly walking by myself back down the dirt road through the center of the village, the skies already seemed quite dark.
Earlier, Dionicio had graciously offered to let me use an oil lamp from his home, but as the sun disappeared beyond the hills, I was quite unprepared for the utter extent of the thick darkness. The low glow of the burning lamp did little to dispel the black of night inside my room. By 7:00 p.m., the outside darkness was eerily dark and thick. With the skies blanketed by a thick layer of clouds, absolutely no moonlight or starlight found its way to the village below. Any indoor lamplight in the village was obscured by walls.
A late evening walk to the outhouse seemed like a spelunking adventure through a pitch black cave. My little Mexico City flashlight has long since given up the ghost due to corrosion caused by excess humidity. The only light I happened to have for external use was a tiny reading light—a spark of illumination for which I grew increasingly grateful throughout my week.
By 8:00 p.m., the exhausting darkness pushed me into an early bedtime. Reading by lamp-light proved to be very difficult, and listening to my IPOD simply made me relaxed and sleepy, so I finally gave in to my physical need to lie down.
As I rested meditatively on my pillow, I had ample time to ponder many of my lifetime beliefs that had already begun to be challenged—a process which continued throughout my eight day cultural immersion.
Long-held truths surrounding sleep habits, a need for electricity, food choices, education, material wealth, and work occupations, were all at the top of my list of ideas to be questioned and seriously examined. Perhaps my opinions about these topics—opinions which I have for a lifetime held as cherished truths—were nothing more than flimsy beliefs, supported by my own projected perceptions.
Yes, it seemed that I had indeed returned to a simpler time—a very happy time where genuine people knew that joy and peace did not come from seeking financial security or fancy possessions. Everyone around me seemed deeply joyful, richly content—yet their material possessions and worldly wealth were nearly non-existent.
Many in our western culture would look at these beautiful souls with deep empathy and pity, seeking for ways to rescue them, to help them raise their lifestyle to a more civilized standard.
But the question that really topped my pondering centered around the topic of “Just who are the truly civilized people in the world?”
Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved