Brenda's Bicycles

During my growth-filled nine days in the tiny Mayan village of Santa Elena, I literally took hundreds of photos. While organizing them, labeling, them, and uploading them, I simply could not narrow down the list to less than these 224 photos.

The photos will be posted in two groups, due to the quantity. As usual, you can click on any photo to see a more detailed high-resolution image. What is displayed here on the page is simply a thumbnail of the photo itself.

Enjoy!

Journey From Placencia

This is the little “Hokey Pokey Water Taxi” that carried me from the town of Placencia, situated on a long penninsula, over to the mainland town of Independence, in preparation for my bus ride to Punta Gorda.

In this photo, our little water taxi is just about to pull up to the pier on the mainland–in the small town of Independence. After sitting at a bus stop for over an hour, I catch an old second-class school bus heading south.

This is my view of the bus driver inside the rickety old bus.

A view out the front window of our bus as we head toward the southern end of Belize. I was amazed when I saw these pine trees by the sides of the road.

And then there were the mountains in the distance. In Cozumel and the Yucatan, mountains are non-existant. I did not realize that Central America had such tall mountains.

Punta Gorda

Punta Gorda sits right on the ocean, near the southern end of Belize–but there are not really any swimmable beaches here. This photo is taken at the southern end of town–the ocean waters on the left, a small road on the right.

A typical street in this quaint little town of approximately 6,000 residents.

An interesting building near the ocean front. This one, as is quite common, is built on stilts.

This colorful bus looks very similar to the one that I rode from Independence to Punta Gorda. This photo was taken the next day, at about the same time that I arrived–so perhaps it is the same bus.

A street view of the St. Charles Inn. I stayed at this small hotel on both the night before and the night after my amazing nine days in Santa Elena.

Room #11 — the bed mostly fills this tiny room. While the bed sags slightly, and the building is very old, this little room provided a very nice place to sleep during both of my short stays in Punta Gorda.

Journey to Santa Elena

This is the old beat up interior of the rusty school bus that took me on the 1.5 hour drive to the village of Santa Elena. I didn’t even think to capture a photo of the large sacks of grain that were stacked up in the aisles between the rows of seats.

This is the silt-covered gas pump where we stopped to fill up the bus before leaving the highway and heading out on the dirt roads in the mountains. I love this big old tractor on the other side.

Night #1 at Dionicio’s Home

This is the inside of Filimon’s room–the place at Dionicio’s home where I spent my first night in Santa Elena. The guest house roof was damaged and I was unable to sleep there.

Notice the white lines around all the boards in the walls. Yes, that is the glow of sunlight through the gaps between boards. This particular hut had a corrugated metal roof–but as you can see, there is a great deal of sunlight glowing under the edge of the roof as well.

That is my bed covered by the reddish-orange mosquito net.

The blue-green building on the left is where I slept. The thatched roof building on the right is another of the huts on Dionicio’s property. This is the place where I called out “Hello” during my first moments in the village, hoping to find friendly faces and a friendly welcome.

Leroy and Elroy posing in the doorway of the blue-green building. These two cute little boys are Dionicio’s grandsons. Leroy is the older boy. They loved to stand in my doorway and giggle at me.

The Wonderful Guest House

A photo of the guesthouse before the roof was repaired. All of the scattered branches came from the top of the roof, where the protective cap blew off in the same windstorm that nearly blew our tents away during the second night of our sailboat adventure in tobacco caye.

This bent-up water tank still sits under the little outdoor patio in front of the guest house. This tank used to sit just left of the outhouse building in the background. Rainwater was collected in the tank, providing water for a shower in the block building–a shower which is no longer functional. Dionicio tells me that this tank was filled with water when it fell off the platform, getting crushed. Aparently, this happened during a different storm.

Another angle of one end of the rooftop, prior to the repairs. If you look closely, you can see daylight where there should be darkness.

In this more dramatic shot taken from inside the guesthouse, you can clearly see the damage. This photo is taken from the floor, looking up at the thatch roof.

Part of the old roof, being burned in the jungle. Even with these very hot flames, the surrounding foliage did not catch on fire.

Several bundles of vines gathered in the jungle. These vines are used to tie off the branches and poles as the roof is repaired.

A stack of palm branches waiting to be lifted up onto the rooftop. These branches (and others) were carried here by Teodora’s elderly husband. I watched him carrying them out of the jungle on his back, pulling them across the village. These branches are very big, at least fifteen feet long, and they weigh alot too.

The first young man to climb onto the roof. He shimmied up a single long pole and then scaled the remainder of the steep roof with his bare feet.

Dionicio (bottom), and another man scaling their way to the rooftop. By now, there are two side-by-side long poles on which they climb. The first young man is already on the top, on the far end.

The three men, standing evenly spaced on top the roof. Notice in the foreground on the right. This peaked roof used to be another shade structure like the one of the left. It also blew over in the previous week’s strong winds.

Beginning to place palm branches on top the peaked roof.

Dionicio’s son handing up another huge branch.

The branch being pulled up onto the roof.

I didn’t know him at the time, but as I study this young man’s face, it looks like Mateus, Glenda’s husband. He is busily tying off the poles on the roof, using some of the vines from the previous photo.

The completed roof, now ready for occupation. The rain will no longer penetrate.

A portion of the beautiful and mystical panoramic view from the porch at the guesthouse. The road and stream cross at the bottom left of the photo. A small rooster can be seen in front of the shade structure near the bottom right.

The sickly, itchy little dog, sitting at the end of the porch in front of the guesthouse, rubbing his back against the boards.

The outhouse building at the guesthouse. The left door is open, showing the fiberglass throne. The middle door leads to a non-functional shower system. The right door leads to another hole in the ground.

My clothes drying after hiking through the jungle and climbing on hands and knees through muddy caves. I washed these in a bucket.

A view of the small path leading up to the guesthouse which is in the center of the photo at the top. To add perspective, the small stream is to my right, the dirt road is directly behind me, and Christina’s home is to my left.

The inside roof of the guesthouse after having been repaired.

A few days later, two of Dionicio’s sons, and another young man, came over to tear down the fallen shade structure on the west end of the guesthouse. Here, they are chopping the vines that hold the palm branches in place.

Branches on one side have been removed. Now they are working on the other.

Dismantling the peaked A-frame structure itself.

Carrying off the huge dry palm branches, preparing to burn them.

Let the flames begin! They were huge, and extremely hot–helping to dry the fresh coat of paint on my toenails.

The very large scorpion, with its stinger still intact. The body was over two inches in length, with the tail at least another three inches.

As I look at this photo of the stinger-less scorpion crawling on Filimon’s hand, I realize that maybe the scorpion is not as big as I thought. The body appears to be two fingers in width–perhaps 1.5 inches. The tail, before the stinger was broken off, was at least 2.5 inches.

The scorpion has been released. He is now climbing on the bark of a nearby tree trunk.

A five-gallon bucket filled with well water. While I didn’t drink this particular water, Heralda (Dionicio’s wife) boiled some well water for me to drink. It had a very strong metalic taste–but proved to be safe for my stomach.

I washed several times using such water from the bucket.

One of many hens (and roosters) that loved to wander around the guesthouse. If you look closely, you can see several baby chicks gathered around her.

Sunset from the guesthouse porch.

Another view of sunset from the porch. This shows a little more of the village in the distance. The soccer field is between the trees in the middle of the photo (can’t really see it here). The school is barely visible in the far right of the photo, right in the middle.

Yet another sunset photo, showing the colorful skies.

Rosaria (five years old) and her friend, saying “Take my picture, Miss”. These darling girls visited me several times after Sunday night. They were such angels.

I found this lovely little visitor on the guesthouse door one evening. (sorry, it is out of focus). He was several inches from leg tip to leg tip. Dionicio later tells me that they are quite common in the homes, and are completely harmless.

He sure freaked me out.

My bed in the guesthouse, with my white mosquito net.

The other unused bunkbed in my end of the guesthouse. Notice how much open air is exposed above. The roof above extends well over this open area, keeping the rain out, but the room is definitely open to ventilation, plus invasions by unidentified crawling critters.

A glimpse of the double-wide bunkbed in the other end of the guesthouse. Again, notice how much open air there is in the ends of the roof overhang. Also, notice how you can see air between the boards.

The middle reception area of the guest house–with two large cabinets, a table, a small padded bench, and a couple of folding wooden chairs. One of the wooden chairs is visible in the back. And then, of course, there is my red backpack.

Another view of the guesthouse exterior, up close.  You can see the small slab of concrete in front that I call my “porch”. I thought it was about four feet wide, but this photo makes it look like maybe it is only three. The door in the middle is the only entrance. My room was on the far left.

Dionicio’s Home

This is a photo of Dionicio’s cluster of buildings as seen from the guesthouse porch. Note, the small dirt road running through the center of the photo. You can barely see the edge of Christina’s store on the far right (foreground). The well is by the road, down below the store.

One of the huts on Dionicio’s property. Notice that the kids have bicycles, and that someone used to have a car which has long since become unusable. Dionicio also has a motorcycle which he occasionally uses to visit a neighboring village.

Dionicio’s outhouse — my first-night bathroom.

Dionicio and Heralda in their front entryway. Not the best photo in the world. The lighting is a little off, but you can get the idea.

Dionicio with Leroy and Elroy, two of his grandsons.

This is not actually a photo of Dionicio’s home. It is taken from Dionicio’s property, looking out toward the road. The children were fascinated by me, and I was fascinated by the chickens clucking around, looking for worms and bugs.

This is a from-the-street view of Dionicios bottom two buildings. He has two more above the thatched building in the back. The building in the front right is not Dionicio’s. This is where the village women used to meet to grind corn. This block building is where Dionicio and his family slept on the floor after their other buildings burned down about four or five yhears ago.

Christina’s Home

This photo shows Christina’s property (from afar). The building on the left is her store. Up on the hill to the right, you can barely see the guest house.

A cute thatch-roof doghouse on Christina’s property.

Christina in the doorway of her home.

My best photo of Christina’s home. In the foreground is the well by the road. On the left is her one-room house. On the right is her one room store, where the noisy corn mill is located.

This is Christina’s fancy Corn mill–where all of the village women come to grind their corn. In the back is the gasoline engine with the huge pulleys and belts that drive the mill at the left front.

In this photo, Christina is starting the engine using a hand crank to turn it. It takes her several forceful tries before the engine begins to loudly roar. (sounding like a loud lawn mower engine.)

Christina is pouring a bowl of water onto the wet whole kernels of corn. The corn is ground wet, producing a wet-doughy mixture that is used to make tortillas. No other ingredients are added–simply corn and water. After the dough is flattened and fried over a fire–the result is delicious. Soft, light, and very tasty. I have never tasted corn tortillas so good (normally I don’t like them).

This is not the best photo, but if you look closely, you can see Christina’s forearm working with the moist dough in the bin below the mill. She is removing the dough, preparing to put it back into the bowl of the woman who brought the corn to be ground.

Christina charges ten cents (BZ) per pound of corn ground. This equates to five cents US.

This is the extent of Christina’s meager store. She sells only the basic staples, toilet paper, and cleaning supplies. There are a few bins below the table which I assume may contain flour and rice.

Glenda’s Home

This beautiful little property belongs to Mateus and Glenda (Dionicio’s daughter). They bought this land and home about nine months ago. I believe the told me that they paid about $1,500 Bz ($750.00 US).

The little blue walled, metal roofed structure to the left is where Glenda fed me my meals. It has a concrete floor, a small table with chair, a hammock, and a bed in the far corner. Glenda tells me that the thatched-roof building to the right is her kitchen. The floor of the kitchen is rough, uneven, dry dirt.

This is Glenda, carrying her baby Marlene. The baby is bundled up tightly in the white bag. If you look closely, you can see that the blue scarf is supporting the entire weight of the baby, which is hung over the top of Glenda’s head, just above her forehead.

This is the inside of Glenda’s home, in the building where she fed me. The baby is hanging in the white bag in the middle. Glenda’s bed is hidden behind the small room divider.

Irma’s Home

This is a photo of Irma’s property high up on the crest of the hill at the western border of Santa Elena. I never got a photo of Irma or Justo. I went to her home on my last day, with intentions to get a photo, but she was already out in the farm.

The thatched room structure on the left is where she fed me. It has dirt floors, and very meager furnishings. Irma cooked for me on a small open fire inside the building.

Teodora’s Home

This is Teodora’s property. The house in the center background is where I was fed. It too has only a dirt floor, and very little furniture–mainly a bed and a table.

Just like with Irma, I put off trying to get a photo of Teodora until it was too late. In this photo are Juliana (Teodora’s daughter) and Lavina (her daughter-in-law). Juliana is the taller, older girl.

Around The Village

This is the little dirt road that runs through the center of the village. This photo is looking east, toward the edge of the village at the top of the hill. The little path leading to the church is about half way up the road on the left.

This photo was taken from next to the guesthouse. It shows my view of the village to the west and north. The wide blue structure just above the middle and slightly to the right is the school. Above the far hill with the bare sides is the small buriel ground. In front of that hill is the soccer field. The prominently visible building at the upper left center is an old abandoned church. Left of that building, you can barely see the shine of a large concrete slab. This is where Brenda was drying her cacao seeds.

This photo is a slightly zoomed in view of the center of the former photo. The school is the wide blue building in the middle.

Part of the village, looking from the west side, toward the east.

The school playground, with many children out playing. The words above the large Mural read “Santa Elena RC School”. This is just one end of the three-room schoolhouse.

This is a view of the road leading up to the western edge of the village. Irma’s home is at the top of the hill on the right. Glenda’s is nestled in the trees on the left, just to the left of where you can barely see a horse grazing by the road.

Many of the villager’s homes, scattered around on the hillside on the east end of the village.

I love this photo of some of the beautiful scenery in the village.

Branches from these tall palm trees are what people use to build their thatch roofs here in the village.

More beautiful views in the village (and they say that this area is not part of the jungle).

Looking from the hill on the west end of the village, back down to the east.

The large soccer field.

A beautiful home along the road.

Another cute little two-building home.

More beautiful scenery from around town.

This photo is from a small buriel ground high above the hill on the west end of town, just above the soccer field.

A wooden marker laying on the ground above one barely-marked grave.

One of two such concrete casings in the buriel grounds.

This cute little palm-like plant is called Jippi Jappa. I ate many a meal with Jippi Jappa being the main course. The portion I ate was from the young tender portion of the bottom of the stalks. The older more mature portions of the stalk are dried and used to make baskets.

A group of beautiful children playing in a tree.

During my hike to the ruins near Santa Cruz, I passed this tiny concrete bridge, just east of Santa Elena. It is no longer used for traffic. This larger slow-moving river is the Rio Blanco.

Two of the cute little angels running around the village. The tiny one looks very much like the little one that first started bumping my hand in church on Sunday night (but I’m not quite sure if it is her).

Transportation Options

I am constantly amazed at the huge weights I see some of the men carrying on their backs. This large bundle of small logs cannot be easy to carry.

Women very commonly carry things on their heads. This woman is carrying a load of freshly ground cornmeal back to her home.

One of the few buses that pass through the village every day.

This young boy is carrying a huge sack full of beans home on his bicycle. He suspends the beans above his handle bars. With each uphill hike he gets off the bicycle and pushes. With each downhill stretch, he zooms down on his bicycle. I saw him make several runs with his bicycle in a few hour period.

This man amazed me as he walked up the trail near the guesthouse. He was carrying these two enormous logs on his back, with all of the weight suspended from a strap over the top of his head.

I was so impressed by this man that I just had to get a photo from a slightly different angle. He was so focused on carrying his load that he never noticed me with my camera.

I absolutelylove this photo. This beautiful woman is not only carrying a large basket filled with freshly washed dishes, but she is also carrying a young todler on her back. BUT, if you look closely you will notice that the weight of the young boy is suspended from a strap on the woman’s head.

Through it all, she climbs calmly up a bumpy hilly path, with her hands at her side.

Several times, I witnessed traveling salesmen such as this one, wandering around the village with huge bags of for-sale goods on their head and back.

I already showed this photo once, but I had to include it again–Glenda carrying her baby Marlene, suspended from a strap just above her forehead.

Another woman carrying stuff on her head, this one cheating by using her hand.

Precious Water

Several beautiful children standing on the bridge over the villages main source of auxilliary water–a small stream running through the center of town.

You cannot really tell by this photo, but this woman is either washing clothes or dishes. The area where she is at is where most women gather to do their washing. Not only do villagers wash clothes and dishes in the stream, they also take frequent baths.

More washing (sorry it is blurry).

This young girl is dumping water from a bucket. It looks like she is rinsing the bucket out, as she just filled it with the hand-pump well behind her.

This well is one of two in the whole village. This one is in front of Christina’s home. The other is in front of the school.

This is the only source of drinking water in the whole village. Most villagers drink it straight. Heralda boiled mine for me, since I am not used to whatever little delights might be swimming around inside.

The health department occasionally tests the water to make sure it is safe for drinking.

Another view of the well. Someone has recently filled these buckets, but has not yet carried them away.

Standing on the bridge, looking at the stream in the direction of Dionicio’s home. Notice that the water is very shallow here. The stream does not flow much during this part of the year. I am told that during rainy season (June, July, etc…) that the entire bridge is occasionally under water, and buses are unable to pass.

The stream near Dionicio’s home. Knee deep water is pooled here, but the flow is very slow.

I love this photo by the way. The greens are incredible, the reflections like a mirror.

This is a better view of the area where most women in the village gather to do their washing. The deepest part is only knee deep.

The Village Church

This tiny chapel is the only functioning church in the village. It is from the Church of Christ. I spent three fun and interesting evenings inside these doors.

Sunday evening, the villagers reenacted the “Last Supper”. The chapel was elaborately decorated. I snapped this secretive no-flash photo before the services began. As it turns out, the reenactment of the “Last Supper” was really their beautiful version of taking the sacrament.

After an incredible evening of dancing with little “angels” during the high-tempo music at the end, many of these little angels followed me outside and asked me to take their pictures.

After each photo, they would run over to look at the image on my camera, and then would run back, asking me to take another photo.

More of the angelic children after church. The photo does not do justice to their beautiful faces.

Yet another photo of the little angels.

The littlest girl in the cream top with her belly button showing is the first litle angel that kept running back and forth, bumping my hand, before finally grabbing on for good. During the dancing she was incredibly joyous and giggly. In this photo, she is nearly asleep, as the service ran till almost 9:30 p.m., and she was exhausted and tired.

Two more girls after church. The taller one is Elida, the little girl who fetched me for dinner so many times at Teodora’s home. She is the same darling girl who gave me four birthday gifts (including the Vanessa bracelet) on the eve of my birthday.

These young men were carrying large bundles of jungle flowers. Later in the evening, I noticed that these flowers were in the chapel during church service.

This is the end of PART ONE of the photos. PART TWO will contain the remaining photos.

During my growth-filled nine days in the tiny Mayan village of Santa Elena, I literally took hundreds of photos. While organizing them, labeling, them, and uploading them, I simply could not narrow down the list to less than these 224 photos.

The photos will be posted in two groups, due to the quantity. As usual, you can click on any photo to see a more detailed high-resolution image. What is displayed here on the page is simply a thumbnail of the photo itself.

Enjoy!

Visit to Dionicio’s Farm

This is part of the path leading to Dionicio’s farm. This part of the path is wider and closer to the village. After fifteen minutes of walking to the farm, the path continually narrows.

One of many medicinal plants that Dionicio showed to me. I don’t remember what function this particular plant fills.

Dionicio’s farm. In the foreground are his vegetables. In the background is part of a huge cornfield.

I never got close enough to the vegetables to be able to see what is actually growing.

Dionicio, studying the edges of his field of corn.

We sat and visited for a while under the shade of this thatch roof palapa that Dionicio has constructed near his corn.

The leaves of a Jippi Jappa plant — a plant used both for food and for making baskets.

The edible portion of the Jippi Jappa stalk, from the tender portion near the soil. This is a not-so-quality photo of the edible part held in my own hand. If you look closely you will see that I have already munched away for a while, eating several bites.

Cacao Farming (for making chocolate)

At Mathias’s cacao farm. In this photo, Blearny is chopping away at one of the large fruit, attempting to cut the stem on the trunk of the tree.

Blearny has successfully removed the cacao fruit, and is now trimming the end.

Quiet, shy Elaine, in the cacao farm. Not the best photo in the world, but it is the best one I have.

Munching away on the white fruit. If you look in her left hand, you can see the fruit. By now, the outer husk has been removed. Up close, the lumpy white fruit reminds me a little of brain tissue.

Another cacao tree.

And another one — this one with darker colored fruit.

As Elaine, Blearny, Rachel, and I returned to Mathias’s home, he warned the girls about a swarm of bees which had just recently landed in a tree in the yard. I found this swarm fascinating.

I included the photos here, because the bees remind me of my dream that helped free me up to take this incredible journey into my soul.

A little better focused, but further away shot of the swam as it hugs the branch of this small tree, less than thirty feet from Mathias’s front door. I felt no fear walking up close — about five feet away — because I know that normal honey bees will not bother humans unless they are provoked–especially when they are swarming.

Then I began to wonder–could these be killer bees? LOL — I really don’t know the difference.

On a different occasion, I noticed a young woman named Brenda, dumping something out onto the concrete slab near the soccer field. When I approached to find out what she was doing, I discovered that she was drying cacao seeds. These are some of the seeds that were still very moist, after having been soaking and fermenting for several days.

These cacao seeds are a little more dry, but still not totally dry. I am told that they will be dark brown, almost red, when they are dry.

Brenda, showing off her drying seeds. Brenda is the one with the white blouse. I think the other girl is Blearny, but I am spacy. I had so many faces and names running around in my head in such a short time–and then there are so many people with family resemblances that I was never sure.

I called another young woman “Brenda” one day, and Christina gently corrected me. “This is not Brenda,” she said, “but it is Brenda’s sister.”

Jungle Hike To The Caves

This is some of the beautiful scenery, as seen from the top of one hill, during my hike through the jungle.

Part of the early hike. The trail here is wide and well defined. Mateus is in the far lead, chopping vines and debris with his machete. Timoteo is second, followed by your’s truly.

Timoteo on the trail. According to Timoteo, we are still not in the real jungle. This area has been cleared and farmed–very different from the old ancient untouched wild of the real jungle.

After 40 minutes of steep walking, we reach Timoteo’s uncle’s farm.

“See that big hill over there?” he says. “That is where the caves are. We are now entering the real jungle.”

More views from the top of the same hill.

Timoteo (close) and Mateus (far), beginning to chop through the thicker underbrush. By now, it is really hard to see that there even is a trail here. I am told that this is the edge of the real jungle.

Not much of a trail at all….

Timoteo carefully chops through a hard nut that he tells me is edible. It is remarkably similar to a coconut on the inside. Notice how dark and shady it is now.

The foliage is very different out here. Timoteo continues to chop away. Mateus has disappeared in the thick brush ahead. He is carrying the brunt of the work, creating the opening through which Timoteo and I are walking.

Timoteo holding a section of very thick vine that is dripping a stream of fresh drinkable water.

Sorry, you really can’t see the water in the photo, but there was enough to satisfy a thirst. The water drains quickly once the vines have been cut.

This jungle seed pod contains edible portions. I try a few of them, and they are not bad. Glenda has asked Mateus to bring some of them home for dinner.

This is the edible portion inside of the seed pod. It tasted a little bit like raw peas–maybe not quite as moist or flavorful.

Again, notice how dark it is in this part of the jungle.

A very interesting, extremely thorny tree trunk.

As we pass this two-foot-diameter cylindrical hole in the ground, Timoteo tells me that it is extremely deep. “No one has ever been down there,” he tells me, “but it is believed to be without a bottom.”

I just take him at his word, and do not go too near.

After an hour and 45 minutes, we finally arrive at the entrance to the cave. This tiny opening (less than three feet across) leads down into the larger cave.

Inside one of the passages where I could stand up.

This is looking up toward the top of a tall narrow cavern where many bats were flying around.

Without our lights in here, it was pitch black–and I mean black.

This is the entrance to the first low passage through which we crawled. In this passage, I tried to walk on all fours, refusing to put my knees down in the muddy and rocky bottom.

After the first narrow, shallow passage. We hit a small room. It was beautiful in here, with these large stalagtites. At the bottom right, is the opening to the next passage that we crawled through. I finally gave up trying to remain clean, put my shoulder bag and sweatshirt on the ground, and crawled through the mud, making it all the way to the opening on the other end of the cave.

Half way through this passage, Mateus and Timoteo heard a noise that they thought at first could possibly be a Jaguar. We paused briefly while Mateus investigated.

Interesting formations on the wall.

Another, better view, of the passage through which we crawled. This was less than three feet tall.

We have emerged through the other end of the cave, through a tiny opening, to a little paradise. A small stream with a few terraces becomes our picnic/snack spot.

Here, Mateus finally poses for my camera, holding his extra sharp machete in his right hand.

Likewise, Timoteo poses for my camera while standing in the middle of the refreshing stream.

And then I take my turn posing, hot, tired, steaty, and dirty–but feeling very energized and happy.

Mateus (left) and Timoteo resting by the beautiful stream. A large downed tree forms a bridge a tiny way downstream.

The foliage in this part of the jungle is amazing.

A closeup of the same beautiful scenery.

After eating snacks of Maria cookies and homemade sweet bread, we crawl back into the small opening near the stream, crawling all the way back to the other side.

A bat brushes the hair on the back of my neck, and I barely break skin on my head a few seconds later as I bump into a stalactite–and then we set off on a hike to the second cave.

During our hike to the second cave, Mateus has some fun harvesting some of the edible seed pods to take home for dinner.

Some of the edible foods Mateus is taking home for Glenda to cook.

Looking down inside the entrance of the second cave. This entrance drops rapidly at about a seventy-degree angle. The bottom is over seventy five feet below. I have to coax myself before I am willing to stress my muscles even further. I am getting very tired of climbing.

One view inside the second cave.

From the bottom of the second cave, looking back up toward the opening above, with the sky beyond that.

Fun popcorn formations growing on these hanging stalactites.

A view from above as we hike back toward Santa Elena.

At last, we reach a point where we can see a portion of Santa Elena in the distance. (This photo is zoomed in from afar).

After arriving home, I take my first bath in the stream that runs through town.

Hike to Rio Blanco National Park

The homemade park sign, and the locked-up two-story park offices (I was there on Sunday). This park is about a twenty minute walk from Santa Elena, about half way to the village of Santa Cruz.

A homemade park map. I entered from the top, and followed all of the brown trails. The place where the brown crosses the blue river is where the hanging cable bridge is located.

The Rio Blanco waterfalls.

We are in dry season. I understand that in rainy season, this is one huge waterfall.

The pool of water below the falls, along with the surrounding jungle.

Clilmbing the ladder to the cable bridge platform, looking out toward the wobbly bridge.

From the platform, looking straight across the river above the small cable bridge. The sides barely reach the center of my lower hips. The footpath is made from 3/4″ thick planks with the grain running parallel to the bridge.

A close up of the bridge’s bottom construction. It does not instill a lot of faith in the weak-hearted.

The cables were stretched tightly across the river, simply attached to large tree trunks by pieces of lumber nailed into the trunks.

The trail marker, named after my favorite edible plant. Dionicio’s now-deceased son designed and built both this trail, and the cable bridge.

Hiking near the river.

The other side of the falls.

A beautiful tree along the trail.

The trail briefly runs up this stream bed.

Another beautiful tree trunk along the trail.

This cluster of nuts is edible (the insides). These are the same kind of nuts that Timoteo cut open for me on the jungle hike–the ones that look and taste a little like coconut on the inside.

A beautiful shot of the falls with the pool below and towering trees above.

Hike to the Ruins by Santa Cruz

Some of the beautiful scenery along my walk toward the village of Santa Cruz. I was headed out to check out some small Mayan ruins just past the village.

One view in the village of Santa Cruz.

The Santa Cruz library, with the school building behind.

Santa Cruz, which is about two miles east of Santa Elena, and one mile wide, has no electricity — but they do have a water system. This tall water tower stands on the easternmost hill of the city.

Directly across the road from the water tower stands this small sign, marking a tiny trail that leads to a Mayan ruin on the highest hill, just up the hill several hundred yards.

This is the shorter of the two buried pyramids — covered in dirt, shrubs, and trees. I highly suspect that this is only the tip of a pyramid, because the entire point of the hill on which I am standing seems oddly like a much larger covered pyramid itself — I may never know.

This is the taller of the two buried pyramids.

Tennessee Doctors

On Tuesday, March 9, a medical group from a small university came to visit the village. I had met Dr. Dave while walking through Santa Cruz on my way back from the pyramids on Monday. As they arrived in Santa Elena on Tuesday morning, I asked if I could help. They put me on duty to pass out toothbrushes, toothpaste, soap, and pony tail bands.

This is the large bag from which I dispensed these items.

This is Dr. Dave. He is actually a Physician’s Assistant (PA). A very fun, friendly, and outgoing guy. Without him, I probably would not have volunteered to help.

The man in the chair is a Belizean man who is their driver and escort through the backcountry. The lady in the orange shirt is another Physician’s Assistant. She was very nice also.

Another really friendly Physician’s assistant, working on a patient.

I only captured the backs of these two students who are almost finished with their education on the path to becomming Physician’s Assistants.

With a loving grin, she listens to the chest of one young boy from Santa Elena.

This is Dr. Joseph. He is the only licensed M.D. in the group. I didn’t get a chance to talk to him much, but he seems very nice.

After working for nearly five hours, the doctors packed up the bus. Dr. Dave happened to discover this little fellow while walking across the grass.

He is the first tarantula that I have seen in the wild. He is actually quite small, with his skinny body being less than two inches. His legs make him look huge.

The cream-colored bus that carries these doctors to their destinations. It actually looks more white in this photo.

Miscellaneous Scenery Around Santa Elena

One of the beautiful scenes as observed from the road while walking near the village.

A hillside just west of the village. Mathias’s cacao farm is growing underneath these tall trees.

The road winding through the countryside.

More beautiful hillsides.

A zoomed-in photo of a distant mountain. It is so sharp and pointed, I briefly wonder if it could possibly be a covered pyramid — probably not.

A typical view along the road visit here. It is constantly going up and down, winding left and right.

Another beautiful view.

And yet another.

I cannot get enough of this beautiful mountainous jungle scenery.

A tree towering above the Rio Blanco river.

One final scenery shot.

Goodbye Belize

In the distance is the pier behind the immigration building in Punta Gorda, Belize. The boats that leave for Guatemala leave from here.

This is the back side of the Belizean immigration building, facing the ocean. One could probably argue that this is the front side, since it is the side that faces traffic (boats) going to and from the country of Belize. The other side faces into the town, and is situated behind a guarded fence.

This is our boat on the small pier. My pack is on the dock in front, waiting to be loaded. I end up sitting in the right-rear seat — precisely where most of the ocean spray lands. Luckily, the boat captain gives us a large black tarp to hide behind.

As we begin to pull away from Belize, my heart is full as I turn around and wave goodbye.

 
(This is the sixth and final installment of a series of posts describing my experiences in the Mayan village of Santa Elena. Posts with photos will follow very soon.)

Wednesday morning, as I examine my itchy body, it seems that another round of aliens has unexpectedly landed on my legs during the cover of night darkness. These unidentified crawling visitors have left a series of tiny crop circles scattered around on various portions of my soft, warm, sun-tanned real estate. These mysterious circles seem quite familiar, having petite white rings punctuated in the middle by a tiny dot of red.

“Hmmm,” I begin to think to myself. “Perhaps it is time to surrender my long-held resistance to insect repellant. I think that maybe I’ll spray some of the stinky stuff on my legs before going to bed tonight.”

Throughout my journeys, I continue to resist the use of those yucky, smelly chemicals slathered all over my skin.

I rarely buy into the panic of trying to protect myself from the evils of all the possible diseases I might catch if the wrong arbitrary mosquito chooses to nibble on my tasty skin. I choose not live my life in the prison cell of fear—a tiny little cage that holds me hostage to random acts of infection and violence everywhere I look.

Yes, of course, I realize that every behavior has consequences. I know that if I walk into a room filled with millions of mosquitoes, I will most likely come away with millions of itchy red blotches on my skin. If I lie on the beach for five hours in the burning rays of direct afternoon Caribbean sun, I fully expect to come away with a very painful burn on my skin.

What I am saying is that I don’t live in a world of fear. I don’t go around attempting to defend myself against unseen attackers that might jump out at me from behind the next tree. Instead, I try to follow my inner guides, my heart, my soul, or whatever you want to call it.

And my heart tells me that I am safe, that I have nothing to fear.

I believe that everything, no matter how it may appear on the outside, happens for a reason.

If something is supposed to happen to me, then that something—whatever it may be—will find a way to happen, no matter how I try to defend myself, no matter where I run to hide. When and if it does happen, I will find a way to see it with love, embracing the growth that always hides under the wrappers.

If something is not supposed to happen, it simply won’t, period.

If my inner promptings guide me to retreat or to take a different direction, I will do so. If my feelings peacefully guide me to apply sunscreen or insect repellant, of course I will do so.

But then again, I am human. It seems that my plan to apply insect repellant tonight is based on fear, not inspiration. My mind is temporarily preoccupied with “itch”. I carefully count the ugly, annoying, itching little blotches on my legs. I come up with the number “54” on my lower right leg, “46” on the left.

I am momentarily tired of the itching, I have had enough. I furiously scratch and rub in a physical temper tantrum of itch, planning to pop another antihistamine and return to my meditation very soon. But as I open my zip-lock bag of medications, I discover that I have no antihistamines left. Meditation and love are the only remedies that remain.

Moments later, I simply smile and relax. My tantrum is over. Today is my birthday. I am excited by the prospect of simply doing nothing, enjoying a relaxing day of meditation, study, visiting, and eating. I cannot wait to get started.

Beginnings of Goodbye

At breakfast, Irma places a huge—and I do mean huge—plate of cabbage next to my smaller plate of beans, eggs, and tortillas.

“There is no way I can possibly eat all of this cabbage.” I say apologetically, as I glance in Irma’s direction, hoping that I do not offend her.

“That’s OK,” she smiles, “we’ll just save the rest and eat it later.”

A feeling of relief washes through me as I realize that Irma doesn’t expect me to fully empty the plate. I don’t know why I subconsciously assume that anything left on my plate will be tossed in the garbage—probably because that is what I have been conditioned to believe during my whole life.

“Today’s your birthday, right?” Justo asks with a smile.

“Yes,” I reply with a glimmer in my eyes.

“Happy birthday,” both Irma and Justo tell me, one after the other.

A battery operated radio is hanging on the wall. The volume is blaring, turned up quite loud, making conversation difficult. A minute later, Justo walks over and lowers the volume slightly.

“Our daughter went to Punta Gorda on the bus early this morning.” Justo begins. “She is playing in a baseball tournament.”

Then I realize that the radio sounds somewhat like a sports program. I had not really been paying attention earlier.

“Is that her ballgame on the radio?” I ask curiously.

“Not yet.” Justo tells me.

Justo does not go into specifics about the tournament, and for some reason I do not pursue the topic. About all I understand is that many girls from neighboring villages are competing today.

I continue to eat cabbage until I decide that my stomach is at full capacity. The overflowing pile of chopped cabbage continues to occupy almost two-thirds of the large plate.

Feeling a little awkward, even as I finish my twentieth meal in the village, I can’t quite seem to get used to the idea of eating in a fishbowl while my hosts look on, politely watching my every move.

I enjoy the conversation, but I know that Irma and Justo must be quite busy with their farm and their family. Besides, I have a lazy relaxing day ahead of me, and I am anxious to get started.

“Thank you so much for everything.” I tell them both warmly, fully realizing that this may just be the last meal I eat in their home.

“I am so grateful for your kind hospitality.” I continue. “The food has been delicious, and I have thoroughly enjoyed getting to know you.”

“Happy Birthday.” They tell me again as I walk down a small path toward the road below.

Energizing Grammar

My morning goes exactly as planned. First, I grab a wooden folding chair, lugging it out onto the porch in front of the guesthouse. What I continue to call a porch is actually a four-foot wide continuation of the smooth concrete that lines the interior floors of the guesthouse. This four-foot pathway runs the length of the guesthouse all along the north side. The thatched roof above also extends a similar distance over the outdoor walkway, creating a delightfully sheltered and shady location-with-a-view to simply hang out in the fresh mountain air.

The folding chair constructed with small stained and varnished 1”x2” boards, is actually quite comfortable. Sitting low to the ground, and slightly reclining backwards, I can rest and relax with no strain at all on my muscles or back.

With several books at my side, I settle in for a full morning of relaxing, lazy, Spanish study. First I pick up two copies of a little book called “God on a Harley.” Early last summer, during my first month in Cozumel, I had read this delightful little novel a couple of times. With a spiritual lift, and a touch of romance, the main character, Christine, takes back control of her life, magically learning to escape the trap of the stuck-on-auto-pilot life that she was living, learning instead to live a simple inspired life of following her heart.

As I prepared to leave Cozumel in mid November, I accidentally ran across a Spanish translation of this same energizing little book.

“What a delightful way to learn Spanish.” I told myself as I carried the book to the cashier.

As I sit looking out over the scenery of Santa Elena, I begin on page one, slowly and meticulously pushing my way through the first six pages of the Spanish version. My thick dictionary proves to be a valuable companion.

After an hour, my mind begins to burn out so I shift gears, picking up a little book overflowing with Spanish Idioms.

For another hour, I read, practice, focus, memorize, internalize, stuff, push, and absorb words and phrases into my cranial cavities—all the while, enjoying the cool mountain air accompanied by the serenading of roosters.

Well actually, I nearly jump out of my seat with a heart attack each time the roosters get too close and then screech out a loud random crow.

In a very loving way, I rise from my seat and begin to follow the roosters, gently herding them back in the direction of Christina’s home below, watching them disappear down the path toward her home.

Soon, as my mind again begins to fall asleep, I put down the idiom book and grab my fat and bulky, but extremely useful, Spanish-English dictionary. Several months ago, I discovered a goldmine center section, containing over 100 pages of very well written grammar study. Past study sessions have repeatedly left me dragging at around page 67. Progress beyond that point has been slow and tedious. Today I am determined to proceed forward.

Amazingly, as noon rapidly approaches, I am still wide awake, energized, and making great progress through those grammar pages.

Take My Picture Miss

After a delightful lunch and visit with Christina—a visit in which I also express my deepest thanks and gratitude—I return eagerly to my perch on the porch. I am addicted to this beautiful view.

Sitting in my small wooden chair, enjoying a breathtaking panorama while meditatively watching village life progress in front of me, seems to blow a cool refreshing breeze of inspiring peace, gently rattling the leaves in every corner of my soul.

After pinching myself to make sure I am still in my body, I resume my amazingly energizing studies, pushing a little further in my reading, memorizing several more idioms, and digesting considerably larger bites of grammar rules.

Right around the time that I begin to feel tired, Rosaria and another sweet girl stop by for short, but delightful visit.

“Hi miss.” Rosaria begins. “We just finished school, miss.”

“What class are you in?” I ask with a giggle in my voice.

“We’re in Infantile one, miss.” She answers with a glow in her eyes.

Soon, after a few minutes of fun bantering, Rosaria opens up a workbook from school, stopping at a random page with pictures of fry pans, baskets, bowls, and spoons. At the top of the page are the words “Make them match.”

“Take my picture, miss.” Rosaria begs me as she and her friend stand with the open book held directly in front of them.

After snapping the photo, I turn off my camera and begin to put it away. Rosaria then randomly flips the book to a different open page—this one showing squares and rectangles on one side, with combinations of money on the other.

“Take my picture again, miss.” Rosaria begs me with a giggle and glow that is impossible to deny.

Again I snap a photo and begin to return my camera to its case.

“Take my picture again, miss.” She giggles while exposing a third page showing colorful combinations of rectangles, circles, and triangles, cleverly arranged to look like a carnival booth and a sailboat.

“OK, but this is the last one.” I grin, as I eagerly snap a third photo.

“I’m going to church again tonight.” I tell them hopefully. “Will you be there?”

“Yes miss.” Rosaria answers confidently.

“I hope to see you there.” I tell her lovingly.

In the back of my mind I am really thinking, “Please, please, please, be there. What a treat it would be to finish off my beautiful day with yet another angel dance.”

As I return to my Spanish studies, I am once again fully energized, simply devouring the grammar section of the dictionary. I make it all the way to page 100 before Glenda’s son Aaron shows up on my porch.

He Talked

While being watched in my glass fish bowl, I busily munch down on a very large plate of rice and beans with stewed chicken. On the side is a small bowl of bland, overcooked Ramon noodles with numerous small chunks of boiled potato mixed throughout.

Since that one unusual day with raw hotdog chunks in eggs, and boney chicken in a soup, this is the first real meat that has been placed in front of me. Today’s chicken is actually quite tasty and tender—tasting very much like the stewed chicken I have repeatedly eaten throughout other parts of Belize.

Between bites, I begin to enjoy a final conversation with Glenda. I try not to stare as Glenda openly nurses Marlene right in front of me—something that several women have repeatedly done all week.

It never ceases to amaze me how my childhood beliefs and upbringing cause me to jump to conclusions and assumptions. In my cultural rearing, I learned that a mother covers up, being very discrete when nursing her baby—so of course that is the way that it should be done everywhere, right?

Wrong.

In this beautiful culture, the women seem very comfortable with the natural process of feeding their young babies. Such an everyday practice is as ordinary to them as making homemade tortillas with their bare hands over a hot fire in their living room, or carrying a baby tightly wrapped in a white bundle, suspended from a strap around their forehead.

As we continue our animated conversation, Mateus walks in and begins talking to me in Spanish.

Both his presence and his choice of language completely catch me off guard, and I momentarily do not recognize him.

“This is Glenda’s husband.” I finally realize, after having talked with him for more than a minute.

He is the same man that tirelessly chopped vines and branches with his machete during an amazing hike through the jungle.

But he is also the same man who never spoke more than three words to me during the entire hike. Amazingly, he seems to have partially overcome his phobia of actually talking to me.

“Why are you talking in Spanish?” I ask curiously, also speaking in Spanish.

“I picked up a little Spanish during my trips to Guatemala.” He replies. “I speak a little more English, but do not speak either one all that well.”

After thanking and complimenting him on his jungle skills, I ask him, “How often to you go out there into the jungle?”

“I like to go at least once or twice every week.” He responds. “I love it out there. It energizes me.”

“Do you ever see any snakes or poisonous spiders?” I ask.

“No, there really aren’t any more to worry about.” And then he adds, “And the jaguars out there do not bother humans.”

As I have been doing all day, as soon as our conversation begins to reach an obvious conclusion, I graciously thank both Glenda and Mateus for their generous kindness throughout my stay. I desperately want to reach out and hug Glenda, but I resist my desire.

During my entire say in the village, I have not witnessed one hug, not anywhere. Even in church, during a segment where I can only assume that Pastor Antonio has asked people to greet each other, these beautiful people simply turn, make eye contact, touch each other on the arm, and exchange a few smiling Mayan words. They do not seem to be an especially hugging culture, and I have no desire to push anyone’s comfort-zone boundaries.

So I keep my gratitude bundled up in verbalized form, accompanied of course by a loving smiling face.

As I walk away from Glenda’s tiny loving home, mixed emotions walk with me. An incredible joyful peace bounces along happily on my left, while a twinge of sadness-at-saying-goodbye walks with a slow melancholy on my right.

Then, I think to myself with a feeling of satisfied surprise. “He talked! He actually talked!”

Goooaaaaallll … Not

Less than one hundred feet down the road, several young boys are goofing around on the soccer field. They appear to be in the ten to twelve year old range.

“Come and play with us.” One of them yells out.

I smile and wave, beginning to simply walk on by, but then I turn around and head toward the field in my bare feet and flip-flops.

One of the boys passes the soccer ball to me. After a few awkward dribbles with my feet, I muster my most advanced soccer kick.

I giggle along with the boys as the ball slowly lobs toward the young boy playing goalie.

“At least I didn’t totally embarrass myself.” I whisper under my breath. “The ball did go in the right direction.”

In reality, I know that it is impossible to really embarrass myself. I am having the time of my life, simply being uniquely who I am—no more, and no less.

After five minutes of repeated attempts at kicking a kick-ass goal, I come up empty handed in the goal category, but overflowing in the satisfaction arena. I am beginning to feel very much at home and fully accepted by these beautiful people of Santa Elena.

Heartfelt Words

Realizing that my final evening at the village church is rapidly approaching, I smile and thank the boys for inviting me to play.

Soon, I am cleaned up, and enjoying a quiet rest on the porch. So far my birthday has been wonderful and peaceful. I cannot imagine a place in which I would rather spend the 55^th anniversary of my birth.

I am surprised as Dionicio walks up, turns over a five-gallon bucket, and takes a seat beside me.

“Can you tell me your travel plans?” He asks.

“Sure,” I willingly comply. “I’m planning on catching the 11:00 bus tomorrow morning. After spending the night in Punta Gorda, I want to catch the 10:00 a.m. boat to Livingston, Guatemala. That boat only runs on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and my Belizean visa expires on Sunday.”

“Then you’ll want breakfast in the morning.” He confirms with a statement that is more of a question.

“When do you want me to pay for the guesthouse and all of my meals?” I ask, wanting to make sure he knows I am thinking about the money side of things.

“We can take care of all that in the morning.” He smiles.

Soon we drift into a relaxing thirty minute conversation, as Dionicio shares about his own travel adventures through parts of Guatemala—places like Livingston, Rio Dulce, and Lago de Atitlan—all places that I see myself visiting.

The discussion is warm and free-flowing. We both seem to connect at a deeply genuine level. I feel as if Dionicio is now an old friend, one whom I have known throughout my whole life.

“It is so wonderful, sitting here having a conversation like this with you.” Dionicio lovingly tells me. “That is why I enjoy having this guesthouse here. I get to meet so many beautiful people.”

Again, I feel a strong desire to share a hug.

Angelic Goodbyes

Normally, the village church services are on Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday. But a guest pastor from Guatemala is coming, so the normal Tuesday meeting has been switched to Wednesday, just in time for my birthday.

I am there shortly before 7:00 p.m., discovering an almost-empty chapel, but by 7:30 the room is packed, presumably in honor of our special guest and not because of my birthday.

By now, I know the routine of the evening—but tonight is quite different as two men stand in front during the sermon. The Guatemalan pastor speaks Spanish rapidly and loudly into one microphone, while another man immediately translates into Mayan, yelling into a second microphone, often beginning his translation even before the Spanish has completely ended.

I pick up on bits and pieces of the Spanish words, but the pastor talks so rapidly, and the Mayan interpretation overlays so hastily, that my mind quickly boggles, eventually causing me to give up my attempts to understand. I simply sit back to enjoy some people watching.

Finally, the part I am waiting for arrives. The fast rapid music begins and the crowd starts clapping and dancing. With anticipation, I stand by my chair, clapping and swaying, wondering where my little angels might be.

I watch as two little girls run down the aisle to the front, after which they perform a wide U-turn, and run back, quickly disappearing behind me. Over and over, the pattern repeats itself.

Soon, six or seven little boys do the same, performing their U-turn on the opposite side of the podium.

Finally, after I smile and make eye contact with three little girls, they meander over and grab my fingers. But they quickly disappear as several little boys take their place. Six angelic girls join hands with each other and begin circling about five feet away.

And then it happens. The giggling girls run over and circle around both me and two little boys who are still holding my fingers. Soon the boys let go and join in the circle around me, leaving me dancing around in the middle of the giggles. For the final thirty minutes, I have the time of my life exchanging giggles with these beautiful children while we all jump up and down with the music.

I can’t help but smile as I notice that the guest pastor from Guatemala grabs his camera and captures several photos of the beautiful children circling around me.

Afraid To Sleep

My birthday ends with a huge glow in my soul as I crawl under the dark covers in my bunk bed. The blackness, as usual, is penetrating and all encompassing.

“Oh yeah,” I remind myself, “I was going to apply bug spray tonight.”

After vigorously spraying my lower legs and feet, I am soon back in bed, sound asleep.

At 1:30 a.m., I awake with a start. A midnight venture out to the outhouse is in order. As I grab my little reading light, I simultaneously pull the covers down to see if the insect repellant has so far served its purpose.

I do a double-take when I notice a fresh bloody spot, about one-eighth inch in diameter, surrounded by a circle of white swelling. This spot is a little larger than any others I have seen.

“Why didn’t I feel that happen?” I wonder, as I reach my fingers down to touch.

To my surprise, the entire area for about one inch around the bite is mostly numb and tingly. As I rub with my fingers, I discover that the inside half of my big toe is also numb, as is the corresponding inside half of my second toe.

“It feels like I went to the foot dentist.” I jokingly tell myself, trying to temper my fear slightly.

I lose all sense of spiritual-centeredness, and begin to imagine all possible worst case scenarios. For the moment, I am not exactly connected to my inner guides.

“Whatever has been biting me these last few nights must have been really mad at me after discovering that smelly insect repellant on my feet.” I begin my mind games.

“Some poisonous spider has bitten me.” I speculate. “What if it spreads and gets worse? What if the spider is still in my bed?”

“I can’t go back to bed.” I worry, as the panic begins to multiply. “I won’t go back to bed. What if I fall asleep and the numbness spreads to my entire foot, or to my whole leg? I can’t risk that. I don’t know what bit me. It could be serious.”

“Maybe I should seek immediate medical attention.” My panicked thinking continues to grow. “Maybe I should go wake up Dionicio to ask for help.”

“No, I can’t do that.” I retort. “I’ll watch it for a while to see if it gets better or worse. I’ll make a decision later.”

I fiddle around nervously for most of an hour, fidgeting, thinking, organizing, and wondering.

I grab my laptop. The battery is almost dead. I have been taking detailed notes throughout the week, carefully watching my remaining battery life. I quickly type out the following words:

“I am extremely hesitant to go back to bed. It is now 2:39 a.m.. I have arranged all of my clothes and other belongings. I am ready for a hurried packing job in case I choose to rush off on the 4:00 a.m. bus to go see a doctor—but it seems that perhaps the numbness has slightly lessened. Perhaps every one of these bites has caused numbness, but this one caught me in a place where I could feel it, and I woke up while it was fresh—very fresh. I found a small stinger on my sheet down by my feet—not sure if it is from my attacker or not.”

The “Low-battery” indicator begins to flash, so I quickly hibernate the laptop.

Throughout this whole panic episode, I never completely lose myself in the fear. While allowing the worrisome thoughts to surface, an anchored part of me manages to remain in the role of observer—objectively watching, always knowing that I will be OK.

After setting aside my laptop, I grab my IPOD and engage in a long meditation while relaxing in the other room on the folding chair. I am determined to re-center myself spiritually—to reconnect with my inner guides.

Shortly after 4:00 a.m., the nighttime cold gets the best of me. I want to stay awake, but I desperately need the warmth of my bed and my three thin blankets.

The numbness may be slightly better, I can’t quite be sure, but at least it is not worse. The bloody spot is much smaller, and I still have no pain.

“Yes, I’ll go back to bed.” I tell myself, but I’m not sure if I will close my eyes.

With my dim reading light, I scour the sheets of my bed, finding no signs of any unidentified crawling critters. Boldly but cautiously, I slide back up under my sheet and three thin blankets. Rather than extending my feet to the black hole at the bottom, I instead curl up in a ball, laying on my right side. Thirty minutes later, I return to dreamland.

Scorpion Speculation

During my final breakfast at Teodora’s, Mathias walks in while I am telling Juliana about my foot fears.

“It had to be a scorpion.” Mathias tells me. “There are no other bugs or spiders around here that would cause numbness. Even so, it must have been either a small scorpion, or a small sting, because scorpion stings are usually much worse.”

Later, as I engage in my final conversation with Dionicio, he agrees that my sting probably came from a scorpion.

“You should have come over and woken me up.” He chides me.

“I couldn’t wake you up in the middle of the night.” I respond.

“You don’t understand, Brenda.” He continues. “I am the health officer here. I am always on duty. That is what I am here for.”

“Do you want me to try to suck out any remaining poison?” He asks.

“It is probably too late to do much good,” he adds, “but it might help a little.”

After I say yes, Dionicio soon returns to the room with a long cylindrical device, sort of like a tiny bicycle pump in reverse. Placing the end of the vacuum tip directly above the red center of my sting, he pumps up and down several times until the pump firmly grabs hold of my skin, sucking upward with considerable force.

After a minute, he releases the suction, leaving a large temporary white ring in my skin where the pump was pulling and sucking. I do not see any fluid rise from the wound.

“Would you like me to put some ointment on all of the bites on your legs?” he asks.

“Sure.” I respond, hoping he will come back with an ancient Mayan herbal cream that will work magic on my itches.

Soon, Dionicio returns to the room with a can of over-the-counter after-bite spray. When he finishes, my legs feel as if they could supply oil to an entire refinery.

For the next half hour, Dionicio and I enjoy another relaxed goodbye visit.

“Brenda, there is a chance that I may go work for a friend picking apples up in the states. If I do go, I would love to have your contact info. Can you give me some way to reach you?” Dionicio asks.

Soon, we have exchanged addresses. His is quite simple, name, village, country. “You can write to this address and I will receive it.”  He reassures me.

As I turn around to leave, Heralda enters the room.

“Brenda, I want to give you this little basket for your birthday.” She smiles.

As I take the beautiful gift, I hold in my hand a tiny basket with lid. The whole thing is no more than two and half inches in diameter. The workmanship is beautiful, crafted with cream colored and black strands of Jippi Jappa. Thrilled to have this little Jippi Jappa treasure from such a wonderful hostess, I tell myself that surely, this is one small possession that I can carry around with me in my daypack.

Moving On

After my bags are completely packed, I still have nearly two hours before my bus will pass through the village.

One final wish remains in my heart. I would love the opportunity to make my peace with an itchy, sickly little dog—but I have not seen him for nearly two days.

As I sit on the guesthouse porch, inhaling the meditative view, my wish amazingly comes true.

I glance over to my right and there he is, lying on the ground right in front of the outhouse.

With love in my heart, I walk over to the cute little dog. As I approach, he remains lying on the ground. With a big smile on his face, he looks quite content.

Reaching down with my right hand, I briefly pet the little guy, telling him how sorry I am for being so rude to him earlier during my stay. I genuinely apologize for my unloving behavior.

His smile seems to grow a little bigger, as does a warm glow in my heart. The little dog does not get up, but his overall body language indicates that he has lovingly accepted my heartfelt apology.

As I walk back to my porch chair, I somehow know in my heart that I have graduated to a new level of loving consciousness.

I spend my final half hour in Santa Elena sitting on the branch of a small shady tree, merely twenty feet down the road from the well in front of Christina’s home. As the bus finally approaches, I pick up my backpack and take one last emotional look around me. Christina and a friend run out of her home, eagerly waving goodbye.

An Amazing Coincidence

As the bus passes through the village of San Antonio, an American man and woman get on the bus together. After a while, the woman and I begin chatting.

I learn that she has just moved to Punta Gorda, and plans to start an organization to assist the local people. After a long discussion about the villages, I briefly share my experiences in the Yucatan. Later, as we near Punta Gorda, I point at the large wound on my left foot, still sporting a few tiny scabs. I tell her about a tick in the jungle, a Zapotec healer burning me with charcoal, and spending almost three months healing during an incredible internal journey.

Suddenly her eyes light up.

“Oh my God,” she exclaims. “That was you?”

“Somebody was just telling me about you last week.” She begins. “I can’t remember who I was talking to, but they told me about an American woman in the Yucatan who was bitten by a tick, and who then got third degree burns when a man tried to remove the tick. I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you.”

“It truly is a small world,” I tell her, “as my bus passes my stop in Punta Gorda.”

Two blocks later, I manage to get off and retrace my steps back to the now-familiar St. Charles Inn—my launching place just nine days earlier.

Synchronous Connections

After dropping my bags in my hotel room, feeling quite grungy and sweaty, I immediately head out on a very short walk to Grace’s restaurant. Not only am I hungry, but I am literally craving an ice cold Coca Cola.

As I walk into the restaurant, I spy a familiar face. It is Chris from Maya Mountain Research Farm—the same man who visited Dionicio in the village last Thursday.

We enjoy a friendly chat for a few minutes, but I then excuse myself when I realize he is anxiously trying to complete a few phone calls while taking care of some business on his wireless internet.

As I return to my own table, Chris makes several additional calls, folds up his laptop, tells me goodbye, and disappears out the front door.

Meanwhile my plate of rice and beans has arrived, and my Coca Cola disappears in a matter of seconds.

Not ten minutes later, I spy a woman walking by with a large backpack on her back. She slows down as she passes the restaurant entrance, glances in briefly, and then continues on her way.

Thirty seconds later, she comes back from the other direction, pauses for a few seconds, and then walks inside, approaching me with a question on her face.

“May I ask you a question?” she asks. “I am looking for a good place to eat lunch before I catch a bus in a couple of hours. Do you like this restaurant?”

“It is my third time here.” I reply. “The food seems OK to me.”

Soon, Tracy sets her backpack in a corner and is standing by my table.

“I’m heading to an ecological workshop out at the Maya Mountain Research Farm.” She tells me.

“Oh my gosh.” I reply. “Chris from the Maya Mountain Research Farm was just here, not more than ten minutes ago.”

“Really,” she answers with excitement. “I would love to find him. That would save me a long bus ride into the jungle, plus I wouldn’t have to figure out how to get a boat out to the farm after darkness settles in tonight.”

“The waitress seemed to know him.” I suggest. “She may even have Chris’s phone number.”

Tracy runs over to find out, but the waitress is unable to help.

“Please, sit and eat with me.” I tell her.

Our energizing conversation takes off almost immediately. I quickly learn that she is a fellow traveler, having been out for quite some time herself. She has spent some incredible time in Mexico and in Cuba. In Mexico, she spent two separate weeks living in tiny Mayan villages in the center of the country.

I also quickly learn that she is a professional writer. Formerly a travel writer for a newspaper, she also does the occasional freelance writing for magazines. But right now, she is doing exactly what I am doing. She is traveling, and she is writing a blog about her experiences.

While the focus of our travels are slightly different, hers being more in the ecological realm, we soon discover that we see ourselves heading in generally the same directions, going to many of the same places, doing many of the same things.

“Brenda,” she tells me, “we should consider cross posting some of our blog entries. I could possibly post some of your entries on my blog, and you could do the same.”

I soon learn that Tracy has some real initiative, has done some great advertising, and has picked up over 4000 readers on her blog. For me, writing my blog is indeed an inside job. It is an incredibly meditative and healing experience that I would continue even if I had no readers. But I cannot help but wonder where this synchronous chance meeting might guide me in the future.

Our amazing, energizing, synchronistic conversation goes on for over two hours, only being interrupted by the fact that Tracy needs to go catch her bus. As we exchange contact information, I cannot help but feel a strong knowing that our paths will cross again in the future.

After Tracy disappears out the front door of Grace’s Restaurant, a feeling of amazement floods through my soul as I ponder the unbelievable series of synchronous events that have unfolded in the past few hours—and all I had to do was to be exactly where I was, following my promptings to interact with the people who passed through my space.

For anyone interested in checking out Tracy’s blog, her name is Tracy L. Barnett, and her blog address is www.theesperanzaproject.org. While I have not yet had time to read any of her postings, I have briefly scanned some of her pages. Her travels look quite fascinating. Tracy’s blog is beautiful and professionally organized, making my humble site look like a tiny Mayan hut in the middle of the jungle, while hers is a mansion in Beverly Hills.

I look forward to seeing where our friendship takes us in the future.

Farewell Belize

Still dazzled by the afternoon’s unexpected events, I wander over to the tourism office to inquire about the boats to Livingston, Guatemala.

“Just show up at the immigration building in the morning.” The lady reassures me. There will be people there selling tickets. Just be there by around 8:30 or 9:00 in the morning.”

As I walk by the fenced-off immigration building to double-check my bearings, I notice a security guard just inside the closed gate. I tell him that I plan on heading to Livingston tomorrow, and he soon invites me inside.”

“You can buy your ticket right now.” He reassures me. “Come with me.”

Soon, I am standing at the counter in a small store/ticket agency, situated on the back side of the immigration building, right near the ocean pier where the Guatemala-bound boats tie up.

Ten minutes later, I am holding a ticket.

“Just be here by 9:30 in the morning,” the man reassures me. “That will be plenty of time.”

After an early evening dinner, room #11 in the St. Charles Inn quickly consumes me. I have a hot shower, wireless internet access, and a warm cozy bed. What more could I want?

Early Friday morning, March 12, 2010, I arrive early at Grace’s Restaurant. Shortly after ordering my last meal in Belize, I feel two gentle hands briefly rubbing my shoulders from behind.

As I look up with surprise, I am net with Dionicio’s warm smile. He looks so incredible in his neatly pressed dark slacks and his brilliant white traditional Mayan shirt.

“I have business to take care of in town today.” He tells me. “I thought I might see you here.”

After a joy-filled five minute reunion, Dionicio shakes my hand again, and quickly disappears out the restaurant’s front entrance, racing off to run his errands.

Less than one hour later, my heavy load is strapped to my back as I casually stroll toward the ocean front immigration offices.

First I am required to pay $37.50 (BZ) for the privilege of leaving the country. With receipt in hand, I then approach an immigration officer who stamps my visa to indicate that I am leaving. In less than two minutes I have passed in one end of the building and out the other.

Shortly after 10:00 a.m., our small four-bench launch, loaded with seven passengers and seven heavy bags, pulls away from the pier. As our boat slowly taxis away from the shoreline, I turn back to lovingly snap a few final photos of a country that I have grown to love.

Following My Heart

As I reflect back on my twenty-six amazing days in Belize, I cannot help but laugh at one realization.

In mid February, as my cool air-conditioned bus cruised southbound along the coast of Mexico’s Yucatan peninsula, I had only one firm Belizean destination in mind. There was no doubt in my mind that I would be visiting San Ignacio. My friends Roger and Agi from Cozumel had told me about San Ignacio—and something in that conversation registered strongly, leaving a footprint in my heart.

As I prepare to leave Belize, I cannot help but experience a slight feeling of questioning, saying: “But I didn’t go to San Ignacio yet.”

“Don’t worry,” I tell the little voice, “Once we get to Guatemala, we can come back to Belize to finish our journey here.”

Then a strong wave of understanding washes through me as a series of little Jedi voices slowly teach me a lesson.

“No,” the little Jedi voices tell me. “You did everything in Belize that you needed to do. The prompting to go to San Ignacio was merely to get you headed in the right direction, using a symbol that was present in your memories.”

“There is no need to come back.” The little Jedi voices continue. “Wherever you go, you will encounter amazing adventures. It matters not where you are. All that matters is that you remain in the moment, and learn the lessons resonating right in front of you. Guatemala is your new temporary home now. Be present and learn.”

Peace resonates as I realize that this is a goodbye. I will be staying in Guatemala for the immediate foreseeable future.

Yes, in the process of following my heart, I have had twenty six amazing days in Belize: Visiting Mayan ruins located down secluded jungle rivers, scuba diving in exotic places, sailing for three days in the Caribbean, camping on tiny islands, and swimming on beautiful beaches.

And who could forget nine amazing days in the tiny Mayan village of Santa Elena, nestled away in the high mountainous jungles of southwestern Belize.

I know that I will never forget.

Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved

(This is the fifth installment of a series of posts describing my experiences in the Mayan village of Santa Elena. Subsequent posts will follow very soon.)

Sunday night turns out to be bone-chilling cold, as the nighttime skies have no blanketing cloud cover to insulate the mountain valley.

And then there are the amazing stars. For the first time in over a week, I can see stars. Oh, how incredibly beautiful they are as they twinkle and shimmer in the black sky above, free from the haze of surrounding ambient lights. Particularly sharp is the belted constellation of Orion, brilliantly gleaming in the starry skies directly above.

But something else has also seemed to join me in the last night or two. Little bugs, from some unknown planet, have landed on my lower legs, planting their flags of discovery into my soft warm flesh. Perhaps the cold on their own home planet drives them to find a new world under warm blankets. The only thing I know for certain is that for two nights now, my lower legs seem to be gradually filling up with little red itchy spots that begin as a small white donut with a red spot in the middle, and then gradually morph into the shape of a tight insanely-itchy pimple.

Mosquitoes no longer seem to bother me. It appears that I may be growing immune to them. On occasion, when I do get bitten, the itchy swelling recedes in less than thirty minutes. But starting on Saturday, I also begin to notice that teensy-tiny black flies have begun landing on my legs during the day. As soon as I notice them and shoo them away, a small bright-red drop of blood is conspicuously left behind on my now itching leg.

Between these daytime mini-vampires and my nighttime planetary explorers, my lower legs, and even forearms, are beginning to look like I have come down with a mild case of chicken pox.

But with a smile on my face, I remain mostly peaceful, using mind discipline to remain in the moment. Reassuring myself that, “This body does not define me. The itching is nothing more than an electrical signal from the physical cells of my leg transmitted to the physical cells of my brain.”

“My body is just fine,” I continually reassure myself.

With gratitude, I lovingly thank the nerve cells for doing their job, for relaying the itch message to my awareness. Then I meditatively reassure those same cells that all is well with my leg, that they can take a break, and that I will now take it from here.

For the most part this meditative relaxation works, but then there are the times—usually right before bed—where my hands suddenly lose control and I am frantically scratching down to the bones with fingertips and fingernails, up and down, all around every square inch of my lower legs and forearms.

Once my entirely-satisfying physical temper tantrum is over, I pop another antihistamine and return to my mind controlling meditations.

I cannot help but wonder in the back of my mind if all this itching might be karma coming back to get me for my having repeatedly and meanly chased that poor little itching dog away from the guesthouse entrance. I so want to love that homely little dog, but cannot bring myself to allow him within twenty feet of my doorway.

On a more positive note, the sleep-reducing effects of early morning roosters are now greatly reduced due to the fact that I have once again begun wearing earplugs to bed.

But as much as my comments may sound like playful complaining, I continue to literally love this beautiful village of Santa Elena. Love flows constantly through my veins, and joy shines forth from my eyes.

Moments of Vanity

Monday morning is so quiet and peaceful. After a quick meal of eggs and tortillas at Teodora’s, my soul pushes me to simply enjoy a quiet and relaxing morning at the guest house, enjoying the mystical views, inhaling the fresh mountain air, listening to the quaint sounds of village life—even if many of those sounds happen to include roosters randomly crowing loudly—some originating less than ten feet away.

After about an hour of pure bliss, I glance at my toenails.

“Those could use a new coating of polish.” I tell myself.

Soon, I am filing, and smoothing, preparing my fading toes for a brand-new two-layer coat of “I’m not really a waitress.”

For anyone not aware of the culturally-unique names of OPI nail polish, Yes, “I’m not really a waitress” is actually a nail polish color. It just happens to be the most beautiful color of dark reddish-brown polish on the market (well at least it has my vote).

After having been deprived for three months while In Valladolid, I dug through my stored suitcases while in Cozumel, and secretly stowed away my nail supplies for future moments such as this one.

Minutes later, I have pink sponges stuffed between my toes. You know the kind, the ones that are the width of your foot, with five little puffy things that stick up pushing your toes apart.

As about half of my toes are proudly displaying their brilliant new protective coating, I spy three handsome young adult machete-carrying men approaching the guesthouse. Two of them are Filimon and Jeremiah, a couple of Dionicio’s older sons. I have never officially met the other young man.

A quick wave of brief embarrassment floods through my body as I can only imagine what my vanity must look like to them.

I greet them with a giggle on my slightly mortified face, apologizing for my inability to stand, pointing to my half painted nails with an awkward look in my eyes.

But I know they will understand. “Surely, some of their female friends must wear some type of polish.” I whisper silently.

Actually, I cannot really say if they do or don’t. What I do remember is that every person in the village was always very clean, well groomed, and wearing clean clothing.

The women and older girls invariably wore dresses—never jeans, slacks, or shorts. Most of the older women wore old fashioned dresses, usually made from a shiny fabric, often of a single color. The clothing of the younger women and girls was much more modern and stylish. They usually wore skirts with modest but stylish tops. The only jeans I remember seeing on any female body were on a young three-year old girl at the church.

As to whether the women or girls wear makeup or nail polish, all I can say is that I did not see any—yet I was not specifically looking either.

The men wear slacks or shorts, usually with t-shirts. But at church, many of the young men wear long sleeve shirts with attractive blazers—of course, all immaculately clean and wrinkle free.

Roof Burning

“We’re here to tear down the structure that fell over in the wind.” Filimon tells me with a giggle, as he glances down at my red toes separated by pink spongy pads.

Just to the sides of the guesthouse are two outdoor shelters—open-air wooden structures with high thatched roofs, presumably intended to provide daytime shade for guests.

One of the two structures, the one directly west of the guesthouse, had fully collapsed during the same windstorm that damaged the roof. The posts completely snapped, leaving nothing but a peaked thatched roof standing directly on the ground.

I watch as these three handsome young men rapidly chop at the vines that hold the roof together. Soon, all the palm leaves have been freed from the poles, and are sliding along the still-peaked poles down toward the ground. Next, I watch as the strong youth carry pile after pile of palm branches to a hillside path about fifty feet away.

A cigarette lighter is touched to one end of the dry pile.

As the branches whoosh into a bright ball of flames, I am amazed by the intensity of the heat. I can feel the boiling radiating energy of the flames from over fifty feet away.

Soon, the young men begin to gather remaining scraps from the palm branches, carrying them over to throw on the fire.

By now, my toes have long since been painted, my sponges are removed, and I am carefully walking around in flip-flops, snapping photos and helping where I can.

Just then, a large black scorpion crawls out from beneath one of the branches, beginning to run through the grassy hillside. Filimon spies it and captures it by placing a short stick on the tail, just above the stinger. The body of the scorpion is at least two, perhaps three inches in length. The long venomous tail adds another two to three inches when fully extended.

Filimon breaks off the stinger end off by pushing down with his stick. Then he reaches with his hand to pick up the active little creepy-crawler in his fingers, allowing the little guy to crawl around on his hand.

“Do you want to hold it?” He teases me with a grin.

“No thanks.” I respond, after a brief hesitation. A small part of me tells me that one day soon I will face such inhibitions.

Soon he sets the critter free, placing it gently on the trunk of a small tree nearby.

“Are there very many scorpions around here?” I ask inquisitively.

“Not a great number.” Filimon replies with confidence. “But there are some. You need to be careful, because their stings are very painful. While they will not kill you, they can make you very sick, causing numbness, aching, and lots of pain. It can take a few weeks to get over the symptoms.”

While the fire continues to roar and dance—heavily charring but not burning the surrounding moist green foliage, the boys return to the wooden A-shaped frame. Soon, the frame itself is nothing but a pile of about 10 large wooden poles and scraps of vine.

Filimon takes a break and stands next to me to talk.

“What will you do with the poles?” I ask.

“We will use them for firewood.” He replies.

“Of course,” I think to myself. “They seem to have uses for everything.”

After a delightful chat with Filiman, I learn that he loves it here in Santa Elena. Just like his brother Timoteo, Filiman’s goal is to also remain in the village, getting married, raising a family, and living off the amazing jungle.

Babbling Judgment

A little while later I see a white-skinned North-American-looking man approaching the hand-pumped well in front of Christina’s home, directly below the guesthouse.

With intentions to be friendly, I wander closer, but soon I realize he has filled a bucket of water and is bathing himself under a tree right along the edge of the road. Choosing to not bother him, I retreat to my guesthouse porch and resume my Spanish study.

Thirty minutes later, the man himself walks up to the guesthouse to say hello to me.

I quickly learn that he is Canadian, from the Vancouver Island area. Almost immediately, I pick up on a judgmental energy that has me emotionally backing up, wanting to run for the hills.

“I have been coming to Belize for over twenty years.” He tells me. “I’m thinking about buying land in the San Ignacio area, but it is being overrun with rude foreigners.”

Then he switches to the village. “These local people are all gossipers. They were all down there gathered around talking and watching me while I bathed. … All the men do is lie around and drink, and drink. They are lazy, and have too much time on their hands. The smart and lucky ones are able to get a job and get the hell out of here.”

His little soap box lasts for almost fifteen minutes. I politely listen, not saying much in response, realizing that there is no point in my trying to change his mind about anything.

“The friend that I am staying with told me there was a guest house here, and he suggested that I could stay here. But I told him that, if it is alright with him, I would prefer to sleep at his house. Just in case though, do you mind if I come in to look around?” he asks.

Part of me is beginning to seriously judge this man, silently screaming, “Please, please, please, do not stay here at the guest house. I do not like you. I do not want you here. You will ruin my experiences here.”

But then I catch myself, barely managing to remain the observer, barely managing to pull myself back to a spiritually centered perspective.

“I am the one being judgmental now.” I remind myself, again silently. “I just need to maintain love and peace, no matter what he does or says.”

Soon, the man excuses himself and walks away. Amazingly, I never see him again during the remainder of my time in the village.

House Burning

I am soon eating a delicious lunch at Dionicio’s home, enjoying a delightful conversation with Heralda. She feeds me rice with tomatoes, jippi jappa, and hot cocoa.

As we talk about my morning, I comment regarding how fast and incredibly hot the palm branches burned this morning.

“What happens if a spark hits one of your thatched roofs?” I ask inquiringly. “Do people’s homes ever burn down in the village?”

“Actually, our home burned down four or five years ago.” Heralda responds. “The flames destroyed everything we owned.”

“Really,” I answer with shock. “Would you tell me about it?”

Soon I learn that a spark from someone’s nearby fire had landed on their roof. Heralda was inside and heard some crackling above. As soon as she realized that the roof was on fire, she ran outside to get help—but there was nothing she could do.

“All of the buildings were burned to the ground.” She tells me. “We had no clothes, no food, nothing left.”

“We slept on the floor in that little building by the road.” Heralda continues. “There is a corn mill in there, but it is broken. The women used to get together and socialize in that building but they don’t do it anymore.”

“After our fire, several people gave us some clothes,” she adds, “and various families around the village took turns feeding us in their homes. Those were very difficult times. But we made it through. We literally started over.”

A Chance Encounter

During lunch, I run the numbers in my head. Heralda tells me that Santa Cruz is only two miles away. I should have ample time to walk both ways, spend a couple of hours visiting the Mayan ruins, and still make it back with plenty of time for dinner.

I know absolutely nothing about the small ruins, other than that they are a short way out of town on the other side of Santa Cruz—a little Mayan village that I passed while on the bus headed toward Santa Elena just five days earlier.

Forty-five minutes later I arrive at the western edge of Santa Cruz, believing my journey to be almost complete. As I walk through the village, I see many pigs on hillsides, some of which are rummaging around in the underbrush near the road.

“I wonder why villagers in Santa Elena don’t raise pigs?” I ponder briefly.

I soon learn that this small village is very spread out. I continue to smile and say hello to passers-by, but remain mostly focused on my journey. As I pass through the center of town, I notice a cream-colored bus parked on the side of the road. Directly across the street, I notice a small building. Crowds of villagers are lined up outside. My curiosity is definitely peaked, but I continue walking.

Twenty minutes later I finally reach the water tower on the other side of town. The ruins are very near. A small handmade sign marks a small path that leads away from the road into the jungle.

As I reach the ruins, I discover two earth-covered pyramids, completely covered by trees and jungle foliage. While it is possible to tell that these are indeed ruins, virtually no excavation has been attempted. The view is spectacular—a 360 degree view all around, as the pyramids sit above the highest hills in the area.

While exploring the immediate perimeter, I simply inhale the ancient energy of this sacred place, meditating, reflecting on the Mayans of old—how they lived and died here, raised their families in these surrounding valleys, found food in the same jungles, and bathed in the same rivers.

As a glance at my wrist tells me it is time to move on, my return journey begins.

I again pass through the center of Santa Cruz. The crowds of waiting people are now gone, but the cream-colored school bus still sits in the street. I notice that the bus’s back door is propped open. When I see a very American-looking man walk around the corner of the bus, wearing blue scrubs, carrying a large plastic bin, I confidently call out, “Hello.”

In an animated, but relatively short conversation, I learn that Dave is one of several doctors from a university somewhere in Tennessee. They are here in Belize for one week, performing medical service for the indigenous Mayan people in several small villages.

“I’m staying at a small guesthouse in Santa Elena.” I volunteer.

“Hey, we’re going to be in Santa Elena tomorrow.” He responds with enthusiasm.

“I will probably see you there.” I respond eagerly.

Somehow, I know that my day tomorrow will involve spending time with these generous doctors from the states.

An hour later, as I am almost back to Santa Elena, a man walking down the road pauses and begins talking to me in Spanish—a fact that really catches me off guard. Amazingly, I understand perfectly, and we carry on a fun five minute conversation. He reminds me that we met at Dionicio’s home just a few days earlier. I apologize for forgetting—I have so much new information crammed in every corner of my leaky brain.

The very friendly man just moved to Santa Elena six months ago, having come from Guatemala—thus the Spanish. He excitedly tells me how he formerly spent two years working in Long Island, New York, working as a landscaper.

As loving energy flows through my body, everyone I meet seems to be so incredibly friendly.

Guava Giggles

By 4:15 p.m., I am again seated on the guesthouse porch, enjoying a relaxing pre-dinner rest.

“Hello Miss.” A sweet little voice calls out.

When I look up, a darling little girl named Rosaria (one of the dancing angels from the church) comes over to visit, bringing two shy friends with her. After giggling with me, constantly referring to me as “Miss”, the girls walk over to a tree about fifteen feet away, quickly retrieving four green hard fruits, about the size and texture of a green walnut.

“What are these?” I ask with a giggle, as the girls begin to bite down very hard on their green mysteries.

“They are Guava.” She giggles again. “They are not ripe, but they are still good.”

I try to bite down on mine, but my teeth feel like they are biting into a golf ball.

Rosaria hands her guava to me, already half eaten, showing me the insides, offering to let me taste it.

Sure enough, as I bite into the softer center, I can definitely taste guava—but the fruit is still far from ripe.

A few minutes later, as Rosaria and her friends walk away I am delighted by what happens.

Rosaria repeatedly turns around, waves eagerly, and in a giggling voice calls out, “Bye Miss … I will come again Miss.”

These beautiful little angels may not know it, but they have totally won over my heart.

Village Romance

Dinner at Irma’s turns into a real treat. Her husband Justo (pronounced WHOSE-toe) decides to join us in the kitchen, and a charming conversation unfolds as I chow down on a bowl of beans, a large plate of cabbage, and a bottomless supply of tortillas.

“How did you two meet?” I ask, hoping to build a more personal bond with my hosts.

“I was born in Guatemala,” Justo begins. “My parents brought me to Belize when I was just a young toddler. We moved several times before settling in a tiny border village called San Vicente.”

“As a young man, I loved to play the guitar,” Justo continues. “I began to travel around from village to village, playing in various churches. I met Irma one time when I was playing here in Santa Elena.”

“After a while, I fell in love with Irma and knew that I wanted to marry her.” Justo adds to my delight. “My parents came with me to Santa Elena to ask Irma’s parents for her hand in marriage. Several months later, we were married, and soon I moved into Santa Elena to stay.”

“I was about 20 years old then.” He adds. “Now, we have nine beautiful children together. The oldest three are big. My two boys live in Placencia with my father. They like to live and work in the town.”

Then Justo changes the topic. “We spent five hours this morning working on our cacao farm, harvesting large buckets filled with ripe cacao. The seeds need to ferment for five or six days before we dry and sell them.”

Then, Justo does something no one else in the village has yet done. He asks about my extended travels, my education, my former jobs, and my plans for the future.

As I return to the guesthouse, shortly before darkness settles in, my heart is again full with joy.

Worm Wonderings

Not long after finishing a delicious Tuesday morning breakfast at Christina’s home, I hear loud honking coming from the road on the east end of town. The sound gradually proceeds westward, until an old cream-colored bus comes into view.

Immediately, I hop up, secure the guesthouse door, and eagerly bound off to join the welcoming committee. Before I get very far, one of Dionicio’s sons rushes over to meet me.

“Brenda, can we have your keys?” He asks. “We need to open the center.”

“You mean the guesthouse keys fit the center too?” I ask with a shocked look.

All week I had wondered what might be contained in that small locked-up building, just across from the school. Soon, I find out first hand.

I am the first to greet the doctors as they descend from the bus and begin carrying large plastic bins of supplies into the small empty building—a building perhaps 20 by 40 feet, with concrete floor, block walls, shuttered windows, and a corrugated metal roof.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask Dr. Dave, feeling eager to assist in any way possible.

For a while, I feel like I am in the way, not sure if they really want or need any help. But then, the only MD in the group, Dr. Joe, approaches and tells me, “Brenda, if you want to help, you could be in charge of passing out toiletry supplies. That will free us all up to work with patients.”

I soon learn that Dave is a Physician’s Assistant (PA), as are two of the woman doctors. Two other younger late-twenties PA students, who are almost finished with their course of studies, are also part of the entourage.

“Where exactly are you all from?” I ask one of the students.

“We are from a small university called Bethel University.” She answers, quickly adding, “You have probably never heard of it. We used to be Bethel College, but just recently achieved university status.”

“This is my first time coming to Belize.” She tells me. “But groups from the university come down every year at this time, spending one week traveling from village to village, providing whatever medical assistance we can.”

For over four hours, I sit in a chair at the back of the room while my friends from Santa Elena line up to see the doctors. Some of the local faces are very familiar, while I am seeing others for the first time. As each family group finishes their visits with one of the medical team, they come over to my station. I give them a plastic bag into which they dump whatever medications they have been given. Then I add toothbrushes, toothpaste, soap, and even pony-tail bands.

Repeatedly, I witness these loving doctors provide free medications for bronchitis, ear infections, skin rashes, bug bites, and so on. They even diagnose one case of chicken pox. When one medication is depleted, the team works together to improvise and find something that will be a good substitute—such as antibiotic eye drops that will be used for an ear infection.

“Dave,” I begin to ask, “I notice that you are giving out worm pills to everyone that comes in. Do you think that maybe I should consider taking some worm medication since I have been living and eating here?”

“Absolutely, I would highly recommend it.” Dave begins. “I plan on taking some pills myself after I return to the states.”

Dr. Dave then reaches out onto his table, grabs a packet of pills and says “Here, take these pills together. One dose will be plenty.”

I find it interesting how powerful our minds can be. Prior to asking that question, I had not experienced the slightest fear about intestinal worms. A strong feeling of confidence has long permeated my soul, continuously reassuring me that as long as I am following inner guidance, I have absolutely nothing to fear or worry about.

But suddenly, upon seeing a doctor pass out worm medications, I begin to feel cramps in my stomach and intestines. I begin to experience slight fear that maybe I am carrying around parasites—that maybe I need to be cured.

Then I go into my head. “But maybe I do have worms, and these doctors were synchronously sent here by the universe so that I could get the medication that I need to cure me?”

With a smile on my face, I accept the packet containing two pills, deciding that I can examine my faith later, thus postponing the debate between head and heart.

“It won’t hurt to carry the packet around for a while.” I tell myself. “I will meditate over this decision at a later time.”

Crafty Goodbyes

As lunchtime rolls around, Glenda comes to fetch me. The line of waiting people has almost disappeared, and I excuse myself, telling Dr. Dave “I’ll be back soon. I hope you are still here so I can say goodbye.”

As I walk with Glenda back to her home, I ask about her very interesting head attire. Her baby, Marlene, Is wrapped up in a white cotton baby-carrying bag, suspended over her back. What I find amazing is that the weight of the baby is supported by a thin strap placed at the upper area of Glenda’s forehead.

“Doesn’t that hurt your neck?” I ask inquisitively.

“No, it is actually quite easy.” She responds. “Everyone carries their babies this way. Mopan Mayans always use white cloth, but other types of Mayans use different colors of cloth to carry their babies.”

During my days in Belize, I have witnessed countless women carrying baskets, buckets, tubs, and even ice chests on top their head, often without hands. I have witnessed men carrying large loads of firewood and huge logs, all suspended from a strap above their forehead—but this is the first time I have seen a baby carried this way. I am delighted.

As soon as lunch is over, both Glenda and I rush back to the doctors. I am eager to say goodbye. Glenda is eager to sell souvenirs. A large group of village women and young girls are already gathered in front of the village center, with a colorful display of baskets, necklaces, bracelets, and other handcrafted items spread out in front of them.

Meanwhile, the medical team is busy packing up the bus. On one trip through the grass, Dr. Dave spies a small tarantula. Eager to see my first live tarantula, I scamper over with my camera. The spider seems very large to me, but I am told it is quite small for a tarantula. The skinny body is less than two inches long, with the leg span being less than four inches—but nonetheless, I finally get to see one of these large arachnids. I can honestly say that seeing another is not at the top of my wish list.

As the team prepares to board the bus, I do not hear their whispers, but I do see a look of puzzlement in their eyes.

“If you want souvenirs, this is probably your best opportunity.” I hear one of the Belizean escorts quietly tell the medical team. “We have lots of time today, and this village has a good selection of crafts.”

Soon, all of the doctors turn around and walk over to the excited villagers. For twenty minutes, I witness a joyful bargaining frenzy, as a happy medical team purchases beautiful treasures from my new friends.

I gleefully enjoy the amazing crafts from afar. My backpack is full, my travels are long, and my whole life right now seems to be about letting go of possessions. But in a different time, under different circumstances, perhaps I may have bought the entire display. Some of the handmade baskets, carved coconut shells, wood carvings, and jewelry are amazingly creative and beautiful.

Peace fills my heart as I wave goodbye to a dirt-covered, cream-colored, east-bound bus. Soon, it disappears over the small hill in the distance.

Toucan Sightings

During lunch, Glenda had told me, “Brenda, I saw two beautiful Toucan’s fly over my house this morning while you were helping the doctors.”

Then, while sitting on my shady porch after the doctors left, a young boy approaches trying to sell me some beans. After a short conversation, he shows me the side of his hand. Written in blue ink, just below his thumb, is the number “28.” 

“I saw 28 Toucans in the jungle behind the center where the doctors were today.” He tells me. “They were everywhere.”

Not having given up on my quest, I again set out for an hour long search. I search the area behind the center, I visually scour the jungles around Glenda’s home, and I walk back out to Mathias’s cacao farm—and I find … nothing.

Smiling to myself, I walk peacefully back to the guesthouse, knowing full well that I will see Toucans exactly when and where I am supposed to see them, and not before. While I would love to see them today, I have absolutely no emotional attachment.

Vanessa

While not intending to advertise my birthday, a few people in the village have occasionally asked me how old I am. Without any shyness whatsoever, I have confidently answered that I will be turning 55 soon. If they inquire further, I tell them that my birthday will be on Wednesday—but I never expected any type of gifts.

After a very relaxed late afternoon of studying Spanish grammar, sweet little Elida soon arrives at my door to fetch me for dinner at Teodora’s house.

“Brenda, I brought you some gifts for your birthday tomorrow.” She tells me with a big wide grin.

My heart melts as Elida begins to hand me my presents, one at a time. Throughout the process, her face glows with a radiant smile.

The first lovely gift is a small necklace made from long, shiny, black, cylindrical beads.

The second gift is also a necklace. This one, which I choose to put on, is lined around the neck by tiny, round, black beads. On each side of the necklace’s front are three small silver beads surrounding two larger turquoise beads. Right in the middle is a beautiful shiny black pendant shaped with a slight ‘S’-like curve.

The third gift is a small bracelet made from three rows of small wooden beads that are flat on the inside surface. The beads are bound together with flexible segments of elastic. The bracelet slides immediately over my hand and onto my right wrist.

The fourth gift is another bracelet made from intricately woven tiny red, white, and blue beads, forming Indian-like patterns. Right in the middle of the main portion of the bracelet are some letters.

“Oh, what does it say?” I ask with excitement as I realize that there are letters.

Turning the bracelet over and upside down to orient the word, I read the name “Vanessa.”

“How beautiful,” I tell dear sweet Elida. “Thank you so much for these wonderful gifts. They are very special. You really didn’t need to give me anything.”

“Oh but I did,” she replies innocently. “You helped the doctors today, even when you didn’t need to.”

“What beautiful logic … and what a beautiful heart-felt gift,” I think to myself. “I will forever cherish my “Vanessa” bracelet.

As we walk toward Teodora’s house for dinner, my heart is overflowing. For a brief moment, I giggle to myself as I half consider the idea of changing my name to “Vanessa.”

Changing The World

As a beautiful sunset forms on the mountainous horizon to my left, I enjoy watching the movement of men and boys racing around and kicking balls on the large soccer field below me in the distance—across the stream, and above the school.

As I sit quietly in the deepening darkness, I spot a woman walking up the trail. She is obviously heading to a home somewhere on the hill above me.

“Hello” I call out in a pleasant tone, not really expecting an answer.

I am pleasantly surprised when the woman not only responds, but actually comes over to visit. The darkness is already so thick that I cannot even see her face, but that does not matter in the least. I feel an instant connection and am eager to talk for a few minutes.

I quickly learn that her name is Constancia, and that she lives in the little home just fifty feet up the hill from the guesthouse. I am quite surprised as she confidently tells me that she is divorced and that she lives by herself. She has raised six children. The oldest is a thirty-one year old girl, with each subsequent child alternating in gender. The youngest fifteen year old boy lives with his father.

“I have been on my own now for fourteen years.” She tells me. “Sometimes my daughter-in-law stays here with me while her husband works, but I take care of myself.”

Constancia radiates a vibrant, confident energy about her. The discussion is delightful.

Stated simply as a loving observation, with absolutely no judgment intended, I have indeed noticed that the majority of the women and older girls in the village have been quiet, polite, humble, and reserved—taking considerable time to warm up to me as a stranger. However, my experience with the men is that most are very confident and talkative.

I feel encouraged to see how Constancia seems to have personally empowered herself.

After Constancia disappears in the darkness up the path, I soon retire to my own dark bedroom. While lying awake on my pillow, I am engulfed in thought about the question:

“Is there some way to help these women further empower themselves without meddling and interfering in a beautiful culture—a culture in which they all seem so happy and contented—a culture in which life is so simple and free from the cares of the external world—a culture that I have grown to love.

Then my answer comes passionately from within.

It is neither my right, nor my privilege, nor is it even within my power to manipulate or coerce change in another—whether it be a single individual or an entire culture.

By seeing a need for change in others, I am actually projecting my own judgment outward. I am stunned as I realize the momentary arrogance of assuming that “my way of thinking might be better than someone else’s.”

The only thing I can or need do is to continue my own personal healing process—my highly personal inner healing journey—a journey that is teaching me to see the entire world through the eyes of unconditional love.

Powerful personal experiences continue to confirm that as I shift my inner world, my view of the outer world magically shifts as well.

In times past, the ‘old me’ used to see a world filled with war, crime, corruption, and fear.

But now, the ‘new me’ increasingly finds only love and peace in every situation, no matter where I go, no matter what I do.

It is only when I allow judgment and fear to enter my consciousness that I begin to see reasons to judge and to fear everywhere around me.

No! Changing others is not my responsibility.

In fact, as I think about it, I have long had the conviction that when counseling others, my goal is not to change them in any way—it only to help them get in touch with their own personal inner guidance—to help them find the courage to recognize and access the passionate desires that rise from within their own soul.

A sense of deep peace surges through my soul as I close my eyes on this beautiful Tuesday evening. I am content in knowing that I can indeed change the world, because it is entirely an inside job.

Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved

 

 
(This is the fourth installment of a series of posts describing my experiences in the Mayan village of Santa Elena. Subsequent posts will follow very soon.)

For Saturday’s breakfast, I again find myself in the extremely humble dirt-floor home of Teodora, but this time Juliana is my sweet and talkative host.

“My mother left early this morning on a bus to Dangriga.” Juliana begins. “The doctors say she has kidney stones, and she went to see a specialist.”

“Tell me more about yourself, and about Teodora.” I ask Juliana with great interest.

I soon learn that Juliana, who is 30 years old, is Teodora’s youngest daughter. She married her husband when she was 25 years old, and does not yet have any children of her own.

Lavina, the young 20-year-old who fed me on Thursday is married to Juliana’s brother.

Teodora, age 74, has twelve children—but only eight of them are alive. One son died during a stabbing incident in Punta Gorda. Another son died from a snake bite wound. He ventured deep into the jungle late one afternoon, with intentions to do some night hunting. At around 3:30 p.m., he was bitten by a poisonous snake. He managed to make it home by around 5:30 p.m., but it was too late—there was nothing they could do to save him, as the poison had spread too deeply throughout his body.

As Juliana and I talk about poisonous snakes, I cannot help but reflect back on my own journey deep into the jungle, only yesterday.

Next I learn that Teodora’s husband is named Ansuncion. I am surprised to discover that he is the same sweet elderly man who carried palm branches to help repair the guesthouse roof on Thursday afternoon.

“He doesn’t speak English.” Juliana adds. “He didn’t go to school and never learned how.”

“Most of Teodora’s living children reside here in the village, or somewhere nearby.” Juliana continues. “But right now, my husband, and many of my brothers (including Lavina’s husband) are all in Placencia together, building homes to earn money.”

A Toucan Offer

After breakfast, I decide to get some air by exploring the road that leads out into the wild on the western end of the village. My legs and hips are still quite tight and stiff from yesterday’s strenuous jungle hiking, and I want to loosen them up—but at the same time I realize that I won’t be straying too far from the village.

Just as I begin my walk, I pass Glenda, who is walking in the opposite direction with her three young children.

“Where are you headed?” I asked with curiosity.

“We’re going to our farm to gather some beans.” She responds with a smile.

“Do you take the baby with you?” I ask curiously, pointing to tiny Marlene.

“Oh no,” she giggles, “I’m dropping Marlene and Aaron off at my mothers. I’ll take Willmur with me. He is big enough to help me pull the beans.”

By now, I have learned that Glenda is Dionicio’s youngest daughter. She and Mateus married each other when Glenda was only 16 years old. After nearly ten years of marriage, they have three beautiful children, and appear to be quite happy with their lives together.

Dionicio had previously told me that it is quite common for many of the youth to get married at ages as young as 15 or 16.

“But not all of the youth start at such a young age.” Dionicio had added. “None of my sons have married yet. My older boys are already in their low twenties. They insist that they want to wait a little longer.”

“Many marriages in past generations were arranged by parents.” Dionicio said with a smile, “But nowadays, everyone chooses their own partners.”

As I continue toward the edge of the village, I notice a young woman dumping a bucket onto a large concrete slab near the road, adjacent to the soccer field. The contents appear be yellowish-white seeds of some type, perhaps two inches long, three-fourths of an inch wide, and maybe three-eighths of an inch thick.

“What are you doing?” I ask the beautiful young teenage girl.

“Drying my cacao seeds in the sun.” She replies.

After a short discussion I learn that this young woman’s name is also Brenda, just like me. She harvested these cacao seeds herself. After three days of washing and soaking, she is now setting them out into the sun to dry.

“When they are fully dry,” Brenda tells me, “they will be a dark brownish-red color. I will take them to Punta Gorda and sell them for about $3 (Belize) per pound.”

“But they don’t look very much like chocolate.” I tease. “Do they really make chocolate from these seeds?”

“Yes,” she replies with a giggle as she breaks one open to show me.

I am surprised to see a soft interior with a dark brown chocolate-like color. After requesting permission to capture a few photos, I again resume my walk.

For nearly thirty minutes, I follow a generally westerly heading, constantly climbing up, then down, curving left then right, as the small winding dirt road meanders through the hills in the direction of the next small village, called Pueblo Viejo.

But before I am even halfway to Pueblo Viejo, I opt to turn around. For the first time all week, the sun is quite hot, and the humidity feels like a steam sauna. My muscles have had a reasonable workout, and my eyes have enjoyed some beautiful scenery.

As I approach the boundaries of Santa Elena, a man on a bicycle passes me and then slows down before turning around to speak.

“There’s a fruit tree on my cacao farm,” he begins, “and a whole group of Toucans are gathered in the branches, munching on the berries. They are beautiful birds. If you want to stop by my home after lunch, I can have a couple of my boys take you out there to see them.”

“How far away is it?” I ask.

“Not far at all.” The man responds vaguely.

My experience continues to be that I rarely get a detailed answer when I ask about distance. Invariably, the answer always seems to be something like “Not very far” or “It’s very far.” I still have no concrete notion as to what “not very far” actually means.

“What is your name? … and where do you live?” I politely ask with anticipation, eagerly wanting to take advantage of an opportunity to see Toucan birds in the wild.

“My name is Mathias.” He replies. “I think you were at my mother’s home this morning.”

“You mean Teodora’s home?” I ask surprised.

“Yes, I am her son.” Mathias responds just as we crest the hill looking back down into the village of Santa Elena.

“That’s my home right down there,” he points with his hand toward a distant cluster of huts just above the school building, “right next door to Teodora’s home.”

A sense of eager excitement fills my heart as I thank Mathias for his kind offer. I have long hoped for the opportunity to see one of these famous birds in person—birds which I have seen my whole life on the flat cardboard cover of Fruit Loops cereal boxes.

“Yes,” I tell him happily. “I will come by your house right after lunch.”

Toucan, Toucan … Who’s Got The Toucan?

Lunch at Christina’s turns out to be very similar to Heralda’s breakfast-soup, only this overflowing bowl of mystery delights also includes Jippi Jappa in addition to the ChuChu and whole boiled egg—plus, of course, the usual delicious corn tortillas. 

As we engage in friendly conversation, I learn many new interesting facts about Christina’s life. Christina is now 32 years old. Having been married in her late teens, her first son William, who is now 13, is already attending his first year of high school in Punta Gorda. Her only daughter, Anna, is 11 years old, and then of course there is nine-year-old Heraldo who has now been to my home a couple of times to fetch me for meals.

Christina tells me that both she and her husband were raised here in the village. Her mother, who it turns out is Dionicio’s sister, is still alive, and also lives in the village. It takes me a second, but I finally realize that Christina is Dionicio’s niece.

“Many people here in the village are related to each other.” Christina tells me with a smile—a fact that I am beginning to realize on my own.

“What about your father?” I ask.

“Oh, he died from a snake bite when I was a little girl.” She replies casually, almost matter-of-factly.

“I was bitten once too,” she adds, “but they were able to cure me.”

“Do lots of people die from snake bites in the jungle?” I ask, since this is now the second such story that I have heard.

“Actually, no.” She replies. “My father is the only one that I know about.”

“But what about Teodora’s son?” I continue to pry, hoping to learn more.

“My father IS Teodora’s son.” She replies with a giggle.

As the conversation progresses, I also learn that Antonio, the pastor at the Church of Christ, is Christina’s younger brother. In fact, all four of Christina’s brothers live in the village. The family connections begin to boggle my mind. I have a hard time keeping everything straight.

One question I refrain from asking is how, or whether, people manage to avoid intermarrying with close relatives such as cousins. I decide this type of question is best left unasked. In my heart, I know that the answer does not really matter in the slightest.

As 1:30 p.m. rolls around, I find myself eagerly walking up to Mathias’s home.

“Are you ready?” he asks, as he walks out his front door. “I’m going to have my daughters take you to the farm.”

Soon, three young girls are escorting me back toward the western edge of the village. Elaine, the oldest, appears to be in her mid to upper teens. She is polite, but seems very shy and reserved. Blearny, perhaps nine or ten, and Rachel, perhaps four, complete the trio. I notice that tiny Rachel has no shoes, and Blearny’s flip flops are coming apart on the toe strap. Blearny and Elaine take turns carrying Rachel part of the way, but soon, she is again scampering around on the rocky dirt road in her bare feet.

After ten minutes, we enter a small trail that leads away from the road, heading into the jungle on the north. Seconds later, we emerge into a large hillside field covered with what must be several hundred Cacao trees. The trees are short and stumpy, as far as trees go, not reaching more than ten to fifteen feet in height. Scattered around the lower branches and trunks of these trees, huge cacao fruits are growing, directly attached by small stems hanging from the smooth bark. The fruits are almost cylindrical, being around ten to twelve inches in length and perhaps four to five inches in diameter. Some are green, while others are a bright reddish brown.

Almost immediately, Blearny takes a dull kitchen knife and whacks away at one of the fruits until it breaks free from the trunk. Then, while holding the fruit in one hand, she begins chopping away at it with the knife in her other hand.

I swallow a lump in my throat as I envision that any second now, her hand might slip, causing a bloody accident.

Soon, after nearly giving up, Elaine grabs the knife and takes over. After several firm chops, a one-inch thick fiber-filled outer shell has been removed, revealing a white lumpy fruit on the inside—the surface of which almost looks like brain tissue with its little bumps and fissures.

Blearny and Rachel immediately begin chewing away at the white meat of the fruit, discarding the large seeds onto the ground. Well, actually, Rachel just eats right through the chocolaty seeds.

Meanwhile, I am focused intently on the trees above, anxiously scanning the branches, hoping to find my beautiful long-billed friend-to-be. But no Toucan birds dot the horizon—none, nowhere. In fact, there are hardly any birds at all. Back and forth, we wander through the trees, quietly watching and listening, but our search ends in vain.

Almost forty minutes later, as I say goodbye to the girls back at Mathias’s home, I ask for permission to return to the farm by myself, perhaps in the morning. The idea of seeing Belize’s national bird has captured my fancy.

Tortilla Treats

After a long relaxing nap and a productive afternoon of Spanish studying, I observe as Mario, one of Irma’s sons, slowly walks up to my guesthouse doorway. I had started to wonder if I would be getting dinner tonight, as the time was already almost 5:40 p.m.

As we pass by the soccer field, I notice about 18 men and older boys actively running around and kicking the ball, while a handful of other young men watch eagerly from the sidelines. I long to simply stop and observe—but it is time for my evening meal, and I cannot delay. As the soccer field disappears behind me, I make a mental note of the fact that there are no females anywhere in the area—neither on the field nor among the spectators.

As I enjoy my dinner of Jippi Jappa, half-scrambled-half-fried egg, cabbage, and tortillas, Irma tells me that her husband is out playing soccer with other villagers. I had not even thought to previously ask her about her husband.

“They will play until it gets dark,” Irma tells me, “after which they all go to the river to bathe before returning home. The men and boys like to play soccer several evenings each week. My husband joins them when he can.”

“I went to Punta Gorda today.” Irma continues. “I am sorry that I am so late. I had some extra corn to sell in town, and I am just now getting a late start on dinner.”

I watch in fascination, as Irma repeatedly grabs small handfuls of corn dough—dough that I assume came from Christina’s mill. One by one she flattens the pieces of dough into thin round circles and slaps them on a circular metal griddle strategically placed above a low fire at her side. Twenty seconds later, Irma flips the edge of the tortilla with her bare fingers and skillfully turns it over. In another twenty seconds, she again grabs the tortilla, placing it in a towel-lined bowl right in front of me.

“Don’t you get burned when you touch the griddle like that?” I ask with amazement.

“No, I know how to do it just right so that I don’t burn myself.” She proudly replies.

By now, I have already observed many Mayan women doing the same thing—cooking their tortillas over an open fire, using only their bare hands. All of them seem to be very fast and efficient in the process.

As a noticeably thin dog stares from an open doorway to my left, I watch with surprise as Irma throws a tortilla in the hungry dog’s direction. Soon the little guy is eagerly munching away on his treasure.

“You feed tortillas to the dogs?” I ask with a puzzled look.

“Yes,” she replies. “That is what we feed to both our dogs and our cats. They like them a lot.”

Seconds later, Irma throws a small wad of moist uncooked tortilla dough to a group of baby chicks gathered just inside her doorway.

“The chicks like to eat the corn meal raw?” Irma remarks with a smile.

As I finish my delightful visit with Irma, the skies are already quite dark. With the dim glow of sunset having almost completely disappeared, the long stroll back to the guesthouse requires considerable attention and focus. I now understand why Dionicio likes his guests to be fed before dark.

After lighting my oil lamp, I briefly enjoy a fanciful display of fireflies from my front porch—but soon the darkness becomes blackness. As I close the front door behind me, the remainder of my evening is meditative and relaxed as I simply listen to my IPOD while gradually surrendering to the urge to sleep. With no lights to speak of, I find myself again sequestered beneath my mosquito net, head on pillow, eyes closed, mind drifting off to never-never land.

A Flash Of Fear

Sometime in the wee morning hours, I awaken with a start. Scattered remnants of a weird dream still remain in my consciousness.

In the dream, it is late evening, and I have been wandering in a snowstorm. Realizing that I am beginning to feel lost, I turn around and begin following my footprints, hoping to figure out where I am.

Soon, I find myself in a small neighborhood. A snowball fight is ensuing in front of me, so I playfully grab a handful of snow to join in. After throwing a few well-aimed balls of tightly packed snow, I dart off behind a house to evade a few men who begin to run towards me. Diving over a small hedge, I quietly hide while they search.

Soon, another woman leaps over the same hedge. Several men see her, grab her, and strap her down to a portable stretcher. Then one of the men sees me hiding and grabs my arm.

“What are you going to do to me?” I blurt out alarmingly … right before I wake up in my pitch black room underneath the flimsy cover of my mosquito net.

Just then I hear something rubbing forcefully against the lower outside of the guesthouse, somewhere close to my bed.

For a brief moment, the fear of my dream carries over to the present moment. Then my mind magically flashes to an image of a homely little dog that has been repeatedly wandering around the guesthouse. The poor dog looks so uncomfortable. He wheezes frequently, and often appears to shake. But most of all, he gives the impression of being covered in fleas—a thought that has caused me to constantly avoid him, judging him, meanly shooing him away when he tries to come close. I feel a twinge of guilt each time I chase him away, but I justify my guilt by rationalizing that I don’t want his fleas climbing all over me. In the back of my mind, I know that I am in the process of learning a new lesson here.

I have frequently watched as the little dog unceasingly rubs his body up against poles, trees, and walls, seemingly desperate to satisfy an overwhelmingly itchy body.

“Surely that bumping against my wall was just the scratching dog,” I calmly reassure myself.

But I do have to admit that I am extra cautious and observant, shining my tiny dim reading light in every direction as I step out into the pitch black yard to use the outhouse a short while later.

Just what could be the meaning of this weird sequence of events?

I am not totally sure. A hunch tells me that perhaps the universe is telling me that I need to face more fears and inhibitions—that I need to retrace my steps a little, be more playful, and not assume the worst in an upcoming situation that may at first seem frightening. Only time will tell.

One thing is certain however. The feeling of the weird dream and noise continues to linger with me for a few hours, not completely disappearing until daylight begins to replace the thick blackness around me.

First Meat

Up until this point, all of my meals have been vegetarian (except perhaps the lard in my refried beans). So I am oddly surprised when Sunday morning breakfast at Dionicio’s includes a touch of meat—a raw hotdog cut into chunks and mixed with my morning eggs. Then my lunch at Glenda’s is almost identical—more hotdog chunks mixed with scrambled eggs—but this time she includes some home grown beans and white rice. To keep the weird shift in meals going, Dinner at Christina’s includes a few pieces of bony chicken added to a yam soup—but the chicken meat is almost non existent. I think the pieces I am given may have been from the neck. Regardless, what few tiny pieces that I manage to access with my spoon are very tough.

Yes, I said spoon. For almost all of my meals I was given a single spoon with which to eat. Occasionally I was also given a fork.

Oh, and I forgot to mention that yams are one of those foods on my mental list that I have always known that I hate, yet refused to even taste.

Feeling quite proud of my growing food accomplishments, I actually finish all of the yams—every single bite—and they are not as yucky as I expect.

Educational Balance

After Sunday morning breakfast, Dionicio and I engage in another delightful discussion. First he tells me that a friend has discovered some small Mayan ruins on his farm.

“I’m going to go with him next week to take a look.” Dionicio proudly tells me. “Maybe we can take visitors out there, possibly bringing more tourism money to our village.”

How I wish I could go with Dionicio on such a trek to a newly discovered buried pyramid—but alas, I know that I will have left the village by that time. I choose to remain silent regarding my interest in the adventure.

Our conversation then shifts to education—specifically high school education.

“How many of the youth in the village go on to high school?” I ask Dionicio.

“Most of the boys that test well choose to go on for higher education,” Dionicio begins, “but many of the girls pass up the opportunity. Here in Santa Elena, we only have one girl that goes to High School. I tried to convince others to go, but they did not want to bother.”

“I believe education is very important for the girls,” Dionicio continues. “A few years ago, I decided to start a scholarship program where I donate $1000 (Belize) every year so that four girls can get a high school education.”

“Some people have criticized me,” Dionicio adds, “because I am giving the money to girls in neighboring villages. They complain that I should be keeping the money in Santa Elena—but I have tried, and I can’t find any girls here in the village that will attend.”

“I would love to achieve more balance in our schools, helping more girls to expand their education about the world.” Dionicio concludes. “But many of the girls just want to get married, thinking that they have no need for an education.”

Dionicio then diverges to a variety of topics—conversation in which I am mainly a reflective listener. In the course of nearly an hour, he touches on spousal abuse, crime problems in Belize, littering, and health issues.

“Here in Santa Elena, we have no mosquito problem whatsoever.” Dionicio brags proudly. We keep the village clean, not allowing any empty containers or litter to collect standing water that will help to breed mosquitoes.”

Then he tells me something that causes me to ponder deeply.

“Here in Santa Elena, we have not had any cases of Malaria or Dengue Fever.” He adds. “But in a few other villages, even villages with guest houses, there have been several cases.”

Crossing Bridges

“I’m about to hike back up to Mathias’s cacao farm to see if I can find some Toucans.” I tell Dionicio.

“Sometimes a few Toucans perch in the trees right here above the stream by my home.” Dionicio responds. “If I see them, I will send someone to get you.”

Soon, as my conversation with Dionicio comes to a natural conclusion, I excuse myself and begin my quick walk to the cacao farm. But, as before, I come up empty handed. The beautiful Toucans again choose to not grace me with their presence. Thirty minutes later, I am back in the center of Santa Elena, ready for another exploration.

Having heard many people talk about the beautiful pools and waterfall in nearby Rio Blanco National Park, I make a spur-of-the-moment decision that now is the time to check out exactly what everyone has told me about.

Within minutes, I am off. This time I hike in the other direction, along the dirt road heading east in the direction of the village of Santa Cruz. I have been told that the park is only a twenty minute walk. My goal is to spend a couple of hours exploring the park while still allowing time to return to the guesthouse before lunchtime.

The scenery on the east end of Santa Elena is every bit as lush and beautiful as other vistas that I have experienced. My twenty minute stroll seems to pass ever so slowly. The blue skies are clear and cloudless, providing no shady relief from the hotly burning sun. As I round a wide bend in the road, wondering if I will ever arrive, I suddenly see a homemade painted sign that reads “Rio Blanco National Park.” Behind the sign are a small gravel parking lot and a two-story wooden building that is tightly shuttered.

Signs tell me to pay a $10 entrance fee at the office, but the door and windows are locked, and I find no boxes or slots into which I can slide my money.

“I guess this is a gift from the universe.” I decide, as I follow the signs down a five minute trail that leads toward the falls.

Because we are in dry season, the falls are quite small and subdued. In fact, there are two separate tiny falls in what I understand is normally a wide panorama of one large waterfall. But nevertheless, as I arrive above the falling water, I am not the least bit disappointed. The combination of a calm deep pool, the jungle trees towering above, and the small gushing water in front of me provide an excellent and peaceful photo op.

Several people had told me that swimming in the pool is great fun, but for today I opt to simply be an observer, checking out the scenery while enjoying the trails.

Soon I am off exploring those trails. My first destination is a small cable bridge constructed last year by Dionicio’s now-deceased son. From a distance, the small cable bridge does not appear to be threatening in the least. I approach with the utmost confidence, expecting to casually stroll across while enjoying the beautiful view perched atop the slowly flowing river.

“Yeah, right” I exclaim as I finally climb to the top of a tall platform on the near end of the long bridge. I seriously consider simply turning around and climbing right back down the ladder to the ground below.

But the adventurer in me says “Go for it!”

Four small cables stretch about 150 feet across the canyon, suspended above a calm slow-moving shallow river about 20 feet below. The cables are stretched tightly, attached to the trunks of tall trees on either side. Small boards nailed into the tree trunks hold the cables in their place.

Two cables form the left side of the bridge, with the other two cables forming the right side. Between the upper and lower cable on each side, smaller cables weave up and down, binding the upper and lower cables together, forming a type of makeshift side.

But it is not the structure of the sides that make me nervous, it is their height. As I begin to step out over the water, the upper cables do not even rise to the level of my hips, while the space between the left and right sides is barely wider than my body. Most of my 5’6” frame is sticking out above the cables, making me feel as if I could fall over the edge at any moment.

But my most anxious of feelings are stirred when I observe the boards that constitute the bottom footpath of the bridge. Long ten-inch-wide planks are wired to both sides of the lower cables. The planks are no more than three-fourths of an inch in thickness, and the grain of the wood runs lengthwise, parallel to the bridge itself. Past experience tells me that three-quarter-inch boards, when dried and subsequently placed under stress, can easily split and tear along the grain of the wood. Common sense tells me that the bottom of this bridge, while still intact at this moment, is not necessarily all that solid. Any section of the bottom could split open under sufficient weight or stress.

Confidently, I step onto the first board, bending over to grab the upper cables down low on either side. After three steps, I find myself crawling slowly on my hands and knees. The further I crawl, the more I feel the bridge bouncing under my weight. Finally, as I am about two-thirds of the way across, I slowly raise myself back to a crouched position and boldly, but slowly, make my way across the remainder of the distance on foot.

My adrenaline and heart-rate levels have definitely spiked as I step onto the far platform and climb down to solid ground below.

The small thirty minute “Jippi Jappa” nature trail on the other side of the river is peaceful and beautiful—but nothing can compare to my prior adventure through the jungle with Mateus and Timoteo.

After exploring for the better part of an hour, I slowly and carefully make my way back across the rickety cable bridge—this time managing to nervously stay on my feet for the entire distance.

As I arrive back at the guesthouse shortly after 11:15 a.m., I remove my hiking shoes and discover a small green disc that feels anchored to my skin just above my ankle. Carefully and boldly, I push my fingernails together under the head of the tick, and yank it out of my skin—throwing the little parasite onto the ground below.

On a humorous side note, two days later I found an identical little green disc stuck to my skin. As I prepared to remove this second tick, it simply fell off by itself. I laughed when I realized that the tick was not really a tick at all—it was a tiny sticky seed pod. Oh, the silly things that our imaginations can make us do!

Exhaustion becomes the theme of my afternoon. After repeatedly attempting to study Spanish after finishing lunch, I finally succumb to the lure of sleep, and take a long nap that does not end until after 4:00 p.m..

Dancing With Angels

For two days, several of the youth had been telling me that they would be reenacting “The Lord’s Supper” at church on Sunday night.

“We will be starting at 5:00 p.m.,” they repeatedly told me.

“I plan on being there,” I answered each time, eager to learn what they mean when they say “reenacting The Lord’s Supper”.

So as soon as my 5:00 p.m. dinner is finished at Christina’s, I rush off to the chapel, while Christina gathers up her own small family to do the same.

I am snugly seated in my favorite seat on the back row by 5:30 p.m., but the remainder of the chapel is 95% empty. Timoteo is already playing the organ, and Dionicio Junior has already begun his loud microphone praying—but most village residents are nowhere to be seen.

As I glance around me, I am amazed by the beautiful decorations. Huge palm leaves are placed in front of each open window frame, and smaller palm leaves are hanging on the wall between them. Attached to each palm leaf are clusters of yellow balloons. Suspended across the front of the chapel, hanging from the ceiling, is a large archway constructed from multicolored balloons, with a purple grape-like cluster of balloons hanging down on one side. The front of the stage area is likewise decorated with palm leaves, balloons, and beautiful flower arrangements.

By 6:30 p.m., the chapel is filled to capacity. Twenty more chairs have been stacked in the rear, and the crowd is standing room only. All of the children have gradually been asked to stand so as to make room for the adults to sit. Over half of the village must surely be present in this tiny building.

One of the most unique things I observe is that many mothers have brought their sleeping babies to church. Each young baby or toddler is wrapped up and tucked inside a white cotton carrier of some sort, allowing the baby to sleep in a horizontal position. Four such baby carriers are hanging from hooks on the main chapel doors while the tiny tots remain fast asleep.

The slow music, chanting, hand waving, and swaying, continue for most of the next hour. Songs with repeating words, mostly in Spanish, continue to be chanted over and over. After having deciphered many of the words, I gradually begin to sing along.

Most of the service appears to progress in much the same manner as on Thursday night, however the songs and the sermon seem to last longer. It is not until after 8:15 p.m. that the sacrament services finally begin.

After Pastor Antonio pronounces some blessings, in Mayan or course, two young men walk through the crowd with baskets of broken bread and serving trays containing tiny mugs filled with wine. It is not until everyone in the room is holding their bread and wine, that Pastor Antonio leads the actual ceremony. First everyone puts the bread in their mouth and slowly chews. Finally, at Pastor Antonio’s signal, everyone drinks their small portion of wine.

After the sacrament service, another round of slow music begins, accompanied by crying and sobbing women, deeply engulfed in their version of Holy Spirit emotion.

I wait patiently. It is the lively dancing and clapping that I am eagerly anticipating. I am anxious to release my inhibitions, to lose myself in the moment, to participate more openly. But in no way am I prepared for what happens next.

As I stand with my hands at my side, I feel a little bump against the back of my right hand. Looking down, I notice a tiny little girl run by with a giggle on her face and a glowing light in her eyes. As soon as I turn my head, I feel another bump. She has run back the other direction and tapped me again. Over the next five minutes the bumps become more and more predictable and frequent.

After each connecting touch of our hands, I make eye contact and exchange a glowing loving look with this little angel.

Soon I feel a hand briefly holding mine. As I look down with a huge smile, the same little girl shyly smiles, releases my hand, and disappears back into the crowd.

Again her hand grabs mine, only to fall away all too quickly. But after several more teases, she hangs on and does not let go.

Hand in hand, we glow and giggle at each other while dancing and swaying to the high-tempo rhythm.

As I glance around, I notice two other beautiful young girls watching with a look of envy in their eyes. Soon one of them approaches. I casually remove a single finger from the first little angel’s grasp and extend it into the open air. The second little angel takes my cue, and soon grabs on. Now I have two darling little angels giggling while hanging onto my right hand.

Minutes later, the other girl slowly approaches, I stick out another finger and she grabs on. My heart is overflowing with love—pure, energizing, rejuvenating, glorifying love.

Within minutes, I have six little angels hanging onto my fingers. The original little girl has switched to my left hand, while each of my five fingers on the right hand is attached to a glowing and giggling little girl.

Almost immediately, I feel the little girls pulling me toward the front of the room. Most of the chairs in the front six rows have been removed to make room for dancing, and these little angels push me up into the middle of it all.

Hands begin to change places. At one point, three beautiful little boys join the mix as eight children simultaneously hang on to my fingers while jumping with joy.

For almost an hour—until the final music ceases around 9:45 p.m.—I wordlessly exchange an amazing radiating energy of joyful unconditional love with these beautiful little children. Their contagious angelic smiles and adorable giggles magically transform the world, both within and all around me. I cannot imagine a more beautiful experience. My heart is wildly alive. My soul dances with unimaginable joy.

As I walk to the front door after the services are over, the little girls follow me outside.

“Take our picture pleEEEeease,” they giggle and beg.

No begging is necessary. Soon, my camera is out and I am snapping photo after photo of these innocent glowing faces—capturing memories of a loving experience that I will carry with me for eternity.

As I finally lay my head on my soft dark pillow, after an incredible Sunday evening, I know that I am already in heaven.

Love Is All You Need

This morning, as I rested in bed at the early hour of 4:00 a.m., the Beatles song “All you need is love” began flashing through my mind, consistently refusing to depart from my peaceful relaxing thoughts. After a few minutes of attempting a return to sleep, a feeling in my heart resonated powerfully, telling me that “All you need is Love” will be the theme of today’s writing.

Earlier today, as I searched out the lyrics to this Beatles classic from my youth, I realized that I have never really listened to the words. In a powerful way, the lyrics remind me that everything is possible in this world when genuine love is fully embraced.

With apologies to the songwriters, I have chosen to conserve space by omitting the song’s many filler words.

All You Need Is Love (Abridged words)
Sung by: The Beatles
Written by: Paul McCartney and John Lennon

[Entry words omitted …]

There’s nothing you can do that can’t be done
Nothing you can sing that can’t be sung
Nothing you can say but you can learn how to play the game
It’s easy

There’s nothing you can make that can’t be made
No one you can save that can’t be saved
Nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you in time
It’s easy

[Chorus omitted … (twice) ]

There’s nothing you can know that can’t be known
Nothing you can see that isn’t shown
There’s nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be
It’s easy

Chorus:
All you need is love
All you need is love
All you need is love, love
Love is all you need

[Final words omitted …]

With each amazing day, the universe continues to convince me that these words are more true than I could ever possibly imagine.

Whatever we attempt with pure unconditional love, can indeed be done.

Whatever we sing with pure unconditional love, can indeed be sung.

Whatever we make with pure unconditional love, can indeed be made.

With a genuinely loving heart, all the mysteries of the universe can indeed be known, everything that can be seen will indeed be shown.

But more amazing than anything is that we soon realize that we are learning to be our true divine selves, and that there is nowhere that we can be that is not exactly where we are meant to be while traveling on this path through our temporary home.

It really is that easy—that simple.

Genuine unconditional love—the fabric that holds the universe together—is the golden key to unlocking an unimaginable realm of unlimited possibilities and joy.

On that late Sunday evening in Santa Elena, just two short weeks ago on March 7, 2010, I truly witnessed, in a very personal way, the amazing power of pure unconditional love.

Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved

 
(This is the third installment of a series of posts describing my experiences in the Mayan village of Santa Elena. Subsequent posts will follow very soon.)

Before leaving me alone in the guesthouse, Dionicio had given me permission to help myself to any extra bedding in the large cabinet. Wanting to be prepared for a long dark night, I grab three of the extra thin blankets before retiring.

“That should be enough for starters.” I tell myself as I close my eyes and snuggle up in the cool mountain air.

My brief middle-of-the-night scampers now take me to a small block building only twenty feet away. Rather than merely having a raised wooden platform with a hole on top, this tiny luxury cabin contains a fiberglass throne with an actual toilet seat. What more could I ask for?

As I lie in bed at 5:00 a.m., the idea of crowing roosters begins to lose its charming appeal. The guesthouse is only seventy-five feet up the hill from Christina’s place, and her several roosters seem to love crowing on the edge of the hill just a few feet away from my bed. The open-air construction of thatched roofs and board walls-with-gaps does little if anything to mute exterior sounds. Neither do pillows squeezed tightly around the head with an arm wrapped tightly on each side.

Nevertheless, I smile and do my best to restfully relax into the unpredictable bursts of repeated crowing that has already been going on for more than an hour.

As 6:15 a.m. slowly ticks by in my awareness, I wish I could sleep for three more hours. But knowing that very soon some happy young face will show up on my doorstep, I coax myself back into the present moment.

Ten minutes later, night number two in Santa Elena is in the history books, and I am ready to take on an incredible Friday. I am dressed, refreshed and alert, delightfully immersing myself into an amazing view from a chair on my front porch. The guesthouse is perched on a hillside, considerably higher than Dionicio’s small property. From here, I can silently observe much of the village—and the view is seductively addicting.

Fluid Flexibility

Ever so soon, Leroy and Elroy giggle their way up the hill, passing between Christina’s two buildings, not stopping until they are standing right in front of me.

“You’re early.” I tease them as I notice that my watch only reads 6:45. “It’s not time for breakfast yet.”

Soon I have my first real opportunity to interact with Heralda, Dionicio’s sweet wife. While Heralda and I briefly talk, Leroy and Elroy sit nearby—watching, giggling, and continuing to enchant me with their cute little grins. A very friendly cat, a delightful little creature with needle-sharp claws, also vies for my devoted attention—meowing, purring, climbing, and repeatedly relaxing her sharp claws into my jeans.

Breakfast turns out to be quite the interesting creation. A large bowl is filled with over-cooked Ramon noodles and a watery broth that seems to be missing the usual Ramon spices. Mixed in with the noodles are large chunks of a soft, green, meaty, flavorless plant that Heralda tells me is called ChuChu (pronounced choo-choo). Half immersed in one side of the broth is a large, peeled, hardboiled egg.

“What is ChuChu?” I ask inquisitively.

“It is a fruit, kind of like a cucumber, that we grow in our gardens.” Heralda tells me matter-of-factly, as if everyone should know that.

Soon, Dionicio walks into the room and joins the conversation.

“Tell me more about the caves in the jungle?” I eagerly ask Dionicio.

I had seen a cave hike listed on the flyer given to me by the tourist lady in Punta Gorda, and Dionicio had briefly mentioned the caves on Wednesday. My inquiring mind was yearning to know more.

“The caves are about an hour and a half, maybe two hours away on foot, out into the jungle.” Dionicio begins to answer. “Ancient Mayans used to live there. Sometimes, in the caves, you can even find pieces of old pots.”

“I would love to visit the caves.” I eagerly respond.

“When do you want to go?” He quickly replies.

“Oh, I don’t know, let me check my busy schedule.” I joke with him. “Today, tomorrow, sometime next week … whatever works for you … I have no plans and I am very flexible.”

“Let me see what I can set up for either today or tomorrow.” He tells me as he quickly exits the room.

I return to my conversation with Heralda.

“Did you enjoy church last night?” Heralda asks.

“Yes, I did.” I begin, “Even though I didn’t really understand everything, I really loved seeing how you worship.”

“Can I ask you a question?” I continue my inquiry. “During the part where the women were crying, what was happening?”

“They were feeling Holy Spirit.” She replies, not really elaborating.

I choose to not pursue my question further.

Very soon, Dionicio slips back into the room.

“It is all arranged.” He begins. “Mateus and my son Timoteo will take you out to the cave this morning. I never send visitors out into the jungle with just one guide. We need to have two people with you in case something were to happen.”

“You probably won’t be back in time for lunch.” He continues, making sure that I am OK with that. “Why don’t you go prepare now. They will pass by the guesthouse in about twenty minutes to get you.”

In less than ten minutes, I am sitting on my front porch, wearing long jeans and hiking shoes, eager and excited to begin my next adventure. Mateus and Timoteo cannot arrive soon enough.

Machete Magic

After having admired his skills on the keyboard last night, I am pleased to finally have an opportunity to officially meet Timoteo. I am immediately impressed by his bubbly and friendly personality. One can plainly see that he is happy and comfortable in his own skin. Timoteo is wearing a t-shirt and old worn khaki slacks with rubber boots similar to those worn by his father Dionicio, on our trip to the farm.

Mateus is much quieter, but the glow in his eye tells me he is a genuine sort of guy, just a little shy around the edges. After learning that Mateus is Glenda’s husband. I am surprised by his youthful appearance—but then I remember that Glenda (my Wednesday dinner hostess) is only 25 years old herself. Mateus is dressed much more informally. Wearing a t-shirt and grass-stained knee-length khaki shorts, his footwear is some type of fake-leather high-top tennis shoe.

On seeing the relaxed manner of Mateus’s clothing, I feel a little more comfortable with my own hiking shoes. I even feel a little overdressed. With slightly overcast skies, I had opted to wear my long-sleeve sweatshirt—something that quickly ends up tied around my waist.

With no time for small talk, Mateus quickly takes the lead position, Timoteo follows a short distance behind, and I do my best to keep up with both of them. Their abundant youthful energy challenges me to push myself a little harder.

Within five minutes, we have left the boundaries of Santa Elena, and begin climbing a moderately steep path up a thickly vegetated hillside. Almost immediately, Mateus vigorously begins to swing his machete, chopping away at vines and branches that have fallen over the trail in last week’s windstorm. I soon realize that this chopping will only intensify throughout our journey into the wild.

Timoteo turns around and points out a long-stemmed plant with a small white flower.

“See that plant right there.” He begins. “This type of plant will make you sting and feel very uncomfortable all day long. Be sure to avoid them.”

Just like his father, Timoteo continues to turn around and point out other plants and vegetation, giving me additional insight into plants that can be used for medicines, food, and even for tying and binding things.

“I could get lost out in the jungle,” he tells me, “and never starve or go thirsty. There are so many things out here that you can eat, and various ways to get water.”

Thirty minutes into our exhausting climb, I beg for an opportunity to briefly rest. Keeping up with these young men is proving to be a challenge.

As we rest, Timoteo begins talking. “That over there was my brother’s farm last year. He cleared the land and planted corn. After he died, the rest of us came up here and harvested it for him.”

“You must have loved your brother a lot.” I reply.

“Yes, I miss him so much. He had so much ambition and so many ideas. Last year before he died, he wrote a proposal for the Rio Blanco National Park. They gave him a grant. He planned and built nature trails, constructed a cable bridge across the river, and was going to do so many more things to promote and increase tourism at the waterfalls.”

As I catch my breath, we walk ten minutes further, with both Mateus and Timoteo continuing to vigorously clear the path in front of me. Mateus, being in the lead, is by far bearing the brunt of the strenuous work. This part of the trail is seriously overgrown by rapidly growing jungle vines and shrubs. Without their chopping, we simply would not be able to pass.

As we reach the top of our forty minute arduous climb, we pause by another small cornfield.

“This is my uncle’s farm.” Timoteo chimes in.

“You mean he makes this forty minute steep hike every time that he goes to his farm?” I ask with astonishment.

“Yes,” Timoteo responds. “And when he harvests the corn, he has to take it down to the village one small load at a time. It is a great deal of work.”

“See that mountain over there?” Timoteo asks. “That is where the caves are.”

When I look in the distance I am awestruck by the beautiful view. There in front of me is a deep valley, and across on the far side of the valley is another medium-sized mountain completely covered by an incredible variety of thick green trees, plants, and vines—many of them appearing quite ancient and tall.

As we begin our descent into the valley, Timoteo casually remarks, “Now we are entering the jungle.”

“What do you mean?” I ask with a teasing tone. “Are you saying that this first forty minutes of hiking through overgrown trees, vines, and shrubs has not been in the jungle?”

“Yes,” he replies with a laugh, “that is exactly what I am saying. The first part of the trail has all been cleared, and traveled extensively by man. The biggest trees are gone, many farms have been planted, and the vegetation is quite different. Now we are entering the real, unaltered jungle.”

“You will notice,” Timoteo continues, “that it has suddenly gotten cool, dark, and shady—and that the vegetation is much older and different.”

As I heighten my observations, I immediately realize that everything Timoteo is telling me is indeed true. The trees are much taller, and considerably older. The vines are much thicker, wilder looking, and gnarly. The entire energy of my surroundings feels different, ancient, and magically energizing. Less sun reaches the ground below me, the air is fresh and cool, and I begin to notice a wide variety of plant life that I had not previously seen.

Mateus continues his silent leadership, chopping away, busily swinging his machete at every turn. We begin to go slower, as Mateus’s job here is much more difficult and time consuming. The trail here, if you can really even call it a trail, is nearly invisible. I would never believe it to be a trail were it not for the fact that both young men seem deeply confident in where they are going.

Timoteo continues to point out more plants to me. Above us, he spots a large cluster of what looks like kiwi.

“You can eat those nuts.” He tells me.

Soon, Timoteo has picked one up off the ground and is chopping carefully on the hard exterior with his machete. Once broken open, the interior is remarkably similar to a young coconut. The interior is filled with a watery substance, while the outer edges contain a soft white meaty substance.

I scrape a tiny portion of the meaty substance with my fingernail and stick it into my mouth.

“It even tastes a little like coconut.” I exclaim.

Within thirty minutes we have reached the bottom of the thick jungle valley as we carefully step across a shallow, narrow stream. Almost immediately my climbing muscles are again bulging as we begin another long ascent up our final mountainside.

Eventually, after yet another thirty minute climb through additional magical surroundings, Timoteo proudly announces that we have arrived.

Our total journey has taken about an hour and forty-five minutes—crossing a variety of trail types ranging from clay to sharp rocks—all, of course, covered with thick layers of fallen jungle debris and leafy foliage.

Cave Crawling

There on the ground, just a few feet away, is a small jagged opening in the side of the hill. The odd-shaped entrance cannot be more than three feet across, perhaps even smaller.

Mateus crawls in first, disappearing down the small hole.

Timoteo then hands me a flashlight and says, “After you.”

With a feeling of deep confidence and trust, I turn my body sideways and carefully inch my way past the rough uneven rocks, being extra cautious to not bump my head. After a few feet of awkward twisting and maneuvering, I am once again standing on my feet.

As Timoteo joins me, I shine my light up to the top of a tall, but narrow, cavern. Near the ceiling, perhaps twenty-five feet above me, tiny black furry animals streak by, first in this direction and then darting off in that direction. Then I notice that some of the black streaks whiz by my head, some coming remarkably close.

“Don’t worry,” Timoteo reassures me, “the bats won’t hurt you.”

“I know.” I reply confidently. “My dear friend Jeanette would literally love this. She is fascinated by bats.”

The cave is lined by little stalactites and stalagmites—most of them quite small. Many little popcorn formations are also scattered around the walls and ceiling. While the formations are not especially pretty, most being a faded gray or brown in color, I still find them exciting, and very aesthetically pleasing.

All other caves that I have ever been in kept me on a cold dark path, sequestered behind railings and ropes. Here I am free to explore, to venture wherever I choose to roam. But still, I reverently respect my surroundings, making an effort to not actually touch or damage the more fragile formations in any way.

For about one hundred feet, we walk and explore a small winding passage.

“Sometimes, right here in this area, you can find pieces of old Mayan pottery.” Timoteo tells me.

The fact that none are presently visible tells me that any pieces that have been previously found must have been carried off by sticky fingers.

“Do you mind if we momentarily shut off our lights?” I ask.

Timoteo and Mateus gladly honor my request.

The momentary darkness is staggering—but not really much different than my first two nights in Santa Elena.

As we again turn on our lights, I ask, “It would be next to impossible to find your way in here without a flashlight. How did the Mayans ever manage to live in here?”

“They were like animals.” Timoteo casually responds, exhibiting an air of complete belief in his voice. “They could see in the dark. They could even change into birds and other creatures. They had many magical powers and abilities.”

I really want to believe. In many ways I do believe.

I know in my heart that this whole world is an illusion, a projection of the mind, yet a tiny stubborn part of me still hangs on to crumbling threads of logical-left-brain doubts—doubts based on the very beliefs that formed the foundation of my youth.

As my heart calls out for me to believe, a tiny part of me continues to pull in the opposite direction. But I know that my heart will one day win this tug-of-war.

Soon, we come to the end of our walking space. Down in one corner, I spy a three to four foot tall opening, perhaps six to eight feet in width.

“Where does that passage lead?” I ask curiously.

“It keeps going forward.” Timoteo replies. “Do you want to find out?”

Soon I am hunched over, attempting to climb through the passage on all fours, determined to keep my jeans clean. After fifty feet or so, the passage again narrows and grows more shallow.

“We can turn around now if you would like.” Timoteo volunteers.

“No, I can do this.” I stubbornly insist. I did not come this far just to turn around.

As we enter the next shallow passage, I realize that there is no way that I will manage to keep my jeans clean. Timoteo lays his machete on the ground, and I follow suit by discarding my small shoulder bag and my sweatshirt.

“We can get them on the way back.” Timoteo reassures me.

Eagerly I crawl forward, this time on my knees, releasing all concerns about the moist muddy soil that begins to coat my jeans and shoes. Yet the crawling is not easy, as the floor is quite uneven with many jagged rocks. Each knee must be strategically placed.

Suddenly we all pause. Mateus and Timoteo exchange a few words in Mayan (something they have been doing frequently all morning), and soon Mateus sets off on his own.

“Wait here for a minute.” Timoteo tells me. We heard a noise, and Mateus is concerned that it might be an animal, perhaps even a jaguar.

After listening to Timoteo’s words, I am quite content to briefly wait.

Soon, Mateus calls out, and we again continue forward. After approximately ten more minutes, I see a small spot of daylight.

Soon, the three of us are sitting in sunlight, by the edge of a beautiful small stream. The opening out of which we just crawled is even smaller than our entrance. Mateus hands me a package of cookies, and Timoteo hands me a small Tupperware container with some type of cinnamon coated sweet bread.

“My mother made this for us.” He lovingly states.

After grabbing a few of each, I begin to munch on my delicious treats while scanning my beautiful surroundings. The stream is only a few inches deep and perhaps eight feet across. Small rock ledges form tiny terraces in the fresh clear water. A huge downed tree forms a large bridge a short distance downstream. The air feels cool and moist. Only bits and pieces of the sun manage to reach the ground through the thick canopy above.

I am in paradise.

“Does Mateus speak English?” I ask Timoteo.

Immediately, Mateus turns and smiles. “Yes I do.”

“Oh,” I reply, “I’m sorry for the question. It is just that all day you two have spoken Mayan to each other, and I have only spoken English with Timoteo.

After perhaps twenty minutes of much needed resting and delightful conversation, Timoteo tells me, “Mateus will go back through the cave to get our stuff. I will take you around on the outside.”

“No, I reply. “I would actually like to go back through the cave again, if that is OK with you.”

The adventurer in me just would not quit. I was having the time of my life.

As we slowly maneuver back to my bag and sweatshirt, I ask Timoteo. “So … how many of your visitors come this far back into the caves.”

“Actually,” he replies, “None. I think you are probably the first. Some are even afraid to climb down inside the cave once we arrive at the entrance.”

A grin crosses my cheeks as I mentally pat myself on the back—trying not to feel too prideful.

Shortly before we exit the crawlspace, I feel the wings of a bat brush up against the hair on the back of my neck. The feeling is gone in an instant—before I even have time to react. Without the slightest feeling of panic, a sense of peace rises in my soul.

“All is well … there is nothing to fear.” The feeling whispers to my soul.

Just then, I feel a sharp thud on the upper and forward part of my head. In my exuberance, I inadvertently fail to notice a small stalactite directly overhead. As I place my hand at the site of impact, I feel no blood. Again I sense the feeling.

“All is well … there is nothing to fear.”

After we finally exit at our original site of entry, I am both exhausted and energized at the same time. At my request, Timoteo checks the top of my head.

“There is a tiny bit of blood, but nothing to be concerned about.” He reassures me.

Then, I am totally caught off guard when Timoteo asks, “So, Brenda, do you want to go to the second cave?”

“Second cave?” I ask with surprise. “I thought there was only one!”

Round Two

Twenty minutes later, after a grueling uphill climb through newly-machete-chopped paths, Mateus informs us that we have arrived. My legs and hips are exhausted, but I am determined to see it all.

“It is just up there.” Timoteo indicates, as he points about two hundred feet above us on the side of the steep hill.

“Aargh,” I think to myself, before trying to convince myself that, “I can do this.”

Soon, we are looking down through a medium sized opening. My heart sinks when I see what is before me. Immediately after climbing through the short, wide entrance, there is a 75 foot descent down a steep rocky slope—a slope that must be at least 70 degrees.

“Once we get to the bottom, how far back do those passages go?” I ask with an exhausted sigh. “And are the passages level at that point or do they continue dropping steeply?”

Mateus tells Timoteo (in Mayan) that he can’t quite remember—so he quickly scales to the bottom to investigate. Soon he returns into visibility and calls back up in Mayan.

“He says it is mostly level down there.” Timoteo relays the message.

Slowly and carefully, I muster my strength, and using my mountain-goat-like balance, I skillfully scale down the rocky obstacle course. As it turns out, the passageway is indeed level, but quite short. After squeezing through a few tiny openings, I realize that I have literally seen all there is to see. Nevertheless, I am grateful that I took advantage of the opportunity.

Ten minutes later we are again back on the steep hilly surface.

In my mind I wonder how I will possibly gather the energy for the return hike, but somehow I mange to continue putting one tired foot in front of the other.

A light rain soon begins to fall. The refreshing moisture cools my aching muscles, energizing me with each small drop. I reach out and touch many trees, hoping to share in their magical energy.

About halfway during our return rip, Timoteo pleasantly reassures me by saying, “Brenda, you are one of our faster guests. Some people walk very slowly, and insist on breaks every five or ten minutes.”

Somehow his unexpected compliment fuels my energy just enough to keep me pushing forward.

Our conversation switches to schooling, namely Timoteo’s education. He tells me that he graduated from high school several years ago. His main focus was mechanics, but he proudly tells me that he also took two years of computer classes, learning Microsoft word, Excel, and many other useful skills.

“What are your plans for the future?” I ask inquisitively. “Do you want to remain here in Santa Elena?”

“Absolutely.” He replies with confidence. “I love it here. It is so peaceful. The jungle is my home. I love working on the farm. I want to get married and raise my own family right here.”

“Some youth leave the village for bigger cities.” Timoteo continues. “A few join gangs, others get jobs and work for money to buy things. But I love the simple life. I definitely want to stay here. I want to live my whole life here.”

“What do you think will happen to the village when electricity comes?” I ask.

“It will change many things.” Timoteo responds. “Sadly, change is inevitable, but we will adapt … I only hope that our village can remain mostly the same.”

As the final minutes of our hike fade away, my heart is filled with joy and gratitude for the opportunity to get to know such a genuine and loving young man—a man of strength and character, a man of honesty and integrity, a beautiful man following in the footsteps of his father.

A Bath To Remember

Five hours after beginning our journey, as I eagerly unlock the padlock on my front door, I have only one thing on my mind. Carefully removing my muddy clothing, I throw it all in a pile. Soon I am dressed in my swimsuit and a small cover-up swim dress, carrying shampoo, conditioner, soap, and a small plastic bowl. My destination is the shallow stream running through the center of town.

Everyone in the village is always so clean and well groomed—and as I understand it, they all bathe and wash their clothes in the stream, usually on a daily basis.

So, with enthusiasm, I march forward out of my front door, determined to fully immerse myself in local customs.

“Where are you going?” an unseen voice asks, as I begin my descent down the small hill.

Looking up and around, I suddenly recognize Filimon’s smiling face.

“My mother has made lunch for you.” He tells me politely.

“I thought I would have to miss lunch today?” I ask with a puzzled look.

Soon, I am sitting in Heralda’s kitchen for the second time in one day, enjoying an unexpected and delicious meal of beans, jippi jappa, and tea.

As I finish my last bites, Heralda comments, “Why don’t you just bathe in the stream right here below our home?”

Minutes later, I am standing knee deep in the water, scooping small bowls of water onto my hair, shampooing, conditioning, rinsing, and then lathering my body. It is truly a bath that I will never forget.

Wishing I had brought my dirty clothes to the river for washing, I soon come up with a different plan. Once I am dressed and groomed, I carry an empty bucket down to a well in front of Christina’s home—one of only two hand-pump wells in the whole village. Once my bucket is filled, I return to the guesthouse, wash out all of my clothes, and hang them on a nearby piece of rope.

Feeling quite proud of myself for a wonderful day well spent, I treat myself to an hour and a half of relaxing language study and meditation while resting in a small folding chair. I love the porch of my delightful little cottage. I love looking out on a village that I will never forget.

After my second meal at Glenda’s lovely little home—a delightful treat of rice, beans, and spicy eggs scrambled with tomato, I am soon resting on my bed, utterly exhausted in a wonderful sort of way. As darkness settles in, my warm cozy bed claims hold on my body, refusing to let go until morning.

My Temporary Home

Last night, as I enjoyed an inspiring Skype conversation with my dear friend Lori, she asked if I had heard the new Carrie Underwood song titled “My Temporary Home”.

As she told me about the words and the message of the song, shivers ran through my body, sending tingles through my spine while goose bumps began to cover my arms.

After finishing my writing for the day, I searched out YouTube for a rendition of the song. I was not disappointed. Tears of joy and inspiration flowed down my cheeks, as I realized that today’s writing would end with the words of this beautiful song.

I highly recommend listening to the official YouTube video at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y_SR3BlsmH4

My Temporary Home
Sung by: Carrie Underwood
Written by: J-Rice and Shan Malaika

Little boy, six years old
A little too used to being alone
Another new mom and dad, another school
Another house that’ll never be home
When people ask him how he likes this place
He looks up and says with a smile upon his face

This is my temporary home
It’s not where I belong
Windows and rooms that I’m passin’ through
This is just a stop on the way to where I’m going
I’m not afraid because I know this is my temporary home

Young mom on her own
She needs a little help, got nowhere to go
She’s lookin’ for a job, lookin’ for a way out
Because a halfway house will never be a home
At night she whispers to her baby girl
Someday we’ll find a place here in this world

This is our temporary home
It’s not where we belong
Windows and rooms that we’re passin’ through
This is just a stop on the way to where we’re going
I’m not afraid because I know this is our temporary home

Old man, hospital bed
The room is filled with people he loves
And he whispers
“Don’t cry for me, I’ll see you all someday”
He looks up and says, “I can see God’s face”

This is my temporary home
It’s not where I belong
Windows and rooms that I’m passin’ through
This was just a stop, on the way to where I’m going
I am not afraid because I know this was my temporary home

This is our temporary home

Along my own journey, as my heart deepens with spiritual insights and conviction, the fact becomes increasingly obvious to my inner soul that this world is indeed just our “Temporary Home.”

Every place that we go, every experience that seems to happen to us, whether we judge it as good or bad—each and every one of these experiences is simply a collection of windows and rooms that we are passing through.

Whether it be our birth or death, a new job or a layoff, a marriage or a divorce, winning the lottery or going bankrupt, buying a new home or being homeless, visiting the grocery store or visiting a Mayan village—every event in our life is simply a stop along the way to where we are going.

No matter how such events may look on the outside, if we learn to look for the blessings in everything that simply is, we can learn incredible pearls of wisdom from each of these stops along the path of our life.

When we truly know that this world is just a temporary home—a place where we live until we wake up and remember our divine birthright—all fear melts away. We will no longer be afraid in any way. We learn to trust our instincts. We learn to trust the passions of our heart and soul.

It matters not whether we live in a mansion or a one room hut with dirt floor, wooden board walls, and a thatched roof. It matters not whether we have a professional chef in our employ or whether we cook corn tortillas on a metal plate over an open fire. What matters is the love in our heart, the connection with the infinite universe that flows continuously through each of us.

It is my prayer that each of us, in our own unique way, can indeed learn that this world is indeed just our temporary home.

Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved

 
(This is the second installment of a series of posts describing my experiences in the Mayan village of Santa Elena. Subsequent posts will follow very soon.)

The long dark night turned out to be quite cold. My blanket, being perhaps one-eighth of an inch thick, reminded me of a large inexpensive beach towel—the kind you might buy for a few dollars in the souvenir shops of most touristy beach towns, only with a slightly better fabric.

And then there were two pitch-black middle-of-the-night races to a little yellow building down a seventy-five-foot, narrow, bumpy path. Even while wearing flip-flops, the well-worn trail felt quite moist as the sides of my bare feet rubbed against small grassy plants laden with a thick layer of cool, nighttime dew. I boldly pushed away all worries about what type of critters—whether insect, reptile, or mammal—might be lurking around the next bush or tree trunk, patiently waiting for their next meal.

But thanks to my sweatshirt and tiny reading light, I joyfully survive both the cold and the thick blackness of my first starless, moonless night in Santa Elena.

As the pale morning glow begins to filter through the plentiful cracks in my wooden wall, my body desperately taunts me to pull the pillow over my face—to sleep for an additional hour or two. But as I begin to think about my upcoming day, I realize that I have no idea what time someone will come to collect me for breakfast.

“I better get up just in case.” I tell myself as I force my feet under the edge of the mosquito net onto the cold concrete floor below.

By 6:20 a.m., my hair is brushed, I am dressed, and I have even applied a small amount of eyeliner and lipstick to a face that is still wet with moisture from the nighttime mountain air. As I open the doors and windows, I begin meditating in my lawn chair while facing the incredible view off to the northwest. I am overwhelmed by the beauty of the early morning mist drifting through the tops of the lush jungle, laid out in hilly vistas right before my still-waking-up eyes.

Suddenly, I hear the sound of a large noisy engine. The muffler-less rumbling continues for perhaps thirty seconds before again going silent. Clueless, I wonder what the racket might be. It cannot have been more than a few hundred feet away.

I am hypnotized by the sounds of crowing roosters that periodically echo all around me, some of them being quite close. Even though these roosters had begun their periodic calling at insane hours—some beginning even before 3:00 a.m.—I still find them charming, relaxing, and yes, even energizing.

Every once in a while the same loud engine noise rumbles through the valley, only to quickly go silent once again.

Suddenly, in the midst of my deep meditative state, I realize that a young man is standing in the other doorway, speaking quietly to get my attention.

“Is it time for breakfast?” I ask.

“Yes.” He replies with a glowing smile.

Morning Discoveries

As I begin following this handsome, well-groomed young man, I glance down at my wrist. When I note that my watch reads 7:10 a.m., I feel a deep sense of gratitude for having arisen so early—not just because of breakfast schedules, but because of the deeply peaceful feeling that now permeates my soul.

In quiet, well-practiced English, the young man tells that me his name is Heraldo, and that he is nine years old. But further attempts at conversation end quickly as we promptly arrive at our destination: a small home just across the road, and perhaps fifty feet closer to the stream. The home is perhaps 10 by 20 feet, with a concrete base, board sides, and a thatch roof. Another smaller tin-roofed building sits just ten feet away.

“Please, sit down.” A young woman tells me. I soon learn that her name is Christina, that she has three children, and that her husband is away working.

“He is building homes in Placencia.” Christina tells me. “He usually comes home every two weeks, but he just called and told me he won’t be home until Easter.”

As I stare at my plate, I again bite my tongue and face my food fears. There in front of me is a large plate. One half is filled with yummy-looking eggs, partially scrambled, but mostly fried. The other half is overflowing with what looks like a mushy, grass-like, deep-olive-green, over-boiled spinach.

Spinach just happens to be one of those foods on my mental list that I absolutely know without any doubt that I hate—even though I have never really tried it.

“Can you tell me what this is?” I politely ask with a forced smile.

“Yes, it is called Calalu (pronounced cah-lah-LOO).” Christina replies. “We grow it in our gardens.”

I take a small bite, managing to maintain a grin while I struggle to suppress my instinctual desire to gag.

“That doesn’t taste too bad.” I think to myself.

Next, I taste the eggs. They are actually quite good—a little oily and salty perhaps, but tasty.

“Are these made from flour?” I ask inquisitively as I try one of her tortillas.

“No,” she replies with a grin, “they are made from corn.”

“Wow,” I respond, “I have never tasted corn tortillas that were so delicious, so light and smooth.”

Determined to clean my plate with a continued smile on my face, I adopt the strategy of alternating foods. After each spoonful of calalu, I counter with a subsequent bite of tortilla or egg. Gradually, ever so slowly, I polish off my entire serving of calalu, quickly finishing my entire breakfast by chomping down on several more of those incredible corn tortillas.

While eating, the engine again rumbles loudly, nearer than ever.

“Can you tell me what that engine noise is?” I ask with curiosity.

“It is my corn mill.” Christina replies.

Then she tells me of a recent adventure.

“I went to Guatemala and bought 13,000 Quetzal worth of corn meal (about $1,600 US). I brought it in through the border at Jalacte, but I had to first go to Punta Gorda to pay the immigration people $200 BZ ($100 US) just so that no one would accuse me of illegally importing goods from Guatemala.”

“You mean you can go to Guatemala via Jalacte?” I quickly inquire.

“Yes,” she replies, “you take the bus from here to Jalacte. It takes about an hour. From there, you have to walk about fifteen minutes along a jungle path until you cross the border into Guatemala. At that point, you enter a small village where you can buy things and catch buses to other parts of Guatemala.”

“Is there an immigration office there?” I ask curiously, as I begin to consider other travel options.

“No.” Christina answered casually. “That is why I had to go to Punta Gorda first—to pay import fees before bringing the corn meal back. If I didn’t do that, I could be put in jail.”

Then she adds, “But when we don’t import things, we can freely cross the border without going through immigration.”

“Why did you import cornmeal?” I continue asking. “Don’t people here grow enough corn in their farms?”

“No, not everyone grows corn for their families.” She replies. “For those who don’t have their own corn, I can sell it to them.”

I soon learn that the other building on Christina’s property is a tiny store where the corn mill is located. In her store she sells only the most basic of items—grains, sugar, flour, spices, a few canned goods, toilet paper, soap, and a few other basic staples.

Then I learn a tiny bit more about Christina’s corn mill.

“Grinding corn to make tortillas takes about four hours by hand,” she tells me, “but with my mill, we can do it in seconds. I charge ten cents per pound—not very much profit, but that is all that people can afford. We grind it wet, pouring small amounts of water over the corn while it is being ground. The resulting doughy mixture is ready to flatten and directly fry into tortillas.”

The whole time that Christina and I have been engaged in conversation, I am also in deep observation mode, taking in all of my surroundings, picking up on as many little details as possible.

A dog that is obviously supposed to remain outside, gradually inches himself closer, sliding along just an inch or two at a time. As Christina shushes him back outside, he soon appears again, sliding sneakily across the concrete floor, closer and closer.

Meanwhile, a mother hen wanders through the house with a group of tiny chicks eagerly following behind. These hens and darling baby chicks seem to have free run of the house, going wherever they like.

“I notice that everyone has many chickens and roosters, and that they all roam freely.” I begin asking. “How do people keep track of their own chickens? Don’t they scatter and get lost?”

“No,” Christina laughs at me. “We all know which chickens are ours, and the chickens all know where they live. They don’t wander very far, and they always come back home.”

“But when the hens lay eggs, where do they lay them?” I continue inquiring.

“When my hens want to lay an egg, they come into my home and sit in that box over there.” Christina tells me as she points to a small cardboard box near her door.

“As soon as they lay their egg, they get up and leave.” She adds. “Each hen usually lays one egg every day.”

Noticing only one double bed in the room, I ask innocently, “Do you sleep in here, or is this where the children sleep?”

“This is my bed, but the children sleep here with me.” She begins. “They don’t like sleeping in the other building by themselves. It is much warmer when we sleep together.”

One end of the room appears to be a kitchen area. Many pots and pans hang on the wall, below which is a modern-looking gas range. In the other corner of the room I notice a concrete fire pit capped with a shiny metal griddle.

“I noticed that you cooked my tortillas this morning on your gas range.” I begin to ask with an inquisitive tone. “When do you use the fire over there?”

“I usually cook on the fire, but today I did not have any firewood.” She replies. “I like to save my gas for when I really need it.”

As I wander away from Christina’s delightful little home, my hunger is comfortably satisfied, but my curiosity is greatly peaked.

I am thrilled by the incredible lessons I have learned about a small segment of her daily life—but I have learned so much in such a small timeframe that my mind struggles to hang on to every detail. How I wish I were a sponge, able to absorb every minute detail into an already overflowing brain.

A Man With Many Hats

“How are you doing Brenda?” Dionicio interrupts my peaceful post-breakfast meditation.

“I love it here.” I respond. “This place is so beautiful, and so peaceful. I could easily get used to living here forever.”

“Can you tell me something?” I ask. “Is there a schedule of when I will be eating my meals? I want to be sure to be around when people come looking for me.”

“Yes there is,” Dionicio quickly replies, “I tell everyone that we need to feed our guests at 7:00 a.m., 12:00 noon, and 5:00 p.m.. I know that 5:00 p.m. is a little early for dinner, but I think it is important to feed our guests before the sun goes down in case they don’t feel comfortable walking around after dark.”

“How many families participate in the guest house program?” I ask curiously.

“There are six families, but one is out of town.” He tells me. “I insist that everyone contribute equally so that no one family will have too much of a burden. Part of the money goes to help maintain the Toledo Ecotourism Association, but the remainder stays right here in our village.”

“We want to work on the guesthouse roof this evening, but one of the men is out of town.” Dionicio adds. “I want him to help with the work, so I am not sure exactly what we will do.”

“Can I ask you another question?” I inquire. “Is there a place here in the village where I can buy bottled water?”

“No, I‘m sorry,” he replies, “but if you like, Heralda will gladly boil some water for you.”

Soon, our conversation evolves into a long personal discussion, where Dionicio proceeds to tell me all about his family.

“I have seven children, five of them boys.” Dionicio begins.

Then a sad distressed look comes over his face as he tells me, “My oldest son died eight months ago. He was so happy, doing so many things with his life, and then one day he just decided to drink some farm chemicals. I was away at the time, and came home to find him dying. We were unable to save him. He refused to tell me why he drank the chemicals. All he would do is tell me that he loved me, that he would be in a better place, and would be with me again soon.”

“I nearly died too.” Dionicio continues. “For several months after my son passed away, I didn’t have a will to live. I was so heartbroken and sad.”

As I imagine the pain that this young man must have gone through to cause him to do such a thing, my heart also saddens. Dionicio and his family may never know the details of that pain, but I am deeply moved by the love I feel emanating from Dionicio while he talks of his dear son. There is no doubt that the young man was profoundly loved.

Dionicio soon changes topics, telling me that his grandfather settled the village in 1950. Coming from Guatemala in search of new places to farm, his grandfather selected this site for many reasons: the small flowing stream close to a larger nearby river, a sheltered and protected valley, and fertile jungle soils capable of supporting farming.

“My family has lived here for three generations.” Dionicio adds, “I was born right here in 1958. All of my children were born here, yet the government calls us squatters, telling us that this reservation is not our land.”

“This is a reservation?” I inquire in a surprised voice.

“Yes, it is,” Dionicio replies, but the government wants us to pay in order to stay on our own lands. I go to Punta Gorda every month to pay $12 just so they will have a record that I am still here—so they will not try to take my land away from me.”

Soon, I learn that Dionicio’s father lived to the grand old age of 94 before passing away from a stroke. I am amazed to learn that a man could live such a long life under such rustic conditions.

“I am the first chair Alcalde here in the village.” Dionicio changes subjects.

“What is an Alcalde?” I ask innocently.

“It is our village leadership.” He replies. “I oversee the other Alcaldes in village business. We also have a village chairman that coordinates our group, but for the most part I carry most of the responsibility. When there are disputes, or legal issues, it is my duty to attempt to solve them. If things get really out of hand, I have to call the police in Punta Gorda to have someone arrested.”

“I used to run the TEA (Toledo Ecotourism Association) office on a volunteer basis.” Dionicio changes subjects yet again. “But after serving my multi-year term, I gave up the reins to someone else. When I was in charge, I traveled to Punta Gorda every day to be in the office.”

“I go to my farm almost every day.” Dionicio changes subjects yet again.

“Tell me about your farm.” I reply. “I would love to go see it sometime.

“Why don’t we go this morning?” He grins. “I can take you there in a little while. I will show you and tell you all about it.”

“Will my flip flops be OK?” I ask, pointing to my feet. “Or should I put on long pants and shoes?”

“You will probably want to wear shoes.” He answers with authority.

Jungle Farming

Not more than twenty minutes later, Dionicio stops by my room to fetch me. Noticing that he is wearing rubber boots, I begin to wonder if even my hiking shoes will be adequate for our trek to the farm.

“Normally we would take a shortcut through here,” Dionicio points toward the stream, “but you would get wet, so we will take a slightly longer route.”

Soon, we are walking through the edge of the school playground, headed almost due north toward a small path that disappears into dense jungle foliage. At its beginning, the path is nearly six feet across, but within five minutes jungle plants are brushing against both sides of my long jeans, transferring considerable moisture onto my lower legs and tennis-shoe-style hiking shoes.

Stopping suddenly, Dionicio bends over and breaks off part of a leaf.

“This plant here is good for healing bites and wounds.” He tells me. “If you rub it on your skin, it promotes healing.”

“Can we rub some on my bites?” I ask eagerly.

My lower legs were covered in bites that I had acquired just a few days earlier, thanks to the appetites of hungry sand fleas in Placencia. After spending parts of two days writing while curled up in the sand under a palm tree, I only later discovered that I was one big walking and never-ending itch.

“Sure,” Dionicio replies, as he promptly rubs juice from the plant’s stem all over my numerous bites.

Soon, we are stopping at another plant.

“This plant here is good for women’s problems.” He begins. “For a woman having painful periods, drinking a tea of these leaves will take her pain away.”

Four more times we stop. One plant, when chewed and then rubbed on an open cut will make it stop bleeding. Another functions like aspirin. This one over here will help a woman increase her fertility so that she can become pregnant. That one over there can be used as a birth control, to prevent pregnancy.

I ponder in amazement at how much Dionicio knows regarding the medicinal uses of all these jungle plants. His father taught the information to him, and Dionicio is teaching the same things to his own children, yet so much of this precious information is being lost.

“My father knew many magical things about the ancient Mayas.” Dionicio tells me. “He had many powers and abilities which he never would teach me how to use. He kept saying that I was not ready to learn them.”

“One day he held an empty coke bottle in his hand, and then squeezed it, causing water to come gushing out.” Dionicio confided. “I asked him to show me how he did that, but he refused.”

During this conversation, Dionicio shared several stories of magical things that his father could do—but sadly enough, my memory overflowed and sprang a leak. I cannot for the life of me remember the other stories. Suffice it to say that Dionicio believed his father had many mystical powers.

After resuming our walk, we soon reach the farm—a fifteen minute walk if we had not stopped so often. As I look around, I can clearly see that a large area of jungle has been cleared, and a huge field of corn stands over seven feet tall—but when Dionicio points out the other vegetables that are growing, most are small and hidden by surrounding jungle plants. I can barely see them.

“I don’t use chemicals on my farm.” Dionicio proudly tells me. “When a plant is struggling, or insects are destroying a plant, I grind up cacao leaves and sprinkle them around the base. That keeps the insects away, and helps to nourish the plant back to health.”

The size of the corn field is impressive. Dionicio tells me that he or his sons come up here every day to walk the perimeter of the farm, checking for any animal invasions, or issues with the plants, etc…

“I love living here and working my farm.” He adds. “I can spend several hours per day out here, and spend the rest of my time resting, interacting with my family, or taking care of other business.”

After a long visit in his field, we begin our return journey.

“That is Jippi Jappa right there.” Dionicio points to a small long-stemmed plant with fanned palm-like leaves on the top. “We use it to make baskets, and we eat it too.”

“I know,” I eagerly reply. “Glenda fed me some last night. Can you show me the part that I ate?”

After selecting a young stalk that is perhaps six feet tall and one inch in diameter, Dionicio cuts with his machete below and carefully pulls on the stem. The bottom eight inches or so of the young stem is a pure white color.

“This is the part that we eat.” He tells me, as he proceeds to bite into the tender white base before placing the stalk in my hand.

Soon, I take my own bite. What I am chewing, even though it is raw, tastes remarkably like last night’s dinner. I take several more big bites before discarding the remainder of the stalk.

“This more mature part up here is what we dry and use for basket making.” He tells me as he peels back some of the upper portion of the long stalk.

After resuming our trek back to the village, we again pause for another lesson.

“That vine right there will give you drinking water if you are stranded in the jungle.” Dionicio points to a long winding vine, about one inch in diameter.

Soon, he is chopping a two foot section with his machete, quickly holding it above his mouth while a stream of clear water drips out of the end onto his tongue. Seconds later, he chops another section and hands it to me. Momentarily holding the dripping vine above my own tongue, I taste the cool clear liquid. It tastes like pure, refreshing water.

Maya Mountain Extension Agent

As if Dionicio doesn’t wear enough hats, I am surprised to discover yet another.

A white SUV is parked in front of Dionicio’s home as we return into the village from the shady jungle trail.

“It looks like I have visitors.” Dionicio remarks casually.

Soon, I am being introduced to a tall white-skinned, brownish-gray haired, bearded man named Chris, a dedicated man who runs an NGO (non-government organization) called the “Maya Mountain Research Farm.” A young assistant is also with him.

“Do you mind if I sit and listen to your discussion?” I ask Chris hopefully.

“Sure, pull up a seat.” He graciously replies.

Soon, I am a fly on the wall, observing a fascinating conversation.

Chris has come to talk to Dionicio about two possible projects.

The first is to investigate Dionicio’s reaction to the possibility of receiving a donated small solar-power-operated pump and a water tank—a system that could be utilized to assist residents in getting small amounts of accessible spring water for their village.

Dionicio expresses an eager response to such an endeavor—a topic that will be continued in future discussions.

The main discussion soon switches to Chris’s desire to further the work of an organization called “Trees For Life”—a group that promotes the planting of Moringa trees in tropical and sub-tropical regions of the planet. Every part of the tree has life-promoting uses. The leaves can be eaten like spinach. The seed pods can be cooked and eaten like green beans or asparagus. The leaves can be dried and converted to a very nutritious power that can be used in teas, or as a food supplement. In addition, Moringa seeds can also be used to aid in water purification, and many cultures in the past have used the plant for medicinal purposes.

“We want to hire and train two part-time extension agents in your village.” Chris adds. We will train them, both locally, and also in Honduras, where they will learn all about the trees and their uses. Then these two agents will help to train others in their planting and use.”

As the conversation winds down, Dionicio agrees to assist Chris by selecting two individuals from the village. He later tells me that he himself has decided to be one of the village’s extension agents.

A Roof-Raising Afternoon

As Chris and his assistant drive away in their white SUV, I am surprised to notice on my watch that I still have some time to kill before lunch. Quickly, I resume a meditative state, simply sitting outside of my small quarters, doing nothing but inhaling the vista while absorbing the peaceful energy.

Soon, a thirteen-year-old young man named Walencio comes to request my lunchtime presence. This walk is by far the furthest I have yet taken, all the way to the crest of the hill on the westernmost edge of the village.

As Walencio escorts me into the small ten by twenty foot hut, I realize that I am in a very humble abode. Sweet little Irma, a small, wrinkled, and thin, but very-energetic, forty-two year old woman, greets me with a nearly-toothless grin. As I look around, I note that the floor is nothing but hard, lumpy, uneven dirt. Her indoor fire for cooking does not have the fancy concrete borders that surrounded Christina’s fire pit, nor does it have the shiny silver circular griddle propped above the fire. But one thing is certain: the home is filled with love.

To my surprise I am presented with a meal that is nearly identical to my breakfast. A large plate filled with half-scrambled-half-fried eggs, a huge pile of calalu, and a stack of corn tortillas. In addition, she presents me with a separate plate, piled high with chopped cabbage—more than I can possibly imagine myself eating.

“I guess I better get used to the calalu.” I silently tell myself as I eagerly dig in to my meal.

Feeling quite proud of myself, I finish off the green spinach-like mixture in record time. While eating the remainder of my meal, I take the opportunity to begin connecting with Irma.

Irma tells me that she was born and raised in the village. Now, at age 42, she proudly reports that she has given birth to ten children. The oldest child died as a baby, the next three are old enough to live out of the home, and the final six were all hanging out in the kitchen watching me eat my calalu with a focused smile on my face.

While walking back toward Dionicio’s home, I catch a glimpse of an older gentleman carrying a large stack of fifteen-foot-long palm branches on his back. I can barely see the man underneath as the oversized leaves hang over his back on both sides, nearly covering him. These palm leaves have a long stiff vein running down the middle. All along this strong middle vein, coming off at right angles, three-foot leaves branch stiffly outward.

“Could those be for the guesthouse roof?” I ask myself.

Eager to find out, I stalk the man, watching his every move. Sure enough, as the man crosses the road he continues up the small path leading toward the guesthouse and plops the leaves down on the ground, right to the side.

Soon, he disappears once again, returning fifteen minutes later with a second stack on his back.

As I approach Dionicio’s home, I notice that four long poles are lying on the ground, each being perhaps eighteen feet long, having been stripped of all branching foliage. By now, I am convinced that a roof-raising is about to begin, and I am eager to help in any way that I can.

By around 3:00 p.m., Dionisio, one of his sons, the older man, and two other thirty-something men have assembled. I assist by carrying one of the large, heavy poles, and by dragging old palm branches that had blown off the roof over to a pile that is soon burning in the jungle.

With the debris cleared away, I clearly see that only the top cap of the roof has been destroyed—leaving an eighteen-inch gap at the peak of the roof where rain could, and did, penetrate freely.

In curious fascination, I watch as Dionicio and two men whom I never officially met climb onto the roof—a roof that must be nearly twenty feet high. The first one shimmies up a single pole that is leaning against the middle of the thatch roof on one side. The second tries to do the same, but keeps falling off, losing his balance. Soon, a second long pole is placed parallel to the first. I volunteer to hold these poles in place while the second man, plus Dionicio each take turns scaling their way to the top.

Once the three are standing evenly spaced, one on each end, and one in the middle, they stand with their bare feet straddling the open gap at the roof’s peak, Dionicio’s son then begins to pass the huge palm branches up to the top, one heavy awkward branch at a time. One by one, the men on the roof place the branches on alternating ends, slightly overlapping in the middle. The process continues until at least twelve of the branches are in place.

Being quite stiff and rigid, the leaves of the branches now stick straight out to each side, refusing to sag at the angle of the steep roof below. This is where the poles come in. Four staggered poles are subsequently placed atop the stiff and stubborn leaves—two on each end of the roof, on alternating sides of the center peak. Then, using vines gathered from the jungle, these poles are carefully strapped to smaller poles anchored underneath the center roof support.

As the vines are gradually tightened, the large heavy poles gently push downward. Their weight is used to force the palm leaves to sag until they finally fall flush with the steep surface of the peaked roof. At last, these heavy poles are securely anchored in place with the same vines. The process is finished, and the men carefully descend the same poles on which they originally ascended.

Telling me to wait outside so as to not breathe the dust, Dionicio enters the house and frantically sweeps debris and dust throughout the interior, pushing most of it out the front door. I can only imagine how much of the airborne dust simply resettles onto the ground and furniture once the windmill of sweeping is complete.

Five minutes later, Dionisio emerges from the front door and tells me that my quarters are complete. As I enter the front door, I am greeted by a small reception/lounge area, with a small table, a five-foot wooden bench, one solid wooden chair, two folding wooden chairs, and two large storage cabinets.

As I look to the right end of the guesthouse, I see a separate room with one large double-sized bunk bed—neither bunk being currently configured for sleeping. A pile of small, unused mattresses is stacked up on the bottom double bed.

As I look to the left end of the cabin, I spy another separate room with two twin-sized bunk beds. The bottom one on the right has a small mattress, two sheets, a small blanket, and a mosquito net. The other three bunks are merely bare wood bed frames.

“I guess that takes away my need to decide which bed I like best.” I silently chuckle.

Soon, Dionicio’s son, Filimon, has helped me move my belongings up to the guest house. In the process, I learn that it is his private quarters that I have been occupying. I graciously thank him from the bottom of my heart for surrendering his personal space to rescue me in a time of need.

In a second trip, I grab the oil lamp and my pitcher of boiled water, carefully carrying them both to the guesthouse—not wanting to spill or break either.

The water has a bitter, metallic taste—but hey, it is water, it has been boiled, and it is all I have. I know I will get used to it, but I also know that I will probably be drinking as little water as possible throughout my remaining days.

Righteously Rocking Evening

As I sit wondering if my dinner family will know where to find me, a young ten-year-old girl named “Elida” soon comes calling on my door.

“Is it time for dinner?” I ask, by now already expecting a ‘yes’ in reply.

Soon I am in the house of Teodora, a sweet elderly woman of 74 years. A twenty-year-old new mother named Lavina, Teodora’s daughter-in-law, serves me my food, while she, Teodora, and Elida look curiously on.

Just like Irma’s humble home, this small building also has dry, lumpy, uneven, dirt floors. For the third time today, I am served half-scrambled-half-fried eggs, but this time, rather than calalu, my side dish is a very greasy plate of refried beans. I can only imagine the lard that I must be eating as I slowly place each spoonful into my mouth. The eggs are tasty, but very salty. The delicious corn tortillas, as usual, help me to pleasantly swallow everything else.

Lavina seems very curious about a single woman traveling alone.

“Where is your husband?” she asks.

“I’m not married.” I reply.

“Do you have children? Were you married? What happened? Why are you no longer married? Are you still friends? Do you still see each other? Do you want to get married again?”

Lavina’s questions seem to go on and on, one after the other, in a rapid shotgun procession.

As I attempt to lovingly deflect and graciously answer each question in the most simple way possible, I realize that the concept of divorce, and the thought of a woman traveling alone, are both very difficult concepts for Lavina—and probably many others in this humble community—to grasp.

To Lavina, her whole life is this village—a place where the women are almost all married, staying home, doing the cooking, laundry, dishes, having children, changing diapers, … and the list of traditional roles goes on and on. I am extremely careful in my conversation, not wanting to influence her innocent beliefs in any way.

As I stroll back to my new home, I do some serious pondering about how I may have answered differently.

But soon, I have a new adventure in which to participate. Earlier in the day, Dionicio informed me that while his people still believe and respect the traditions of their elders, the vast majority of them have long since converted to Christianity.

“Are you a Christian?” he had asked.

“Yes, I believe in Christ.” I had replied.

“I joined the Baptist church many years ago.” Dionicio continued. “For a while, I was even a Baptist missionary to the other surrounding villages. Then I became a pastor and led services here. But the Catholics and the Baptists all left. Now we have a ‘Church of Christ’ here in the village. The majority of villagers attend. My sons are all involved in the youth leadership.”

“We are having a church service tonight at 7:00 p.m.” He then told me. “If you want to go, you can stop by my home and we will go together.”

“I think I might just do that.” I had responded, knowing in my heart that this would be an incredible opportunity to develop a closer connection with the community.

As I walk towards Dionicio’s home at 6:50 p.m., I am captivated by the sight of small groups of fireflies periodically blinking in the darkness all around me. A slight twinge of anticipation sparks through my soul as I wonder just what tonight’s services might be like. As I reach Dionicio’s home in the pitch black of night, I quietly call out “HelloooOOooo.”

Soon Dionisio steps outside, telling me, “I’m sorry, I am not going to church tonight. My grandsons Leroy and Elroy have already fallen asleep. They are so tired, and I don’t want to wake them.”

“That is fine,” I tell him, “I think I will still go by myself. Can you tell me where to go?”

“Do you hear all that music?” He asks. “Just follow the sounds and go there.”

Just a short distance up the hill, I can hear a generator running, a keyboard playing, and a microphone squealing. Unmistakable bright lights are also shining throughout the neighboring trees. I know exactly where to go.

As I enter the small chapel, eight rows with four chairs each are set up on both sides of a small aisle, providing space for sixty four people to sit. The concrete structure with corrugated steel roofing is very basic. The entryway has a large set of swinging double doors. The opposite end of the room has a small platform with a pulpit and a keyboard. Several large arrangements of jungle flowers are beautifully arranged at the front of the pulpit.

Four large square window openings are evenly spaced along the upper left wall. Along the right wall, three such openings exist, with the spot where a fourth might exist being replaced by a small door that leads out into the darkness.

Wanting to remain inconspicuous and unobtrusive, I sit on the back row, quietly observing. Dionicio’s son, Timoteo, is playing rhythmic chords on the keyboard. Another son, Dionicio Junior is loudly praying at the pulpit, holding the microphone tightly to his lips, expressing considerable emotion with his voice. The women in the room have colorful scarves pulled over their heads. I feel slightly out of place in my jeans, but I know they will understand.

Ten minutes later, as the chapel has gradually filled up, the loud praying stops, and the organ cranks up a notch. Dionicio Junior begins to sing slow chanting songs while many in the audience stand up, wave their hands in the air, and sing along as they slowly sway their bodies with the music.

Then, after nearly an hour of slow melodic singing, the keyboard suddenly picks up the tempo to a very fast bouncing rhythm.

Everyone in the small chapel (at least everyone except me and a few women holding babies) stands on their feet and begins clapping and dancing. I go along with the clapping part, but am reserved and hesitant to jump up and join in with the dancing.

Thirty minutes later, the music stops, and Pastor Antonio walks to the front, delivering a sermon of some type, totally in the Mayan language. I do hear the occasional Spanish word, and one distinctive English phrase “Repent or you shall perish.”

Biting my lip, I choose to embrace these beautiful people’s beliefs with no form of judgment whatsoever.

As the pastor sits down, another short ten-minute round of slow music begins, the women again place their scarves over their heads, and many people in the room become engulfed in deep emotion, while a great number of the women erupt in large sobbing tears.

Then, as quickly as it stopped, the loud rapid tempo suddenly takes over, and everyone is again on their feet dancing and clapping. This time I do stand up in front of my seat, slightly swaying while I clap awkwardly. For some strange reason, I am still hesitant to fully jump into the service.

As the service ends at 9:00 p.m., I quietly exit out the back into the pitch black night that awaits me. Deep gratitude is again my companion as I realize that I have brought my little reading light. The night is now so incredibly devoid of any light that I most likely would not have been able to find my way, even down the main road, without my dimly glowing little beacon.

Embracing Love

An incredibly full day was topped off with some very interesting emotions. In many ways I had wanted to jump in and embrace the worship service of these devoted Christian people.

However, in my silly awkwardness, I resisted, holding back, slightly judging the things I observed and the few words I had understood.

“This is not what I believe.” I silently bantered in my brain. “I cannot join in or they will think I am endorsing their way of worship.”

Then I realized what I was doing.

“I am judging.” I told myself out loud. “This method of worship is beautiful for them. It is plain to see that their souls were fully immersed in a beautiful act of faith, gloriously embracing their love for Christ. How could I possibly judge that, regardless of what my own spiritual beliefs might be?”

I made new inroads tonight in my quest to simply embrace the truth that flows through my heart while loving everyone else for exactly who, what, and where they are in their own belief systems.

It all flows down to the basic concept of embracing genuine love, no matter where or how that love may be found.

As I placed my head on my pillow, alone and engulfed in the absolute darkness of my guesthouse, I realized that my incredible day of new discoveries was now complete—and it was all good.

Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved

 

(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