Like Clock Work

Greetings, All!

Well, like clock work, here's another 3 month update! It's strange really; I mean, it's not like I've been sitting on my hands for the three months since my last excruciatingly long mass email, but quite naturally, I have found myself with enough reflection material every three months or so to share with you fine people. It's kind of like my body's "wake-up-two-minutes-before-the-alarm-is-going-to-go-off" phenomenon—except not nearly as frustrating. That inner timer of mine is sharper than any piece of modern technology, I tell ya.

So, what's been happening in Belize? Since I last wrote, a lot! There have been democratic elections that gave the People's United Party, office mongrels for the past ten years, a swift kick to the street (their campaign plug was a "one laptop per child" program—come on!) and replaced them with the United Democratic Party who boasted the catchier: "PUP FIRE, UDP HIRE" which you can still find emblazoned on just about every billboard, telephone pole, and vehicle in town (one of the drawbacks of using spray paint on your campaign trail). The PUP's promise to "supply each primary school student nation-wide with a laptop" actually seems more feasible after the fact as apparently, the Belizean Government had received $20 million US in grants from Taiwan and another $20 million from Venezuela over the course of the last five years. Those funds, however, seem to have mysteriously disappeared from off-shore bank accounts just as former Prime Minister Musa packed up his office on February 8, one day after the election. Weird.

As I am employed—kind of—by the Catholic Church, the last three months have kept me busy with such things as palm blessings, cultish fire-pit worships, walking the streets behind a crucifix singing songs of trembling hearts and fearful adoration, candlelit vigil-ing, and ritualistic water blessing, pouring, and submerging. Yep, Holy Week was a busy time here at St. Martins, and I am truly thankful that a) I was present to witness it and b) it will be a whole ¾ of a year until we have to do it all over again.

The spring, liturgically speaking, also holds the celebrations of First Communion and Confirmation—Sacraments that are a little nearer and dearer to my heart due to the fact that I have been helping the students to prepare for such occasions for the majority of the school year. Last Friday, I had 30 Standard V students (roughly 7^th grade—yep, 30 of them, one of me) on a retreat as a last reflection before Confirmation. I had to spend most of the day trying to stop them from writing on each other with the complimentary pens I distributed all too early in the morning's activities. By the time we left, most of them were covered in blue lines and scribbles and complaining that they couldn't do the evaluation form because their pen had run out of ink. The few who had usable pens for the evaluation forms however, thoughtfully answered my "Suggestions for next year?" question with: "Good luck!" I'm not sure if this was a cultural misunderstanding or a reflection of my frenzied attempt and failure to control the pre-pubescent Bic warriors.

Hmm, what else? In early March, two of my fellow Jesuit Volunteers and I accomplished the great feat of La Ruta Maya, a four day canoe race snaking its way from Belize's most western border to the Caribbean Sea. That's 170 miles, folks. I have learned that while kicking things seems to have come relatively easy to me over the years, upper body strength is not really my thing. Plus, I'm not really keen on doing things I'm "not good at," like, say, steering and paddling an overweight bathtub of a canoe. (It was quite a ride, and if you're interested in more details, I suggest you check out my blog posting below.) Let's just say that besides the t-shirt and medal I earned in the experience, I have since blocked our 5^th-from-last finish from my memory.

These days Belize City is hotter than Hades, but the mangoes are a-blooming which provides pleasure in the face of humidity and general sweat stains (especially when said mangoes are mutilated into smoothie form). I, myself, am doing well—not yet riding life's rollercoaster with my arms outstretched, but definitely loosening my grip on the over-the-shoulder harness and maybe I'll even be pulling off a smile for the camera flashes at the end of the scary tunnel. I'll send you a copy.

Recently, a few Jesuits visited from the St. Louis province to give a presentation on a recent conference they attended in Rome for the election of a new Father General. During the discussion of the Jesuit mission and its manifestation in various ministries, Fr. Tom, the Provincial, said something (that shows how much I was paying attention) about "our broken but lovable world." I have adopted this, or perhaps plagiarized it, as the overarching title of my experience in Belize. It is not what I expected: Belize, for me, is filled with disorientation, with acute disappointment and loneliness, observations of abuse and pollution, experiences of heartache and confusion. But it is also filled with beauty—a kind I've never taken the time to appreciate; it is filled with cute kids in school uniforms asking for help with their project on simple machines, with vibrant and dynamic scenery and people and landscapes, with families who attend church together every Sunday (all seventeen of them in matching Garifuna attire), with relationships from home that have somehow grown stronger despite such limited contact, and with community mates who accept me for all that I'm not. My experience so far is certainly broken—that's not debatable—but I guess, in more ways than I'm willing to admit on a daily basis, it is also lovable.

Well, that's all that's fit to print for this quarterly report. I hope this finds you enjoying the rebirth, renewal, and refreshments of spring time wherever you are. Know that here on the crust of the Carib Sea, we're sweating our faces off!

Much love and peace to you and your families,

Molly

P.S. If you are interested in catching a few shots of our Belize City Photo Scavenger Hunt, my pictures are posted at http://www.flickr.com/photos/15964583@N04/. Don't be alarmed that in practically all of my pictures, I am wearing the same three or four items of clothing. Hand-washing has inspired me to maintain a pretty tight rotation. Enjoy!

La Ruta Maya

'One (splash), two (splash), three (splash), four (splash), five (splash), six (splash), seven (splash), eight (splash), nine (splash), ten (switch, left, splash) ...'

On the morning of day three, I got all the way up to 539 -- strokes, that is -- before I lost count. At that point, we were winding somewhere between Bermudian Landing, a small village lush with tropical greens and rain forest chirps, howls, and splashes, and Burrell Boom which is just west of the Belize City International Airport. Though the route is easily driven in less than 15 minutes, Trey, Fino, and I were busy paddling for well over six hours. Thus, the counting.

La Ruta Maya is, for some people, a canoe race. If you are inexperienced, untrained, and utterly incompetent however, it becomes something much more like self-inflicted torture.

Day 1:
Wake up at 4:45 am in San Ignacio, Belize -- a beautiful city set on the slopes of Mountain Pine Ridge overlooking the conjunction of the Macal and Belize Rivers just 12 miles from the Guatemalan border. The misty fog sits on the water like a scene from Hogwarts as we tie our precious supplies -- Nalgenes and PB & Js -- to our canoe, a borrowed bathtub-esque barge that will be our home for the majority of the four days to come. Minutes past 6:00, the airhorn blows and -- honk -- we've begun.

It takes our team of three, "Wait Fi Wi!," less than five minutes to realize the horror we've subjected ourselves to. Teams 'dig' their paddles ferociously through the choppy waters, some tipping due to extraordinary weight shifting in said ferociousness and some just kicking ass. As it turns out, team "Wait Fi Wi!" named ourselves with tremendous foresight; soon enough, adrenaline has transformed into desperation and we begin whining, literally: "Wait for us, dammit!" Old Bessie the Bathtub just can't keep up.

We figure out pretty early on that paddling is not like riding a tandem bicycle: when one boatwoman/boatman stops rowing, her/his dead weight pushes the others to near asphyxiation. Hence, water-logged peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are folded, smushed, and shoved into mouths as fast as possible for "lunch" and require a three, two, and one minute warning: i.e. "I'm sandwiching in three." Chewing, however, is not done so that such "sandwich" can be enjoyed over the course of a few slimy, drooly, and short-breathed minutes.

By mid-afternoon of the first day, entering hour five, team "Wait Fi Wi" hurts. The monotony of rowing and the never-ending landscape of green, leafy, gurgling bends in the river is driving us to frustration. And I am reminded of a classic line from Mighty Ducks 2 from the red-headed, glasses-wearing Lester Averman in response to Coach Gordon Bombay's "haven't you guys been training in the off-season?" ... Sorry, coach. I knew we forgot something!

Approaching 8 hour and 15 minutes from the start, we hear the sound of the airhorn through the woods separating the meandering bends of the river signaling the finish of the team just ahead of us. We paddle harder than we have since the starting line, and coast our way to a finish of fifth-to-last for Day 1.

Day 2:
We are aware that this will be the longest day of paddling. For Belize Bank and Caribbean Pride Limited, the first and second place teams who are comprised of hired and sponsored foreign paddlers, this leg should take about five hours. For team "Wait Fi Wi!," it will take 10 hours and 37 minutes. But at 6:30 am, we don't know that yet.

Day 2 will prove to be the most formative of the overall experience, at least for me. With aching arms and backs, we step into the boat and sit down on our ghetto-rigged foam seats, still wet from the day before. Yum. The paddle feels surprisingly comfortable in my hands, and my mind coaxes my muscles into believing that they know what they are doing. The horn sounds the start of a new day, and before we know it, old Bessie has us dawdling near the end of the string of canoes coursing the turns of the river, paddling in front of just one Japanese Volunteer Corps boat (the "other" JVC) who is methodically chanting cadences in native tongue, and another boat of Canadians so-called "Chillaxin" powered by two older white women and one young white man with dreadlocks in his beard smoking a cigarette.

This day has "low morale" written all over it. The three of us in "Wait Fi Wi" seem to have nothing to talk about -- no jokes, no interesting tid-bits about ourselves to share that we haven't already learned in the eight months we've known each other, not even any complaints. The tension is finally broken when Trey spontaneously belts out the first verse of the Belizean national anthem, and bridges straight into a very inappropriate song by an A Capella group named DaVinci's Notebook. Hilarious. We laugh. And then we remember that we are still rowing on an f-ing river and that even immature distractions can't take away from the fact that it's hot as balls and my sandwich is wet.

Needless to say, the afternoon is much better. Delirium sets in somewhere around hour seven, and though we pass by sparsely populated banks every once in a while, the limits of our human interaction -- mine being the backs of of my two teammates' heads and the constant exclaims of "what?!" and "huh?!" as our forward-facing direction warps the sound waves of their voices such that I can't hear a word they say -- basically begins to drive us nuts. And this is no Boston Marathon; I mean, though that race's sidelines are approximately 90% intoxicated during the 26.2 miles of concrete, at least people are cheering. In Belize, apparently it is appropriate to stare open-mouthed at the white folks who canoe through your backyard -- no encouragement needed, thanks! Perhaps it is due to our pace (we went by too quickly for them to respond?) or maybe a cultural barrier ... not sure. Either way, we mosey on by -- don't mind us, just paddling 170 miles -- and instead of absorbing energy from out there, we conjure it up from giggles within as Trey decides after a while to cheer them on: "keep it up, spectators! you're doing awesome!"

At 4:00 pm, I take my watch off and sit on it. Checking the time every 8 minutes or so was not a life-giving operation.

I pray.

Just before dark, we pull into the station finish line. We pitch tents, scarf down a plate of rice and beans, and pass out promptly.

Day 3:
It's raining. Hard. Things are wet. I'm cold. And today, I'm really not up for it.

After the abysmal performance of yesterday however (third-to-last overall and two near-death experiences -- luckily, there was nothing but my small Swiss Army pocket-knife to use as weapons on each other), we decide to go hard. Paddle, paddle, paddle. This is where my counting begins.

We make it through the morning with still 6-8 boats behind us. We know today will be shorter, but we also know that the rain is contending our speediness. Things are relatively quiet -- determined, but subdued. I have some fleeting hope that we will be the acclaimed underdogs of this race, just you wait. And then we are passed. And again. Until finally, as always, it is just us and the Japanese.

At this point though, the continuous -- and foreign -- rhythm of their boats (all seven of them -- six of which have passed us) have really begun to rub raw. I thank God for Trey, who again breaks out in reactive hilarity and sings back at them some ridiculously American ditty. They don't understand, and continue chanting.

We become especially disheartened as we are passed by a safety boat who yesterday had chided us for our "lack of effort" -- how rude -- and who today, begins to poke fun at how hard we are working yet how slow we are going. We just can't win with these guys.

"Yep," says Trey. "We're really doing it. 170 miles. In a canoe. You have a motor on your boat Mr. Safety man with a bandanna on your face and an indiscernible accent [he really did have those things]. BACK OFF!"

I don't even hear the airhorn sounding our finish today. I just step out of the canoe, shivering on my wobbly legs.

That pretty much sums up day 3.

Day 4:
The last day! The last hoorah! The standings say that we are in fourth to last place overall ... And to me (and perhaps to Lloyd Christmas) that means you're sayin' there's a chance! We can do this! Just a few short hours until freedom!

The adrenaline gets us from the start -- hard, dig, come on, we can do it ...

Alas, our determination is not sustainable. The worst part is that by 10 am we are in recognizable territory: where there used to be howler monkeys and dripping tropical landscapes, there is now the familiarity of old tires, trash, and zinc lean-to shanties crowded on the banks -- yet another uplifting aspect of the whole experience -- the landmarks that tell us that we are paddling through the backside of our very own neighborhood. And then we see it: THE BRIDGE. The finish line. The grand finale.

Lo and behold, there is an echo to our paddles' splashes. A next boat -- the Japanese -- is gaining on us. The hum of their cadence haunts me ... Are you kidding? They are going to pass us! The competitive drive in me is heightened to an all-time high. No way! I didn't come 170 miles to be passed at the last minute, especially not by the fascist chanting of the Japanese volunteers!

Trey gets a splash of water in his eye. He can't see. That's because at this point it's not just any water -- it's Belize City's own toxic waste river water, the alternative to the city dump (which doesn't exist). Fino's hand cramps up. We can't stay straight. I want to get out and swim the damn thing. Kill me.

"Honk!" ... point two seconds later ... "Honk!" They beat us.

We pull up to the concrete banks of Belize City and as we step out of the canoe for the last time (thank God), a few of the officials help us tip old Bessie to empty the morning's rain water we had been towing for the past few hours. In fact, as one of the men points out, that's not all we had been towing. As he releases a small plug in the hull of the canoe, two minutes worth of a heavy stream of water flows out from inside the boat. As if rowing an upside-down kitchen table wasn't enough, she was carrying extra water, too!! What a joke.

* * *

Well, in two day's hindsight now that my back muscles have stopped spasming and my blisters are starting to heal, it was a great four days. In the end, everyone got medals anyway -- what was I so worried about?

And most importantly, I learned a lot about myself. I can't say, like Trey and Fino did, that I will never do something so "ridiculously stupid and pointless" again -- I wouldn't put it past myself. Torrential rain? Goooood. Camping in torrential rain? Fuuuuun. Paddling until your arms feel like they will fall off? Awwwwwesome. Rowing for four days what can be driven in less than two hours? Greeeeeeat idea. La Ruta Maya: What's not to like?

(more pictures: http://www.flickr.com/photos/15964583@N04/)

Everyting is Everyting

A few words on my best, most favorite co-worker Mrs. Benguche (a.k.a. by the general population of Belize City, "Mrs. Bee"):

She is incredible. "Good mawnin' miss Molly Deeeee," she greets me every day, with a huge smile on her face. "Everyting is everyting?" Yes, Mrs. Bee -- everything is everything.

Half-expecting her to rattle off the rest of the famous Lauryn Hill lyrics, I ask Mrs. Bee, What does that saying even mean? "You know," she says. "It means dat everyting is a-okay."

Between our frequent rants in the office -- "72 copies? Why would a teacher need 72 copies of a worksheet with one math problem on it!?" (me); "what in Gaad's name does dis even say?!" (Mrs. Bee) -- and our lengthy conversations about Belizean "Politricks," Mrs. Bee and I have gotten particularly close. She is spunky, she is hilarious, she is absolutely great at what she does (she has single-handedly eliminated the need for a volunteer in my position at all), she reminds me of my mom, and best of all, she has made my work days in Belize more than bearable -- sometimes by blasting the radio and showing off her Punta dance moves, sometimes by telling me humorous stories about what it was like growing up in a village, and sometimes by kicking or swearing at -- "oh my trials!" -- the nearest piece of technology that gets busted in our office (computer, photocopier, printer, fax machine, coffee maker, etc.). Not to mention, she has the cutest granddaughters ever who are undoubtedly my two best Belizean buddies -- Melisha and Monique (we have an "M" club) -- whom she has raised.


I have really struggled in my "work" here -- I say "work" because: a) What is work anyways? Simply a way to feel good about ourselves? To feel productive? To gain recognition or accomplishment? b) I understand that my experience as a volunteer has very little to do with whatever amount of said productivity I am able to bring to the table -- the way I see it these days, as long as I'm not prohibiting others from being productive, I'm doing okay. And c) My job as a pastoral associate (okay, my title should just be "Father Dan's personal assistant") at St. Martins doesn't lend itself to, well, too much work. There are always things to do, of course, but mostly, my job consists of photocopying, dispensing out water and pencil sharpening sessions at school break times, going to church way too much (is that possible?), and hanging out with Mrs. Bee.

Okay, I'm being hard on my work experience so far. There have been bright spots, most of which have occurred in the past week. Last Sunday, the Youth Group played a massive game of Jeopardy which was not only awesomely engaging and exciting for high-schoolers that don't usually want to do much of anything, but also really fun for me to plan. Most of the categories were interactive; the final product was more of a Jeopardy/Cranium/Carmen San Diego combination with categories ranging from "The 10 Commandments" to "So You Think You're a Rockstar" to "All things Molly" (not one of them believed me that my real name wasn't "Molly" but MaryGene -- I had to show them my license!). On Monday, my Confirmation class -- also consisting of high schoolers who don't usually want to do much of anything -- was surprisingly in a good mood, enough so that I followed their lead and found myself turning a lecture on the gifts of the Holy Spirit (what in the ... ?) to a group question and answer session about peer pressure and different forms of prayer (my favorite one being a 2nd Form student -- sophomore -- who said that he always prays when he's going to the bathroom! He's got the idea!). And finally, yesterday, I had the group of St. Martin's Primary 1st Communion students who needed remedial Baptism lessons before they were ready to receive their 1st Communion (this place has weird rules). Basically, I had all the troublemakers. A group that was supposed to be 8 kids turned into 15 and then 20 and by the time we got to the exercise where I made everyone hug each other, I'm pretty sure there were about 25 kids milling around the parish hall. Considering I had spent a fair amount of time planning specific activities relating to Baptism, I was surprise at how flexible I became as soon as the room flooded with students -- most of whom were sent by teachers who just wanted a break. Where I thought I was anal, shy, and under-confident, I was suddenly animated and on fire with spontaneous games and activities -- apparently I have some inner reserves of some accumulated elementary school/retreat/birthday party repertoire.

In any case, I'm not sure that this job is the right fit for me. For some time now, I think it has been contributing to a fair amount of identity crises I have been experiencing (post-collegiate, perhaps?), and quite honestly, the draining aspects of parish life -- the scrutiny and demands of the congregation ("I'm sorry, M'am. I can't Baptize you're baby! I've told you, I'm just not qualified!"), the administrative work and photocopies galore, and even the growing frustration of balancing my personal, work, and spiritual life -- have made my complete withdrawal seemingly imminent. Lately though, my outlook has been more positive; as to whether or not this will be my job for my second year in Belize, the jury's still out. But at least I'm feeling more excited that there will be, in fact, a second year for me in Belize.

And so, I am a-okay. I have been spending an increasing amount of time out-of-doors lately which has slowed down the rapid pace of my journal marathon-ing, but has allowed me to "enjoy the view," as my dad so perfectly advised, at the start of this second lap. I have stopped compartmentalizing so much my feelings, the time, and my relationships and am finally growing into the idea that for right now, this is my life. Life, life, life. And my life, albeit absolutely, 100% different than the life of Mrs. Bee or of any of the students I am interacting with on a daily basis, is Belize. The people, the food, the company, the strength, and the heartbreak -- all belongs to Belize, and all belongs to God. And accepting that has made it so much easier to go with the flow, to rest in the fact that it will all be alright and that, at the end of the day, everyting is everyting.

The Home Stretch ... of Lap Numero Uno

I'm not sure if I am assigning too deep of a meaning to the countless timed mile fitness tests I partook in over the years of soccer pre-seasons, but for some reason, I have recently found myself reflecting on the different feelings I had throughout the preparation, anticipation, and completion of those God-forsaken events. Why did I dread them so much? Was I afraid of losing, or not passing? Was it because simply put, running as fast as you can for four laps is not a pleasant experience?

I always had trouble training for the pre-season mile test. I have a mental block against tracks -- I'm not sure why -- and so, the best I could do to prove to myself that I would pass would be to step out of my driveway, press "start" on my watch and run as fast as I could for however long the time limit for the upcoming test would be. After five minutes and forty five seconds, six minutes, six minutes and fifteen seconds, I would stop running, walk the rest of the way home, hop in the car and drive the exact distance I had made it in the given time. Usually, the odometer slowly rolled to 1.000 miles just as I approached the mailbox, the telephone pole, the stick in the road that I had used to mark my distance. I would breathe a sigh of relief -- a relief that lasted about two minutes before I realized that, in less than a week, I would have to do the same thing all over again ... except that the next time, it would be around a track.

Well, in the course of this two year experience in Belize, I am just about to cross the line marking the completion of my first six months. 25% done. 1/4 of the way there. 3 times the amount of days that have gone, to go. Whichever way I rationalize it to myself, I can't help but think back to both the feelings of triumph and discouragement -- "one down" and "three to go" -- that I always felt in the heat of those races as I finished the first lap.

That first time around the track was always the hardest for me. I never warmed up properly, and my muscles felt tight and leaden. I struggled to find my pace, caught up in the initial rush that makes everyone go a little bit too fast. I also remember being aware that the adrenaline would fade, and letting that get my spirits down before it chemically happened -- mind under matter -- letting myself feel discouraged that even after completion, the first lap would be hardly a bite in the whole cake that lay before me to eat. (Bad analogy -- I really enjoy eating cake!)

In any case, I find myself retracing these familiar pathways of my mind these days. Though the landscape is unfamiliar -- the people are different, the place is different, the task at hand is different -- my mind is falling back into its similar patterns of quantifying and compartmentalizing the time, deflating the natural adrenaline rushes with the constant reminder of the difficulties that lay ahead, while also trying to celebrate the landmark of sixth months spent living abroad; it's like back in July, I raced ahead and planted myself a bouquet of flowers at the January 31 mile-marker, and am pretending to be surprised now I as I stoop over to pick them up from the side of the road. "Awww, for me? From me? You really shouldn't have ..."

I can't say that things have gotten too much easier in the past few months, except perhaps my acceptance that this experience is really hard. I have had some ups and downs with my job, like most recent graduates I'm sure, wherever we are -- I guess I'm just trying to find my groove while also desperately trying to understand what my purpose here, in Belize, really is. Community life has been equally as difficult in more abstract, yet somehow reaffirming, ways. Something much greater than the five of us drew us to be together in Belize City, to live in the same house, to share the same resources, to live parts our lives through each other. Never have I been so open and so exposed, yet so lonely all at the same time. My relationship with words -- both in the reading of others' ideas as well as the articulation of my own -- has grown, and is something I find myself dependent on to process the internals and externals to my daily life: the invasiveness of Belizean culture, the beauty of this country, and the crude sights, sounds, and smells of this city. And finally, the distance from home has evolved such that I wake up in the middle of the night from dreams of the second-floor bathroom of my house at 6 Mohegan Road, or at random times during the day, my mind floods with memories of junior high and high school -- things and people that I haven't thought of, or heard from, literally, for years.

In the grand scheme, it's only been six months, one lap. Time -- either around a track or in life -- doesn't stop, and for that, sometimes I am thankful. On the days when I'm really not sure that this, Jesuit Volunteers, is what I'm supposed to be doing right now in my life, time keeps me going. And on the days that I can imagine myself nowhere else but swinging on a hammock breathing prayers and Belizean sunshine, I am glad that time is something I'm aware of -- and in these precious, orginal moments -- that I can hold on to.

And, when all is said and done, I think back to this past August when, for the first time in God knows how many years, I didn't have to run a pre-season mile fitness test around a track. And boy, am I thankful.

Huma la aburemei. Peace be with you.

Much, much, much love,
Molly

Merry Christmas!

Happy holidays, everyone! Thank you for all of your prayers, letters, and blessed packages!

Love,
Molly

‘Twas the day before Christmas, when all through Belize

Not a raindrop was falling, not even a breeze;

The palm trees were decorated in yards with detail,

In hopes for a lee bit o’ shade while enjoying some ale;

The JVs were a-lounging, all sweaty and hot,

Sharing family holiday stories, which perhaps they should not;

Trey’s on the sofa, guitar in hand,

And Mon’s out on the verandah surveying the land;

Maria is sprawled, reading a book,

And Kate’s in the kitchen: the talented cook;

Molly is sipping a cup of hot tea,

While the lights shine colorfully from the fake Christmas tree;

When out on the lawn there arose such a yell,

Just Frankie, they thought, and neglected to dwell;

“Now, white people!” he exclaimed, through the burglar bars

“let me in, I bear gifts,” his eyes shown like the stars;

A broken fan in one hand, a flower pot in another,

They let dear Frankie in—after all, he’s like their brother;

After some drunken stories about France and the army,

Frankie offered a lone swimmie plastered with “Barbie”

He was thanked for his thoughtfulness, generosity, and cheer,

But was helped out the door as the night drew near.

Next up the stairs was a girl named Angie,

Silent and scornful when Molly called her “Flangie.”

She sat at the table while the volunteers reminisced,

Recalling traditions, apparel, and movies they missed.

Angie left quickly, as fast as she came,

She wouldn’t even accept the Christmas cookie they offered—boy, that was lame.

The JVs settled ‘round the table, for a game of “Oh, Heck”

When, yet again, they heard a knock from their deck.

Oh Gosh, they thought, not another passerby;

It was growing late—they were tired—and Christmas was nigh.

Through the door they heard but a chuckle,

And around a big box, they saw a white knuckle;

It was Fr. Harrison, S.J., that jolly good fellow!

He was dressed in his fake Crocs, and a t-shirt of yellow,

A box of goodies, he held in his arms—

His eyes bright with love, hospitality and charm.

He looked a lot like Santa, the volunteers thought with glee,

With his white beard, box of gifts, and round-ish belly.

A wink of his eye, and a twist of my dread,

He conjured some crackers and a vegetable spread;

Some chocolate, some ice cream, some candy canes, too,

Some apples, some cookies, some wine of fresh brew;

And giving a nod, to the shocked faces around,

He smiled and turned to leave without a sound;

And behind him he closed gently the old metal door,

Lest they could hear, “at least they’re not Peace Corps!”

And to bed the volunteers headed, to be rested and ready

For the Christmas festivities scheduled already:

To Rosie’s, to Mrs. B’s, to Dawn’s, and Ms. Jean’s;

With great joy, good company, and plenty of rice and beans.

So the parish truck was stolen ...

Fr. Dan had left it parked outside of the church's garage before the 9:00 am mass on a sunny Sunday morning, locked and pretty well hidden from the main road. But when he went to go drive it back to the Jesuit Residence after the 7:00 pm mass, it was gone.

Now, we're not talking a 2008 Dodge Ram with 5 seats, 4 wheel drive, leather interior, a CD player, and chrome rims -- no, no. The St. Martin's parish truck is a 1994 red Ford, trusty as all get out, but with few functioning parts (i.e. the radio only works sometimes, and when it does there's no volume control; the windows are, in Ellen DeGeneres' words, "churn butter-esque" and squeak terrible going up or down, which is often considering the A/C is also shot; the muffler shakes and bakes like a putting motorboat; the ignition locks so as to embarrass the driver as people stare wondering why the Gringa can't start the vehicle; and of course, as any classy truck should have, the spare tire is padlocked to the roof) -- and, to be honest, I know nothing about automobiles and the heart of the truck is undoubtedly in worse shape than the unaesthetic exterior. Needless to say, I love this vehicle and because I have yet to learn how to maneuver our motorcycle, I spend about five hours a week in it tootin' around Belize City running errands for the parish and school, rusty muffler and all.

So, I was pretty disappointed when I heard the news.

We moped around Monday and Tuesday, Fr. Dan bitter about having to go get the mail (my job) on the scooter during rush hour, Mrs. B stressed as to where we would possibly get the money to buy a new truck, Esidoro upset that he couldn't go get the supplies he needed to fix the door of the church, and Angie and I disheartened at the cancellation of our afternoon joyrides. At this point, we were certain our truck was absolutely dismembered -- probably in Guatemala -- and the parts that were of no value were probably being sold as playground toys for children. Shucks.

And then, Tuesday evening as I sat in a dreadfully boring and doodle-filled St. Vincent de Paul Meeting (another entry -- I'm not yet ready to talk about how I spend my Tuesday nights), I heard the familiar "put put put," and thought to myself, no...it can't be. With a quick sneak of a look out the upstairs parish meeting room, I saw a beautiful sight: Esidoro, Mrs. B, Fr. Dan, and Ms. Florette (the cleaning woman who is, inadvertently, hilarious) getting out of the two-person cab of OUR TRUCK!

I have since vowed that anything in my life can be solved by this unstoppable foursome. Ms. Florette, who knows not only how to get a stain out of anything but also the names of every cop in town (though she won't admit how), had mentioned to her "cop-friend" 'Coon (short for Racoon -- I'm not sure if this refers to looks, or what) that the parish truck had been stolen. 'Coon said he'd keep his eyes and ears open, and that he'd spread the word around. Mrs. B, whose husband was a BDF member (Belize Defense Force), asked around as well. And my favorite -- Esidoro called all of his friends in the "auto industry" in Belize City; he knew a guy who sold tires and whose stock, incidentally, is received anonymously ... maybe they had gotten some parts from a Ford recently? And Fr. Dan, well, he's a priest. So I'd like to think he had God on his side. In any case, these Fantastic Four had their eyes, and the eyes of all their friends, peeled like a street vendor's orange.

As it usually happens in Belize, gossip got the better of this "teef" (thief, in kriol). The truck was found less than 48 hours from when it was stolen, less than two blocks away from the church and, hilariously enough, one lane over from Mrs. B's house. The truck was missing only the grill (which was probably a blessing -- that thing was rusty!), the lightbulbs from the headlights, the back bumper, the spare tire, the two emblems that said "Ford," and as we found out later, one windshield wiper. We'd like to think that this character started to take the things that were easiest to carry first, and then halfway through his work, he/she let their conscience get the better of them: "I am stealing from a church, for God's sake! What am I thinking?" And so, as they loaded up their bag of truck accessories, they decided it would be best to leave the truck -- in tact and absolutely drivable (except in the rain and at night) -- by the good church lady's house. "She'll definitely find it."

And a good deed it was. Fr. Dan's scare with the errands has passed and I'm back behind the wheel towing Angie around town; Esidoro can again accomplish his skilled carpentry work; and Mrs. B's heart rate has finally slowed to just about a healthy rate. Although our church still has no money, at least we're not in the hole. Better yet, we all had a great laugh together -- especially at the contacts that revealed themselves through the frantic race against time and Belizean looting. When Fr. Dan called the Belize City Police Department to cancel the report he'd filled out (on the back of a receipt with a "Hello Kitty" pen -- I was there, I know) he mentioned, "I just wanted to let you know that your buddy 'Coon really helped us out."

"Who the Hell is 'Coon?"

And that, my friends, is why I love my co-workers.

perhaps

i am going blind.

my eyes exploding,
seeing more than is there
until they burst into nothing

or going deaf, these sounds
the feathered hum of silence

or going away from my self, the cool
fingers of lace on my skin
the fingers of madness

or perhaps
in the palace of time
our lives are a circular stair
and i am turning



a plain sunset over St. Martin's school, taken from my roof