Hilarity, Rarity, and Liquid-arity

Good tidings from Belize! Summer has been welcomed with its absence of school bells and screaming uniformed students; life in the office and school library has been quiet and productive.

I have three things to share, which I hope will capture the essence of my “nearly-approaching-one-full-year-in-Belize” state of mind. They are, as the title of this entry gives away, pertaining to general Belizean hilarity, divine instances of rarity, and as I have so spoofed the JVI language of “solidarity,” my recent musings of “liquid-arity.”

Hilarity

American Idol has always represented nothing but ridiculousness to me. Whether it be the contrived stage scene, the endless Coca-Cola and Ford commercials, the promotion of good looks and bad talent, Ryan Seacrest (shudder), my mom calling in her toll-free vote—or worse, texting it—over and over again, the cruel and embarrassing set up of people like William Hung who will reap the benefits of a sympathetic but mocking crowd only until next season, this show has come to embody a lot of what really bothers me about our American culture. Perhaps the worst part is the fact that admittedly, I have watched and enjoyed it, all the while knowing how ridiculous it really is.

In Belize, however, the reality-TV meets talent-quest program is a horse of a different color. I recently had the opportunity to watch the premier of Duets, an hour of 3 minute auditions by self-proclaimed talented Belizean duos. It was set up much like the first rounds of American Idol except, of course, everything was done Belize-style, which is to say, not as, umm, professionally? Excessively? The host, William Neal, was outfitted much like the overly stylish American host Ryan Seacrest with chic glasses, a fashionable and rather fancy shirt, and—duh—jeans, and he even said such Seacresty things as, “You’re not sure what you’re going to have but you’re going to have something spectacular once the cameras are turned on … So let’s turn the cameras on!” He interviewed each pair, like Seacrest, before and after they performed, trying to get them to say how great they think they are and how well they’ll do in the rest of the competition.

The judges—oh boy the judges—were hilarious. They too were set up in a similar panel to the American version, with Ann, Santiago, and Jenny as the respective Randy, Simon, and Paula personas. They each played their part, except rather awkwardly—Ann usually commented first, but with a tremendous lack of insight; Santi would look over the notes he had scribbled down during the performance and report back to the pair rather strangely in the 3^rd person reading directly from his paper: “they had good extension on the lifts, but poor eye contact”; and Jenny—a true character and my personal favorite—who actually knows a lot about music and singing, would supply useful comments like “sing from your stomach, don’t shout from your throat” yet, at the same time, would always end with something that Paula Abdul would say: “I’m sure you’ll go on! Great job!” During the performances, the judge’s expressions especially got me as the camera would cut, mid-song, to their ogling looks of joyous astonishment to sickly embarrassment. Where the American version is manipulated in the audition stages by advanced TV editing and professional camera maneuvering, the Duets judges’ reactions were exposed at unexpected times during the acts as were the angles and shots of the performers. Not so much flattering …

These auditions were held in the lobby of the Bliss Performing Arts Center, a beautiful modern building overlooking the sea here in Belize City used for dance, art classes, and big performances. In just this first episode, the talents ranged from modern, hip-hop, and bolero dancing to singing and guitar-accompanying to expository drama. There were old folk and young, married couples and priests, kids and teenagers alike. Their performances induced the same embarrassed laughter as the initial stages of American Idol with similar crapshoot stints—you never know who will sign up for these things.

The best part is that because Belize is so small, Belize City being even smaller, even I, the American volunteer who has only been here for a year, recognized many of the faces on the screen. Santi, the judge, is the owner of an importation company whose name is perhaps more well known than the Prime Minister’s; Jenny is a counselor in real life, who I actually spoke with earlier this year when things were looking down; Maria knew one of the husbands of a husband/wife dance act saying, “Hah! I’ve talked to him on the phone before!”; Trey knew one of the teenage singers doing a female Streisand/Dion rendition from the youth group he works with at Calvary Chapel; and so on and so on. Between the ten of us watching the show (the JVs, the Panton family, and some randoms), every performer could be linked to, if not by direct blood relation then by work, friends, friends of friends, or some other type of pervasive Belizean gossip; the whole country is one big Kevin Bacon game. In my mind, you have to have a lot more cajones to put yourself and your sharp/flat/atonal voice or slippery dance moves or terrible acting ability out there what with all the commentary you know you’ll get from the peanut gallery—the whole country—the next day.

I don’t remember a time in the past year when I laughed so genuinely as I did while watching Duets. The reasons for which (the descriptions of the various abysmal or not-so-abysmal performances and their deserving or not-so-deserving judgments) are not even worth trying to re-create here; I would never cheat them of their cultural and contextual hilarity. The comedy of it all was so … Belize … that I found myself overcome with affection for this place and its people. I doubt that I’ll return with open arms to the overwhelming and rather annoying seasons of American Idol—like most things these days, I find the Belize version much more likable.

Rarity

Last weekend, Mrs. Marin and I took the youth group to Chetumal, Mexico. Chetumal, famous in Belize for its Sam’s club and McDonalds, is about a two and a half hour drive from Belize City and makes for a perfect Saturday shopping excursion. As shortages and monopoly race each other up the pole of price inflation here in Belize, many folks journey across the northern border to find refuge in the wholesale Mexican marketplaces.

A lot of the kids in our youth group had never been, and I was taken aback by their exuberance towards things like highway overpasses and the lines of grocery carts in the parking lot of the mall. I unexpectedly suffered a bit of reverse culture shock; I haven’t stepped foot in anything remotely resembling a mall in over a year and was surprised with the disgust that flooded my mind regarding consumerism and advertising. I hadn’t thought much about these things in a realistic way in just about twelve months.

Belize is certainly modern in its own turn, but because it is so small and because it has absorbed more of the Caribbean culture rather than the Latin style of its neighbors (oh yes, and because it was an English colony until 1981), it has nothing like the developments of the Mexican city and suburb, shopping plazas, and price competition. And there I was, in the middle of a strangely familiar but strangely foreign scene of traffic lights, nicely paved streets, and mannequins in shop windows in downtown Chetumal, Mexico.

The real gem of my trip was our experience at Sam’s club. The first half of the day was dedicated to gazing through the windows and shops of the mall and eating greasy fast food in food courts. The second half of the day, however, was per orders made from the students’ mothers—every single one of them had been given money to buy the Chetumal staples from Sam’s Club: huge bales of toilet paper and 5 gallon containers of laundry detergent.

The kids were adorable in their shopping. They wound up and down the aisles all together—15 of them—and fit their necessities into two shopping carts. They stopped every few feet to admire the goods lining the shelves in their ridiculous bundles; I thought we would never get through the candy aisle. Most of them brought little calculators, which they didn’t know how to use, to calculate the currency differences. When they couldn’t figure it out, they asked me, and marveled at the way that something labeled $600 in Pesos turned out to be only $120 Belize. When finally everyone had collected what they—their mothers—needed, we headed to the check-out line.

I stood, surrounded by 15 loud and joyful black kids, a mountain of about 500 rolls of toilet paper, and a young Mexican cashier who was trying to yell to me—in Spanish—that only three people were allowed to buy on the one membership card we had. After finally quieting the students enough to mentally translate what this speedy Spanish speaker was trying to tell me, I panicked—like the stereotypical American, most likely—and immediately decided that all but three of the kids should return what they had grabbed to the shelves. Defeated, I started to explain this to the kids. They had none of it. “Miss, we can all pay together! Isn’t that the same as just one paying?” Good point.

In words and broken sentences that would shame the 10 years of Spanish teachers and professors I had, I bargained with the teller to let us pool our money together and make the purchase as one with the lone card in our possession. He agreed reluctantly, as we both understood that doing this simply rearranged the fact that what we were doing was against the store’s rules. In any case, there I found myself with thousands of pesos pouring into my hands from all directions—Kriol yelling in one year, Spanish in the other—and with adorable and lively black faces bumping all around me, contrasting the light-skinned and elegant features of the employees curiously gathering around our register. And of course, the acoustics of the warehouse were such that our raucous was amplified throughout, rendering stares and glares from the Mexican patrons.

In those fleeting moments, I felt freer than perhaps I ever have before; it was a rarity I truly appreciated—being the only white person in a Sam’s Club, counting money bilingually, and being anonymous, in a way, to my former life in the States where nothing like that would/could/did ever happen to me. Not unlike watching Duets, that experience in Sam’s Club instilled in me a pride for being associated in this skewed way with Belizeans, vibrant and energetic, and it washed me with a deep gratitude for the happenstance circumstances that this country has offered to me.

Liquid-arity

A few short words on my philosophical musings of late . . .

Solidarity, as the guiding principle of countless organizations and missions around the world, is a concept that I am wary of. Aiming, I suppose, for unity and fellowship most prominently with the economically oppressed, solidarity has become rather cliché, I think. It’s one of those terms that are thrown around quite a bit, but I think it’s more loaded than the university service-trip colloquialism it has become. I was interested in JVI specifically to learn more about what solidarity means by “living” it, yet after one year of supposedly doing so, I am further than ever before from a grounded understanding of its manifestation in the world. So much of our lives exist in our mind, even when we try to extend ourselves, that I don’t know if attempting to unify my reality with anyone else’s—my sister’s, my community mates’, or my Belizean friend Angie’s—is the most appropriate goal.

Liquid-arity, solidarity in its liquid form of course, is at least a better descriptor, for me, of the intentions and relationships I have developed throughout my experience of life thus far (a mere 23 years, I know). In Belize specifically, I have experienced union and fellowship, community and friendship, that has transcended economic means, I guess, but I still don’t know if that “solidifies” my reality with that of those around me as there are things about my life—past and future—that will forever separate me from the people I work and live among here. My relationships, as I have come to understand them, seem more fluid; I share what my perceptions are, and in return, must try to understand the perceptions of everyone else. It’s not easy, and I’m not very good at it, but by at least admitting off the bat that the best we can do as human beings is mix together the juices of our spirits, stories, beliefs, pains, joys, and love, I have been relieved of trying to understand what it means to live side by side in solidarity. Like any good high school chemistry student knows, a solution must be composed of a solute dissolved into a solvent; my relationships with my housemates and with my Belizean community have changed me in that same way.

Ultimately, perhaps a solid is produced through this alchemy of life. Until then though, I’ll stick with my liquid experiments and hope that what I pour out from my heart is filled up again with the liquid-arity of others.

Octopus Head

“'Help' is a prayer that is always answered. It doesn’t matter how you pray—with your head bowed in silence, or crying out in grief, or dancing. Churches are good for prayer, but so are garages and cars and mountains and showers and dance floors. Years ago I wrote an essay that began, 'Some people think that God is in the details, but I have come to believe that God is in the bathroom.' Prayer usually means praise, or surrender, acknowledging that you have run out of bullets. But there are no firm rules. As Rumi wrote,'“there are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.' I just talk to God. I pray when people I love are sick, and I prayed when I didn’t know whether I should have a baby. I pray when my work is horrible, or suddenly, miraculously better. I cried out silently every few hours during the last two years of my mother’s life. I even asked for help in coping with George W. Bush …

When I am in my right mind, which is about twice a month, I pray kindly."

--Anne Lamott; fellow feminist, fellow dog-lover, fellow soul-searcher, spirit-seeker, comfort-requester, fellow child of mother nature, and, of course, fellow octopus head.

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.