EPIC BLOG! Parents, Tikal, New JVS!!!!

Tis' a splendid morning here in Punta Gorda, so I bring to you a long awaited blog entry. Since it has been a long time coming, I'll make it good. Extra good.

When we last were here, my parents were on the verge of arriving. Arrive they did. I met them at the airport with lots of hugs, then we drove into Belize City. After picking up Jon and Christin, the five of us cruised on down to PG. It is a unique experience getting to see your parents after a year without, and a very cool one at that (notice how there isn't an "an" in front of "unique"). We had a lot of fun down in PG and out in the villages.

After PG, my parents and myself ventured out to Tobacco Caye. It is approximately 30 feet from the reef and maybe the size of two football fields. Maybe. We spent a night there then headed back up north.

Conch and the sunrise on Tobacco Caye.


Tobacco Caye accommodations.


The next leg of our journey found us in Cayo, from where we crossed into Guatemala and visited Tikal. For those of you not up on your Mayan ruins of the world, Tikal is wicked awesome. It is one of the largest sites in the world and took over a thousand years to build all the structures. We spent a while wandering around, with a guide of course, and were completely blown away by the size and splendor of the site.

Tikal and dad.


Cool carving.


Parents checking out Temple I.


More Tikal.


Tikal from Temple IV


Yes, a Star Wars scene was shot from atop Temple IV. Awesome.


Our last adventure took us into some caves near Belize City, known as Jaguar Paw. We went tubing down a river that flows through these caves. It was a very cool experience, even though dad's tube blew up in an unfortunate accident.

Awesome cave tubing adventure.


Cave tubing.


After a wonderful ten days in Belize, I said goodbye to my parents and settled into life in Belize City. The new volunteers were due to arrive in a few days, so I decided not to go back to PG. In the time waiting for them, I baked lots of bread, cleaned, and read many books.

Then the day arrived. Father Matt, our new In Country Coordinator, drove us to the airport, with Lenox, the Belize City JV's neighbor, who had a truck to throw all their luggage into. The tradition for arrival day is for the second years to dress up in strange costumes so the new JVs will recognize us. They too are in good outfits that we sent for them to wear, just so we pick up the right people. It was very exciting. Lots of yelling and hugging and finally back to the Belize City house.

Looking mad cool while waiting.


Kathleen befriended a nun.


Greg and John arriving!!!! And Jaret!


John coming out of the tunnel!!! And Monique!!! And Lenox, Father Matt, Kathleen, Christin, and Allison!!!


All of us in Belize!!!!!


One of the best parts of orientation in Belize City is Iron Chef. We split into four teams, each with a designated portion of the meal. Supplies are bought, then a secret ingredient is revealed. Furious cooking and fierce competition ensues. The end result is a feast of glorious proportions. Team Desert, John, Monique, and myself, made fruit smoothies and chocolate, pineapple, coconut cupcakes from scratch. We somehow only came in second.

John and I shredding coconuts.


John getting really into the hummus he made.


Matt displaying freshly sliced pumpkin.


Getting ready for consuming tasty eats.


After a few days in the city, we headed out to Cayo for a three day retreat. During said retreat, we got to visit Xunantunich, a very neat Mayan site previously highlighted in this blog.

Swimming in a jungle river.


John checking out the sites from atop the main temple.


The view from atop the temple.


Finally, after a long wait, the two communities split up and the PG crew made it down to our lovely home, not after 6 hours of bus rides though.

Life goes well down here. We're getting John and Greg oriented to PG the best we can. It has been a lot of fun being a second year, something I think I shall enjoy immensely.

So my friends, keep on coming and I'll keep on posting. Onward into Year Two!

Ah PG sunrise.

Thoughts and Chapter 1

Blog. What are we?

As I write this on a Saturday night, the wind has begun to pick up. Lighting has been threatening in the distance, but the thunder and rain have been held at bay.

For once I don’t know what to write. I’m sorry. I wish I had a profound story or glorious portrait of life in Belize, but I don’t. We continue. It’s the summer. Look back on your childhood summers. The wonder of them. I often wish we could relive that part of our lives. If you want to, read Dandelion Wine, by Ray Bradbury. It is an incredible novel from the viewpoint of a ten year old boy, experiencing the summer. You might think Bradbury is all science fiction or Fahrenheit 451, but this book is beautiful. Read it.

I’m writing this to post tomorrow. I’m tired.

Mass is at 7:30 tomorrow morning on Sunday. I shall go. Honestly, church in Belize is no fun. The music is pretty dreadful, though Allison has at least added some nice piano. The Jesuits here are wonderful, but man, they just aren’t as good at those ones at Fairfield. One of the pillars of JVC is spirituality. It can manifest itself in any form. We’ve had a diverse range of spirituality nights as a community and they’ve been great. But, as a program, we are here to support the Jesuit mission, thus are expected to attend mass. We do, but I don’t know, it doesn’t do it for me. Perhaps that’s the point. In the old days, people didn’t even know what the priests were saying, unless they spoke Latin. (By the way, no one speaks Latin) It was more of a time to reflect for them. So, I look forward to the hour or so of mass on Sundays here as a time to reflect on the week.

I just finished a book that I wrote.
I need feedback.

I’m going to put up the first chapter here. If you want more, please email me. jeremyshea1632@gmail.com

There’s another 87 pages or so, if you feel like reading them.

The basic premise: Eric, a twelve year old boy, lives with his uncle Rupert in New Hampshire. Their house was an old ship captain’s house. In the last few voyages of his career, Captain Connely ended up making a number of journeys to Africa to transport slave. The ship is cursed on its last voyage, though the captain builds his house out of it’s timbers. Now it is up to Eric and Rupert to solve the mystery that has surrounded not only the previous inhabitant, but the house itself.

It’s alright. Read this first chapter. If you like it, I can send along the rest. Edit it to death, please. I’m a fierce critic of my writing, so don’t feel bad tearing it apart. It’s what I need.

This will be the last blog for a while. My wonderful parents arrive July 16, and will be here for ten days. On August 1, the new volunteers, including our PG folk, Jon and Greg, arrive in Belize City. We’ll be having our In Country Orientation for a few weeks after that, but when the next blog arrives, I promise good photos.

Huzzah!


Chapter 1

He let out a sigh as the first chill breeze of autumn air crept through the trees. The greens of summer felt it too, almost instantly losing their brightness, softening for the arrival of school.
Eric sat on the steps of his porch and wondered how he had once again let summer scamper away. “It happens every year,” he pondered. “Unless you live in the Caribbean, then it’s always summer. But then I get no snow.”
He considered this dilemma as he strained for memories of summer. It wasn’t too hard, as it had been one of the best. Fishing by the pond, games of manhunt around town, cookouts, and popsicles. Most of it included Carlos, his best friend who lived a few streets down. They spent endless days together, tramping through forgotten woods, forever searching for nothing in particular, and finding the true joys of summer. It dawned on Eric, sitting there on the steps, that what he would miss most was his walk home after a long day of enjoying the season. The sun had ceased its incessant pounding, leaving the warm air with a dull glow, the light gently falling into shadows. He would meander down the street as fireflies blinked into being and crickets announced their song to the world. School would put an end to all of that. How strange that school could even affect the natural world.
It wasn’t that he hated school, in fact, he quite enjoyed it. His friends would be there, new friends were to be made, and of course, new stuff to be learned. The first day of school brims with excitement.
But the freedom of summer! That’s what I’ll miss, Eric thought. It is always so much easier to wake up for a warm summer day, full of promise, than for school. There’s no possibility for surprise or adventure when the school schedule starts. Breakfast, bus stop, class, lunch, recess, class, bus ride home, homework, sleep. Sure, you have weekends, but that is pretty much Saturday, with Sunday ruined by the thought of school looming. And homework.
Eric shivered at the prospect of early mornings at the bus stop, or perhaps autumn was arriving sooner than he thought. He looked up to see dark rain clouds gliding over the tall trees of their neighbor’s yard; the branches started to creak and sway in the new wind. He stood up and made his way across the porch and inside the house, the wind slamming the screen door behind him.
Inside the house, Eric made his way through the piles of paper that his uncle Rupert called his, “organized disaster,” though there was nothing Eric could find organized about it. Books lay atop chairs, which were cushioned by stacks of documents that carpeted the floor.
These papers were an odd collection of drawings, maps, graphs, and writings, each one plastered with sticky notes covered in uncle’s equally messy scribbles. Rupert was a historian, and historians tend to have an uncanny ability to discover all the old pieces and scraps of paper in the world, long lost, forgotten by all, even the ones who wrote them.
Rupert taught at the university nearby, and constantly moved from home to work, murmuring some new discovery to himself while pushing his way through the ever-growing stacks of, well, Eric wasn’t even sure what all the piles held. He would occasionally pick up a paper or two and try to puzzle over the meaning. Rupert’s expertise was in early American history, from the arrival of the Europeans through the end of the Revolutionary War. From the looks of some of the papers, Eric had no idea why Rupert kept them around. Once he found a recipe for stewed cow tongue. He awaited each meal suspiciously for a week.
However, while a little off center at times, well, most of the time, Rupert dearly loved his nephew. Even though it seemed his life was dominated with his research, he always found time for his only nephew. He made sure meals were on the table, took Eric to museums and ballgames, and even on the occasional hiking trip. He helped with homework and went to parent teacher conferences. When Eric ever felt down, Rupert always had a knack of cheering him up, often with some of his bizarre sense of humor. Eric would find himself keeled over, laughing at some ridiculous joke involving crunchy peanut butter, Matthais the Warrior, and John Adams. They didn’t even make sense looking back on them, but somehow they made Eric feel better. Eric had a few good friends in town that could provide all the other companionship that he needed. Usually there was a gang of four: Eric, Carlos, Dave, and Aaron. While Carlos and Eric were left to roam around town for two months, Dave and Aaron were shipped off to sleep away camp in the mountains, fighting bears and building cabins, if their postcards could be believed.
Rupert was the brother of Eric’s father, Max, and had agreed to look after Eric after his parents disappeared while on safari in Kenya. This all happened eight years ago, so Eric had spent a majority of his life with his uncle. In fact, Eric could hardly the time before moving in with his uncle, being only four at the time. Only a few memories of his old life remained: throwing parachute army men off a balcony, walking through the woods to the mailbox, playing with the neighbor’s golden retriever, and the faded faces of his parents. His mother had a thin face with bright blue eyes, bordered with light brown hair. Eric couldn’t picture her with her hair down, making the wedding photos Rupert had look foreign to him. His father was short but built. A quickly receding hairline of dirty blonde hair sat atop a face often covered by a prickly scruff that always rubbed Eric’s face. He missed those faces and the hugs and hearts below them.
Uncle Rupert would occasionally tell Eric stories of his parents. Tales of how his father had once knocked over the family’s grandfather clock while they were racing through the house, with the clock landing on the tail of Charity, their beloved cat. Eric always laughed at the image of this tailless cat that day hence, jumping at the sound of a clock tolling. (Eventually, Eric’s grandfather, Edward, silenced all the clocks in the home to spare Charity further anguish). Uncle described how the two of them had made their high school soccer team, Rupert being a senior and the coach felt bad cutting him, and Max as a sophomore prodigy. Eric never grew tired of hearing how his father led the team to the semifinals of the regional tournament, only to fall in a shootout. Eric’s father had been a real star in high school, and, while Rupert was no slouch when it came to sports, he preferred reading a good book on the American Revolution in the library rather than spending hours practicing his dribbling skills.
Eric’s mother was described with similarly fond stories. His mother, Rebecca, had been born to Austrian immigrants in New York. Survivors of the Holocaust, his grandparents moved to the United States in 1955, eking out a living in their family bookstore, Claybears. As a girl, his mother would spend all day in the bookstore, sitting among the stacks of book, immersed in stories of knights, explorers, and inventors, meeting customers wandering through the towers of literature, suggesting the books she loved. This love of books was passed onto her only child.
Eric’s parents met in college, both deciding to attend Cornell University. Anthropology majors, Eric’s mother was two years his father’s senior, but both found themselves research partners for the head of the department. They began dating after traveling to Botswana to work on a paper on the San tribe of the Kalahari Desert. Three years after his father graduated, they married and moved to Boston to start their life. Eric suspected that everyone in his family was destined to be teachers. Both his parents ended up teaching in Boston colleges, while Rupert taught in New Hampshire, and another uncle, Charlie, who he had met twice, taught computer science in Chicago.
Caught up in his thoughts, Eric discovered himself in his room, gazing out his window, barely recognizing the rain pattering on the pane. He shook away these (storied) memories and wondered when he could expect his uncle home that day. It was Friday, though days meant nothing to Eric or any other child in the summer. Tomorrow though, was supposed to be their trip into Boston. Eric and Rupert were to take the Down-easter train from Durham in the morning, spend the day walking to sites along the Freedom Trail, then head to Fenway Park to watch their beloved Red Sox.
All this was of course dependent on Rupert, who often lost himself in his research. Eric had been sending subtle reminders all week. He left a newspaper article on the newly discovered British graves near Bunker Hill next to his plate and hung his Dustin Pedroia t-shirt next to the mirror in the upstairs bathroom. Rupert didn’t seem to notice any of the reminders though. No once had he mentioned their trip in the past two weeks. They had to go, Eric thought determinedly. It would be his last hurrah of the summer.
Eric laid down on his bed and smiled at the thought of the smell of the ballpark as the tapping rain sent him into one of the last summer naps.

In the summer time...

Boo Creepy Foot Doctors, Hooray Blog!

Greetings, greetings, lovely friends.

I come to you live from Punta Gorda on a sunny and bloody hot Wednesday. Luckily I’ve been doing as much physical labor as I could today to keep cool.

Happenings:
1. School’s out for summer!!!!
Last week we had three and a half days of classes, which were mostly a waste of everyone’s time. No final exams, since they had all finished, so not much motivation to show up. Teachers sent students to the library with boxes of their books. The library is apparently the spot to store books for the summer. Kind of lame, as now all my tables have been commandeered by boxes, but I’ll survive.

Is that a Lawyer Milloy jersey I see? Yes it is.


On Thursday afternoon we had our Standard six (8th grade) graduation. It was very nice and the students were quite well behaved. For the first time, I watched the valedictorian speech delivered via video. Why, you may ask? Well, the girl who won is now living in the US with the rest of her family after they moved a few weeks ago. No fun to miss your own graduation.

Valedictorian

Walking up two by two to the stage.


2. On Saturday, one of the teachers at my school had a party out in one of the villages. While the ride was quite long, the destination was worth it. Lots of tasty Mayan food, games of pool with small children, and nice Guatemalan drinks (the border is only about 8 miles from the village).

Pool


Village church.


Cooking up some rice.


3. I moved my bedroom. Exciting, I know. Now it looks like this:

New bedroom!


4. More painting was done by Lee and I:

The work of Lee.

The work of me.


5. The word of the day on Tuesday was “catawampus”: askew or awry.
6. I finally finished the book I have been writing. It’s about 200 pages, mostly of subpar writing and plot, but we’ll see how it looks after editing.

That’s about it, but I’ll leave you with a short story.

Friday. The first day of summer vacation. I woke up with great plans and aspirations of all I could do now that school was out. In the morning there was a boring teacher’s meeting, but it had wonderful food at the close, so that was fine, it’s vacation. At home I kicked back and opened a book, allowing the sea breeze to cool the sweat upon my brow. Early afternoon rolled around and I’d accomplished a few dozen pages and a nap. Good work. The time had now come for some popcorn. Right as I filled up a bowl of that wonderfully light and immensely enjoyable food, the children arrived.
With very little to do in this town at most times of the year, the summer is particularly boring for children. To keep themselves occupied, kids often show up without notice at our house, expecting some form of entertainment. This can include playing darts, coloring, finding random things in the closet you’ve never seen before, or sitting and staring at you while you’re talking on the phone. Most of the time, these are fine. But, today was the first day of summer! I’m out of school! I can’t be spending time with the children I just became free of!
I watched them walk in with suspicious eyes and moved my popcorn to between me and the couch. Then I proceeded to look very focused on my book and largely ignore any questions posed to me. This worked until I found a finger nudging gently against my head. “What do you want?!” I exclaim, knocking the approaching annoyance away from my skull. “Nothing,” came the reply. “Nothing huh, well, lucky for you, I saw an awesome pile of nothing right outside.” A quizzical look followed, then the three tramped outside to find this nothing. A quest had begun. I was left with my popcorn and the summer.
From outside I could hear them start to shout. Soon I picked out the words, “see the crab there!” “Look, a blue back!” “Two crabs!” Then the sound of bare feet running over the wood began again and I looked up to find eyes pleading for a bucket. Yes! Of course! A bucket is right here. Catch crabs and be merry.
Sitting back down, with a now cool bowl of popcorn, the book had ceased to work. Words and letters jumbled and danced and eluded being read. I picked up the bowl and ventured outside to check on the crab catching, just to make sure it was up standards, you know. Standing on the veranda I found the mission was going poorly. No crabs had been captured. For a moment I fought it. Comfy couch and book, or a fruitless search for nothing. I picked the latter.
For the next hour, (or was it three?) I crept around our yard, bucket in hand, children in tow, hoping to come across an unsuspecting crustacean. We looked under bridges, poked dead crabs in the drain, and laughed at Baxter being a dog. Yes, we did catch one crab, but that wasn’t the point. It was summer. Sure, summer means relaxation. It means catching up on long forgotten projects and seeing old friends. But it also means that search for nothing that has for so long captured our imagination. Tramping through the woods looking for something weird. Fishing at a pond. Sitting around a fire. What do we accomplish in these endeavors? What do we have to show? A fish. Maybe. What the summer means to me is not what we have produced, but the memories we keep with us long after the trees turn and greens fade away. So go out and find that nothing, and if you don’t find it, I’m sure you’ll discover something on the way.

Rainy bloggy

A BLOG!
Huzzah!
I’m sitting here in my house, listening to mix tapes from the 90s I found in the old JV house. For those of you who were not aware, there used to be two houses for JVs in PG. One, our current house, had male JVs upstairs, while the downstairs was home to Belizean JVs, a short lived experiment whose aim was to get Belizeans volunteering. The other house, two buildings over from my library, was the land of female JVs. Today it is a guest house and home to forgotten cassette tapes. We were without a functioning tape player for a number of months, depriving me from their scratchy tunes, but, courtesy of Fr. Jeff, a player has arrived at our humble abode.

“Juuuuune, come too soon.” Paul Simon was the writer of said words, though he clearly was not a teacher. School has thankfully reached its climax this week with final exams and Standard Six (Eighth Grade) graduation. By the way, Summer Lovin just came on the tape player. Ah Grease. Sorry. Yes, school will end next Thursday, thus bringing about the glory of summer. For the first time since high school, I will not be working at the YMCA Camp Lyndon. Very sad, but I hope they will make it spectacularly without me. With Sirs Thom Busby and Christopher Wiklund now leading ranks there, I think it should do well. Next summer, friends.

Since the end of school means the library will be closed for a few months, I have begun to collect books. Now, if you ever find yourself in Belize and are in need of ideas of how to bribe children, pencils would be my suggestion. Today, I put up a sign outside the library: “Return a book this week, get 5 pencils.” Approximately thirty children jumped on the opportunity in the first hour, including some who had not stepped in the library since September when they borrowed the book. I have around 1300 pencils at my disposal, so that should cover the checked out books. That is, unless a child comes in with 25 books they stole earlier this year. Not quite sure what I’ll do if that happens.

Now, what are you going to do for two months Jeremy? This is what you have been thinking, I know it. Well, JVs must find some summer placement to keep them busy and out of trouble. Matt, my glorious housemate, departed on Monday. It was most sad and the house feels very strange without him. He also left the job of coordinating service groups, so I have valiantly taken it up. I will be doing that, along with working with the Food For the Poor program which operates in the villages. Besides that, mom and dad are coming (yeah!!!!), and I hope to get a big mural painted on the library. A group is coming to tear off the gross looking plaster then is going to paint it white. My hope is to paint a big mural, with lots of help from the PG children. If you have a few dollars lying around and feel like donating to help cover paint costs, I would be much indebted to you. I’d probably send an original watercolor or hand drawn postcard to you. Just saying.
Jeremy Shea
JVC
SPC Rectory
PO Box 25
Punta Gorda, Belize

All other mail is welcome. Nothing is better than getting something to read here. CDs of awesome music are also welcome, as are cassette tapes.

I don’t have any pictures this week. Sorry about that. To compensate, I leave you with a poem of my own creation. Thanks for reading, once again. Please please comment, unless you’re Barbara, and Zarko has disabled commenting capabilities and you have to resort to other forms of communication.

Untitled 34

Drops of rain run rampant
From skies of grey,
Escaping the booming of thunder
Rippling through the air.
Warm sheets cover the inert form,
Clenched tight in the morning;
A reluctant surrender.
Light flashes through memories
Of garages, of cars parked at
Beaches, watching the storms.
Of African rooftops, comrades
Doubting the protection from bolts,
Choosing instead to imitate the fear.
Tea steams beside the window
Tapping the sound of rain.
Late are the screams of school,
Of the early arrivals, pushed
Exasperatedly from the door by
Parents, looking forward to nothing
Less than a school break.
Final sigh before work.
Stormy Monday. See the Allmans.

Comeback Blog!

Well, well, we meet again. Looking back, I realize it has been more than a month since the last blog post. For that I am sorry, both for myself and for you. I have been feeling like I have been in a funk for a while now. I didn’t know if it was finally culture shock or just something else. I didn’t know what to do. I fasted for a few days. Ran a lot. Stopped running. Laid awake for hours. Slept for hours more. Nothing seemed to work. Then I thought of the blog. I hadn’t really thought of it in a while. I think I saw it as a growing forum for my writing. It was more a place to display my skills (or lack there of) than a place for me to share my life. It had been a place for me to process my weeks in Belize, even more so than a way to share myself with you. It became something healthy for me, even if no one even read these entries. I have found my camera lying forgotten, my eyes closed to the beauty of Belize around me. I need to open up my eyes again and start writing my life. This is a thank you blog. Thank you for those who read. Thank you for those who comment. For those who ask for more. For those who encourage me and make me feel like my time here isn’t a waste. Thank you for thinking the blog of a 23 year old is somehow worth your time in reading.

Storm cloud a' raging


What has been going on these past weeks, you wonder? Well, that is a fine question.

Immediately after coming back from Nicaragua, I found myself in Hopkins. Hopkins is a mostly Garifuna village about halfway between Punta Gorda and Belize City, right on the water.

Hopkins.




There are wonderful sandy beaches in Hopkins, something I often wish Punta Gorda had. I suppose that would draw more tourists, so I guess our lack of beaches is good in that sense. We were in Hopkins for a week for Reo-Orientation/Dis-Orientation (Re-O/Dis-O). For this retreat, our wonderful staff from DC, Daniel and Margaret, came down. It was a great week of reflecting on the past year here, as well as getting to spend some quality time with the second years who are soon departing. I also spent a long time lying on glorious hammocks by the sea. We also found our prior to the retreat that Father Jeff, our in-country coordinator, Jesuit Provincial, and most excellent friend, will be leaving Belize in a few weeks to be reassigned in Denver. It was great to spend some time with him before we say farewell (which was on Friday for me).

Starting school after two weeks of Easter vacation then a week long retreat was a bit odd, especially since I had a site visit by the ol’ bosses the first day back. While I was a tad stressed out at having boss people visit me, I didn’t have much to worry about. It turns out my worksite is a whole lot less stressful than the other PG volunteers, so my visit was a breeze. It was great being back at school and seeing all the kids, some of whom were concerned that I had left for good. Never fear, small children, there is a good twelve months before that happens.

This coming week will be the fourth straight week during which I will have had a service group from the US in the library. While the company is nice, I haven’t been able to work with my reading groups, which isn’t ideal. They had been going fairly poorly, as the kids have really stopped caring about what they were doing, but it was good having them in the library and hanging out, no matter the headaches they cause. I’ve spent time indexing my National Geographics, memorizing the world map, reading Max Weber, and going some serious thumb twiddling. I’m getting really good.

I suffered a bizarre injury the other week. While removing my shirt on a particularly hot Sunday night, my hand came down upon a pair of sunglasses, shattering them. A large shard lodged itself into my hand, causing immense pain. I quickly wrapped up my hand in a Fairfield shirt (the one that had conveniently just been removed) and quickly walked over to our nurse friends’ house. They drove me to their clinic, opened it up, and gave me five stitches. My first stitches ever! The wound healed nicely, until Friday night, when I tripped over Baxter walking down the stairs, which caused me to tumble head first down a number of steps. Apart from some cuts and bruises on my arms, legs, kneecaps, and side, I tore open the cut again. Once again, my hand is wrapped up, hopefully to help it heal sometime in the near future.

Ouch.


Other events include a teachers’ weekend, where I got to go on a trip to San Ignatio and Guatemala with my staff. During said trip, I won $150 in blackjack at a casino. Solid. Barbara and Zarko (aunt and uncle of moi) visited briefly but twas a great visit.

On a sad note, Matthew Wooters, glorious community mate of Jeremy, leaves tomorrow morning after two years of service in Belize. We had a party for him this weekend, which was a whole lot of fun. He will be dearly missed and the room next to mine will be empty for a few months. However, we have two guys coming on August 1 to start their two years, so the arrival of John and Greg is being looked forward to already.

Matt's Party Goers


More party.


I shall miss you Matt.



Well, this felt great. Hopefully the next blog will be in the next week, perhaps two. If it isn’t, I expect someone, perhaps you, to call me out. Please! It’s for my own good. Thanks for reading.

checking out the sea.

Honduran and Nicaraguan Travel Journal

Writer's Note:
This (very long) blog post was all written between April 16-28 while traveling to Honduras and Guatemala. Accompanying pictures were also taken on said trip. It's really long. Enjoy though.

H2O
We drink it, shower in it, wash dishes with it, waste it, conserve it, pollute it, clean it, curse it, and worship it. Water has brought the great civilizations to power and left others in Atlantian ruin. A sprinkle, drizzle, shower, downpour, squall, storm, hurricane, monsoon. Everywhere we see it and it is the topic of every conversation. Sure is hot, isn’t it? Hasn’t rained in a while. Those clouds look menacing. We haven’t seen the sun in six days!

So yes, we acknowledge water and its important existence everyday. We, the privileged few who sit and can casually read a blog with free time at an expensive computer connected to an unfathomable web of information. Do we appreciate as much as some people? I don’t imagine you have to walk six miles a day to fill up a bucket at a possibly contaminated well in order for your family to drink. No, I don’t either. But when can you can totally forget about all the uses of water, the headaches and hastles, and simply consider it, as it. As water.

To get from Punta Gorda to Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua, or other points south, two options present themselves. One is to travel up to Belmopan, west to Guatemala, then to other locals. Option two is to hop on a water taxi and take an hour and a half ride across the Gulf of Honduras to Puerto Barrior, Guatemala. Once the boat departs PG, recognizable land forms quickly disappear into haze. It was then I realized, for the first time, how completely insane the ocean is. I’m floating on trillions of galleons of water and not just that, I’m floating on top of the home of millions of beings. On land, we’re kings of the castle. We’ve tamed animals, carved cities into rock, and harvested the bounty of the plants. What do we have on the ocean? Sure, fishermen pull creatures up for us to enjoy battered and fried, but how many times do we hear of them coming back with small catches? Not coming back at all? When we enter the world of the sea, it is no longer the planet we are familiar with. No longer do I feel in control. My mortality is far more at risk in the water than on land. We can calculate how far away stars are that appear as tiny pinpoints of light, but no one knows how many sharks are in the ocean? How many species of fish? The locations of shipwrecks? Bouncing over these waves, far from any comforting plant, or even sand dune, all this hit home. The sea is big. Really big. Unfathomably unfathomable. And guess what? It’s only a bit of water. We have water figured out, right?
Maybe not.

Making sense of senses
“Hey, there’s the place the hostel told us to eat,” Al said, pointing across the street.
We looked over there, then Christin motioned to our left.
“Let’s check out the mall. We can just walk in and see what’s going on. I haven’t seen a mall in a while.”
Sounds good to me, that fast food place doesn’t look all that special.
“I’m down with the mall,” I agree, “but I haven’t really eaten anything for the past twelve hours, so let’s find something fast.”
Al and Christin murmured in agreement to this hunger sentiment as we walked toward the very large building.
“Is that an Applebees?”
No way. “Holy crap, it is!” This is weird. I haven’t seen an American chain since leaving Boston August 1. Applebees. I forgot they even existed. McDonalds and Burger Kind, sure. But Applebees.
We pushed through the big doors and found ourselves in a different world. I haven’t felt underdressed in Central America, but for some reason, my faded Jimmy Hendrix t-shirt from high school and khaki pants aren’t cutting it. Polos, graphic tees, chains, skinny jeans. Fashion. Weird. I didn’t expect this in Honduras.
“An escalator! I don’t know about you guys, but I’m down for riding this all night.”
Luckily the girls shared my enthusiasm for the incredible moving stairs and we rode up in style. At the top, grinning at the magnitude of the accomplishment, I looked around and discovered where we were: the food court. My God. Applebees was only the beginning. There were more people here than the entirety of Punta Gorda. McDonalds. Pizza Hut. KFC. Quiznos. Dunkin Donuts. Dunkin Donuts!!! What is this place?! A TV, 20ft high, 30ft wide, playing a MLS soccer game. Blackberries and Iphones.
Woah.


mmmmmm, Quiznos

Mallification


After twenty minutes of open mouthed wandering, we settled on Quiznos. A glorious birthday dinner. Pepsi from a soda fountain to wash the sandwich down. The girls treated me to dessert at Dunks/Baskins Robins. Nothing like donuts and ice cream.
It was an overload. I was not prepared for this environment. Fashionable youth. Air conditioning. Fast food joints lit up by neon glory with ladies giving out Asian style chicken. This was America in my mind, not Honduras. Systems overload.

Dunks!


Contrast this with Esquias. From Sand Pedro Sula, the host of said mall, it was a three hour bus ride down the highway, then another three hours in a school bus winding through dusty roads cut through pine forests and mountain valleys.
Quiet. That’s what I found here. It is strange to be away from the ocean sounds and local birds and snippets of Creole. It’s refreshing. Esquias is an affluent town, surrounded by the wealth of coffee that grows abundantly on the cool slopes of this hilly country.

Winding roads


From miles away, the imposing white façade of the 1700s era church can be seen, dominating the town. Around the place of worship, small cobblestone and cement streets cut through the trees and yards. It is a peaceful town with a tired stream that cuts through a tired ravine.

Esquias Church


Song birds chirp through the trees while in the smoky light of evening, cooking can be smelled in the streets.
Here too, one is confronted with a wide range of new stimuli. While not flashing lights and fashion, it too takes some getting used to.

Scenic road.




Morning Fire
“Jeremy, Jeremy, look over there.” Now, I hadn’t been doing any looking in the past twenty minutes. I got up an hour earlier at 3:40am so we could catch the bus to Tegus. I was tired. While the loud music and bumpy roads worked against me, I was determined to catch some more sleep in the early darkness.
What is there to see, I wondered as I opened the lids to oblige Christin’s voice.
Fire. The woods were aflame. Not a raging tempest, but a forest fire none the less. Red and orange tongues grew from underbrush and clung to trees, flicking light and shadow through the dark.
Almost as soon as we were next to it, the bus shot on through the forest, leaving only a haunting memory of these morning flames dancing in my memory.

Fire




The Difference a Border Makes

Borders. Ever since the Treat of Westphalia, which established the criteria for an independent state, the world has been obsessed with borders, these boundaries which designate one piece of land from another. These imaginary lines which for all intensive purposes exist only on maps, cause violence, hatred, and separation between and amongst neighbors. Kashmir. The DMZ. Mexico/US. Israel and Palestine.
When you come to a border, especially via a major road, the first thing you often notice is all the trucks. They are lined up, waiting to bring goods from one country to another. Then there’s the soldiers with tall, black leather boots, money exchangers with stacks of bills and calculators hung from their necks, small shacks selling food, then, of course, customs/immigration. Pass through all of this with a stamp of approval in your little book and you’re in a new country.

Crossing into Nica

Honduras


But how new is it? Especially between most Central American countries, like Honduras and Nicaragua, the border I just crossed, you don’t have a language change. The land doesn’t care much what country it’s in, same trees, same rocks, oddly enough the same sky above.
So why does it feel different, to pass into a new country? I’m sitting on this crowded bus trying to figure that out. Maybe it’s the man preaching about Jesus Christo and Agua Viva, but that can’t be it: I still can’t understand his language. Maybe it’s because I know people in this country and our imminent arrival lightens the travel stress a bit. Maybe Nicaragua, with the really nice street signs, the narrow hilly paths, the currency named after conquistadors, the large population, or the powerful revolution really has a different vibe, one more comforting than that of Honduras. Or maybe I haven’t had enough water to drink today and just feel the effects of dehydration. I don’t know, nor do I expect I ever will. Whatever it was, I appreciate Nicaragua and this change of borders.

Viva La Revolucion



Nicaragua: Land of Dinosaurs

Why come visit Nicaragua? This question was posed to me a number of times and is one the Nicaraguan Chamber of Commerce strives to answer. Our answers are similar: the culture, the natural beauty, interesting history, the fine cigars, rum, festivals, and sharks. Sure all of these are great, though the “famous” freshwater sharks of Lake Nicaragua often disappoint. The only time worthwhile to come and see them is around election time, when they leave their wet homes and go to the polls. Ever wonder why the literacy test was abolished in 1873 in Nicaragua? Well, that’s because sharks tended to bite the heads off officials denying their right to vote. Around election time, scuba divers enter the lake to campaign for various candidates and win the support of the sharks. There was the famous incident in 1998 when a campaigner claimed she had the opposing candidates name bitten into her shoulder by a particularly cranky shark, but the claims were dropped after it was revealed they had been in a particularly nasty relationship and the bite marks looked nothing like those of the shark in question.
So, the sharks aren’t much of a reason to visit, unless you enjoy slow conversations in dark depths with hosts of questionable hunger restraint.
No, I came to see the dinosaurs, particularly the Rock Pterodactyls and the Mountain Triceratops. These were first discovered in the 15th century by Spanish Conquistador Julio Maximillion in his famous trek through Central America.

From his diaries:
“We found strange beasts in the mountains, mostly used to help with agriculture. They are stupid and godless and our priests encouraged a quick extermination to get rid of them. However, their leader petitioned us, though a native interpreter, to spare their species. They promised the gold that inlaid their horns, and gold in great quantities. I am inclined to make an agreement with them, but on our own terms.”

Thus the great dino-Spanish gold trade began, along with the long standing problems in the dino population. Family structures were broken with youngsters leaving home to seek wealth in the mines. Abuse and suppression continued for centuries until the infamous crackdown on the native dino groups by the Somoza regime. Remaining groups fled into the remote Santa Escal mountains where they lived for years with little government harassment. However, during the late 1970s, Sandinista rebels made contact with the recluse dinosaurs and made a number of pacts, particularly with the triceratops and pterodactyls. They were instrumental in the fighting against government troops, with soldiers reporting bullets bouncing off armored triceratops and pterodactyls raining napalm with no warning. After the war, many dinosaurs became peace activists, greatly affected by the violence they saw and were open critics of the United States support of the Contras. In recent years, most have settled in largely dinosaur communities, though some can be found lumbering through the halls of universities or lecturing at various peace conferences throughout the region.
Hearing one of these talks is alone worth the trip, so here I am in Nicaragua, hoping for some enlightenment from the dinosaurs.



Reflections by the Water
Lago de Apoyo

We are in Nicaragua. We are in a nation of millions of people, millions of fields, millions of homes, millions of lives. We are in the middle of this at Lago de Apoyo, staying on the shores if this lake in the midst of a crater that erupted, eroded, became vegetated, and filled with water. We are on the dock by the water, legs swinging in the afternoon sun above people splashing through their reflections. We join them in the watery depths. We laugh, swap stories, discover hot springs, dive down below those reflections. We hear tales from those we met for only two weeks or some not until today. WE hear about this country, and not just about stats and figures and main attractions and violent histories. We sit by the water and let our reflections mingle while we listen to relationships, to meetings, classrooms, workers in the compo, to struggles, concerns, joys, Espanol, strong women, Machismo men. We hear about faith, justice, community, simplicity. We eat, drink, turn our voices to song, music. We stare into fires and speak of grand philosophies, systems of oppression, the future of our world, our family, friends. We watch as flames reflect in our eyes and hearts, drifting smoke over our heads into the starry heaven above. We sit below the stars, beside the fire, in a place called Nicaragua, among friends, reflecting by the water.



Accompaniment
If you are in JVC, I will cut off my left arm if you haven’t heard this word. Simple definition: the act of going or being with another. One of the big things for this program is simply being with the people we live and work with. Sure we have jobs, but sometimes it is more powerful and meaningful to be there for people rather than accomplishing some task or mission. It is something we Americans have a hard time dealing with, as our culture stresses having results to show from our endeavors. It is a little hard to produce some finished product after sitting with a child who has an abusive mother, listening to complaints, or hearing the story of a rural teacher.

My main motivation to visit Nicaragua was to see the JVs, both the ones I had met at orientation and those who I had just heard stories about. While it was incredibly wonderful to talk to them and see their homes and cities, I also very much wanted to see was their workplaces. Though time was limited, I was able to accomplish this goal and really understand the definition of accompaniment.

Nica and Belize JVs after Easter Vigil Mass


On Monday I first visited Contera, Trucha’s worksite, with Al. This is essentially a community center for the jovenies, the youth. It was started after the Nicaraguan government started taking young people from the schools so they could fight against the contras. Many simply left school so they wouldn’t be forced to join, but ended up roaming around the streets, forming gangs. Contera provides a place for youth to meet, with theater groups, karate, dance troupes, and artistic venues. We dropped in, walked around, then quickly left so Christin and I could bus it into Managua. There we met up with Thomas and Heather, who also runs a library (whoot!). Thomas works at a women’s bank, where loans are given to women to start various enterprises. Loans range from $150US to $400. Women hold each other accountable, so if one fails to make a payment, the others cover them. Every week, the women meet, discuss how they are doing, reflect, listen to Bible readings, and discuss social issues.

I sat in on two such meetings. Knowing no Spanish, there wasn’t much I could do but sit and watch. Christin chatted with some of the old ladies and I observed the women lining up to make payments. Afterwards, Thomas thanked me for coming. Thanks? But I didn’t do anything. I literally didn’t even know what was even going on. Then I started thinking about accompaniment. Very rarely do other people get to see our jobs, what we spend the majority of our days doing and thinking about. It is a powerful thing to have someone want to come see this part of your life, and a powerful thing to see another’s. Accompanying fellow JVs left me with a great feeling after leaving Nicaragua. Sure I might not fully understand their realities, but now I have a better idea than I did before. I am blown away how impressive it is that they work and live in a country where I can’t even say thank you, and they can have meaningful conversations with women who are eighty years old and sell used clothes on the street. Accompanying isn’t hard, but you have to be mindful to do it. Try it out. It could make a world of difference.


***While not mentioned in any writings, while in Esquias, we met up with Christin's high school service group, thus the reason we went there. They were working on a project to bring water to 140 people. We helped out one day, digging ditches where pipe would be laid.
Here are those pictures and other assorted ones of interest.

Me doing some labor

Mountain Road

Digging some ditches

In Esquias!

Boy in the street

5am Palm Sunday Procession

April Come She Will

You find yourself reading my blog once again, and I find myself staring at Easter fast approaching on the calendar. April has arrived, and with it, heat to make my fingernails sweat. Apparently the next two months or so will be the hottest in Belize, and it definitely seems that way right now. Rumor has it the heat index (a combination of temperature and humidity) is somewhere in the 108 range, which is high. The library has been particularly dreadful. I've had to resort to making children hold their breath when looking for books to stop them from adding more heat to the building. For some reason no one is complying.

Baxter checking out the sunrise


Well, since last time I promised I'd put up pictures of the football tournament I coached, here they are. I actually ended up being a line judge for every game that day and let me tell you, children haven't really grasped the concept of offsides in this country yet. Someday they will learn.

Football by the sea.


I did some major shifting around of shelves and books in the library this past week (really bad timing with the heat), and it looks quite nice if I say so myself. I may be working on a grant to get computers, AC, and new books into the library, but that will remain to be seen. In the meantime, children still roll on in and make my job worthwhile.

Library looking clean.


Living it up in Belize. Thanks to Father Kevin Dyer for the picture taking on this one.


Last week we held Sports Afternoon. Events includes the three legged race, slow bicycle race, and the mattress relays. What is the slow bicycle race, you ask? Well, it is essentially six children on bikes, and the one who comes in last without touching the ground with their feet wins. It is very, very slow, though the first one was entertaining (the last five, not as much). For anyone who has participated in a mattress relay (I know those grads of the HT Wing School have), it was a glorious event that mostly resulted in mayhem with children running full tilt into one another.

Three Legged Race


Slow Bicycle Race


Sorry the blogs have been scarcer lately. It is difficult for me to sometimes come up with interesting things to write about. While the first couple months were all new and exciting, now things kind of have settled down. Normalcy has arrived. This is great for me, but not as great for you, who would like to know things about my life. However, I will be travelling to Honduras and Nicaragua on April 15 for a week and a half to be there for Semana Santa (Holy Week). Many good stories and pictures will come from that trip, so make sure to check back in for that. I'll probably do something similar to the Guatemala post, and people seemed to enjoy that one.

Well, I hope everyone is enjoying their day and that the Red Sox aren't losing. Huzzah Huzzah!


Neat clouds.