Returning to Blue Creek after a couple of days in town for the Easter holiday, I was looking forward to getting back to my routine and my own bed. After unpacking my bag and my groceries, I unrolled my yoga mat for my usual afternoon exercise, only to find a dead lizard pressed into my mat like a preserved autumn maple leaf. Rather than shock or disgust, my initial reaction was one of complacency, followed by the thought that this is something that isn't likely to happen to me back in the states. I chucked the lizard outside for the ants to take care of and cleaned my mat with some bleach water, hanging it out to dry so that I could eventually get around to the yoga part of my day. The lizard/yoga mat incident is just the latest in a string of recent close encounters with wild life that would be so very strange in my other life. Small fish getting stuck in my t-shirts when I am doing my laundry in the river, frogs jumping on my leg during my shower, snakes crossing my path on my way to the bathroom at night, and bats flying just a little too close when I am outside doing my dishes at the water-pipe; all just part of living this life. The good news is that with just 117 days left before I return home, I can look on these encounters with a bit of amusement, knowing that someday soon it will all be just a fond memory of those wacky 2 years I spent in the jungles of Belize.
PS – So that you don’t feel too bad for me, tomorrow I am taking off for a short vacation up in Mexico, just a couple hours south of Cancun. Goodbye critters and hello Margaritas and beaches. I guess my life isn’t all that hard after all.
3.25.2008
3.12.2008
Backpackers and other laments
Some things were never meant to take place via the casual anonymity of the internet, like extending inviting someone to sleep on your couch. Perhaps you've heard of the website couchsurfers.com, which allows wandering vagabonds to connect to willing hosts via the internet, show up at their door, and sleep in their houses all for the price of a meal and some interesting conversation. I'm not going to judge those who choose to take part in this free exchange of short-term housing, but what do you do when you find yourself being perceived as a "couch-surfing" location by accident?
A week and a half ago, I found myself in this exact position after meeting a professional traveler at a friends house. This friend had indeed signed himself up as a couch-surfing location, and was hosting his first visitor when I showed up to crash in his guest room after a full day of traveling on the bus. I was a little surprised, but just figured, hey, to each his own, right? The next morning I exchanged friendly conversation with the backpacker and then went on to catch my bus back to my village. I must have mentioned the name of my village and expressed my good fortune at having such a beautiful home, but in no way did I encourage the traveling organic farmer/musician to stop in for a visit. I have enough to worry about without having to play host to a random stranger. So imagine my surprise when Mr. Backpacker peeps his head in my open door a couple of days later, saying “hello, the ladies by the river told me you live here, mind if I set my bags down while I look around the village?” Being the gracious, non-confrontational American that I am, I offered him a corner for his bags and figured that he would set up his tent with a local family and eat with them. He came in, took a seat on the floor (I do own chairs, but apparently that was too conventional), and started asking about where he could find some local vegetables to cook for dinner. This is where I realized that he had confused me with a couch surfing host, and I began racking my brain for a way to get out of this. Unfortunately, having never been faced with the dilemma of a complete stranger waltzing into my house and assuming complete familiarity, I was at a loss.
I was on the way to the store anyways, so I took him around to some houses where people grew vegetables, and he picked up the makings for some sort of rice and vegetable dish. Back at my house, I needed to go do some work down the road, so I innocently let him stay in my house, I figured he had stayed at my friends house without ransacking the place. A few hours later I returned to find nearly every pot and pan in my kitchen in use and every kid in my village staring at this strange man who was making himself at home in my house. The last thing I wanted was for everyone in the village to think that I was in the habit of having strange, male house guests, but what was I to do? He was basically inviting me to dinner in my own house and I had no choice but to sit down and wonder how I was to get him to leave. The control freak inside me was scratching to get out, to tell this guy to quit cooking on my cast-iron pan, to use a little bleach on the dishes, and to take it easy on the olive oil, a pricey commodity. After dinner I feigned tiredness and my site-mate and another PCV made sure that Mr. Backpacker had set-up his tent and was on his way out the door. Thankfully I didn’t even own a couch that could serve as a bed and I was not about to offer up my hammock.
After a night spent developing a so-called exit strategy, I got up the next morning and boldly informed the wayward traveler that I was very busy, and it would be best if he found another place to park his tent. Chances are I will never see this guy again, and I really needed to regain control of my house before I completely lost it. Later, as I was processing the whole situation, I realized that I was so aggravated because this was my home, not some hostel or half-way house. Backpackers flock to Central America in hoards, sleeping in hostels and relishing in the communal living and sharing that happens in those places, but I live here. For me, it was as if someone had knocked on my apartment in Seattle, invited themselves in, pitched a tent in the front yard and then started rummaging through my cupboards and whipping up a meal, albeit one that is graciously shared. It was that strange. After I dismissed the foreign traveler along with his guitar, tent, and drawstring hemp capris, I cleaned up and took a deep breath of relief.
A week and a half ago, I found myself in this exact position after meeting a professional traveler at a friends house. This friend had indeed signed himself up as a couch-surfing location, and was hosting his first visitor when I showed up to crash in his guest room after a full day of traveling on the bus. I was a little surprised, but just figured, hey, to each his own, right? The next morning I exchanged friendly conversation with the backpacker and then went on to catch my bus back to my village. I must have mentioned the name of my village and expressed my good fortune at having such a beautiful home, but in no way did I encourage the traveling organic farmer/musician to stop in for a visit. I have enough to worry about without having to play host to a random stranger. So imagine my surprise when Mr. Backpacker peeps his head in my open door a couple of days later, saying “hello, the ladies by the river told me you live here, mind if I set my bags down while I look around the village?” Being the gracious, non-confrontational American that I am, I offered him a corner for his bags and figured that he would set up his tent with a local family and eat with them. He came in, took a seat on the floor (I do own chairs, but apparently that was too conventional), and started asking about where he could find some local vegetables to cook for dinner. This is where I realized that he had confused me with a couch surfing host, and I began racking my brain for a way to get out of this. Unfortunately, having never been faced with the dilemma of a complete stranger waltzing into my house and assuming complete familiarity, I was at a loss.
I was on the way to the store anyways, so I took him around to some houses where people grew vegetables, and he picked up the makings for some sort of rice and vegetable dish. Back at my house, I needed to go do some work down the road, so I innocently let him stay in my house, I figured he had stayed at my friends house without ransacking the place. A few hours later I returned to find nearly every pot and pan in my kitchen in use and every kid in my village staring at this strange man who was making himself at home in my house. The last thing I wanted was for everyone in the village to think that I was in the habit of having strange, male house guests, but what was I to do? He was basically inviting me to dinner in my own house and I had no choice but to sit down and wonder how I was to get him to leave. The control freak inside me was scratching to get out, to tell this guy to quit cooking on my cast-iron pan, to use a little bleach on the dishes, and to take it easy on the olive oil, a pricey commodity. After dinner I feigned tiredness and my site-mate and another PCV made sure that Mr. Backpacker had set-up his tent and was on his way out the door. Thankfully I didn’t even own a couch that could serve as a bed and I was not about to offer up my hammock.
After a night spent developing a so-called exit strategy, I got up the next morning and boldly informed the wayward traveler that I was very busy, and it would be best if he found another place to park his tent. Chances are I will never see this guy again, and I really needed to regain control of my house before I completely lost it. Later, as I was processing the whole situation, I realized that I was so aggravated because this was my home, not some hostel or half-way house. Backpackers flock to Central America in hoards, sleeping in hostels and relishing in the communal living and sharing that happens in those places, but I live here. For me, it was as if someone had knocked on my apartment in Seattle, invited themselves in, pitched a tent in the front yard and then started rummaging through my cupboards and whipping up a meal, albeit one that is graciously shared. It was that strange. After I dismissed the foreign traveler along with his guitar, tent, and drawstring hemp capris, I cleaned up and took a deep breath of relief.
3.10.2008
Sharing my life
No matter how many pictures I post or how many too lengthy blog pieces I write, it is just so hard to convey what my life is really like here in Belize. I can't accurately describe the oppressive heat, the foreign smells, or the contagious smiles and laughter through the internet, which is why
personal visits from friends and family are so important to me. For a short period of time I get to be the expert, the one who actually knows what is going on, instead of the bumbling, culturally awkward idiot that I usually am.
personal visits from friends and family are so important to me. For a short period of time I get to be the expert, the one who actually knows what is going on, instead of the bumbling, culturally awkward idiot that I usually am.
This past week I hosted my mother. After 21 months, I finally felt prepared to share with her my version of Belize. Eight days is not really enough, but we did and saw as much as possible. I think she has a clearer picture of what my days are like and why I made the decision to give up two years of good coffee and comfortable temperatures to attempt the impossible down here in the jungles of Central America. We saw the major sites of Cayo and Placencia, and the not so major site of Blue Creek. We took boats up jungle rivers and swam in the Caribbean. She even indulged me in my desire to see nearly every resort property between here and Belize City, since I so rarely have the luxury of private transportation. I even managed to get some work done on my masters project. So thanks mom for coming to visit me, it was a great week! Oh, and thanks for taking Felix, my little jungle cat back to the states for me. I hope he enjoys life up there and I will see you both in July.
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