A Guilty Pleasure

I can honestly say that I enjoy tortillas, both flour and corn varieties, and have even made the effort to learn the art of making them.  If I do say so, I am not too bad at it either.  I am also a fan of beans: stewed, fried, and refried.  But there comes a time in every person's life when the tortilla-bean combo reaches the point of maximum utility, where no more pleasure can be obtained from this simple meal.  This point came tonight.  My family here in Blue Creek spoils me, they really do, and this particular evening I was served a couple of tasty pieces of fried chicken (which I discretely nibbled and fed to the animals due to the parasite that has taken over my intestines) along with tortillas, of the flour variety.  As I looked at that familiar source of carbs, I remembered when I used to relish this piece of flat bread when covered with peanut butter and honey.  Oh, but I have peanut butter and honey in my room, I conspired.  How, I thought, do I get this warm tortilla away from the table and into my room where I can secretly smother it in gooey peanuty sweetness?  The perfect opportunity came when my siblings went outside to greet a visitor and I hastily stuffed the tortilla under my shirt and walked casually, holding my stomach as one does when one is "stuffed" and walked back to my hut.  There I used the handle of my borrowed spoon to cover my stolen tortilla with my stashed spread.  Man, what goodness.  I sat in my hammock, licking honey off my fingers as I enjoyed my dinner, a little bit guiltily, knowing that what I had just done would have required too much explanation to make asking simply for the tortilla worthwhile. 

UPDATE: Since I wrote this account, they (being my host family) "discovered" my peanut butter stash.  I am not sure how they did this, I suspect hidden cameras, but they did.  I only discovered this in the morning, when they suggested I could use some of my peanut butter on my fry jacks.  I was a little paranoid, but I have already come to accept my total lack of privacy and have moved on with life.

March of the Ants

There are just some things that you cannot mentally prepare for when living in the jungle.  I was ready for bathing in the river, cooking over a kamal, taking malaria pills and sleeping under a net - but I was not prepared for the Marching Ants.  Saturday afternoon my brother Nester came to me and said, "Shella, the ants are blocking my way into the house."  Well Nester, can't you just brush them aside.  "No Shella, there are too many."  Well, this house that he speaks of is also the house that houses me and all of my worldly possessions, so I thought that this ant problem was worth a look.  I glanced over at his entrance, and sure enough there were tons of ants.  I opened my door, but did not see any in my room.  No problem, they didn't come inside.  I went about the afternoon and when I went back in to grab something, my room had been invaded. They were everywhere!  Marching up and down my walls, over my mosquito net, into my backpack - it was a nightmare!  The worst part was that they were chasing roaches all over the place and carrying the bodies of large insects along their line.  Great, not just ants, but killer ones. 

I didn't know what to do, so I grabbed my bike and raced over to Ms. Ophelia's, the women who I work with in Blue Creek and the owner of the "one stop shop."  She must have some ant killer, I thought.  I raced up her steps and started telling her about my problem.  Oh, she said, I have ant spray, but that wont help, they will just stay until they are done cleaning up.  She explained that they just keep going, cleaning up dead insects and chasing out roaches.  So I went back and surveyed.  There they were, in all of my things, going about their business and there was nothing I could do about it.  So I waited.  I went to the main house, went to river and bathed, ate dinner, and waited.  Sure enough, sometime before I went to bed, they disappeared.  Not one to be found.  They had moved on to some other house to do their cleaning, and all I had to show for their visit were two wicked bites on my foot where I had accidentally crossed their path. 

Just a lesson in patience from the bush.

Moving Day

By some freak of nature that I will not question, I am getting internet in my hut right now.

I write this from my little Mac, which is on a table in a room halfway between Punta Gorda and Guatemala.  Yesterday I arrived home and for the first time in 2 plus months unpacked my bag.  I put maps on the walls and set up some pictures.  I look out the window at jungle and a crystal clear turquoise river.  Things from now move slow, so all I can do is be patient and breath.

Thursday left Belize City and said goodbye to all of my companions of the first month and a half. When looking at a map of Belize, Toledo is the farthest district south and has the fewest roads, but the map cannot do justice to the actual distance and isolation that is Toledo.  By bus, it is 5-7 hours from Belize City to Punta Gorda and another hour to Blue Creek and three hours to Dolores. I should introduce my support system, the small group of people who live with me in what we have termed "The Toledo Cluster-f**k." 

* Jeff Frank – Fellow Blue creek volunteer and a heck of a guy.  Hails from Maine and writes like nobody's business.
* Nessim – Surfer from San Diego who will be our volunteer in PG and always speaks the truth.
* Mary Beth Carey (MBC) – Former Miss Teen Knoxville and the only female in this part of the country.  She is going to rock it out in Otoxjà (Oat-a-sha).
* Matty Whipshaw – Punk rocker/ long boarder who somehow ended up in San Lucas, Toledo.  His mission is to keep myself and MBC in check and entertained.
* Nick Choppy – Has the distinction of being the most remote volunteer out there in Dolores.
* Graham – Goes by just one name and has the best Tom Seleck mustache and Boston accent.  Will soon be known as the white guy on a horse in Jalacte. 
* Michael Norbeck – Of Chicago/MN, most commonly known as Fidel thanks to his hat and facial hair combo.  He's setting up shop in Big Falls, where the Southern highway becomes paved again.

So our group of 5 (3 are bound for Guatemala, bastards) loaded up all of possessions into the James Express Bus bound for Punta Gorda yesterday.  It was the first time any of us had used public transportation to move.  The ride was fine in the air-conditioned coach bus, made even more enjoyable by the tunes chosen by the driver, including the entire Celine Dion "A New Day" album.  Amy Johnson, you'll be happy to hear that he even repeated the song A New Day twice, I couldn't help but think of the time that the Tre Jenter sang that song in front of a few dozen incoming freshman as a way of stalling.

So this is getting long and I need to let my computer rest and go bath in the river.  I'll soon include pictures from the swearing in party and maybe more from my little village. 

I swear

To defend the constitution of the United States against all enemies foreign and domestic...yadi yadi yadi.  Today is the day, 4.5 hours to go.  I already signed the piece of paper that says that I choose to be a volunteer and am ready to make this commitment.  Is this what marriage is like.  If so, I can totally relate to the cold feet. Pictures will soon come from tonight's debauchery, but I may not be able to post them for awhile because tomorrow I am in transit to my new home (slight pit in stomach there).  Til then.