Making Myself At Home

I have so much freedom, I don’t know what to do with it all. A common phrase around here is “no worry ‘bout nothin’.” I am often told to “free up,” and “relax myself.” So I have been taking my time to play soccer with the local boys (who call me Miss Kaela), spending time on the porch on the hammock, playing my ukelele (I am beginning to elaborate on the simple tunes I taught myself and might put words to the music soon), taking naps, and visiting some of the most amazing archaeological sites on the planet.
About soccer: there's a field about a half mile from Smith’s Family Farm where I’m staying (it’s actually not a farm so much as a villa of cabanas with fluffy, scavenging chickens bobbing around, friendly families and their playful children, a couple scraggly horses, some clotheslines, all situated among a well manicured, tropical garden with well swept concrete walkways and dirt pathways). At about five o’clock, about twelve guys on average, most of them around my age, convene and get in a straight line, divide themselves into two teams by having each boy step to left or right, one by one down the line, and then start playing until dark. Tedron, a Rasta kid close to my age, who is the nephew of the guy who owns the family farm where I stay, got me to come down and play defense. Just like old times (I used to play for years when I was younger), when the ball would come my way I’d boot it as hard as I could as far away as possible. The most fun was yesterday when I played goalie and I dropkicked the ball as hard as I could to the other side of the field, each time it came my way. The final score was 4-2 (our side won). It was fun to get the guys going by showing off my skill – yes, I admit it. I can be a showoff but I do my best to remain humble. They are not used to seeing girls out there, though Ilana sometimes plays as well. I now have the reputation of being an all star on the field. Life is easy.
Today I took a tour with a native Belizean guide to the Barton Creek Cave. It is/was considered by the Mayans to be the passageway to the underworld. They buried their dead there, and it was thought that their soul would leave their body after three days, move into the void and reemerge as either as either a jaguar or a monkey – who according to David (the guide), you never see “fussing and fighting.” (The Mayans didn’t enjoy being subservient to royalty, so they wished to be reborn as powerful animals). At a couple points in the cave, we turned off our flashlights and moved along in the pitch black darkness in our canoe, with only the sounds of the droplets hitting the water, resonating throughout the empty space. The air was so still, the silence so pervasive. Never before has my mind been so clear of thoughts without the aid of meditation. We turned off the flashlights once more as we moved out of the cave after our one mile journey, so that we could use our imagination to experience what it was like to come back from the dead.
Later, Tedron and I walked down the road to a close-by village. To get to it, we had to walk across a buoyant wooden bridge over the river, When we got to other side, we were met with a field of lightning bugs, gracefully flickering on and off as the sky darkened above us. At one point during our walk back, we came to an area of the road where the crickets were especially loud. Slowly, the noise of a rattle emerged from the already melodic natural sounds, and we heard a group of Belizeans singing church songs in Spanish – it was almost like a unique version of gospel music. They were singing in celebration.
I'm getting better at understanding creole, though when I first arrived here, there was lots of smiling and nodding and saying "Mm-hm, okay . . ." (Creole is a form of broken English, sort of like the Belizean version of pidgin (sp?)) But, since all of Steven's friends speak it, I have lots of opportunities to get used to the language, and at this point, I am able to participate in conversation. They all get a kick out of it when I end my sentences with "Ya check?" or "No, true?" They look to the ground and nod their heads as if they're thinking "Now you're getting it . . ." So, I'm not living the life of an average tourist, as you may have surmised. Yesterday, I helped Steven and a few of his friends mix concrete on the ground in preparation for the underground septic tank they were building in Steven's mother's backyard. At first, they were hesitant to even let me help. Like, they just sort of laughed when I asked them to give me a shovel. But I persisted, and one of the guys, Chino, finally said "Here, take this one." Then he took a bucket of water and poured it over the pile of cement (they didn't have a mechanized mixer, of course) and showed me how to shovel in from the edges. After a few minutes, one of the other dreads showed me how to further break up clumpy cement by using a chopping motion. As beads of sweat rolled down my face and my whole body started to perspire, they all seemed to become more friendly towards me. Instead of treating me with skepticism, they started to enjoy teaching me the trade. Now, I no longer have to ask for a shovel. When I come by (Steven’s house is on the way to town) they just hand me one with huge grins on their faces.
I know a lot of what I write sounds pretty idyllic, but there are things here that concern me, I must admit. First of all, none of the cars here seem to get smog checks, and I am constantly inhaling exhaust fumes when walking along the side of the road. Also, there are pretty apparent divisions among the men and women. There seems to be a good amount of wives who spend most of their time at home while their husbands hang out on the street hailing young girls and/or sipping beer (Belikin is the main brand). Most children live in broken homes and domestic abuse is common. They still use corporal punishment in the educational system, and based on the descriptions that Tedron has offered me about being whacked in the hand by a two by four for not doing his homework, their schools sound more like military camps. The health care system is poor and inadequate -- they'll write drug prescriptions for illnesses they can't identify, and facilities are limited in space. But, people here are happy. Really happy. I have seen virtually no deeply depressed individuals. All you have to do is smile at a person (no matter what age or gender) to see how open hearted they are. The children almost always return it more beautifully and genuinely than I -- their faces light up. All in all the warm heartedness of the people here is a good climate in which to remain an optimist. Attitudinally, they're doing better here than most busy (and not so busy) people in the states.