Schools Galore

After teaching a rousing language arts lesson in the morning (editing marks and proper punctuation, yeah!), Wednesday was dedicated to exploring the other elementary schools on the island.

At the very least, I no longer associate the words “elementary school” with field day and spaghetti dinners.  If this shift in thinking started tapping me on the shoulder in my North Carolina internship, it’s been smashing me over the head since I got to Belize. The lack of smartboards and speedy Internet that is complained about in the States is nothing compared to the need for adequate sewage in some Belizean elementary schools. Guided by the air of the rotating fans, we made our way across the rickety dock that passed for the hallway of Holy Cross Elementary, a school built on top of a swampy landfill.

What surprised me the most, however, was the school situated in the “middle class” neighborhood. The dusty courtyard and AC deficiency would not have been tolerated in any middle class system back home. It brought to light the stark contrast between what we expect in America and what is accepted in Belize. This middle class housing looked like its heyday would have coincided with Barry Manilow belting out Copa Cabana. The porch railings with sculpted lions and peeling Key West paint looked like a ninety-year-old woman who applied an exorbitant amount of makeup as a last-ditch attempt to recapture her youth. The bright colors and Greco pillars that were meant to cover up flaws instead accentuated the wrinkles and cracks of the once-youthful structures. As if the foot-deep potholes in the dirt road would have gone unnoticed.  

It was a lesson in gratitude to see schools coming from so little yet doing so much. I swear on my gradebook to never complain about another faulty expo marker or unsharpened pencil. The fact that I don’t melt into a puddle of perspiration by the end of the day is a comfort that I had not realized is afforded to so few. Long live central air, purified water, and Isla Bonita Elementary for providing such luxuries. 

Burritos

Halfway through the final week in Belize: my excuse to shove as many burritos into my mouth as possible. I wont start the reminiscing until the end of the week, but I feel the customary “my, time sure does fly,” is appropriate at this point. Three days left, let the tortilla consumption begin. 

Heritage

Last week, the inland trip with its cultural excursions and unlimited hot tea (thank you Rosa’s continental breakfast) drew to a close and gave way to a reality of full time teaching at Isla Bonita. Having spent the past few days wandering around ruins and, thanks to ATM, being literally immersed in history, I walked into school last Monday with the idea of Belizean heritage at the forefront my mind.

With such a rich and remarkable history, it only makes sense that Belizean students feel so connected to their past. They know their roots, and as a result are able to carry on the form and customs of their ancestors. These students feel much more of a connection to their forefathers than I do to the pale Bowdrings who crossed the Atlantic decades ago, bestowing upon me sunburns and freckles.

It is interesting to hear these students spout out knowledge of Caracol, Lamanai, and Xunantunich, whereas I have seen students in the US struggle to name the first two presidents. However, these students who know so much about ancient ruins are the same ones who overexert themselves trying to spell “house” and cringe in fear when they see fractions on the board. There is a great imbalance of what the students know about their heritage and what they need to learn about the rest of the world in order for them to be successful and carry on the heritage they are so proud of. 

Spelunking

Last night I came to the conclusion that the awesomeness of what I’m doing is inversely related to the amount of blogging I do. Case in point: it’s been over a week since the coolest adventure of my life and I’m just now sending it out for your perusal.

When I say coolest I mean that literally; it all began with a jump into frigid water that, by the feel of it, hadn’t felt sunlight since the ancient Mayans waded through it. Luckily, summers in Marshfield had prepared me for such a situation, and I recovered quickly from the chill. This icy H20 sits at the mouth of Actun Tunichil Muknal (ATM), the three-mile long cave system located in San Ignacio, Cayo District.

So into the cave I went, in all my helmet-, headlight-, and tankini-clad glory. After only the first few yards of clambering for footholds and sliding down craggy rocks, spelunking had already become my new favorite activity (overtaking sitting on a dock and eating queso). As we went deeper and deeper into the cave, the darkness became something I could actually feel. We stopped at one point and everyone turned off their headlights, engulfing us in the thickest blackness I have ever experienced. Not being able to see my hand an inch from my face became quickly disorienting, and gave me a sliver of understanding about the Mayan customs. The ancient Mayans used to come into the cave for rituals, ingest some type of hallucinogen, extinguish their torches, and listen to the voices that spoke to them in the darkness. Something tells me, however, that you would start hearing voices even without the aid of drugs; it was an extremely primordial and spooky place. We continued the rest of our trek taking advantage of our 21^st century battery packs, shining our lights on the broken pottery and human skeletons that give a calcified history of those who braved the cave before us. The whole tour took approximately three hours, but time could have easily stood still as we squeezed our way through the maze of the Mayan underworld.

I hiked back to the bus laden with soggy sneakers, a feeling of having experienced history firsthand, and an ardent desire to find a million more entrances to the cavernous world beneath us. 

Caracol and a Waterfall

If you haven’t spent a day climbing and jumping off of things, I suggest you either find a place to do so or transform your backyard into a pool and jump off the roof. While this may not give you the same Mayan Indiana Jones feeling I had today, it’s the best idea I have for replicating the experience without actually coming to Belize. Which you should do anyway, so forget the backyard pool and just get on a plane.  

My morning started off with a peanut butter and banana sandwich, and considering I hadn’t had peanut butter in three weeks, I was already happy to call it a day. Little did I know just how much more exciting the day would get after my energizing breakfast. When the air conditioned passenger bus pulled up in front of our hotel at 7:30am, I was amazed at how far bussing technology had come since the previous day. The first place this miraculously cool mode of transportation took us was at first glance a dirt road. However, it turns out if you walk on dirt roads, they tend to lead to other places. In this case, we wound up at the top of a set of stone steps that lead down to the second entrance of a Mayan shelter cave. In case your cave knowledge is the same as mine was at the beginning of the day, caves are huge. Just the sheer size made me feel about the size of a mosquito, and that was before hearing about the history held its cool, damp walls. Apparently the cave was used as a shelter way back in the day (picture 600 B.C.), as evidenced by the pottery and tools found scattered around its ledges and near the small river that runs through it. Our guide, Diego, informed us that this cave is the smallest of the Belizean cave systems, which makes me rather giddy to explore Actun Tunichil Muknal (worth a google) tomorrow.

After a series of jaw drops and group photos, we headed back to the bus and drove onward to Caracol. Here we spent much of the afternoon having our minds and eyes filled with amazing knowledge of Mayan architecture, agriculture, recreation, and religion. Not only were we allowed to touch the ruins, but to climb on them as well. Caracol means “snail” in Spanish, which is appropriate considering how long it took me to crawl to the top of the ruins. Ancient Mayans must have had amazing legs.

Another highlight of the day was our protein-enriched pre-lunch snack—termites. I ate a termite. From a tree. It tasted like minty carrots.

After the insect appetizer, we sat down to an amazing lunch of chicken burritos, watermelon, and banana chocolate chip bread. It was right after we got under our lunchtime shelter that it began to rain, cooling the area and allowing me to stop sweating for the first time in 7 hours. From there it was back to the bus and on to the most refreshing part of the day; river swimming and waterfall jumping. Again we were dropped off on a dirt road with our backpacks slung over our shoulders and made the trek down to Five Sisters Falls. I have not felt such joy climbing rocks and jumping into water since the infamous River Rat trip of ’02. The rest of the afternoon was spent swimming around and, in my case, trying to look a lot cooler than I actually am by attempting to jump off the side of a waterfall. I made it out unscathed, but it seems I won’t be adding “graceful” to my list of attributes anytime soon.

The evening was topped off with a grilled chicken and brie sandwich and some San Ignacio exploring. Now I’m all set to be rocked to sleep by the gentle blaring of the techno music coming from the club next door. Goodnight to all. 

Enter San Ignacio

Disclaimer: This is going to be long.

Firstly, belated wishes: happy anniversary to madre and padre and happy Easter to everyone! I hope it was filled with more delight than a Cadbury egg. I really want a Cadbury egg.

Secondly, a recap of last week (another disclaimer: there are going to be a lot of colons): It was officially our service week, which I have just now decided to deem “How Do You Run an Easter Camp With Only Construction Paper and Why Can’t We Get There Early to Cut the Paper?” week. To clarify, our group of sunburned, aspiring teachers made our way to the local library Monday through Wednesday in order to head up an Easter camp for some of the local youngsters. It was a very enlightening experience in that I never knew there were so many Paschal uses for paper, glue, and crayolas.  Baskets, placemats, ducks, eggs, and crosses require little more to make than some scissors and overly sugared seven-year-olds.  

This last week also gave me more of a glimpse into Belize’s laid back culture. On our first afternoon camp shift, Lauren, Alyssa, and I showed up early to get the materials ready (cut out paper, pour glue, other exciting things) only to find we were locked out of the library. As the time for the children to show up got closer and we were still locked out, I felt my desire to distribute scissors grow stronger and stronger. Back in North Carolina, we would have had ample time to prepare materials and lead the lesson with astounding grace. However, in Belize one must lend themselves to a much more go with the flow school of thought; we had to organize the craft in the midst of actually doing it, leaving much to be desired in the way of planning time. Since it logically follows that this method of “thinking on your toes” extends to the schools as well, I may have to adjust my mindset (which is already pretty far away from Type A to begin with) to accommodate for planning at a moment’s notice.

Thirdly: I have a new home for the week. This morning I packed up five days worth of belongings, shoved them into my backpack, and headed off for San Ignacio. While it sounds simple enough to travel inland, the reality is an intricate maze of transportation changes and crossed fingers. Our journey began with a water taxi from San Pedro to Belize City, on which I shuffled my iPod and stared peacefully out to sea for the 90-minute ride. From there it gets much less romantic. From Belize City we hopped on a chicken bus (read: old school bus crammed with more humans than should ever be allowed in one place at the same time) for the two-hour ride to San Ignacio. While the bus driver’s complete indifference to the posted speed limit and penchant for driving as if he were Luigi were memorable enough, it was the way we got on the bus that stands out the most. We were lined up at the terminal, waiting for the gates to slide open and to board in an orderly fashion, when all of a sudden the gates were up and it was a mad rush to the bus. Those of us from UNCW were herded to the back and boosted three feet in the air, limbs flailing and heads hitting all manner of objects (sure to include both alive and inanimate) as we scrambled for a precious seat. I have never before felt such a primal need to shove children out of my way. Parker and I secured ourselves a spot in the middle of the bus directly behind a less-than-rosy smelling man, but at least we had a seat, which is more than we can say about some of our fellow travelers.

Now I am sitting in front of a fan at Rosa’s Hotel, trying to ignore the ants on the wall, happily staring at my inexplicably fluffy towel, and looking forward to the continental breakfast in the morning. Tomorrow I will be channeling my inner Eliza Thornberry as we hike to a Mayan ruin, so expect a detailed account tomorrow evening. Goodnight from the Cayo District!

Teaching Spanish to Spanish Speakers

While the past week has been dedicated to Easter camp and sandy egg hunts (more on that later), this week off from school has given me a chance to reflect on my first week of Belizean teaching. I was prepared for a certain level of organized chaos and a shrunken pile of resources, but what I was unprepared for was the immediacy with which I would be left in charge of the classroom.

On day one, Ms. Yvette informed me I would be on my own with the students every afternoon that week, as she was in charge of Miss Isla Bonita (the school’s pageant and life blood). As Ms. Yvettte directed dances and put an embargo on slumped backs, I nervously stood in the front of a classroom trying to come up with a productive way to fill the next two hours.

It was definitely an exercise in quick thinking; Yvette had given me free reign to “review anything” with the class, and I had to use the students as resources in order to figure out what to actually teach during that first afternoon. I learned that eight-year-olds are not necessarily the most informative age group, and had to question them for a solid ten minutes in order to get any semblance of a foundation to work off of. We ended up playing a game to review the Spanish words for furniture, which was most likely more informative for me than it was for the students; the words “rug=alfombra” are permanently tattooed in my brain. This is sure to come in handy some day when I’m in Central America shopping for floor coverings.

As I biked back to Pedro’s Inn after the first day of school, I felt both accomplished and a little confused. It had certainly been a day of new experiences and overactive heart beating. However, as the week went on, I began to feel more and more comfortable being the leader of this new group of mini humans. I was able to bounce ideas off of Yvette and the other UNCW students, helping me come up with new plans and get excited about resuming my charge of the children.