The arrival of the Wet

I think I may have witnessed the beginning of the rainy season last weekend. I’d been back in Belize just four days, the first three of which were bone dry. Dust had settled thick over the whole country, coating every conceivable surface in my house (neglected as it had been). My plants were looking decidedly close to death. The dust from the dirt roads, kicked up by stiff daily afternoon winds, coated not only the grass and shrubs by the roadside (as had been the case for much of the past few months), but reached up into the leaves of the trees surrounding the education center where I work, lending them a silvery-grey hue. The color of the trees, accentuated by the strangely crisp and rosy light of a sky just waiting for the right moment to unleash the deluge that had been accumulating for months, gave my daily walk home from work an otherworldly feel. The entire atmosphere was charged with a feeling of change on the horizon. And then last Saturday it came. Great torrents of wind and rain dampening down the incessant dust. For hours the lightning flashed in great white-hot charges and thunder boomed from every direction. Now I’m a sucker for a good spell of dramatic weather, so I sat it out on the patio in my hammock, outside the confines of my cement walls. And what blessed relief! From the oppressive heat I’d been suffering (with great complaint) since my return from a decidedly cooler early (read indecisive) spring in the northeastern US. Thank God! My only complaint – and of course there had to be one – is that the rain came just in time to make drying my laundry out on the line a little less than convenient. I can see I’m going to have to rig up a better rainy season clothesline system than the one I’ve got. Pain in the ass weather!


a sight from the dusty past (as of a week ago)

St. George's Day

And on an entirely different note, in late April, Alli and I found ourselves bumming a ride from BATSUB again, this time on a boat to St. George’s Caye. It was St. George’s Day, and the Brits were celebrating in style, thanks to Andy, my old friend from the Orange Walk days. They set up tents, a barbecue, coolers of beer and even a volleyball net out on a sandbar just off shore from the caye. Wading in crystal blue Caribbean water up to my knees with a Guinness in one hand and the sea stretching out as far as the eye can see is not too shabby a way to spend an afternoon.

Maya Days

I happened to be down in Punta Gorda for Maya Days, a celebration sponsored by Tumul K’in, a high school in the village of Blue Creek that’s dedicated to the preservation of Maya culture. I was lucky enough to witness a game of Chajchaay, the sacred Maya ballgame. The players of the two teams are typically painted and dressed to represent the warrior eagles of the Orient and the warrior jaguars of the Occident (who were covered head to toe in green dye). Players support themselves on the floor with one arm and return the 3½ lb. ball to the other team by hitting it with their hips. A team wins by either scoring a certain number of points, or by getting the ball through one of two rings suspended from the ceiling at a height of about 6 feet. By hitting it with their hips. Chajchaay is “the personification of the fight between necessary oppositions. It is the everyday fight, it is the eternal duality, light and darkness, health and sickness, birth and death, man and woman, the being or not being, heat and cold, water and fire, good and evil.”

The next day’s festivities, like those of any good community gathering, included food, music, games, and a greased pig competition. I was sorry I missed the greased pole competition, as it looked like the pole was covered in motor oil. But I did get to see six Maya ladies take each other on in the traditional corn-grinding competition.


Mica, John and I headed to Blue Creek early in the morning to catch the festivities, so I had a chance to check out the creek that lends it’s name to the town. Yes, this picture is doctored, but the creek really is that blue, even without help.


Here’s Mica chatting up some friends…










...and my new friend for the day.

Color Matters

I live in a remarkably spacious cement house right in the middle of San Ignacio town. It’s a pretty sweet spot – good location, not far from the South Indian restaurant run by my uncle’s fellow Malayali, George, as well as a little movie theater that puts on free matinees every weekend. There’s more than enough room for me to knock around comfortably, and I have a little private patio for my hammock, and a yard full of brand new kittens next door. My landlord is a lovely, slightly deaf older man by the name of Mr. DePaz, who insists on taking me out for a beer (or several) every time I go by to pay the rent. All in all, I dig it. My only complaint about the place is that when I moved in, it was painted in the most hideous shade of dooky brown. And when I say painted, I’m talking about EVERY SINGLE CONCEIVABLE SURFACE. Walls, ceilings, trim, cupboards – ev er y thing. Even if I were a fan of dooky brown, I think it would’ve been overkill. It was painful. And depressing.

But, with a little assistance from a mother who understands the harmful psychological effects of depressing paint jobs, I’ve remedied the situation. One thing I love about living in the Caribbean is that there’s no reason not to paint your house outlandish colors. Everyone around you is doing it, so why not? Hot pink, electric blue, eye-popping chartreuse, you name it. I decided it was only fitting to go for shades of Caribbean blue and turquoise. Might even help keep me cooler in the sweltering tropical heat. I can’t tell you what it’s done for my state of mind…

aaaah...much better!