Surprises at a Village Surprise Party – A Conversation

Recently at a surprise party in Lucky Strike I sat next to Dan (fictional name) as we awaited the birthday boy, or man rather, underneath Almonds (‘Hallmonds’) trees in the pitch dark. First of all, I had no idea a surprise party was even attemptable in a village that, as Doc Hollywood would say, “Knows the color of your shit before you leave the woods.” Dan by this time at night, or possibly even by 9 A.M, was far wasted and thirsting for conversation. The proceeding randomness is as follows:

DAN: White Jerry!
WHITE JERRY: Good night Dan.
D: Hey what do you call a, what you call, well she is not lesbian.
D: Ahhhhhh, she is not lesbian but ehmmmmmmmm
D: She she she got, she got ehmmm balls, a cock, and ahh you know, a hole.
WJ: Hermaphrodite?
D: Yeah, that’s it. I try to tell these young guys in the village. They don’t believe me.
WJ: Well they should. They certainly exist.
D: I’ve done four, ehhm five of them.
WJ: (flabbergasted) Jesus, really…?
D: Yyyyyyeah.
D: Why is Jesus white?
WJ: I don’t think he is. He is probably a light brown skin since he came from the Middle East.
D: Jerry, you are white but we are brothers.
WJ: Sure.
D: We all come from Adam and Eve. What do you think about Adam and Eve, Jerry?
WJ: That it is a made up story.
D: Jerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry?!!!!
WJ: What.
D: Jerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry!!!
WJ: Ha, what.
D: Come on Jerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!

ALL: SURPRISE!!!!!!

Youth Need Not Apply

As appeared in the Marian Magnet.

Lucky Strike, Belize - “Plantain chips, mango sweet, tambran sweet, Coke, Winterfresh!,” yells Daniel, 8, at the Belmopan bus terminal. Your eight year old is in second period Math while Daniel is earning a dollar an hour, maybe. Before the terminal he rose pre-dawn, had a bucket bath with cold water, outside, from a well, fed the chickens, ate breakfast that consisted of beans and tortilla, and caught the first bus to Belmopan, the capital of Belize (pop. 10,000), from his village with his father and their stock of snacks. After the terminal he will go home where his bed maybe a hammock along side 6 others.

This is unfortunately the reality of some children in Belize though, certainly not all. According to a report in 2001 the US Labor Department estimated that just over 6 % of children 5 – 14 were working at the time. It is legal for a 12 year old to do light work in Belize. I would be shocked if this number improved over the years as the country’s GDP growth, currently 3.5 similar to the U.S, has not seen much flux since 2003. The realities of other children are much worse. Other children maybe found begging for a quarter, “shilling”, in Belize City, chopping cane in the sugar fields in the North, hauling oranges in the South, or God forbid, skipping school to sell their young body to an adult male tourist in exchange for school fees, cash, or material items. A horrific scene when you consider 2.8% of the population, of epidemic proportions, is only reported to be living with HIV/AIDS and when the tourism sector employs 25% of the country.
Given the hells that are among us we must ask, “Is all child labor bad?” No. My friend Rahiem, 14, along side his older brother, can be found selling everything from mosquito repellent to bread, at the family’s convenient shop, The Black Orchid. As a store clerk he is immersed in socialization, math, business, and hospitality- skills that will only help him in adulthood and transition into the work force. Rahiem is one of the brightest in his class and the president of my 4-H club in Lucky Strike, the village where I live and work.

Unfortunately, outside of the home there are not many opportunities for youth. Many youth assist the family in some form of chores whether it being on the farm, sanding wood carvings, or selling baked goods door to door. Sport’s seasons for rural youth maybe a single game elimination tournament, if that. As a volunteer Youth Development with 4-H/ Belize’s revamped Outreach program I am proud of the difference we are striving to make. From chess clubs to health workshops; community service activities to environmental summer camps; and from pig rearing to competing in 170 mile canoe races, we are developing an atmosphere of positive productivity and fun along side our much needed Belizean adult leaders.
Being a Peace Corps volunteer immerses you into living amongst these realities – this roller coaster of experiences.

Recently I was heading South for a football (soccer) match and the bus I’m on arrives in Belmopan and I’m faced with a moral dilemma. If I buy a bag of plantain chips am I a supporter of a child trying to make some money for his family or am I supporting the exploitation of the child who should be in second period Math?

* The article presented does not necessarily express the views of the United States Peace Corps or the Peace Corps post of Belize, but that of its author.

The Last Thing You Carry

Lucky Strike, Belize - Think about this scenario: you are amongst friends where there is laughter mixed with dramatic undertone. The local rum and brandy with water mixer and homemade wine is for the collective present. When the wind blows southeasterly you get a waft of recreational drugs. As expected the men out number the women. Are you at; college, high school, or the office party that really got out of control? Or are you digging a grave separating the stones from the white marl and gathering blisters? A grave dug in the earth with soil only 8 inches deep and the rest solid stone and white marl.

Three weeks ago Edison aka Pulakeye, 16, of the neighboring village of Rockstone Pond went to retrieve his pet parrot, the one he shows off to tourists for a buck or two at the local Mayan ruin (or temple) of Altun Ha (which translates to rock stone pond in English according to some). The tree where the parrot escaped to broke oddly when young Edison tried to cut it down and killed him - instantly I am assuming. I did not know Edison much at all but this event made the last week interesting to say the absolute least.

Without a local cemetery in the rural parts of the country families bury their dead relatives in their own yards. Not the best for the water table should a problem arise but what else are you going to do? Once the date for the funeral is announced men from the village take their turn in digging the grave in the affected family’s yard, as the women look on, in between little (lee in Creole) tastes of local spirits. Stones unearthed with picks and sledgehammers are dashed to the left. Soil and white mal dust to the right. The men surrounding the grave- resting and socializing in between shifts of digging and tossing, pause for a brief moment it seems. Two brothers from the Herbert family are in the hole and going to town and making significant indentions into to the earth to reach the 6 foot goal. The brief pause is something like a salute to manliness. The Herbert brothers, Elvis “Dish” and Floyd “Floydy,” are two large men that know a lee something about hard work. You would bet bowling balls were implanted into their shoulders that were beading with sweat. But this is Belize and they do not do implants of any kind and conversation makes a return after the brief silent acknowledgment of strength. A year passed since I had arrived in the village and I thought that maybe I would never see a funeral in Belize which would have been a blessing though at the same time it is highly intriguing to witness another culture’s rituals.

The community spirit continues at the wake. Here the community of between four and five hundred comes together to listen to music, maybe even the country and/or Christian variety, as the men play dominoes or 'feetch', and the women make colorful wreaths of kite paper and aluminum rings. This is a chance for the talented ones show off their creative designs of kite paper flowers but no one is keeping score. This event takes place after dark and into the wee hours of the morning the night and morning before the funeral. Wakes are usually hosted at the family’s home though this wake is were held at the Red, Gold, and Green Bar next to the parking lot of Altun Ha. Snacks, bite sized tuna sandwiches on white bread and the local rum and water mixer were again invited guests and, not surprisingly, served by women. A married one in tight black prints and a black and gold leopard print top of Spanish decent in particular either could not get over the fact that a white man was there or was the flirtatious type. However, the latter I assume was the case morality won again and is still undefeated. This was the first time I got drunk in a public setting in the village since arriving which is not a bad thing, even though I was still able to ride my bike back home and as they say here “the bike did not ride me.” The body is not showcased like a wake in the US. No, it is not seen until the service in church. I suspect the continuous want for cool vibes and carefree attitude of the cultural has something to do with it

The funeral was held at a Seventh Day Adventist church and there was not much difference in the way a funeral is celebrated except the pastor was 45 minutes late, the family takes pictures of the deceased and that it was hotter than hell for the audience dressed in black, grey, or white. I cannot say fashion is a big concern in the country as some even came in Japanese cartoon print shirts. Also, the pall bears wore matching outfits of the deceased being a white tuxedo type shirt and black pants, some with not exactly the exact fitting. And the casket was made out of mahogany. Handmade and bought from a guy in the City I assume. My friend Oscar Pollard Jr. helped to translate the happenings of the funeral for me as I was curious why no one was crying and why people were taking pictures of Edison’s body in the open casket. He predicted there will be crying later as the service and burial developed which was true but at the time people were more curious as to why the pastor was late and that Edison had been dead for a week now so the initial shock had worn off. The pictures, well that is just what they do. He also had a Creole proverb to share which are as numerous here as the villages, "… and they say that is the last thing you carry with you- your mahogany box. (laughter)."



The crowd then processed to the family's home where the casket was laid on two sticks horizontally covering the hole the men dug the day before including myself with blistered hands and a sense of being further integrated into the community as evidence. With the crowd huddled around the earth’s opening the pastor recites the usual. Sisters of Edison wailed profusely. At the pastor's command the casket was lowered with ropes into the grave. When saying, “ashes to ashes…” those nearest to the grave picked up a rock or soil and gave a light toss into the grave. Somehow you can never fully forget the sounds of clink, clink, clink from an object-stone, soil, wedding ring or otherwise hitting a casket. The hallow sounds of clink, clink. Once lowered and the final good byes said the gravel, soil, and white mal was tossed voluntarily by men once again into the grave immediately following the service with the crowd still on looking. One man in his late 50’s that commonly goes by, Poppy or Stud, was on a shovel ushering in the soil. For a moment he paused facing the grave and had a distant look on his semi-wrinkled face that ran with sweat. What was he thinking?

The traditional stew chicken, rice and beans ensued and tasted like the cook's emotions.