(This is the sixth and final installment of a series of posts describing my experiences in the Mayan village of Santa Elena. Posts with photos will follow very soon.)
Wednesday morning, as I examine my itchy body, it seems that another round of aliens has unexpectedly landed on my legs during the cover of night darkness. These unidentified crawling visitors have left a series of tiny crop circles scattered around on various portions of my soft, warm, sun-tanned real estate. These mysterious circles seem quite familiar, having petite white rings punctuated in the middle by a tiny dot of red.
“Hmmm,” I begin to think to myself. “Perhaps it is time to surrender my long-held resistance to insect repellant. I think that maybe I’ll spray some of the stinky stuff on my legs before going to bed tonight.”
Throughout my journeys, I continue to resist the use of those yucky, smelly chemicals slathered all over my skin.
I rarely buy into the panic of trying to protect myself from the evils of all the possible diseases I might catch if the wrong arbitrary mosquito chooses to nibble on my tasty skin. I choose not live my life in the prison cell of fear—a tiny little cage that holds me hostage to random acts of infection and violence everywhere I look.
Yes, of course, I realize that every behavior has consequences. I know that if I walk into a room filled with millions of mosquitoes, I will most likely come away with millions of itchy red blotches on my skin. If I lie on the beach for five hours in the burning rays of direct afternoon Caribbean sun, I fully expect to come away with a very painful burn on my skin.
What I am saying is that I don’t live in a world of fear. I don’t go around attempting to defend myself against unseen attackers that might jump out at me from behind the next tree. Instead, I try to follow my inner guides, my heart, my soul, or whatever you want to call it.
And my heart tells me that I am safe, that I have nothing to fear.
I believe that everything, no matter how it may appear on the outside, happens for a reason.
If something is supposed to happen to me, then that something—whatever it may be—will find a way to happen, no matter how I try to defend myself, no matter where I run to hide. When and if it does happen, I will find a way to see it with love, embracing the growth that always hides under the wrappers.
If something is not supposed to happen, it simply won’t, period.
If my inner promptings guide me to retreat or to take a different direction, I will do so. If my feelings peacefully guide me to apply sunscreen or insect repellant, of course I will do so.
But then again, I am human. It seems that my plan to apply insect repellant tonight is based on fear, not inspiration. My mind is temporarily preoccupied with “itch”. I carefully count the ugly, annoying, itching little blotches on my legs. I come up with the number “54” on my lower right leg, “46” on the left.
I am momentarily tired of the itching, I have had enough. I furiously scratch and rub in a physical temper tantrum of itch, planning to pop another antihistamine and return to my meditation very soon. But as I open my zip-lock bag of medications, I discover that I have no antihistamines left. Meditation and love are the only remedies that remain.
Moments later, I simply smile and relax. My tantrum is over. Today is my birthday. I am excited by the prospect of simply doing nothing, enjoying a relaxing day of meditation, study, visiting, and eating. I cannot wait to get started.
Beginnings of Goodbye
At breakfast, Irma places a huge—and I do mean huge—plate of cabbage next to my smaller plate of beans, eggs, and tortillas.
“There is no way I can possibly eat all of this cabbage.” I say apologetically, as I glance in Irma’s direction, hoping that I do not offend her.
“That’s OK,” she smiles, “we’ll just save the rest and eat it later.”
A feeling of relief washes through me as I realize that Irma doesn’t expect me to fully empty the plate. I don’t know why I subconsciously assume that anything left on my plate will be tossed in the garbage—probably because that is what I have been conditioned to believe during my whole life.
“Today’s your birthday, right?” Justo asks with a smile.
“Yes,” I reply with a glimmer in my eyes.
“Happy birthday,” both Irma and Justo tell me, one after the other.
A battery operated radio is hanging on the wall. The volume is blaring, turned up quite loud, making conversation difficult. A minute later, Justo walks over and lowers the volume slightly.
“Our daughter went to Punta Gorda on the bus early this morning.” Justo begins. “She is playing in a baseball tournament.”
Then I realize that the radio sounds somewhat like a sports program. I had not really been paying attention earlier.
“Is that her ballgame on the radio?” I ask curiously.
“Not yet.” Justo tells me.
Justo does not go into specifics about the tournament, and for some reason I do not pursue the topic. About all I understand is that many girls from neighboring villages are competing today.
I continue to eat cabbage until I decide that my stomach is at full capacity. The overflowing pile of chopped cabbage continues to occupy almost two-thirds of the large plate.
Feeling a little awkward, even as I finish my twentieth meal in the village, I can’t quite seem to get used to the idea of eating in a fishbowl while my hosts look on, politely watching my every move.
I enjoy the conversation, but I know that Irma and Justo must be quite busy with their farm and their family. Besides, I have a lazy relaxing day ahead of me, and I am anxious to get started.
“Thank you so much for everything.” I tell them both warmly, fully realizing that this may just be the last meal I eat in their home.
“I am so grateful for your kind hospitality.” I continue. “The food has been delicious, and I have thoroughly enjoyed getting to know you.”
“Happy Birthday.” They tell me again as I walk down a small path toward the road below.
Energizing Grammar
My morning goes exactly as planned. First, I grab a wooden folding chair, lugging it out onto the porch in front of the guesthouse. What I continue to call a porch is actually a four-foot wide continuation of the smooth concrete that lines the interior floors of the guesthouse. This four-foot pathway runs the length of the guesthouse all along the north side. The thatched roof above also extends a similar distance over the outdoor walkway, creating a delightfully sheltered and shady location-with-a-view to simply hang out in the fresh mountain air.
The folding chair constructed with small stained and varnished 1”x2” boards, is actually quite comfortable. Sitting low to the ground, and slightly reclining backwards, I can rest and relax with no strain at all on my muscles or back.
With several books at my side, I settle in for a full morning of relaxing, lazy, Spanish study. First I pick up two copies of a little book called “God on a Harley.” Early last summer, during my first month in Cozumel, I had read this delightful little novel a couple of times. With a spiritual lift, and a touch of romance, the main character, Christine, takes back control of her life, magically learning to escape the trap of the stuck-on-auto-pilot life that she was living, learning instead to live a simple inspired life of following her heart.
As I prepared to leave Cozumel in mid November, I accidentally ran across a Spanish translation of this same energizing little book.
“What a delightful way to learn Spanish.” I told myself as I carried the book to the cashier.
As I sit looking out over the scenery of Santa Elena, I begin on page one, slowly and meticulously pushing my way through the first six pages of the Spanish version. My thick dictionary proves to be a valuable companion.
After an hour, my mind begins to burn out so I shift gears, picking up a little book overflowing with Spanish Idioms.
For another hour, I read, practice, focus, memorize, internalize, stuff, push, and absorb words and phrases into my cranial cavities—all the while, enjoying the cool mountain air accompanied by the serenading of roosters.
Well actually, I nearly jump out of my seat with a heart attack each time the roosters get too close and then screech out a loud random crow.
In a very loving way, I rise from my seat and begin to follow the roosters, gently herding them back in the direction of Christina’s home below, watching them disappear down the path toward her home.
Soon, as my mind again begins to fall asleep, I put down the idiom book and grab my fat and bulky, but extremely useful, Spanish-English dictionary. Several months ago, I discovered a goldmine center section, containing over 100 pages of very well written grammar study. Past study sessions have repeatedly left me dragging at around page 67. Progress beyond that point has been slow and tedious. Today I am determined to proceed forward.
Amazingly, as noon rapidly approaches, I am still wide awake, energized, and making great progress through those grammar pages.
Take My Picture Miss
After a delightful lunch and visit with Christina—a visit in which I also express my deepest thanks and gratitude—I return eagerly to my perch on the porch. I am addicted to this beautiful view.
Sitting in my small wooden chair, enjoying a breathtaking panorama while meditatively watching village life progress in front of me, seems to blow a cool refreshing breeze of inspiring peace, gently rattling the leaves in every corner of my soul.
After pinching myself to make sure I am still in my body, I resume my amazingly energizing studies, pushing a little further in my reading, memorizing several more idioms, and digesting considerably larger bites of grammar rules.
Right around the time that I begin to feel tired, Rosaria and another sweet girl stop by for short, but delightful visit.
“Hi miss.” Rosaria begins. “We just finished school, miss.”
“What class are you in?” I ask with a giggle in my voice.
“We’re in Infantile one, miss.” She answers with a glow in her eyes.
Soon, after a few minutes of fun bantering, Rosaria opens up a workbook from school, stopping at a random page with pictures of fry pans, baskets, bowls, and spoons. At the top of the page are the words “Make them match.”
“Take my picture, miss.” Rosaria begs me as she and her friend stand with the open book held directly in front of them.
After snapping the photo, I turn off my camera and begin to put it away. Rosaria then randomly flips the book to a different open page—this one showing squares and rectangles on one side, with combinations of money on the other.
“Take my picture again, miss.” Rosaria begs me with a giggle and glow that is impossible to deny.
Again I snap a photo and begin to return my camera to its case.
“Take my picture again, miss.” She giggles while exposing a third page showing colorful combinations of rectangles, circles, and triangles, cleverly arranged to look like a carnival booth and a sailboat.
“OK, but this is the last one.” I grin, as I eagerly snap a third photo.
“I’m going to church again tonight.” I tell them hopefully. “Will you be there?”
“Yes miss.” Rosaria answers confidently.
“I hope to see you there.” I tell her lovingly.
In the back of my mind I am really thinking, “Please, please, please, be there. What a treat it would be to finish off my beautiful day with yet another angel dance.”
As I return to my Spanish studies, I am once again fully energized, simply devouring the grammar section of the dictionary. I make it all the way to page 100 before Glenda’s son Aaron shows up on my porch.
He Talked
While being watched in my glass fish bowl, I busily munch down on a very large plate of rice and beans with stewed chicken. On the side is a small bowl of bland, overcooked Ramon noodles with numerous small chunks of boiled potato mixed throughout.
Since that one unusual day with raw hotdog chunks in eggs, and boney chicken in a soup, this is the first real meat that has been placed in front of me. Today’s chicken is actually quite tasty and tender—tasting very much like the stewed chicken I have repeatedly eaten throughout other parts of Belize.
Between bites, I begin to enjoy a final conversation with Glenda. I try not to stare as Glenda openly nurses Marlene right in front of me—something that several women have repeatedly done all week.
It never ceases to amaze me how my childhood beliefs and upbringing cause me to jump to conclusions and assumptions. In my cultural rearing, I learned that a mother covers up, being very discrete when nursing her baby—so of course that is the way that it should be done everywhere, right?
Wrong.
In this beautiful culture, the women seem very comfortable with the natural process of feeding their young babies. Such an everyday practice is as ordinary to them as making homemade tortillas with their bare hands over a hot fire in their living room, or carrying a baby tightly wrapped in a white bundle, suspended from a strap around their forehead.
As we continue our animated conversation, Mateus walks in and begins talking to me in Spanish.
Both his presence and his choice of language completely catch me off guard, and I momentarily do not recognize him.
“This is Glenda’s husband.” I finally realize, after having talked with him for more than a minute.
He is the same man that tirelessly chopped vines and branches with his machete during an amazing hike through the jungle.
But he is also the same man who never spoke more than three words to me during the entire hike. Amazingly, he seems to have partially overcome his phobia of actually talking to me.
“Why are you talking in Spanish?” I ask curiously, also speaking in Spanish.
“I picked up a little Spanish during my trips to Guatemala.” He replies. “I speak a little more English, but do not speak either one all that well.”
After thanking and complimenting him on his jungle skills, I ask him, “How often to you go out there into the jungle?”
“I like to go at least once or twice every week.” He responds. “I love it out there. It energizes me.”
“Do you ever see any snakes or poisonous spiders?” I ask.
“No, there really aren’t any more to worry about.” And then he adds, “And the jaguars out there do not bother humans.”
As I have been doing all day, as soon as our conversation begins to reach an obvious conclusion, I graciously thank both Glenda and Mateus for their generous kindness throughout my stay. I desperately want to reach out and hug Glenda, but I resist my desire.
During my entire say in the village, I have not witnessed one hug, not anywhere. Even in church, during a segment where I can only assume that Pastor Antonio has asked people to greet each other, these beautiful people simply turn, make eye contact, touch each other on the arm, and exchange a few smiling Mayan words. They do not seem to be an especially hugging culture, and I have no desire to push anyone’s comfort-zone boundaries.
So I keep my gratitude bundled up in verbalized form, accompanied of course by a loving smiling face.
As I walk away from Glenda’s tiny loving home, mixed emotions walk with me. An incredible joyful peace bounces along happily on my left, while a twinge of sadness-at-saying-goodbye walks with a slow melancholy on my right.
Then, I think to myself with a feeling of satisfied surprise. “He talked! He actually talked!”
Goooaaaaallll … Not
Less than one hundred feet down the road, several young boys are goofing around on the soccer field. They appear to be in the ten to twelve year old range.
“Come and play with us.” One of them yells out.
I smile and wave, beginning to simply walk on by, but then I turn around and head toward the field in my bare feet and flip-flops.
One of the boys passes the soccer ball to me. After a few awkward dribbles with my feet, I muster my most advanced soccer kick.
I giggle along with the boys as the ball slowly lobs toward the young boy playing goalie.
“At least I didn’t totally embarrass myself.” I whisper under my breath. “The ball did go in the right direction.”
In reality, I know that it is impossible to really embarrass myself. I am having the time of my life, simply being uniquely who I am—no more, and no less.
After five minutes of repeated attempts at kicking a kick-ass goal, I come up empty handed in the goal category, but overflowing in the satisfaction arena. I am beginning to feel very much at home and fully accepted by these beautiful people of Santa Elena.
Heartfelt Words
Realizing that my final evening at the village church is rapidly approaching, I smile and thank the boys for inviting me to play.
Soon, I am cleaned up, and enjoying a quiet rest on the porch. So far my birthday has been wonderful and peaceful. I cannot imagine a place in which I would rather spend the 55th anniversary of my birth.
I am surprised as Dionicio walks up, turns over a five-gallon bucket, and takes a seat beside me.
“Can you tell me your travel plans?” He asks.
“Sure,” I willingly comply. “I’m planning on catching the 11:00 bus tomorrow morning. After spending the night in Punta Gorda, I want to catch the 10:00 a.m. boat to Livingston, Guatemala. That boat only runs on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and my Belizean visa expires on Sunday.”
“Then you’ll want breakfast in the morning.” He confirms with a statement that is more of a question.
“When do you want me to pay for the guesthouse and all of my meals?” I ask, wanting to make sure he knows I am thinking about the money side of things.
“We can take care of all that in the morning.” He smiles.
Soon we drift into a relaxing thirty minute conversation, as Dionicio shares about his own travel adventures through parts of Guatemala—places like Livingston, Rio Dulce, and Lago de Atitlan—all places that I see myself visiting.
The discussion is warm and free-flowing. We both seem to connect at a deeply genuine level. I feel as if Dionicio is now an old friend, one whom I have known throughout my whole life.
“It is so wonderful, sitting here having a conversation like this with you.” Dionicio lovingly tells me. “That is why I enjoy having this guesthouse here. I get to meet so many beautiful people.”
Again, I feel a strong desire to share a hug.
Angelic Goodbyes
Normally, the village church services are on Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday. But a guest pastor from Guatemala is coming, so the normal Tuesday meeting has been switched to Wednesday, just in time for my birthday.
I am there shortly before 7:00 p.m., discovering an almost-empty chapel, but by 7:30 the room is packed, presumably in honor of our special guest and not because of my birthday.
By now, I know the routine of the evening—but tonight is quite different as two men stand in front during the sermon. The Guatemalan pastor speaks Spanish rapidly and loudly into one microphone, while another man immediately translates into Mayan, yelling into a second microphone, often beginning his translation even before the Spanish has completely ended.
I pick up on bits and pieces of the Spanish words, but the pastor talks so rapidly, and the Mayan interpretation overlays so hastily, that my mind quickly boggles, eventually causing me to give up my attempts to understand. I simply sit back to enjoy some people watching.
Finally, the part I am waiting for arrives. The fast rapid music begins and the crowd starts clapping and dancing. With anticipation, I stand by my chair, clapping and swaying, wondering where my little angels might be.
I watch as two little girls run down the aisle to the front, after which they perform a wide U-turn, and run back, quickly disappearing behind me. Over and over, the pattern repeats itself.
Soon, six or seven little boys do the same, performing their U-turn on the opposite side of the podium.
Finally, after I smile and make eye contact with three little girls, they meander over and grab my fingers. But they quickly disappear as several little boys take their place. Six angelic girls join hands with each other and begin circling about five feet away.
And then it happens. The giggling girls run over and circle around both me and two little boys who are still holding my fingers. Soon the boys let go and join in the circle around me, leaving me dancing around in the middle of the giggles. For the final thirty minutes, I have the time of my life exchanging giggles with these beautiful children while we all jump up and down with the music.
I can’t help but smile as I notice that the guest pastor from Guatemala grabs his camera and captures several photos of the beautiful children circling around me.
Afraid To Sleep
My birthday ends with a huge glow in my soul as I crawl under the dark covers in my bunk bed. The blackness, as usual, is penetrating and all encompassing.
“Oh yeah,” I remind myself, “I was going to apply bug spray tonight.”
After vigorously spraying my lower legs and feet, I am soon back in bed, sound asleep.
At 1:30 a.m., I awake with a start. A midnight venture out to the outhouse is in order. As I grab my little reading light, I simultaneously pull the covers down to see if the insect repellant has so far served its purpose.
I do a double-take when I notice a fresh bloody spot, about one-eighth inch in diameter, surrounded by a circle of white swelling. This spot is a little larger than any others I have seen.
“Why didn’t I feel that happen?” I wonder, as I reach my fingers down to touch.
To my surprise, the entire area for about one inch around the bite is mostly numb and tingly. As I rub with my fingers, I discover that the inside half of my big toe is also numb, as is the corresponding inside half of my second toe.
“It feels like I went to the foot dentist.” I jokingly tell myself, trying to temper my fear slightly.
I lose all sense of spiritual-centeredness, and begin to imagine all possible worst case scenarios. For the moment, I am not exactly connected to my inner guides.
“Whatever has been biting me these last few nights must have been really mad at me after discovering that smelly insect repellant on my feet.” I begin my mind games.
“Some poisonous spider has bitten me.” I speculate. “What if it spreads and gets worse? What if the spider is still in my bed?”
“I can’t go back to bed.” I worry, as the panic begins to multiply. “I won’t go back to bed. What if I fall asleep and the numbness spreads to my entire foot, or to my whole leg? I can’t risk that. I don’t know what bit me. It could be serious.”
“Maybe I should seek immediate medical attention.” My panicked thinking continues to grow. “Maybe I should go wake up Dionicio to ask for help.”
“No, I can’t do that.” I retort. “I’ll watch it for a while to see if it gets better or worse. I’ll make a decision later.”
I fiddle around nervously for most of an hour, fidgeting, thinking, organizing, and wondering.
I grab my laptop. The battery is almost dead. I have been taking detailed notes throughout the week, carefully watching my remaining battery life. I quickly type out the following words:
“I am extremely hesitant to go back to bed. It is now 2:39 a.m.. I have arranged all of my clothes and other belongings. I am ready for a hurried packing job in case I choose to rush off on the 4:00 a.m. bus to go see a doctor—but it seems that perhaps the numbness has slightly lessened. Perhaps every one of these bites has caused numbness, but this one caught me in a place where I could feel it, and I woke up while it was fresh—very fresh. I found a small stinger on my sheet down by my feet—not sure if it is from my attacker or not.”
The “Low-battery” indicator begins to flash, so I quickly hibernate the laptop.
Throughout this whole panic episode, I never completely lose myself in the fear. While allowing the worrisome thoughts to surface, an anchored part of me manages to remain in the role of observer—objectively watching, always knowing that I will be OK.
After setting aside my laptop, I grab my IPOD and engage in a long meditation while relaxing in the other room on the folding chair. I am determined to re-center myself spiritually—to reconnect with my inner guides.
Shortly after 4:00 a.m., the nighttime cold gets the best of me. I want to stay awake, but I desperately need the warmth of my bed and my three thin blankets.
The numbness may be slightly better, I can’t quite be sure, but at least it is not worse. The bloody spot is much smaller, and I still have no pain.
“Yes, I’ll go back to bed.” I tell myself, but I’m not sure if I will close my eyes.
With my dim reading light, I scour the sheets of my bed, finding no signs of any unidentified crawling critters. Boldly but cautiously, I slide back up under my sheet and three thin blankets. Rather than extending my feet to the black hole at the bottom, I instead curl up in a ball, laying on my right side. Thirty minutes later, I return to dreamland.
Scorpion Speculation
During my final breakfast at Teodora’s, Mathias walks in while I am telling Juliana about my foot fears.
“It had to be a scorpion.” Mathias tells me. “There are no other bugs or spiders around here that would cause numbness. Even so, it must have been either a small scorpion, or a small sting, because scorpion stings are usually much worse.”
Later, as I engage in my final conversation with Dionicio, he agrees that my sting probably came from a scorpion.
“You should have come over and woken me up.” He chides me.
“I couldn’t wake you up in the middle of the night.” I respond.
“You don’t understand, Brenda.” He continues. “I am the health officer here. I am always on duty. That is what I am here for.”
“Do you want me to try to suck out any remaining poison?” He asks.
“It is probably too late to do much good,” he adds, “but it might help a little.”
After I say yes, Dionicio soon returns to the room with a long cylindrical device, sort of like a tiny bicycle pump in reverse. Placing the end of the vacuum tip directly above the red center of my sting, he pumps up and down several times until the pump firmly grabs hold of my skin, sucking upward with considerable force.
After a minute, he releases the suction, leaving a large temporary white ring in my skin where the pump was pulling and sucking. I do not see any fluid rise from the wound.
“Would you like me to put some ointment on all of the bites on your legs?” he asks.
“Sure.” I respond, hoping he will come back with an ancient Mayan herbal cream that will work magic on my itches.
Soon, Dionicio returns to the room with a can of over-the-counter after-bite spray. When he finishes, my legs feel as if they could supply oil to an entire refinery.
For the next half hour, Dionicio and I enjoy another relaxed goodbye visit.
“Brenda, there is a chance that I may go work for a friend picking apples up in the states. If I do go, I would love to have your contact info. Can you give me some way to reach you?” Dionicio asks.
Soon, we have exchanged addresses. His is quite simple, name, village, country. “You can write to this address and I will receive it.” He reassures me.
As I turn around to leave, Heralda enters the room.
“Brenda, I want to give you this little basket for your birthday.” She smiles.
As I take the beautiful gift, I hold in my hand a tiny basket with lid. The whole thing is no more than two and half inches in diameter. The workmanship is beautiful, crafted with cream colored and black strands of Jippi Jappa. Thrilled to have this little Jippi Jappa treasure from such a wonderful hostess, I tell myself that surely, this is one small possession that I can carry around with me in my daypack.
Moving On
After my bags are completely packed, I still have nearly two hours before my bus will pass through the village.
One final wish remains in my heart. I would love the opportunity to make my peace with an itchy, sickly little dog—but I have not seen him for nearly two days.
As I sit on the guesthouse porch, inhaling the meditative view, my wish amazingly comes true.
I glance over to my right and there he is, lying on the ground right in front of the outhouse.
With love in my heart, I walk over to the cute little dog. As I approach, he remains lying on the ground. With a big smile on his face, he looks quite content.
Reaching down with my right hand, I briefly pet the little guy, telling him how sorry I am for being so rude to him earlier during my stay. I genuinely apologize for my unloving behavior.
His smile seems to grow a little bigger, as does a warm glow in my heart. The little dog does not get up, but his overall body language indicates that he has lovingly accepted my heartfelt apology.
As I walk back to my porch chair, I somehow know in my heart that I have graduated to a new level of loving consciousness.
I spend my final half hour in Santa Elena sitting on the branch of a small shady tree, merely twenty feet down the road from the well in front of Christina’s home. As the bus finally approaches, I pick up my backpack and take one last emotional look around me. Christina and a friend run out of her home, eagerly waving goodbye.
An Amazing Coincidence
As the bus passes through the village of San Antonio, an American man and woman get on the bus together. After a while, the woman and I begin chatting.
I learn that she has just moved to Punta Gorda, and plans to start an organization to assist the local people. After a long discussion about the villages, I briefly share my experiences in the Yucatan. Later, as we near Punta Gorda, I point at the large wound on my left foot, still sporting a few tiny scabs. I tell her about a tick in the jungle, a Zapotec healer burning me with charcoal, and spending almost three months healing during an incredible internal journey.
Suddenly her eyes light up.
“Oh my God,” she exclaims. “That was you?”
“Somebody was just telling me about you last week.” She begins. “I can’t remember who I was talking to, but they told me about an American woman in the Yucatan who was bitten by a tick, and who then got third degree burns when a man tried to remove the tick. I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you.”
“It truly is a small world,” I tell her, “as my bus passes my stop in Punta Gorda.”
Two blocks later, I manage to get off and retrace my steps back to the now-familiar St. Charles Inn—my launching place just nine days earlier.
Synchronous Connections
After dropping my bags in my hotel room, feeling quite grungy and sweaty, I immediately head out on a very short walk to Grace’s restaurant. Not only am I hungry, but I am literally craving an ice cold Coca Cola.
As I walk into the restaurant, I spy a familiar face. It is Chris from Maya Mountain Research Farm—the same man who visited Dionicio in the village last Thursday.
We enjoy a friendly chat for a few minutes, but I then excuse myself when I realize he is anxiously trying to complete a few phone calls while taking care of some business on his wireless internet.
As I return to my own table, Chris makes several additional calls, folds up his laptop, tells me goodbye, and disappears out the front door.
Meanwhile my plate of rice and beans has arrived, and my Coca Cola disappears in a matter of seconds.
Not ten minutes later, I spy a woman walking by with a large backpack on her back. She slows down as she passes the restaurant entrance, glances in briefly, and then continues on her way.
Thirty seconds later, she comes back from the other direction, pauses for a few seconds, and then walks inside, approaching me with a question on her face.
“May I ask you a question?” she asks. “I am looking for a good place to eat lunch before I catch a bus in a couple of hours. Do you like this restaurant?”
“It is my third time here.” I reply. “The food seems OK to me.”
Soon, Tracy sets her backpack in a corner and is standing by my table.
“I’m heading to an ecological workshop out at the Maya Mountain Research Farm.” She tells me.
“Oh my gosh.” I reply. “Chris from the Maya Mountain Research Farm was just here, not more than ten minutes ago.”
“Really,” she answers with excitement. “I would love to find him. That would save me a long bus ride into the jungle, plus I wouldn’t have to figure out how to get a boat out to the farm after darkness settles in tonight.”
“The waitress seemed to know him.” I suggest. “She may even have Chris’s phone number.”
Tracy runs over to find out, but the waitress is unable to help.
“Please, sit and eat with me.” I tell her.
Our energizing conversation takes off almost immediately. I quickly learn that she is a fellow traveler, having been out for quite some time herself. She has spent some incredible time in Mexico and in Cuba. In Mexico, she spent two separate weeks living in tiny Mayan villages in the center of the country.
I also quickly learn that she is a professional writer. Formerly a travel writer for a newspaper, she also does the occasional freelance writing for magazines. But right now, she is doing exactly what I am doing. She is traveling, and she is writing a blog about her experiences.
While the focus of our travels are slightly different, hers being more in the ecological realm, we soon discover that we see ourselves heading in generally the same directions, going to many of the same places, doing many of the same things.
“Brenda,” she tells me, “we should consider cross posting some of our blog entries. I could possibly post some of your entries on my blog, and you could do the same.”
I soon learn that Tracy has some real initiative, has done some great advertising, and has picked up over 4000 readers on her blog. For me, writing my blog is indeed an inside job. It is an incredibly meditative and healing experience that I would continue even if I had no readers. But I cannot help but wonder where this synchronous chance meeting might guide me in the future.
Our amazing, energizing, synchronistic conversation goes on for over two hours, only being interrupted by the fact that Tracy needs to go catch her bus. As we exchange contact information, I cannot help but feel a strong knowing that our paths will cross again in the future.
After Tracy disappears out the front door of Grace’s Restaurant, a feeling of amazement floods through my soul as I ponder the unbelievable series of synchronous events that have unfolded in the past few hours—and all I had to do was to be exactly where I was, following my promptings to interact with the people who passed through my space.
For anyone interested in checking out Tracy’s blog, her name is Tracy L. Barnett, and her blog address is www.theesperanzaproject.org. While I have not yet had time to read any of her postings, I have briefly scanned some of her pages. Her travels look quite fascinating. Tracy’s blog is beautiful and professionally organized, making my humble site look like a tiny Mayan hut in the middle of the jungle, while hers is a mansion in Beverly Hills.
I look forward to seeing where our friendship takes us in the future.
Farewell Belize
Still dazzled by the afternoon’s unexpected events, I wander over to the tourism office to inquire about the boats to Livingston, Guatemala.
“Just show up at the immigration building in the morning.” The lady reassures me. There will be people there selling tickets. Just be there by around 8:30 or 9:00 in the morning.”
As I walk by the fenced-off immigration building to double-check my bearings, I notice a security guard just inside the closed gate. I tell him that I plan on heading to Livingston tomorrow, and he soon invites me inside.”
“You can buy your ticket right now.” He reassures me. “Come with me.”
Soon, I am standing at the counter in a small store/ticket agency, situated on the back side of the immigration building, right near the ocean pier where the Guatemala-bound boats tie up.
Ten minutes later, I am holding a ticket.
“Just be here by 9:30 in the morning,” the man reassures me. “That will be plenty of time.”
After an early evening dinner, room #11 in the St. Charles Inn quickly consumes me. I have a hot shower, wireless internet access, and a warm cozy bed. What more could I want?
Early Friday morning, March 12, 2010, I arrive early at Grace’s Restaurant. Shortly after ordering my last meal in Belize, I feel two gentle hands briefly rubbing my shoulders from behind.
As I look up with surprise, I am net with Dionicio’s warm smile. He looks so incredible in his neatly pressed dark slacks and his brilliant white traditional Mayan shirt.
“I have business to take care of in town today.” He tells me. “I thought I might see you here.”
After a joy-filled five minute reunion, Dionicio shakes my hand again, and quickly disappears out the restaurant’s front entrance, racing off to run his errands.
Less than one hour later, my heavy load is strapped to my back as I casually stroll toward the ocean front immigration offices.
First I am required to pay $37.50 (BZ) for the privilege of leaving the country. With receipt in hand, I then approach an immigration officer who stamps my visa to indicate that I am leaving. In less than two minutes I have passed in one end of the building and out the other.
Shortly after 10:00 a.m., our small four-bench launch, loaded with seven passengers and seven heavy bags, pulls away from the pier. As our boat slowly taxis away from the shoreline, I turn back to lovingly snap a few final photos of a country that I have grown to love.
Following My Heart
As I reflect back on my twenty-six amazing days in Belize, I cannot help but laugh at one realization.
In mid February, as my cool air-conditioned bus cruised southbound along the coast of Mexico’s Yucatan peninsula, I had only one firm Belizean destination in mind. There was no doubt in my mind that I would be visiting San Ignacio. My friends Roger and Agi from Cozumel had told me about San Ignacio—and something in that conversation registered strongly, leaving a footprint in my heart.
As I prepare to leave Belize, I cannot help but experience a slight feeling of questioning, saying: “But I didn’t go to San Ignacio yet.”
“Don’t worry,” I tell the little voice, “Once we get to Guatemala, we can come back to Belize to finish our journey here.”
Then a strong wave of understanding washes through me as a series of little Jedi voices slowly teach me a lesson.
“No,” the little Jedi voices tell me. “You did everything in Belize that you needed to do. The prompting to go to San Ignacio was merely to get you headed in the right direction, using a symbol that was present in your memories.”
“There is no need to come back.” The little Jedi voices continue. “Wherever you go, you will encounter amazing adventures. It matters not where you are. All that matters is that you remain in the moment, and learn the lessons resonating right in front of you. Guatemala is your new temporary home now. Be present and learn.”
Peace resonates as I realize that this is a goodbye. I will be staying in Guatemala for the immediate foreseeable future.
Yes, in the process of following my heart, I have had twenty six amazing days in Belize: Visiting Mayan ruins located down secluded jungle rivers, scuba diving in exotic places, sailing for three days in the Caribbean, camping on tiny islands, and swimming on beautiful beaches.
And who could forget nine amazing days in the tiny Mayan village of Santa Elena, nestled away in the high mountainous jungles of southwestern Belize.
I know that I will never forget.
Copyright © 2010 by Brenda Larsen, All Rights Reserved