My first day in Belize, I had come in from the dock, hot and confused and dusty. My pack weighed like a grey elephant on my back, and I had to find the bus stop. I stopped in at Gloria’s Restaurant, a big, breezy dining room where I could get directions and maybe grab a bite before heading into the jungle. I wasn’t in a conversation-striking mood.
But then I saw Brenda. She was enjoying a meal by herself on the plastic checkered tablecloth, a faraway smile in her eyes. I sensed a woman with a story to tell – not a tourist, but a traveler. I couldn’t resist, and I asked if I could join her.
She had just come from spending a week in a Mayan village in an experience that she said had changed her life – but then, she had opened her life for the changing some months ago. Like me, she had begun her journey in Mexico with a mission. Hers was a spiritual quest, and she wasn’t sure where or how long it would take her; she was just following her heart.
It’s a heart worth following, as I learned when I read her beautifully written chronology of those seven days – adventures that brought me to the edge of my seat, and reflections that moved me to the verge of tears. I, too, traveled these roads, but not with the depth and intensity of Brenda, and I thank her for slowing me down to see a little deeper.
Here are the excerpts from Brenda Larsen’s blog, together with some images from her time in the Mayan village of Santa Elena. She is currently finishing a series about a meditation retreat in San Marcos, Guatemala, where I met her for a second time – a brief instant, actually – and she is preparing to head back for a second round. I’ll share the inner journeys of this spiritual warrior in another episode, or you can search her blog yourself at www.brendalarsen.com.
Meanwhile, if you’re interested in planning your own immersion experience in a Maya or Garifuna village in Belize, contact the Toledo Ecotourism Association at (501) 702 2119 (dial 011 if you’re calling from the U.S.) or write to teabelize@googlemail.com. My overnight stay in San Antonio village and my cacao tour was also organized by the TEA, and you can read about it here.
Giddy excitement swells in my soul as I gulp down my late morning breakfast of French toast—a very interesting recipe made from tiny cross-sections of a small baguette roll. Stepping out of Gloria’s restaurant, I pace quickly down the one block stroll to my tiny hotel room at St. Charles Inn. I am bubbling inside, eager to get moving, gleefully anticipating an adventure into the unknown. (Read more…)
The long dark night turned out to be quite cold. My blanket, being perhaps one-eighth of an inch thick, reminded me of a large inexpensive beach towel—the kind you might buy for a few dollars in the souvenir shops of most touristy beach towns, only with a slightly better fabric.
And then there were two pitch-black middle-of-the-night races to a little yellow building down a seventy-five-foot, narrow, bumpy path. I boldly pushed away all worries about what type of critters—whether insect, reptile, or mammal—might be lurking around the next bush or tree trunk, patiently waiting for their next meal. (Read more…)
Breakfast turns out to be quite the interesting creation. A large bowl is filled with over-cooked Ramen noodles and a watery broth that seems to be missing the usual Ramen spices. Mixed in with the noodles are large chunks of a soft, green, meaty, flavorless plant that Heralda tells me is called ChuChu (pronounced choo-choo). Half immersed in one side of the broth is a large, peeled, hardboiled egg.
“What is ChuChu?” I ask inquisitively. (Read more…)
Teodora, age 74, has twelve children—but only eight of them are alive. One son died during a stabbing incident in Punta Gorda. Another son died from a snake bite wound. He ventured deep into the jungle late one afternoon, with intentions to do some night hunting. At around 3:30 p.m., he was bitten by a poisonous snake. He managed to make it home by around 5:30 p.m., but it was too late—there was nothing they could do to save him, as the poison had spread too deeply throughout his body. As Juliana and I talk about poisonous snakes, I cannot help but reflect back on my own journey deep into the jungle, only yesterday. (Read more…)
…Between these daytime mini-vampires and my nighttime planetary explorers, my lower legs, and even forearms, are beginning to look like I have come down with a mild case of chicken pox. But with a smile on my face, I remain mostly peaceful, using mind discipline to remain in the moment. Reassuring myself that, “This body does not define me. The itching is nothing more than an electrical signal from the physical cells of my leg transmitted to the physical cells of my brain. My body is just fine.” (Read more…)
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