Belize--Touches of Familiar in a Foreign Place

 [We are once again doing the Smucker April Blogging Challenge. Expect a post every other day from Emily, me, or a number of guests.]

On a warm Sunday morning in January, at the Greendale Mennonite Church in Spanish Lookout, Belize, I settled into my seat beside my friend Darlene, looked around, and had a sudden sense of being back in the little Beachy Amish church in Minnesota that I attended growing up. It certainly wasn’t the very modern padded chair I sat on that awoke the memories, as we always sat on hard 100-year-old wooden pews. But men and women sat on separate sides of the church, and the women carried Bibles but not purses.

 No one ever told us to sit separately or not to take a purse to church, back at Believers Fellowship in the 1970s, and I suspect the same is true at Greendale. They were simply unquestioned traditions. As teenagers, we managed to take many of the contents of a purse—tissues, pens, paper, cough drops, ChapStick,  notes to and from our friends, and who knows what other necessities—stuffed inside our Bible covers.

 When the congregation at Greendale turned to a German hymn and began singing, that felt familiar as well. The song was printed in normal letters rather than the old-fashioned Fractur script of the Old Order Amish of my early childhood, so I could easily follow along and even translate in my head as we sang. In a new place in a new country, those touches of the past warmed my heart and made me feel at home.

I think it might be a Midwestern trait to look for the familiar in the foreign.

My sister Rebecca used to mail photos from their home in Yemen: spice markets, ancient stone buildings bright in the sunshine, and dark men in robes with curved knives strapped to their waists. Everything looked utterly strange, from another world.

Rebecca would also mail pictures of her little boys sitting on the sunny front steps playing with their pet kittens. “Ei, sie gooka gdawt vee Minnesota katze!” my mom would say in wonderment. [“Why, they look just like Minnesota cats!”]

Maybe Mom's precious grandsons were still on this solid Earth after all.

When we went to Kenya in 2003 and again when we traveled to Thailand for three weeks in 2012, I found the strangeness deeply unsettling. Not only were both places hot and humid, but the languages, food, landscapes, cultures, and everything else felt like I’d landed in a different universe.

However, one day I happened to walk down the street in Kisumu, Kenya, behind a small herd of cows. True, they had huge humps at the shoulder, unlike the Holsteins and Jerseys of my past, but they ambled along with their straight back legs stepping stiffly, just like the cows in the pasture in Minnesota when I brought them in for milking.

That touch of familiarity settled the agitation in my soul. I was going to be ok.

In Thailand, I also walked down the street, past empty lots with lush jungle growth that looked like it would reach out and grab me, and elegant terracotta birdbath-like pools lush with goldfish and water lilies. And then, there it was, a frightened but determined gray cat, pausing in her excavation of a garbage can to give me a cold glare.

It was a touch of home, a look I’ve received a thousand times from fearful,  judgmental Minnesota and Oregon cats. 

Having lived in numerous places and traveled to many states and maybe eight countries, I now see not only the Minnesota-like cats and cows, but pieces of everywhere I’ve been before.

That’s what happened in Belize this past January.

Last year, two women named Anna and Alvina asked me if I’d come speak at the Mennonite colony of Spanish Lookout. Alvina had served in missions in Canada with us when our children were little and remembered Matt’s endless curiosity. She and Anna started organizing an annual ladies’ conference about five years ago.

I had never been in Central America, so I didn’t know what I’d be walking into, but how could I possibly say no to the Caribbean in January? Also, it meant that a door of opportunity was re-opening, and I was relieved and grateful.

Our daughter Emily lives in Houston, Texas, with Matt and his wife Phoebe. She was willing to accompany me as a traveling companion, tea-maker, supporter, and scheduler, so Paul and I flew to Houston, and Emily and I went on to Belize.

Leaving the airport, we walked into the warm, damp tropical air, met our lovely hostesses, and set off for a short tour of Belize City. We saw bright painted concrete storefronts like they have in Kenya and Mexico, over there were groups of students in tidy uniforms, also like Kenya, and over it all was the warm and lively Caribbean ambiance I remembered from Jamaica.

At an open-air restaurant near the beach, this iguana befriended us.

I love the bright colors of the Caribbean.

We drove off into the countryside, through small villages and bigger towns, past resorts and swamps and hills, caught behind large slow trucks until Alvina casually zipped around them.

Belize seems like a gentle place. There were none of the police checkpoints of Mexico or Yemen or Kenya, where intimidating armed men watch your car with all the glowering judgment of a cat on a garbage can. Instead, the brightly-painted bus stops and fruit stands and tire shops had a relaxed feel, like anyone was welcome to stop in or pass on, as they wished. And no one was in a rush for any of it.

Belizian views--see the Sleeping Giant?

We left the coastal swamps and traveled to higher ground, with more hills and trees. Then, suddenly, the forest and undergrowth gave way to well-maintained highways, large cultivated fields, neat houses with tidy lawns, and huge businesses featuring construction supplies and farm equipment.

This was Spanish Lookout.

Founded by Mennonites from Mexico in 1958, Spanish Lookout is an agricultural, religious, and economic island carved out of the jungle of western Belize. I’m told the first settlers struggled to survive, but with the help of American Amish and Mennonites who sent a planeload of cows and other assistance, along with Hurricane Hattie in 1962 creating a market for Mennonite goods, the fortunes of the colony changed. It is now the agricultural backbone of Belize, supplying the country with eggs, chicken, and grain, and employing thousands of workers from the surrounding villages.

Driving down the main street feels like going down the center of Shipshewana, Indiana, or other big Anabaptist communities. In the Midwest, the signs say Yoder Mini-Barns and Miller Plumbing and so on, while in Belize the names are Dueck and Penner and Friesen. But the air of hard work and success is similar.

While most residents still speak the dialect of Plautdietsch and attend one of the Kleinegemeinde Mennonite churches, some have left the church but remained in the colony, and others have joined by adoption or marriage. Friendships and work relationships outside the colony are becoming more common as well, so the women’s conference was the most racially and culturally diverse that I’ve ever spoken at.

It was also the most attentive audience I’ve ever had, an advantage of speaking in an isolated place where women’s events are uncommon. In Holmes or Lancaster Counties, I'm sure you can pick an event out of numerous options, suiting your wishes and schedule, and your expectations for the speaker are proportionately higher. In places like Belize, anyone who is willing to come and teach is appreciated. The women welcomed us in every way, making sure Emily and I were cared for, fed, talked with, invited, and driven to and from. It was more than duty and obligation, a heart-deep warmth that I will never forget.

Women in Central American Mennonite colonies have in the past faced a lack of information and opportunity due to obstacles of language, distance, and tradition. I was encouraged to learn that the internet has brought access to books and other influences. Also, far more women can speak, read, and write English than could 30 or 50 years ago.

I have a feeling, though, that even with more outside influence and options, they won’t lose their innate hospitality and warmth.

Even though so much of my experience in Belize was foreign territory, in one way it was returning to a familiar place that I thought I might have left for good.

For almost twenty years, I had been speaking at out-of-state women’s events at least once a year, plus frequent local events. I enjoyed it enormously and saw it as my reward for the sometimes agonizing work of writing. Then, Covid hit, Paul had a bad fall, and almost all the speaking invitations stopped.  I did one women’s event in Canada via Zoom in the middle of Covid, but as the months passed after that, it felt like a door had closed and might never reopen.

I didn’t know what my calling was supposed to be, or how to find out. But all right then. I found other things to do—sewing, hosting, joining a writing group.

Months later, I heard the creak of rusty hinges and a door slowly opened. A group in Kentucky asked me to speak at their retreat, and I heard from Anna and Alvina.

I was back in familiar territory, scribbling ideas onto post-it notes, buying tickets, messaging the organizers, and praying for the women who would attend. Once again, I shared my stories with groups of beautiful women who were under no obligation to sit there and listen, or to laugh and cry and tell me their own stories afterwards, but did anyhow.

I decided I will never take this for granted. Never.

So Belize, for all its newness, reminded me of other places and gave me the gift of a calling renewed and affirmed. I am so grateful.

Here are some pictures and stories.

Esther and her husband and part of the family took us out for lunch on Sunday. She made a list of all the things we have in common--
--married 39 years
--six children--three boys and three girls
--we like to read, sew, grow flowers, and go to the beach
--our very busy and active pastor/teacher husbands were disabled in the last years, hers by a stroke and Paul by a fall. Her husband has more lasting injuries, however. Both of them were incredibly determined patients who amazed their physical therapists.
--our moms died about ten years ago
--our dads would always talk to strangers
--both lost loved ones to suicide
--we have a hard time asking for help 

 

Ronnie [pronounced Roe-nee] was a local girl who married a Mennonite guy and moved onto the family farm.

Alvina knew I wanted to see some cows up close, so when Ronnie told Alvina she'd like to have a private conversation with me, Alvina did the math and sent us off together.
Ronnie took me to her house and we got into her Gator.
She drove us down a long grassy lane to a large gate. A dozen lovely Brahma cattle were on the other side and came to see what we were up to.

I patted a few noses and then turned to see that Ronnie had brought two camp chairs and set them on the grass. We sat down and talked and watched cows. It had been a hot day, but the afternoon sun was behind the clouds and it was pleasant and cool.

Speaking publicly is fun but exhausting. I had given two talks that day, toured the colony, and talked with a lot of people one on one. Sitting quietly there by the pasture with Ronnie, enjoying the cows, and taking in the immense green world and the dramatic sky was absolutely and by far the most relaxing thing I've ever done after speaking.

A memory to keep and treasure. 

On Sunday afternoon, we went to the Mayan ruins not far away.

The Mayan ruins were beyond comprehension and so ancient that few explanations remain of how and why they were built and used.

Returning from the Mayan ruins, we crossed the river on a ferry.
Emily took a selfie with Alvina's son Usher.

Emily was invited to a local high school to talk about writing. I loved the breezy, well-lit classroom. Even more special was the students' enthusiasm about writing creative stories.

Teacher Tina introduces Emily

After the weekend conference, we spent a day at the beach.

The committee in Belize asked me to come back next year.

Of course I said Yes.