A Day In the Life of Corozal ~ Friday Feb 19th

Friday morning, Feb 19th, began with a little sleep-in to 6.55 am, when the marimba sound effects on my iPod sounded the wake-up call to get ready for the day. I drove TJ to school at 7.30 for his customary 7.45 start to find the gates closed and the place deserted. This brought cheers of delight in the teenage section to my right, but no explanation from the student handbook as to why this was a day off. I later was to discover on my visit with the people’s warden in the afternoon that the teachers were taking job action, as she was tuning in to the national debate on TV about the government’s latest strategy to outlaw corporal punishment. Apparently the teachers’ union was marching to buy time against the implementation of this new law, and hoping for a delay in parliament. They had asked school managers not to intimidate the teachers from walking off the job, not so much because they were opposed in principle to corporal punishment, but because they don’t want to move quickly on the topic until they have more options for dealing with disciplinary situations.

One of the local newspapers also carries a Malaysian story of the first examples of corporal punishment for females in the prison system. I am wondering if there is an editiorial connection here in the timing and placement of these stories.

I comment to my warden that we all grew up with corporal punishment, and that it was in the late 70s and early 1980s in Britain that STOPP (society of teachers opposed to physical punishment) won the debate and succeeded in ending this form of “educational resource”. Yes, I had probably grown up without thinking that there was another way, but as I listened to the debate, I had become firmly convinced that corporal punishment modeled violence rather than controlling behaviour. I am to learn later at my clergy conference that this has been before parliament since 1988, and that since 2001, only the principal has the authority to administer this type of corrective measure.

Our elementary school teachers are on the job today at the church school, and I have not yet been asking questions about the link between church-run schools and unionized work.

Friday morning is a good time to get some reading and writing done. But first a good walk with Sandy around the neighbourhood. It’s cooler here today and grey skies above, but still warm enough for shorts and shirt sleeves by around 9.30. One of those rare days where even I start the day with a light sweater.

An 18-wheeler crunches to a halt on the highway right outside us, as a drive wheel snaps off and tenaciously clings to its shaft before causing major damage. A friend comments that it could easily have careened right across the oncoming lane and into the neighbours yard. It's going to be an all day job for the driver to deal with this. The following week, James is on the bus to Belize City that has a blow out on one of its double-wheels at the rear. This time, the bus driver just carries right on to keep on schedule.

We walk on to visit a couple of parishioners in their 80s. Mrs S is virtually blind now, after a complication from her cataract surgery, and she is cared for mainly by Mr. S. She is pleased to receive her Lenten ashes after the fact. Our stay is short, as her headache has taken her to bed. But she is still eager to receive us.

We go into the school after lunch. Sandy and James are helping with literacy education for the younger students, reading and being read to on a one-on-one basis. This is Sandy’s daily routine, and I occasionally drop in. I am previewing the stations of the cross liturgy that we will be doing at 6.00 pm. This is an SPCK publication from 1964, produced by priests from the Diocese of Guyana, and complete with Marian devotions. I would characterize it as having a robust theology of the cross and the atonement, an integration of human suffering through meditation on the sufferings of Jesus, and of human unworthiness in the face of divine mystery. I observe that all the West Indian churches I have visited, both in Toronto and here in Belize, have stations of the cross around the nave, and the tradition here is to observe this weekly on Fridays in Lent, as well as on Good Friday. I am eyeing up the incense pot that faces me every time I robe in the sacristy. It’s ten years since I last picked one of these up, and I wonder if I will risk moving out of my comfort zone and usual experience of liturgy to do something that would be very comfortable and no doubt comforting to at least the older parishioners here.

I listen to a parishioner’s story of how her son died after contracting cancer in his 20s. This has all transpired within the last decade. I am struck as I visit with parishioners just how many of them, and nearly all of the older parishioners, have stories of larger families and the loss of children, and the raising of their own grandchildren. I hear stories of the 1931 and 1961 hurricanes in Belize City that took so thousands of lives. Mrs B. had two of her baby sons lost to the force of the wind and waters. It was only 15 years ago that she also lost her daughter during the birth of a grandchild, and now in her 80s she is still the sole parent raising her granddaughter.

Some hurricanes can be very localized in terms of damage. The 1955 storm almost flattened the whole of Corozal, and everything here has been rebuilt since then. There’s much more concrete than wood now, but I am guessing to myself that it may still be a pervasive sense of commitment to impermanence that keeps many from over-improving their properties.

We visit LR, a widow who as we arrive is watching the TV news on the teacher’s job action and the debate in parliament. She tells me how her husband was chief engineer at the local sugar factory until it closed in the early 1980s, wiping out the main industry. Since then, sugar is processed at the next town south, Orange Walk. On the few times I have driven by Orange Walk, I cannot fail to see the hundreds of fully-laden cane trucks lined up for miles waiting to process their goods.

Mrs R’s children have all left for lives and livelihoods out of the country, returning only for occasional visits. By a strange contrast, she has boarded many Americans, some of whom have chosen to stay on and make their life in Corozal. Affordability for local families often means leaving children behind to be raised by grandparents, as parents move to the US or elsewhere to find income to make ends meet. In our prayers, we mourn the loss of loved ones, we pray with an anointing of oil for relief from aching joints, and pray for loved ones far away.

The papers tell us that sugar has reached a 29-year high in terms of market price, as Mexican demand increases heavily and puts pressure on suppliers in Belize and Guatemala to step up production. My sources tell me the going rate for sugar workers is $3 BZE per ton. This means harvesting long days by machete in the tropical heat for six months of the year, making around $18-24 ($9-12 Canadian or US currency) for the 6-8 tons of cutting they average daily. On $2,000-$3,000 per annum of a worker’s income (US/Cdn), it seems there is enough in the villages for rice and beans, but not much else. And as all store-bought items seem to come in at roughly the same price as in North America, and as fuel is similar to Canadian prices ($8.90 BZE per US/gallon, or $1.00 Cdn/litre, it seems hard for me to fathom that my fill at the pump is equivalent to a full week’s work for many of the people I drive by. My “sources” in this case are a plausible mixture of a Belize city newspaper article plus a conversation with group of volunteers from a nondenominational group in Ohio, who have been on a 10-day mission, offering free clinic services, medical and dental, to the outlying villages.

Perhaps there is more than a Lenten reason why, when I ask a student at school for a favourite hymn, the answer comes back “The Old Rugged Cross”.

As darkness falls on the small gathering of us who attend stations of the cross, we make our way silently from the church, and Sandy and I walk home to lock the gates and doors at home in preparation for a quiet evening at home, punctuated by the barking dogs that I now barely notice, and the occasional air brakes and broken mufflers on the dust-flanked highway that charts a curvy line to divide us from the sea wall and the beautiful bay of Corozal.

Settling in Corozal ~ beachfront, boa constrictors, and barking dogs

Those of you following Sandy’s blog (http://sojournerinbelize.blogspot.com/) will know that she has given you a lot more snaps and stories than I have so far. So I’m sure it’s my turn by now. Unfortunately, I dropped my camera on the concrete of the carport, and the lens is permanently out of focus now, so we will have to consider alternative measures for my pics.

Our welcome team beside the banana tree in the parish rectory in Corozal are Miss Linda, people's warden, council members Dorla and Gilda, and treasurer and lay minister Graham.

The fan is cooling the sweat off my brow as I sit in a pleasant little room just off our living/dining area that is serving as my office here. The locals are wondering about the unusually cool weather, and toques and warm caps are on sale for $5 in the stores as the overnight temperature dips below 70F for several nights in a row. I take home communion to one of the faithful after Sunday service, and he tells me from underneath three layers of clothing, “Father, I just couldn’t make it out today, it was so cold” .

After Bishop Philip installed me as priest-in-charge on Feb 7th, we had the parish’s annual meeting immediately after and elected the council. I have had my first round of introductions in the parish and have now taken my first Sunday service and am prepping for Ash Wednesday. David, the parish secretary, works long hours six days a week in the gas station, but he has given up his day off to drive me around town so that we can visit the elderly and the sick and talk and pray with them. He has no car himself, and our diocesan vehicle is still in repair, but he can borrow freely among friends and family. He comes in Saturday nights at 8 after finishing work to start typing and printing the bulletin for Sunday.

In meeting with council, we have decided upon service times and Lenten program. We will have Wednesday morning eucharist at the customary time of 6.30 am, plus a Friday evening program at 6.00 pm, with Stations of the Cross, bible study, discussion, and some educational programming. Sunday morning is to be 7.30 am, with a once a month family service at 9.30 am.

The elementary school attached to the parish has around 180 students, and Wednesday morning is the time I lead them in the weekly school services. The parish of St. Paul’s-by-the-sea has been here since 1882, and the school has also served the community for over a hundred years. I’m impressed with the students knowledge of Scripture and liturgy, and their hearty a cappella singing of hymns and choruses, often memorized rather than sung from a book.

Everywhere, I am “Father Andrew”, which is quite amusing to our James, who decided to call me “Father father” today. Since Corozal’s last priest was female, they got quite used to calling the priest “Rev” (rather than “mother”), so I’m also “Rev” to quite a few people.

I’m touched by the warmth of the welcome. It’s been well over a year since the community has had a priest, so the people report being discouraged by this, and as a corollary, more than delighted to see me and hopeful that we will decide to stay on longer.

Our series of adjustments and teething troubles with our vehicle, with water, showers, and taps in the house, and with the setup (and lack of speed) of the internet, dogs that bark half the night, and roosters that start at 2 am, are no significant deterrent to engaging in the work of ministry, even if they slow us down. I tell myself this is part of the package, and try to allow things to happen in their own time. Parishioners have really extended themselves to make the rectory ready after a long period of rental and a subsequently empty house needing repairs.

This morning I was tempted to cast myself as the hero who slew the dragon to enable us to get TJ to school. In fact I well may have killed the boa constrictor at the gate of the rectory, but it was by unknowingly driving over it rather than armed combat! Our handyman Marco tells us it would do us no harm at a length of 2 feet, and would have to be 15 feet (5m) before menacing us. He himself had two boas each 2 metres long, but in deference to his wife, let them loose (we did not ask where). I suppose our concern was more a revelation of our unawareness.

Corozal residents are proud that their town is a lot safer than Belize City, but at the same time, they exhibit the truth to the middle eastern proverb, “trust in God and tie up your camel”. I am laden with a larger key ring than I usually carry, with 18 keys to cover all the padlocks, exterior locks, interior locks, and general deterrents and precautions around the rectory and the church.

Our first Sunday had 180 people, since we have a family service, and all school students are expected to attend. Other Sundays of the month tend to be around 20-30, so I understand that having 37 for my first Sunday was more than expected.

I have to strain to pick up on the Belizean Kriol at times, but basic communication is sound. Spanish is everywhere around us, even if English is the official language. We also observe that the Chinese and Indian communities are very noticeable, and restaurants and corner stores are frequently operated by Asian families. After the big Valentine’s party the town held on Sunday night at the beach, we had Chinese new year celebrated with dragons and firecrackers on Monday up our street, and now it’s Mardi Gras. Apparently that is not nearly so popular as I was guessing.

One of the many touching moments for me was on Sunday afternoon ~ a visit to a small outpost for a 4.00 pm Eucharist in the carport of one of the parishioners. The small village of Libertad is about 20 minutes south of Corozal, and the congregation consists of essentially one large extended family. The grandchildren are dressed beautifully and delight to my guitar music as they participate. They all take turns to play with the pick, as I make the chord shapes to help them through “Give me oil in my lamp”, “This is the day” and “I have decided to follow Jesus”. So much of this has moments of nostalgia for me, reminding me of growing up in Britain in the 60s and 70s, where as a youngster I would visit outlying villages for Sunday afternoon services, and worship with people who looked like they had a very basic existence, yet could exude so much joy and beauty in the midst of what appears to us to be limitation and deprivation. Sometimes I shed a tear of joy and gratitude that I am privileged to share in this experience of being family-in-faith with these dear people.

Days 1 + 2 : Sun Jan 31 and Mon Feb 01

We start at 4.30 am with a 40 minute walk in the dark, mild, and moist air of Qualicm Beach. We had planned on a 6 am alarm, but since we were both awake, why not take our customary walk a little earlier than usual?

By 7.15 we are on the road, through the patchy fog, with a van packed to the gills. Suitcases with a 50lb allowance are strategically packed to 49.5 lb, including we hope, quite a number of gifts and other things to use or leave behind, and with a view to leaving space for some items to return home with.

Marvellous views of the marine fog over the Finlayson Arm as we descend the Malahat pass and capture with our mind’s eye (the camera being out of reach) the mystical and misty suspension which hints at our hidden consciousness in this auspicious moment of transition. Sometimes we are in the fog, sometimes we are above the fog, and sometimes the sun clears our way. Isn’t it so?

No doubt, some of you may be asking, “what’;s with this Greek code language in the blog? Synergos? Enkrateia? Where did that come from?

A short explanation. Synergos is a word used in Christian Scripture to describe a sp;iritual “co-worker”, or as we might say today in contemporary ecclesiology as it relates to our current trip, a “partner in mission” . Paul refers to Timothy as his synergos
(Rom 16.21).

One of the learnings of mission history is how to distinguish between a complimentary partnership based on shared vision and commonality, and a culture-laden imposition of colonialist values. The subversion of mission is to reduce it to “colonise (as in, take over), civilise (as though no culture of intrinsic value existed), and Christianize (at least, in a way that implied that God was absent prior to our arrival).

Mon Feb 01

But back to the observations. Thanks to Sandy’s sleuthing, we have the Fairfield Marriot in Dallas for $61 (reg. $200 a night). Breakfast is included, and I make myself a waffle shaped like the state of Texas and served up on a styrofoam plate, with microwaveable assorted breakfast burger and burrito materials.

Our van driver for the hotel is partly deaf from a hunting accident last month, he tells us, as he explains why we need to speak up. His gun shot completely deafened him, but at least he got his deer. 33F as we wake up in Dallas, and our driver say it went down to 6F not long ago. At least the weather does not conform to my image of Texas, I suppose.

DFW airlines throws us a further curve ball with potential visa requirements for entry into Belize, but a quick phone call to Jill Cruse in Toronto, plus a little deft work and a supportive American Airlines agent (thank you Sally!), gets us on the plane and on our way.

Belize City, and it’s that tropical feel of palm trees and more.

My observation of the journey to the city is the colourfully or at least neatly dressed schoolkids against a background of industrial buildings, ruts in the road, and hodge-podge development.

The diocesan guest house provides a multiply-locked and secure haven for our first night. We are advised not to walk on certain streets, and not to walk after dark in particular areas. Mario has painted the railing on our stairs and balcony, and we see this as part of our welcome

The chicken is truly delicious and we are introduced to the staple of beans, rice, and tortillas as Belize food for our first dinner, awaiting us on the kitchen table

Belize City, at around 70,000 population, is the largest community in a country of around 275,000 inhabitants. The headline news in the local paper is of a spate of murders over the past weekend in the city perpetrated by youth with guns.