the golden-grey days of training

for the most part, training can feel a lot like summer camp... i think (i've never been to summer camp). sure, we sit through safety and medical lectures and attend Creole classes, but we also have field trips, play our fair share of sports, and eat frozen yogurt at the bottom of the hill from camp.
our "cultural experiences" have involved climbing Mayan ruins, helping make cassava bread, watching traditional musical and dance performances, learning how to construct a drum, and conducting random interviews with strangers in a random village.
and you also create your own cultural experiences. the other night a handful of us found a group of locals drumming on the street. we joined in and were given a mini lesson that mostly consisted of "you just feel the rhythm." we practiced our Creole while i had a necklace made for me right there at the curb. we also partook in the karaoke culture (which seems to be unusually popular here), slaughtering great songs in a sweaty downstairs bar. this was after some great conversation that was completely upstaged (in a good way) by a preposterously entertaining cover band whose keyboard emitted a sound that could only be compared to circus music. but regardless of this car wreck of a distraction, i am continually finding myself fascinated by our conversations. these people are such characters; these dialogues are so absurdly and perfectly unique, they couldn't be written. sometimes i just can't stop laughing or smiling. these moments... drumming on the curb, belting bob marley while sharing one mic between 10 of us, glowing from the notion that you are surrounded by beautifully odd individuals... these are the moments that make a night's brilliance dazzle me. i lay in bed and soak in the sounds: the pouring rain, the neighborhood dog chorus, the croaks of the frogs across the street, the sporadic screams of the geckos scurrying throughout the walls of the house. these noises are cherished, unlike the cackles of the 5am roosters.
we maintain our sanity in the daytime by hitting up one of various fields in town after classes. sometimes i'm getting whacked in the arm with a soccer ball, sometimes i'm surprising myself by actually catching the frisbee, but i'm constantly kicking mud up the backs of my calves. and i'm always glad i chose to wear shoes and avoid the disastrous results of playing sports barefoot on a muddy Belizean field that is adorned with patches of red ant communities. our host moms just shake their heads and laugh when they see the sweaty, muddy, exhausted versions of us trudging up the steps.
and for a while, like i said, we can call it summer camp.
but then my housemate is getting sick, my whole body is foggy from an unthinkable amount of meds for a sinus infection, the sexual harassment is not any easier to hear each day, more than 6 trainees are hospitalized for stomach conditions.
and then a trainee gets attacked with clubs on his way home one night.
and i am slapped in the face with this reality. and i can't call it summer camp anymore.

but we keep playing sports, i keep swinging in a hammock and reading Vonnegut, and the stream of irreplaceable conversations flows on.
tonight a couple friends and i went up the hill to a hotel and i floated in a pink-tinted pool, staring at the stars. and regardless of the events that i desperately wish i didn't have to paint into my portrait of Belize, nights like this make me feel beyond lucky to be here- i feel lucky to be alive because moments like this exist. even if they are few and far between. they exist. it's moments like this that you must grasp with both hands and try not to let go. moments like this are what i need to create balance in my new world.