Part 2
For contrast's sake, I was thinking about Mennonites while sitting in the midst of Belize City's most dangerous section, a small area of crumbling shacks forming the ghetto next to the main bus station. I'd been taken there by another American who, like me, was from New Hampshire and staying in a seaside hostel. This gregarious jack-of-all-trades, ostensibly come down to Belize to register his non-profit, had walked right off the bus and into the mean streets of BC at dark. He made a few friends while he was at it. Now he was taking me in, trying to reassure me after a mugging the day before left me bruised and walletless. I appreciate it, man, but meeting a little kid who'd been shot in the arm when he was 4 months old and being offered someone's sister for US$10 didn't do much in the way of comfort. The Paul Farmer side of me wanted to do something, but at a certain point dreams of altruism have to hit the wall of self-preservation--and what better place for the collision than Belize City? I hightailed it from the sunny Caribbean dungeon as soon as I could into the arms of the beautiful Belizean countryside and the incredible people who sparsely populate it. They've given me directions, rides, food, and company, which is really all a researcher needs. Hopefully I can pay them back by being able to understand Creole by trip's end.
But to return to that other group of incredible people. Mennonites were on my mind a few days later while I strolled through the jungle at night (with a trained guide, calm down!), swatting away five-inch beetles and peering through the canopy's darkness to catch a glimpse of exotic wildlife. And the next day, cruising down the New River on my guided way to the isolated (and spectacular) Mayan ruins at Lamanai. When what do we pass but...a Mennonite village! And a small canoe full of fishing Mennonite children! All of whom, I'm pretty sure, had made it through their first four months without a bullet lodged in their limbs. Ah, the fruits of isolation.
