In a slight departure from usual blog posts, I wrote an ode to the small town of Benque Viejo in western Belize, my home for the past two years. Hopefully it will give you an idea of la vida benqueña!
Benquecito
A little republic tucked inside Belize,
Benquecito, at the foot of Guatemalan hills,
where two lands meet in the mist
and the river moves slow and jade green.
Born of Maya farmers, Mestizo chicleros, German nuns,
you grew from calloused hands and prayer,
from machete-cleared earth and incense.
Your leafcutter ants still walk old trade routes
as if nothing has changed.
Benqueños speak and laugh in Spanglish,
cooling off with chocobanana,
marimba music drifting from verandas.
Every other car is a taxi beeping for a fare,
and your dogs rule the streets,
refusing to move even for headlights.
Butterflies are big, hummingbirds small,
and patchwork houses lean together
like Lego from different sets,
shoulder to shoulder, swapping gossip.
Children kick footballs through haunted cemeteries,
swing beside ancient ruins,
grow up beneath the ghosts of temples,
old stones holding older stories.
At night, fireworks and explosions
beat through the dark,
blending with laughter and radios,
echoing off the hills.
But on Sundays you fall silent,
a ghost town because everyone is at church.
Benquecito, little treasure hidden in the bush,
small, stubborn, full of heart.
Those who pass through you
carry a piece of you with them
long after they’ve gone.