Introduction: A hundred acres in the middle of the Central American jungle, miles from the nearest town, was no place for Americans to raise their children, family and friends had said, but that's exactly what my parents did. After converting an old Greyhound bus into a "mobile home," they christened it "Keen's Karavan," packed up their five kids, ranging in age from eighteen months to 17 years, and headed for British Honduras (now known as Belize), and a new way of life.

 

Every day of the trip was a new adventure for us. We got lost in the mountains and met a family who had never seen an ice cube or tasted Koolaid. We learned how to wash clothes like they did – in the river, beating them on rocks and hanging them over bushes to be dried and bleached by the sun. Sharing food wrapped in banana leaves that they cook outside on a primitive limestone hearth was all a pleasant cultural experience, although a bit overwhelming. Although they knew no English and we knew no Spanish, my family enjoyed their simple hospitality then continued on our journey, richer with the knowledge that a smile and a handshake truly are the universal language.

 

As the Keen's Karavan pressed on toward our new and exciting future, we experienced for the first time the awesome numbing cold of swimming in an azure blue volcanic lake. We had our first encounter with a six-foot iguana who just happened to be resting in the tree we chose to tie our Tarzan swing on. We faced dangerous run-ins with giant scorpions, hairy tarantulas as large as a man's hand, poisonous snakes, and an invasion by deadly army ants.

 

As frightening as some of the experiences were, I quickly learned that we were the intruders into that pristine part of the world, and even the seemingly malign part of nature was perfectly balanced. It was balanced by the beauty of the dew-drenched giant amaté trees; tall, green bamboo thickets; and the snow-white orchids that grew wild high above the living forest floor. It was balanced by waterfalls cascading down the mountains into sun-kissed pools of crystal clear water; by the songs of the myriad of birds; and by the cries and calls of a host of other animals that only a lucky few ever get to hear, much less see. But most important of all, we felt balanced, too, by the serenity of knowing that we were a part of it all.

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It was April 1965. My 11th birthday and Easter were only two weeks away and I was looking forward to having a big party to celebrate both, complete with an Easter egg hunt. I missed that tradition in Belize, Central America, where my family had moved two years previously.

 

We had all settled comfortably in our new home built of pine boards and thatched roofing, a mile deep into the jungle. It was the first full year our 100-acre farm and vegetable garden was flourishing and producing at full peak. The rich virgin soil produced tomatoes and green bell peppers too large to be held in one hand. The cabbages and lettuce were the size of basketballs, and our corn crib overflowed from a record-breaking crop. Our 100 Rhode Island Red hens, fat and healthy from sweet corn, were laying enough eggs to supply the needs of the small town of San Ignacio. By Belizean standards, we were well off.

 

My parents agreed that I could have a party the day before Easter, but there was one stipulation: everyone I invited had to bring their whole family because my parents had a special treat in store for everyone!

 

It took a lot of planning and coordination – and a lot of work. I cut tall grasses down by the riverbank and let them dry for Easter baskets, which were squares of burlap sacks hand-stitched into bag-like shapes. The week of the party, we collected eggs and boiled and colored them. Having no electricity, we arranged with a store-owner friend to use his refrigerator to make Jello and ice cubes for the Kool-aid, then use his truck for quick transport to our farm the day of the party. Dad, in a moment of latent mischief, even dyed all our newly hatched chicks to reflect the lovely pastel shades of Easter!

 

When the big day finally arrived, dozens of people ranging in age from six months to 60 years made their way through the bush to our home. It was the first time many of them had ever seen our home. Lunch consisted of a pit-roasted pig and as much fresh garden salad as one could eat. For dessert, Mom served Jello in every fun color available. It was a treat most Belizeans had never experienced and it was self-made entertainment watching them trying to eat it, only to have it squiggle and jiggle off their spoons before they could get it to their mouths. They soon discovered that Jello couldn’t be eaten with their fingers, as it melted and drizzled into a sticky sweet liquid down their arms. Yes, Jello made the biggest hit of the party – that is, until Daddy announced the egg hunt.

 

At first, all the children ran past the colored eggs, not realizing yet what they were. After an initial flurry of confusion, they caught on. But instead of finding an egg and running to look for another, they would stop and call out for the others to come and look at what color they found! Even the parents and grandparents got caught up in the miraculous discovery of the pretty colored eggs. It was only when we heard the guests saying that Mr. Keen (my dad) had magic chickens that laid colored eggs did we realize our Belizean friends had never seen colored Easter eggs before!

 

Just as Dad was explaining our American tradition of coloring Easter eggs, the hens with their multicolored baby chicks in tow, made their appearance amidst our excited but skeptical guests. You could have heard a pin drop as children and adults alike stopped dead in their tracks and stared disbelievingly at the colored chickens. Many of the older mothers clutched their children and made the sign of the Cross. Some stood stone-still in a combination of shock and disbelief mixed with divine awe. Several of the younger children, frightened by the site of pink, blue, yellow and green chickens ran to their mothers, stealing daring peaks from a safe distance.

 

It took a great deal of effort, but we eventually convinced our guests that the only "magic" came from bottles of food coloring we had brought with us from the States. Most of the older folks remained suspicious and skeptical, but everyone else liked the idea of our traditional Easter and the kids spent the rest of the afternoon hiding and re-hiding Easter eggs.

 

Little did we know at that time what an impact the colored eggs from "Mr. Keen’s magic chickens" would have on the native Belizean population. To this day, more than 30 years after that first egg hunt, the small town of San Ignacio, Belize, still holds its annual Easter egg hunt for the children.