Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer
Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2021 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER TEN
"The Pioneer Spirit"
In the course of posting my recollections, I am sometimes questioned by Belizean readers on the use of the word “pioneer.” Yes, it is an intentionally colorful term for the title of this series – and I don’t expect it translates as well from a purely Belizean perspective as it does from an American one – but it is not inaccurate.
In 1976, my husband and I were a couple of reasonably-spiritual, non-materialistic hippies with a baby, a strong work-ethic, and a dream. Utterly disenchanted with the politics and pollution in the United States, we had sought an alternate lifestyle in which we might grow our own food, raise our children in a clean natural environment, and enjoy a simplified way-of life.
In 1976, my husband and I were a couple of reasonably-spiritual, non-materialistic hippies with a baby, a strong work-ethic, and a dream. Utterly disenchanted with the politics and pollution in the United States, we had sought an alternate lifestyle in which we might grow our own food, raise our children in a clean natural environment, and enjoy a simplified way-of life.
When it came to finding practical information on Belize (in that era) there wasn't much to be found. Our research revealed little more than the country was 1) English-speaking, 2) agriculturally oriented, and 3) could be reached without crossing any oceans. There were also no maps. None. Anywhere. As stated earlier, I literally had to trace a map of Belize out of Encyclopedia Britannica and – for over three thousand miles – it would be our one-and-only guide. Also, we were not rich, nor have wealthy parents, nor another life to fall back on. We worked hard for three years, scratching and scaping, accumulating a mere $5000 nest-egg to finance our life-venture – a paltry sum, considering we had zero prospects for further earning capacity, and that same paltry sum just might need to last us for the rest of our lives. All our meager possessions had been packed up into the beat-up, unreliable, rickety, ‘59 step-van, with no air-conditioning – the same van that had rattled and coughed the entire three thousand miles on bad Mexican gas – constantly threatening to leave us stranded somewhere in the Mexican desert or mountains along the way.
Yet, however misplaced, we had the confidence and fortitude to go blindly into the unknown, determined to eke out an entirely new life in a place we knew nothing about -- a place that was described officially, in print, as a third-world country. I might as well have been wearing a gingham dress and sunbonnet, sitting on the buckboard of a covered wagon with my baby in my lap, a team of oxen out in front, and headed into the American “Old West” in the 1800’s. Yes, “pioneers.” I stick by that term. That’s exactly what we were.