Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer
Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2021 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
"Stoney Blue's Treehouse"
After having barely survived the near-death experience on the flooded bridge, I have few memories of the rest of the trip to PG. Mostly, I retain the image of a small cluster of dark, dank, clapboard buildings in town, sodden in non-stop rain and gray mist. We had rapidly reached the conclusion that tiny villages south of Belize City were on the coast for a reason, and we could not build a life that would depend on supplies by road. When the rains finally abated, and word came that the bridges to Dangriga were open, we decided to head back to Cayo.
Some miles out of PG, we saw a young Garifuna man alongside the road, carrying a heavy crocus sack of provisions. He flashed a wide white smile from under his tangle of dreadlocks, and hailed us for a ride. He introduced himself as Stoney Blue, said he was on his way home, not far from the junction of the Southern Highway, and lived in a treehouse. We motioned him to the backseat, and smelled the faint tang of wood smoke and marijuana. OK, so this guy one of those colorful characters you could find “only eena Belize.” Yep. If I’d opened a dictionary, and looked up “wild man,“ I would likely find a picture of Stoney Blue.
Soon we were off-road on a faint jungle track, headed through a grassy marsh, which ended abruptly in a wall of heavy triple-canopy jungle. From here, he said, we’d have to walk. I stepped into ankle-deep standing water, my rubber knee-boots squelching. Thankfully, my husband took our son, mounted in his baby backpack, allowing me some extra mobility.
When told we had arrived, it seemed to be just an arbitrary spot in the rainforest, until Stoney Blue pointed to an ancient guanacaste, so thick with leafy-green, I could hardly see the makeshift habitat constructed within the immense limbs of the crown. There was no ladder, just some strangler-fig vines for climbing, and a few random two-by-fours nailed in the spaces between. Of course, Stoney Blue clambered up in a matter of seconds, the sack of provisions notwithstanding. I hesitated, having serious misgivings about sticking my hands into unexplored crevices, and was grateful when Stoney descended back down, part-way, to help me up. My husband had minimal trouble in his ascent, despite the baby on his back. was a habitable space only in the crudest sense of the word, about ten feet long, and eight feet wide. The cohune thatch overhead was impressive, enough to actually shed the prodigious rainfall of the region, only because it was literally two feet thick. The "walls" were in name only, just a perimeter of crudely-woven vines, random boards, and branches, more holes than barrier. There were a couple of stumps to sit on, within this strange human nest, and a ragged string-hammock looped across from two opposing tree limbs.
The floor was a hodgepodge of weathered boards held together by basket tee-tie. But in one corner was the shelter’s most astounding feature – a suspended fire-pit, made from half of a rusted 55-gallon drum. It had been cut longways, the metal edges curved and hammered outwards to hook into a framework of welded re-bar. The ends of the re-bar were imbedded into four solid green limbs of the tree. Cohune nuts were used for fuel, and airholes cut into the bottom of the drum allowed ashes and cinders to drop to the waterlogged forest floor below. Stoney Blue kept a low fire burning at all times, and the heat of the metal discouraged marauding jaguars. Well, at least most of the time, he said. There was nothing to actually stop them from entering his domain.
The clever bush-man had banked the fire the previous evening before he’d left for PG, tucking some sweet potatoes, coco yams, and chunks of wild pig meat in the low live embers. Now he speared them out with his machete, brushed off the ashes, and offered them to us – along with a tin of rainwater, collected straight from the sky just outside, and an orange apiece from his crocus bag. Then Stoney Blue lived up to his name by producing a “bullet” of weed, from which he rolled a joint to pass around. As a breastfeeding mother, I had to decline, but enjoyed the spirit of the occasion, nonetheless.
By now, my baby was struggling to break free. At thirteen months old, there was no way to continue to contain him safely in this space. So we thanked our host profusely and prepared to make our exit. My husband went down first, with our son on his back, and again Stoney Blue leaned forward, giving me a hand, and I also began my descent.
Leaning back into the opening, Stoney Blue rested his hand on a chunk of rotted wood. Suddenly it gave way, and a nest of scorpions burst from their lair beneath. He screamed, and I looked up just in time to see that a dozen or so scorpions had landed, tails lashing, on his face, neck, and naked chest.
We froze in place, horrified, and yelled up to him, asking what we should do. But he waved us to go on. Between grimaces of pain, he shouted that the same thing had happened about a month ago – that the poison had given him hallucinations for a three days, like an LSD trip, but assured us he would be all right.
I was trembling violently by the time I reached the ground, and again, my husband and I called up to him, unsure if we should really leave. But somehow, despite the pain, Stoney Blue managed to smile and wave. He wished us good luck on our trip. And, hesitatingly, with hearts twisted and pounding, we wished him well on his “trip” as well.
When told we had arrived, it seemed to be just an arbitrary spot in the rainforest, until Stoney Blue pointed to an ancient guanacaste, so thick with leafy-green, I could hardly see the makeshift habitat constructed within the immense limbs of the crown. There was no ladder, just some strangler-fig vines for climbing, and a few random two-by-fours nailed in the spaces between. Of course, Stoney Blue clambered up in a matter of seconds, the sack of provisions notwithstanding. I hesitated, having serious misgivings about sticking my hands into unexplored crevices, and was grateful when Stoney descended back down, part-way, to help me up. My husband had minimal trouble in his ascent, despite the baby on his back. was a habitable space only in the crudest sense of the word, about ten feet long, and eight feet wide. The cohune thatch overhead was impressive, enough to actually shed the prodigious rainfall of the region, only because it was literally two feet thick. The "walls" were in name only, just a perimeter of crudely-woven vines, random boards, and branches, more holes than barrier. There were a couple of stumps to sit on, within this strange human nest, and a ragged string-hammock looped across from two opposing tree limbs.
The floor was a hodgepodge of weathered boards held together by basket tee-tie. But in one corner was the shelter’s most astounding feature – a suspended fire-pit, made from half of a rusted 55-gallon drum. It had been cut longways, the metal edges curved and hammered outwards to hook into a framework of welded re-bar. The ends of the re-bar were imbedded into four solid green limbs of the tree. Cohune nuts were used for fuel, and airholes cut into the bottom of the drum allowed ashes and cinders to drop to the waterlogged forest floor below. Stoney Blue kept a low fire burning at all times, and the heat of the metal discouraged marauding jaguars. Well, at least most of the time, he said. There was nothing to actually stop them from entering his domain.
The clever bush-man had banked the fire the previous evening before he’d left for PG, tucking some sweet potatoes, coco yams, and chunks of wild pig meat in the low live embers. Now he speared them out with his machete, brushed off the ashes, and offered them to us – along with a tin of rainwater, collected straight from the sky just outside, and an orange apiece from his crocus bag. Then Stoney Blue lived up to his name by producing a “bullet” of weed, from which he rolled a joint to pass around. As a breastfeeding mother, I had to decline, but enjoyed the spirit of the occasion, nonetheless.
By now, my baby was struggling to break free. At thirteen months old, there was no way to continue to contain him safely in this space. So we thanked our host profusely and prepared to make our exit. My husband went down first, with our son on his back, and again Stoney Blue leaned forward, giving me a hand, and I also began my descent.
Leaning back into the opening, Stoney Blue rested his hand on a chunk of rotted wood. Suddenly it gave way, and a nest of scorpions burst from their lair beneath. He screamed, and I looked up just in time to see that a dozen or so scorpions had landed, tails lashing, on his face, neck, and naked chest.
We froze in place, horrified, and yelled up to him, asking what we should do. But he waved us to go on. Between grimaces of pain, he shouted that the same thing had happened about a month ago – that the poison had given him hallucinations for a three days, like an LSD trip, but assured us he would be all right.
I was trembling violently by the time I reached the ground, and again, my husband and I called up to him, unsure if we should really leave. But somehow, despite the pain, Stoney Blue managed to smile and wave. He wished us good luck on our trip. And, hesitatingly, with hearts twisted and pounding, we wished him well on his “trip” as well.