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(02/20/23)
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Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer
Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2023 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER FIFTY
"Dicky and the Dwendes"
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Having invited Don Dicky for Sunday dinner, he’d offered to bring the chicken. But I hadn’t anticipated it would still be squawking when he’d arrived. Quick-time, Dicky had the chicken tied by its feet on a low-hanging branch, and I watched – in dark fascination and grim horror – as he cut off its head. Blood splattered on the grass, and a weird disembodied clucking sound came from the severed neck.
"Eh neva gud fu lef di chickin run rong wit no head. Too much blood stay inna de body,” Dicky said.“Dis way, alla de blood cohn owt." After the bird had stopped flapping, he dipped it into the pot of scalding water – hot, but not boiling. Watching him pluck the wet feathers, and it occurred to me that few things look so naked as a plucked chicken. The next step was gutting (eeww) and I thought of “chickening-out.” But since I’d had come from a country where naked chickens were only displayed under sterile plastic wrap, I decided to be stoic, and see how they got there. |
And, an hour later – Ta-DA! Stoo-chikin with red recado, flour tortilla, fried yucca, finely-grated cabbage topped with a little lime juice and salt, and some hot-pepper goat cheese on the side. Yum.
After supper, Dicky and I walked out to the eastern side of the property, and sat in the shade of the big cedar tree. My son, who was then about two, played happily with two sticks and a rock. No fancy toys needed for this nature boy. A favorite with the river folk, they all called him “Pelito Maize,” or “little corn-hair.”
"Dat baybi oanli sweet. Beta wach dat de Dwendes noh kech ahn. Yu noa de dwendes, Mi’ Nancy? Dey de smaal pipl hoo live inna de bush; yu skaysli see dem."
Intrigued by the local legend, I encouraged him, asking what they looked like. And were they evil?
"Wel, de Dwendes, dem bout t’ree feet tall. Dere faces mi rong an flat, an dey wayr wah big sombrero. Fu dem fut da put on backway, an dere heels mi got wah pint pon de batam. Dat fu mek kanfyooz – fu mek yu no track dem. Pipl seh difrant tings bout the Dwendes. Laik dey noh reeli wikid-bad. Dem moa laik faysi-bad. Dey laik fu teef baybis, dat ah fu tru. Bot alla dehn play gitaar. If wah bali wan to laarn fu play gitaar, laik fu maybi win wah gyal – den hihn go to de Dwendes. Dey wah teech ahn fu play, bot dey trade fu hihn soal. Dat's de kech."
I listened respectfully, nodding. Then I asked if there were any other creatures in the bush to watch out for as well. So Dicky told me about La Llorona, the “weeping woman” who was said to have born babies to a wealthy noble, and later died of sorrow – her children having been drowned, either by her own hand, or that of her family. Now, she sat endlessly beside rivers or streams, grieving and wailing into the night.
{I found out much later that the legend of La Llorona stemmed from a traditional Aztec tale – an era most associated with the colonial era, and the dynamic between Spanish conquistadores and indigenous women.}
And then Dicky offered up one more.
An in Guatemala, dehn got de Sisimite. Bot we no got dat in Belize, and dat ah wah loki ting. Dehn big an very daynjaras an tall –'bout maybi ayt er nain fut. An hayri. If wan mayn see ahn, hihn ded. If wa uman see ahn, she wah liv fareva. Bot de Sisimite wosa dan de Dwendes. Dey laik fu teef de uman…’ Here, Dicky paused, politely, unsure how to continue…”fu breed wit."
Again respectful, I replied that I would certainly be careful if I went to Guatemala, and then quietly contemplated why the Sisimite would respect a man-made borderline between the two countries?
But, meanwhile, I asked Dicky. How do I avoid the Dwendes here in Belize?
"Jus doan go walkin inna de moonlait ‘lone, Mi’ Nancy. Dat da de taim wen de Dwendes cohn owt. Speshali if yu hyaa de sown of fi-dehn gitaar."
Part of a superstitious culture, largely due to his African roots, Dicky Simpson still held beliefs common to many of the local people: a black cat at the crossroads at 3:00 in the afternoon on a Friday, was a sure sign of evil. Obeah makers, purveyors of black magic and witchcraft, put curses on people, gave them strange fevers, or made them blind by sewing a toad's eyelid shut with black thread. There was no doubt that Dicky was a believer of some of these fundamentals, although many of his convictions were mixed with elements of Christian religion. Nevertheless, the stories of the “spirits” had been taught to him by his grandmother from the time he was a child. To one degree or another, he believed.
Weeks later, Dicky told me about “a visitation” he’d had, a few days after our visit. He was lying in his bed. Suddenly, hot fingers had clutched his throat, and squeezed his heart like a vise. He broke out in a cold sweat, his chest heaving as he tried to draw breath. The room had closed in, and spun, and he could feel the presence of a recurring obeah curse that a jilted lover had placed on him a long time ago. Suddenly, the beast was right there, sitting on his chest – the deep creases of its crimson face glowering with malevolence – the whites of its black shining eyes gleaming in the flickering lamplight. Dicky had then fainted in fear, and knew nothing else until he woke with the first light of dawn.
Of course, I was no doctor, or psychologist, but I suspected it had been a heart attack.
And, suddenly, I had a revelation: I thought of the little white notices I’d often seen left on the doors of villagers by the Belize Aedis Egypti Eradication Service. And I wondered if the layers of white DDT, sprayed yearly on Dicky’s walls, were slowly poisoning him.
After supper, Dicky and I walked out to the eastern side of the property, and sat in the shade of the big cedar tree. My son, who was then about two, played happily with two sticks and a rock. No fancy toys needed for this nature boy. A favorite with the river folk, they all called him “Pelito Maize,” or “little corn-hair.”
"Dat baybi oanli sweet. Beta wach dat de Dwendes noh kech ahn. Yu noa de dwendes, Mi’ Nancy? Dey de smaal pipl hoo live inna de bush; yu skaysli see dem."
Intrigued by the local legend, I encouraged him, asking what they looked like. And were they evil?
"Wel, de Dwendes, dem bout t’ree feet tall. Dere faces mi rong an flat, an dey wayr wah big sombrero. Fu dem fut da put on backway, an dere heels mi got wah pint pon de batam. Dat fu mek kanfyooz – fu mek yu no track dem. Pipl seh difrant tings bout the Dwendes. Laik dey noh reeli wikid-bad. Dem moa laik faysi-bad. Dey laik fu teef baybis, dat ah fu tru. Bot alla dehn play gitaar. If wah bali wan to laarn fu play gitaar, laik fu maybi win wah gyal – den hihn go to de Dwendes. Dey wah teech ahn fu play, bot dey trade fu hihn soal. Dat's de kech."
I listened respectfully, nodding. Then I asked if there were any other creatures in the bush to watch out for as well. So Dicky told me about La Llorona, the “weeping woman” who was said to have born babies to a wealthy noble, and later died of sorrow – her children having been drowned, either by her own hand, or that of her family. Now, she sat endlessly beside rivers or streams, grieving and wailing into the night.
{I found out much later that the legend of La Llorona stemmed from a traditional Aztec tale – an era most associated with the colonial era, and the dynamic between Spanish conquistadores and indigenous women.}
And then Dicky offered up one more.
An in Guatemala, dehn got de Sisimite. Bot we no got dat in Belize, and dat ah wah loki ting. Dehn big an very daynjaras an tall –'bout maybi ayt er nain fut. An hayri. If wan mayn see ahn, hihn ded. If wa uman see ahn, she wah liv fareva. Bot de Sisimite wosa dan de Dwendes. Dey laik fu teef de uman…’ Here, Dicky paused, politely, unsure how to continue…”fu breed wit."
Again respectful, I replied that I would certainly be careful if I went to Guatemala, and then quietly contemplated why the Sisimite would respect a man-made borderline between the two countries?
But, meanwhile, I asked Dicky. How do I avoid the Dwendes here in Belize?
"Jus doan go walkin inna de moonlait ‘lone, Mi’ Nancy. Dat da de taim wen de Dwendes cohn owt. Speshali if yu hyaa de sown of fi-dehn gitaar."
Part of a superstitious culture, largely due to his African roots, Dicky Simpson still held beliefs common to many of the local people: a black cat at the crossroads at 3:00 in the afternoon on a Friday, was a sure sign of evil. Obeah makers, purveyors of black magic and witchcraft, put curses on people, gave them strange fevers, or made them blind by sewing a toad's eyelid shut with black thread. There was no doubt that Dicky was a believer of some of these fundamentals, although many of his convictions were mixed with elements of Christian religion. Nevertheless, the stories of the “spirits” had been taught to him by his grandmother from the time he was a child. To one degree or another, he believed.
Weeks later, Dicky told me about “a visitation” he’d had, a few days after our visit. He was lying in his bed. Suddenly, hot fingers had clutched his throat, and squeezed his heart like a vise. He broke out in a cold sweat, his chest heaving as he tried to draw breath. The room had closed in, and spun, and he could feel the presence of a recurring obeah curse that a jilted lover had placed on him a long time ago. Suddenly, the beast was right there, sitting on his chest – the deep creases of its crimson face glowering with malevolence – the whites of its black shining eyes gleaming in the flickering lamplight. Dicky had then fainted in fear, and knew nothing else until he woke with the first light of dawn.
Of course, I was no doctor, or psychologist, but I suspected it had been a heart attack.
And, suddenly, I had a revelation: I thought of the little white notices I’d often seen left on the doors of villagers by the Belize Aedis Egypti Eradication Service. And I wondered if the layers of white DDT, sprayed yearly on Dicky’s walls, were slowly poisoning him.