Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer
Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2021 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"Mad Dogs and Englishmen"
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Life had begun. The view of the river from the veranda was mesmerizing. Now settled in our first Belizean home, our workload, as well as the odds, were staggering. Survival necessitated the basics: water, food, shelter, fuel, and transport. Everything had a top priority, and there were only two of us. Men’s work would be men’s work. Women’s was women’s. This wasn’t a sexist issue, but rather an uncontested division-of-labor that fell along traditional lines. It was about strength, mass, and endurance. I had no feminist chip-on-my-shoulder, and nothing to prove. After all, I had already made my statement by coming to Belize. As a woman in the bush, I would have to work like a man; my husband would have to work like a demon. Or a god.
Water was critical. The rainwater tank was full, but that was reserved for drinking only. It would have to last the entire dry season, far too precious for dishes or laundry. Plus, we wanted to get some seeds into the ground. Later, we would buy a pump, acquire a second tank, and dedicate it to river water only. But for now, the only |
method of lifting water would be our muscles. The house was three-hundred feet distant from the river, and eighty feet vertical. And, damn, water was heavy. The iconic white pig-tail buckets of Belize were vital to farm life, far more valuable than the original cargo for which they had been named. The buckets held five gallons each, eight pounds-per-gallon, a total of forty pounds. We both shared the work, but it was a lot harder for me. My husband could haul two-buckets at-a-time; I could manage less than a half-bucket at the end of each arm – twice as many trips – for half the payload.
Dicky Simpson, my favorite dory man, provided a solution. He cut a pole for me to put across my shoulders, and fixed short lengths of rope to suspend the buckets on either side. (Now why hadn’t I thought of that?) With my back and legs now taking most of the weight, each bucket could be two-thirds full. He also suggested that I avoid struggling straight up the steep hill via the shortest route. Walk the gentle contours of the cow-path, he told me, because animals naturally follow the path of least resistance. Oh, and haul at first-light, in the coolest hours, before the sun crested the eastern ridge. Again, how simple was that? And why on earth, did I have to be reminded of something so basic and logical as “only mad dogs and Englishmen work in the noonday sun?” Again, gringos who sought Belizean advice would learn quickly and suffer less. Proud gringos who knew everything could learn nothing. They would fail, and leave within a year or two. We aimed to stay.
The villagers of Cristo Rey assured us that the road would, at some point soon, dry out enough to allow the old ’59 Ford step-van to get back to San Ignacio – that is, if Monkey Fall Hill didn’t tear out her belly on the way down – but it would never be returning to the bush. The boxy old crate had gotten us to Belize, and for that, we were grateful. But now its job was over. Some serendipity would be needed, and some good karma. It would need to be sold, and almost simultaneously replaced by a seriously-hard-ass four-wheel-drive vehicle – something that would actually get us in and out in all weather. All weather? Exactly what was “all weather” to a couple of gringos who had yet to see a single cycle of the seasons in a tropical rainforest? How could we prepare for that which we could not imagine? The phrase “you ain’t seen nothing yet” was both apropos and prescient. The sights I would see on that river were, as yet, inconceivable. Beyond my wildest dreams.
Luckily, the dry season would provide us a three-month buffer to make this happen. Meanwhile, the dories, and the rivermen who steered them, would be our only connection to the outside world. Our lives would be in their strong, dark, gnarled hands, our faith in their poles and paddles. The low waters of the Macal had now become deceivingly quiet and calm. But make no mistake, it was yet untamed, and we, the inhabitants of the valley would remain at the mercy of the river wild.
Dicky Simpson, my favorite dory man, provided a solution. He cut a pole for me to put across my shoulders, and fixed short lengths of rope to suspend the buckets on either side. (Now why hadn’t I thought of that?) With my back and legs now taking most of the weight, each bucket could be two-thirds full. He also suggested that I avoid struggling straight up the steep hill via the shortest route. Walk the gentle contours of the cow-path, he told me, because animals naturally follow the path of least resistance. Oh, and haul at first-light, in the coolest hours, before the sun crested the eastern ridge. Again, how simple was that? And why on earth, did I have to be reminded of something so basic and logical as “only mad dogs and Englishmen work in the noonday sun?” Again, gringos who sought Belizean advice would learn quickly and suffer less. Proud gringos who knew everything could learn nothing. They would fail, and leave within a year or two. We aimed to stay.
The villagers of Cristo Rey assured us that the road would, at some point soon, dry out enough to allow the old ’59 Ford step-van to get back to San Ignacio – that is, if Monkey Fall Hill didn’t tear out her belly on the way down – but it would never be returning to the bush. The boxy old crate had gotten us to Belize, and for that, we were grateful. But now its job was over. Some serendipity would be needed, and some good karma. It would need to be sold, and almost simultaneously replaced by a seriously-hard-ass four-wheel-drive vehicle – something that would actually get us in and out in all weather. All weather? Exactly what was “all weather” to a couple of gringos who had yet to see a single cycle of the seasons in a tropical rainforest? How could we prepare for that which we could not imagine? The phrase “you ain’t seen nothing yet” was both apropos and prescient. The sights I would see on that river were, as yet, inconceivable. Beyond my wildest dreams.
Luckily, the dry season would provide us a three-month buffer to make this happen. Meanwhile, the dories, and the rivermen who steered them, would be our only connection to the outside world. Our lives would be in their strong, dark, gnarled hands, our faith in their poles and paddles. The low waters of the Macal had now become deceivingly quiet and calm. But make no mistake, it was yet untamed, and we, the inhabitants of the valley would remain at the mercy of the river wild.