Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer
Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2021 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER SEVEN
"Hawkesworth Horizon"
If it seems that my recollections, so far, have been on the negative side: geographical disorientation, foreign landscapes, unfamiliar dialect, perfidious insects, heat, sweat, and uncertainty, then I have succeeded in accurately portraying my experiences of the first few days. Yet, we were utterly determined to keep going. Like a locomotive, we were at the forefront of our own future, charging forth into the unknown, the sum total of life-experience and meager possessions trailing behind us like boxcars, pulled along by undeniable momentum.
There was also an unseen force within my soul. I wouldn’t describe it as courage, or even faith, but rather a profound feeling of destiny. Since childhood, I’d had a recurring dream of a faraway tropical place, one that lived only in my naïve imagination. As we had planned and traveled towards the supposed “jungles of Central America,” I’d continued to nourish the foolish notion that this paradise might actually exist, and might someday become a reality. Or maybe, as a kid, I had just watched too many Tarzan movies.
I'm sure there are, and were back then, many beautiful places in northern Belize, in-and-around Belize City, and immediately to the west: Hattieville, Gracie Rock, and further inland. But those had not been part of my experience. Despite our best hopes, dreams, and expectations, this land had been harsh, hot, oppressive, and relentless. All that was about to change.
What we wanted to see was elevation, some towering trees, and above all, some blessed shade. And sure enough, as we rounded the last big bend before the intersection of the Western and Hummingbird Highways, the scene changed dramatically. A small forest of ancient guanacaste trees and huge cohunes rose up on the northern side of the road, just moments before we crossed a concrete bridge over a roaring river. (Indeed, quite literally, the Roaring River.) Then, wonder of wonders, there was a small grocery shop on the right, and next to it, a Texaco gas station. For the last twenty miles, we had been afraid to even mention the gas situation; the needle, by then, had been hovering at just below a quarter-of-a-tank. Relief flooded me like the cool breeze that seemed to accompany the rushing waters of that river. We filled the tank, and continued westward.
This was, indeed, a different land altogether from the Belize I had seen so far. I felt as though I were Dorothy, transitioning from an arid black-and-white Kansas prairie into the colorful Land of Oz. Hills, valleys, trees, and shade, along with bright flowers that lent striking accents of pink, purple, and yellow to the landscape. Tiny villages sporadically punctuated the roadside. Quaint frame houses, mostly two stories, the lower level used as a shady open living area with hammocks, or to provide cover for a cooking hearth, or laundry tub. Between villages, the road meandered through wooded forest and pasturelands, all the while maintaining a gradual upward climb. Unbeknownst to us, we had passed places with lyrical names: Camalote, Teakettle, Blackman Eddy, Ontario, Unitedville, Georgeville, Esperanza, and Red Creek. It was almost sunset on a Friday, when we passed through the village of Santa Elena, and saw, ahead of us, the twin pillars of a majestic suspension bridge spanning a large magnificent river. Hawkesworth, 1949.
I'm sure there are, and were back then, many beautiful places in northern Belize, in-and-around Belize City, and immediately to the west: Hattieville, Gracie Rock, and further inland. But those had not been part of my experience. Despite our best hopes, dreams, and expectations, this land had been harsh, hot, oppressive, and relentless. All that was about to change.
What we wanted to see was elevation, some towering trees, and above all, some blessed shade. And sure enough, as we rounded the last big bend before the intersection of the Western and Hummingbird Highways, the scene changed dramatically. A small forest of ancient guanacaste trees and huge cohunes rose up on the northern side of the road, just moments before we crossed a concrete bridge over a roaring river. (Indeed, quite literally, the Roaring River.) Then, wonder of wonders, there was a small grocery shop on the right, and next to it, a Texaco gas station. For the last twenty miles, we had been afraid to even mention the gas situation; the needle, by then, had been hovering at just below a quarter-of-a-tank. Relief flooded me like the cool breeze that seemed to accompany the rushing waters of that river. We filled the tank, and continued westward.
This was, indeed, a different land altogether from the Belize I had seen so far. I felt as though I were Dorothy, transitioning from an arid black-and-white Kansas prairie into the colorful Land of Oz. Hills, valleys, trees, and shade, along with bright flowers that lent striking accents of pink, purple, and yellow to the landscape. Tiny villages sporadically punctuated the roadside. Quaint frame houses, mostly two stories, the lower level used as a shady open living area with hammocks, or to provide cover for a cooking hearth, or laundry tub. Between villages, the road meandered through wooded forest and pasturelands, all the while maintaining a gradual upward climb. Unbeknownst to us, we had passed places with lyrical names: Camalote, Teakettle, Blackman Eddy, Ontario, Unitedville, Georgeville, Esperanza, and Red Creek. It was almost sunset on a Friday, when we passed through the village of Santa Elena, and saw, ahead of us, the twin pillars of a majestic suspension bridge spanning a large magnificent river. Hawkesworth, 1949.