Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer
Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2021 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
"Dance of Dangriga"
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It was now almost certain that Cayo District would be our home. But we had also never traveled south of Belmopan, and it would only make sense to fully explore the possibilities before making a commitment. Plus, April had now turned to May. The rainy season would break in a couple of weeks, and if we were going to go, it had to be now. We could only hope and pray that the old Toyota "Franken-cruiser" would get us safely there and back. It was one thing for two adults. It was quite another with a one-year-old baby.
The Hummingbird Highway was picturesque beyond my poetic ability to describe. The narrow tarmac road |
wound down, around, over, and up. Every bend, every curve, and every rise brought another grand vista of blue mountain skyline, and quaint tropical vignette. Single-lane iron bridges popped-up dangerously out of the deep valleys, and foolish was the driver who suddenly decided to compete with an oncoming vehicle. Brightly-painted wooden houses sat tucked into shady mountain glens, surrounded by fruit trees, laundry flapping on the line, chickens and goats in the yard. Larger groves of orange trees grew on fertile alluvial flats near rivers. Young teak trees, planted in a perfectly-spaced array, created an illusion of moving geometric patterns as we passed.
Once the road turned east out of the mountains, the descent to the coast was quick, and so was the rise in heat and humidity. Our hope was to find an evening meal, and a place to stay the night. But this was not a Belize I had ever seen before. These were not Creole peoples. They were Garifuna, and everything about them – their manner, their dress, their mindset, their music, and their language – bespoke their African-Caribbean heritage.
My memory is somewhat hazy, but the overall impression remains. It seemed the entirety of the small town was built on sand. The wood frame houses were high-profile – what gringos called “on stilts” – and it didn’t take long to find out why. Yep. I was about to experience yet another insect torment. Sand fleas? Sand Flies? Both? Whatever they were, they seemed to be more ground-dwellers than flyers, and their bite was ferocious. (Damn… and just when I thought I had already been bitten by everything.)
Nor was Dangriga was geared for visitors. Not back then. If there were a restaurant or hotel, we could find neither. We parked the vehicle and started walking – hungry and tired. The citronella oil offered little protection against the vicious bugs. My poor son screamed with every bite, and we were all suffering. Moreover, our few words of Kriol were utterly irrelevant in this enclave of African culture. And then, as if to validate that very thought, we heard drumming, and saw a fire on the beach. We drew near, and took refuge in the smoke. At least there, the bugs would not bite.
In the sunset colours, the women began to dance. They were big women, dark skinned, with large breasts, huge thighs, and enormous rounded buttocks. They wore brightly-coloured blouses and wide-waisted full skirts. First, they sidled around the drums in a flirtatious manner. They swayed in a trance, as if connected to something unseen; their moves spiritual and expressive. Then they stood before the drums, and beneath their dignified skirts, they spread their legs wide in sexual overture, moving forward fluidly, and gyrating as though in primitive mating ritual. Earthy, natural, and beautiful; I was spellbound. I had never yet seen such large women move with such ease, sensuality, and grace.
Beyond that, the details of the evening are sketchy. I have scattered memories of a rickety wooden table, the surface tacked-over with green linoleum. I remember eating a bit of burned rice, scraped from the bottom of a pot, a piece of cold fish, some cassava bread served on a chipped plate; my son nursing at my breast. But I was grateful for what the people had shared. Hunger had been the best seasoning, and I’d paid them more than they’d asked.
That night we slept in a room in someone’s house, on a thin, bare mattress set atop a squeaky iron bedframe. The three of us lay on our sides, packed tightly like spoons in a drawer, to avoid falling off the narrow single cot. There was no running water, and no electricity. We were given a chamber pot, and a kerosene lantern. But, in the airless space, the fumes were overwhelming, so we blew out the flame. Despite being near the sea, the heat was stifling. The homeowners insisted the wooden shutters be tightly closed at night, to protect against malevolent spirits.
Outside was blackest night. There was no moon, and the stars were obscured by clouds that seemed to hold the promise of rain. Something disturbing tugged at the edges of my mind.
I slept little that night. I was exhausted, yet restless. Morning could not come soon enough.
Once the road turned east out of the mountains, the descent to the coast was quick, and so was the rise in heat and humidity. Our hope was to find an evening meal, and a place to stay the night. But this was not a Belize I had ever seen before. These were not Creole peoples. They were Garifuna, and everything about them – their manner, their dress, their mindset, their music, and their language – bespoke their African-Caribbean heritage.
My memory is somewhat hazy, but the overall impression remains. It seemed the entirety of the small town was built on sand. The wood frame houses were high-profile – what gringos called “on stilts” – and it didn’t take long to find out why. Yep. I was about to experience yet another insect torment. Sand fleas? Sand Flies? Both? Whatever they were, they seemed to be more ground-dwellers than flyers, and their bite was ferocious. (Damn… and just when I thought I had already been bitten by everything.)
Nor was Dangriga was geared for visitors. Not back then. If there were a restaurant or hotel, we could find neither. We parked the vehicle and started walking – hungry and tired. The citronella oil offered little protection against the vicious bugs. My poor son screamed with every bite, and we were all suffering. Moreover, our few words of Kriol were utterly irrelevant in this enclave of African culture. And then, as if to validate that very thought, we heard drumming, and saw a fire on the beach. We drew near, and took refuge in the smoke. At least there, the bugs would not bite.
In the sunset colours, the women began to dance. They were big women, dark skinned, with large breasts, huge thighs, and enormous rounded buttocks. They wore brightly-coloured blouses and wide-waisted full skirts. First, they sidled around the drums in a flirtatious manner. They swayed in a trance, as if connected to something unseen; their moves spiritual and expressive. Then they stood before the drums, and beneath their dignified skirts, they spread their legs wide in sexual overture, moving forward fluidly, and gyrating as though in primitive mating ritual. Earthy, natural, and beautiful; I was spellbound. I had never yet seen such large women move with such ease, sensuality, and grace.
Beyond that, the details of the evening are sketchy. I have scattered memories of a rickety wooden table, the surface tacked-over with green linoleum. I remember eating a bit of burned rice, scraped from the bottom of a pot, a piece of cold fish, some cassava bread served on a chipped plate; my son nursing at my breast. But I was grateful for what the people had shared. Hunger had been the best seasoning, and I’d paid them more than they’d asked.
That night we slept in a room in someone’s house, on a thin, bare mattress set atop a squeaky iron bedframe. The three of us lay on our sides, packed tightly like spoons in a drawer, to avoid falling off the narrow single cot. There was no running water, and no electricity. We were given a chamber pot, and a kerosene lantern. But, in the airless space, the fumes were overwhelming, so we blew out the flame. Despite being near the sea, the heat was stifling. The homeowners insisted the wooden shutters be tightly closed at night, to protect against malevolent spirits.
Outside was blackest night. There was no moon, and the stars were obscured by clouds that seemed to hold the promise of rain. Something disturbing tugged at the edges of my mind.
I slept little that night. I was exhausted, yet restless. Morning could not come soon enough.