Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer
Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2021 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
"Belizean Amazon"
The journey south was long. Incredibly long. Considering it was only about 72 miles from Belmopan to Punta Gorda “as a crow flies,” I was constantly reminded that I was not a crow. With all the doglegs and curves on the Hummingbird, added to twists and turns on the Southern Highway, the actual distance by road would be closer to 180 miles.
We had spent the night in Dangriga, and were now headed back west on the spur of road that connected to the highway. There had been a few scattered houses in the low country, but after turning south at the junction, there seemed to be no human habitation whatsoever. More and more, the bush seemed to grow taller, and we began to cross a number of bridges that drained from the valleys of the Cockscomb to the sea. The bridges were low-profile, lacking the steel superstructure that usually gives bridges their character and charm. These were as plainly-dressed as a Mennonite – simple expanses of concrete decking, connecting one side to the other. No superstructure, no guardrails.
Our map, dated 1975, showed Hopkins and Freetown as tiny fishing villages to the east. But these were on the coast, situated at the mouths of the brown rushing rivers we crossed. No spurs of roadway connected them to the Southern Highway. Wait…“brown rivers?” In Cayo, the rivers were green and clear. These rivers were already in flood, and it was to be a critical error on our part. In Cayo, annual rainfall was 75-85 inches per year. But we’d seen none of it -- as we had yet to experience our first rainy season. We did not know what flooding rivers could do. We did not know that Toledo received a whopping 160-175 inches of rainfall per year. "Fools rush in where angels fear to tread." And, in retrospect, what we “did not know” had almost killed us.
As we continued south, fear now began to dominate my mind. There was nothing. It was untamed and unbroken wilderness. We would need access to anticipated services: fuel, food, water, shelter. What would we do if we needed unanticipated services? Medical emergency, car accident, mechanic, tow truck? There were no villages, not even the occasional tiny thatched house, let alone a gas station, or a place to buy something to eat. No phones, even if there was a village. And, by the way, where were we? It was a land utterly devoid of measurements. No signage. No mile markers. We didn’t know how far we had travelled, and no indication of distance to the next destination. That was the scariest part. How close? How far? And how long would it take?
Our map showed Independence Village, the only place between Dangriga and Punta Gorda, that looked like it might contain anything of value. So we took a guess on what turned out to be a lucky left-turn. It was a life-saver, our temporary salvation. No thriving metropolis, to be sure, but we were at least able to get fuel, eat a good meal, and stock up on water, polvoron, pepitas, and PK gum. We parked on a level spot, and my husband took out his tools, spread a crocus bag to sit on, and checked the bearings and tie-rod ends. I didn’t even want to give utterance to the most terrifying question: what if we broke down on the road? And we dared not stay long; we had to make PG by dark, where we knew we could find food and lodging.
My literary talent now fails me in describing the next stretch of the journey, a wilderness beyond anything I could ever have imagined. The jungle thickened and grew, until it towered over us, consuming us with the intensity of some monstrous, hungry creature. Belize had held this ancient and otherworldly secret, and now we had plunged directly into its emerald maw. Amazonian, ancient and Jurassic, a true triple-canopy rainforest, so humid it was veiled in mist, the sunlight barely able to penetrate the forest primeval. The trees were so huge as to seem prehistoric, as though they had shot forth from the primordial ooze at the dawn of time. Giant lianas, as thick as my thigh, festooned in the impossible tangle of dripping jungle foliage. Bird calls echoed hollowly, monkeys hooted, beetles sang at a mind-numbing timbre and volume. It was not difficult to imagine the pale gray outline of a T-Rex, standing motionless, and waiting to pounce. It was in an antediluvian place, a place where mankind simply did not belong.*
The Toyota had no air-conditioning, and it couldn’t move fast enough to channel any air into a makeshift-breeze. We were sweating bullets. Mosquitoes swarmed. My baby son cried with bug bites and heat rash. I was constantly wiping him down with a clean cotton diaper moistened with water. This innocent ambition to check out Toledo District before deciding on Cayo for sure, had transformed into something quite different. Our little family was now in full survival mode. Life’s focus had narrowed down to three simple elements: the skinny brown wallow of rutted track ahead, tightly bordered by the looming jungle on either side, and our tired old Franken-cruiser of a Toyota, with its mismatched panels of green and white, clapping-banging its way through the mud.
Minutes later, we stopped at the edge of a raging river that appeared to have no bridge. It had either been either covered by the floodwaters, or had been washed away. My mind raced in desperation. Could be worse, I thought. Could be raining.
And then, it started to rain…
Our map, dated 1975, showed Hopkins and Freetown as tiny fishing villages to the east. But these were on the coast, situated at the mouths of the brown rushing rivers we crossed. No spurs of roadway connected them to the Southern Highway. Wait…“brown rivers?” In Cayo, the rivers were green and clear. These rivers were already in flood, and it was to be a critical error on our part. In Cayo, annual rainfall was 75-85 inches per year. But we’d seen none of it -- as we had yet to experience our first rainy season. We did not know what flooding rivers could do. We did not know that Toledo received a whopping 160-175 inches of rainfall per year. "Fools rush in where angels fear to tread." And, in retrospect, what we “did not know” had almost killed us.
As we continued south, fear now began to dominate my mind. There was nothing. It was untamed and unbroken wilderness. We would need access to anticipated services: fuel, food, water, shelter. What would we do if we needed unanticipated services? Medical emergency, car accident, mechanic, tow truck? There were no villages, not even the occasional tiny thatched house, let alone a gas station, or a place to buy something to eat. No phones, even if there was a village. And, by the way, where were we? It was a land utterly devoid of measurements. No signage. No mile markers. We didn’t know how far we had travelled, and no indication of distance to the next destination. That was the scariest part. How close? How far? And how long would it take?
Our map showed Independence Village, the only place between Dangriga and Punta Gorda, that looked like it might contain anything of value. So we took a guess on what turned out to be a lucky left-turn. It was a life-saver, our temporary salvation. No thriving metropolis, to be sure, but we were at least able to get fuel, eat a good meal, and stock up on water, polvoron, pepitas, and PK gum. We parked on a level spot, and my husband took out his tools, spread a crocus bag to sit on, and checked the bearings and tie-rod ends. I didn’t even want to give utterance to the most terrifying question: what if we broke down on the road? And we dared not stay long; we had to make PG by dark, where we knew we could find food and lodging.
My literary talent now fails me in describing the next stretch of the journey, a wilderness beyond anything I could ever have imagined. The jungle thickened and grew, until it towered over us, consuming us with the intensity of some monstrous, hungry creature. Belize had held this ancient and otherworldly secret, and now we had plunged directly into its emerald maw. Amazonian, ancient and Jurassic, a true triple-canopy rainforest, so humid it was veiled in mist, the sunlight barely able to penetrate the forest primeval. The trees were so huge as to seem prehistoric, as though they had shot forth from the primordial ooze at the dawn of time. Giant lianas, as thick as my thigh, festooned in the impossible tangle of dripping jungle foliage. Bird calls echoed hollowly, monkeys hooted, beetles sang at a mind-numbing timbre and volume. It was not difficult to imagine the pale gray outline of a T-Rex, standing motionless, and waiting to pounce. It was in an antediluvian place, a place where mankind simply did not belong.*
The Toyota had no air-conditioning, and it couldn’t move fast enough to channel any air into a makeshift-breeze. We were sweating bullets. Mosquitoes swarmed. My baby son cried with bug bites and heat rash. I was constantly wiping him down with a clean cotton diaper moistened with water. This innocent ambition to check out Toledo District before deciding on Cayo for sure, had transformed into something quite different. Our little family was now in full survival mode. Life’s focus had narrowed down to three simple elements: the skinny brown wallow of rutted track ahead, tightly bordered by the looming jungle on either side, and our tired old Franken-cruiser of a Toyota, with its mismatched panels of green and white, clapping-banging its way through the mud.
Minutes later, we stopped at the edge of a raging river that appeared to have no bridge. It had either been either covered by the floodwaters, or had been washed away. My mind raced in desperation. Could be worse, I thought. Could be raining.
And then, it started to rain…