Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer
Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2021 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
"Too Many Ways To Die"
Trapped. There was no going forward. In front of the vehicle, the river surged like a living thing – a massive, brown, churning beast – roiling with what seemed to be all the powers of hell. Again, the bridges in the deep south of Belize were low-profile – simple flat expanses of concrete decking – with no superstructure or guardrails to impede the flow of debris over or under. Therefore, nothing to mark their absence or presence in a flood. The bridge was either underwater, or it was gone.
If we waited for the flood to abate, we might run out of drinking water, food, and fuel. Or the river might flood even higher. If we had to abandon the vehicle, there was no shelter. In a another time and place, the presence of wild animals might have been a novelty, but this was the actual jungle. Here, the animals roamed free: jaguars, pumas, ocelots, alligators, crocodiles, and venomous snakes. Here, we were the ones inside a cage. On foot, we would be fair game.
The rain was still falling; the heat suffocating. We had no air-conditioning. Runnels of sweat soaked our bodies and clothes, becoming one entity with rain and humidity. The mosquitos were voracious. The sodden jungle was just outside the doors, and I saw a future-vision of our half-disintegrated vehicle – the thick lianas passing through the windows and floorboards, our rotting bodies entangled within a timeless web of spidery green.
We sat there in the truck, staring at the seemingly unwinnable scenario. My husband slammed the steering wheel and cursed. Contrary to my usual grit, I began to cry, cradling my child to my breast. Perhaps I could have born the terror as woman and wife, but not as a mother. Not for my child.
After an eternity of desperate indecision, we began to notice a pattern emerging in the floodwaters. There seemed to be two long parallel ripples, spaced about twelve feet apart, running all the way from the near-side to the far bank. It seemed to be a faint visual signature of the bridge beneath.
My husband was no soft, city-boy. He was strong and resourceful, with a wealth of valuable survival experience. Retrieving the machete from the backseat, he chopped a long stick from a nearby sapling, and walked towards the flooded river. He planned to probe for the edges of the concrete decking, judging the depth and swiftness of the water. Then, theoretically, I could drive across the still-submerged bridge according to his guidance. This was pure insanity. Yet it seemed only possible option.
Even now, I am filled with mortal-terror at this long-ago memory. It is an experience I would have preferred to leave forever-buried in my subconscious. This was life without back-up. There were simply too many ways to die.
A collapsed bank. An underestimation of the swiftness of current. Part of the bridge might be intact, some missing. A flash flood. A limb, a branch, a tree trunk, the carcass of a dead animal, or the body of a live one. If anything went wrong, my husband would die. Then, my baby and I, too, would die. One way or the other.
He began to wade across, constantly poking to find the submerged edge. The water was about eight inches deep. At the time, I didn’t know that a mere six inches of fast-moving water could sweep a person off their feet. Twelve inches could broadside a low-clearance vehicle. The Toyota was heavy, with high-clearance, but this was all theory and guesswork. We were staking our lives on unknown variables.
Halfway across the torrent, he motioned me to drive forward. I shook my head vigorously. No, I couldn’t. I was frozen in place. By then, I had also seen that the parallel ripples were offset; they did not align with my husband’s indications of where I should drive. The hypnotic effect of the water could influence my trajectory. If I gave in to the optical illusion, the left front wheel would drop off the downstream side, and the vehicle would roll in a heartbeat. It was simple physics.
We had no baby-seat, or seat belts. Not that it would have mattered. Being strapped-in wouldn’t save us. Nor would being a good swimmer. Nautical life jackets would have only allowed us to bob further downriver and out to sea – bloodied, battered, and broken – before being consumed by alligators, crocodiles, or sharks. Then the crabs and bottom-feeders would pick us clean.
My husband shouted at me from mid-river, furious at my hesitation; his eyes wild. I could not leave him out there in the path of disaster. Nor could I stay in place. I put the truck into second-gear, low-range, four-wheel drive. This was the moment of survival. I made eye contact with my baby. He stared at me, round-eyed, but didn’t make a sound. I inched forward across the river, then began to move steadily. My heart rate must have topped two hundred then, because I could hear nothing but the roaring of blood in my ears, and my own internal screams. The fiendish ripples kept enticing me to the left; my husband yelling and gesticulating to stay to the right.
Two thirds of the way across, I saw that the parallel pattern in the water had disappeared. The rushing sound intensified; the floodwaters were rising again. My husband was already on the other side, but I still had about thirty feet to go.
I floored it – hoping to gain enough speed and momentum to stay in second gear, but I sensed it wasn’t going to be enough. As the tires bit into terra firma, I down-shifted into first.
And then, like the turtle it was, the old Franken-cruiser crawled up the muddy bank and came to rest, with all of us safely above the deluge.
The rain was still falling; the heat suffocating. We had no air-conditioning. Runnels of sweat soaked our bodies and clothes, becoming one entity with rain and humidity. The mosquitos were voracious. The sodden jungle was just outside the doors, and I saw a future-vision of our half-disintegrated vehicle – the thick lianas passing through the windows and floorboards, our rotting bodies entangled within a timeless web of spidery green.
We sat there in the truck, staring at the seemingly unwinnable scenario. My husband slammed the steering wheel and cursed. Contrary to my usual grit, I began to cry, cradling my child to my breast. Perhaps I could have born the terror as woman and wife, but not as a mother. Not for my child.
After an eternity of desperate indecision, we began to notice a pattern emerging in the floodwaters. There seemed to be two long parallel ripples, spaced about twelve feet apart, running all the way from the near-side to the far bank. It seemed to be a faint visual signature of the bridge beneath.
My husband was no soft, city-boy. He was strong and resourceful, with a wealth of valuable survival experience. Retrieving the machete from the backseat, he chopped a long stick from a nearby sapling, and walked towards the flooded river. He planned to probe for the edges of the concrete decking, judging the depth and swiftness of the water. Then, theoretically, I could drive across the still-submerged bridge according to his guidance. This was pure insanity. Yet it seemed only possible option.
Even now, I am filled with mortal-terror at this long-ago memory. It is an experience I would have preferred to leave forever-buried in my subconscious. This was life without back-up. There were simply too many ways to die.
A collapsed bank. An underestimation of the swiftness of current. Part of the bridge might be intact, some missing. A flash flood. A limb, a branch, a tree trunk, the carcass of a dead animal, or the body of a live one. If anything went wrong, my husband would die. Then, my baby and I, too, would die. One way or the other.
He began to wade across, constantly poking to find the submerged edge. The water was about eight inches deep. At the time, I didn’t know that a mere six inches of fast-moving water could sweep a person off their feet. Twelve inches could broadside a low-clearance vehicle. The Toyota was heavy, with high-clearance, but this was all theory and guesswork. We were staking our lives on unknown variables.
Halfway across the torrent, he motioned me to drive forward. I shook my head vigorously. No, I couldn’t. I was frozen in place. By then, I had also seen that the parallel ripples were offset; they did not align with my husband’s indications of where I should drive. The hypnotic effect of the water could influence my trajectory. If I gave in to the optical illusion, the left front wheel would drop off the downstream side, and the vehicle would roll in a heartbeat. It was simple physics.
We had no baby-seat, or seat belts. Not that it would have mattered. Being strapped-in wouldn’t save us. Nor would being a good swimmer. Nautical life jackets would have only allowed us to bob further downriver and out to sea – bloodied, battered, and broken – before being consumed by alligators, crocodiles, or sharks. Then the crabs and bottom-feeders would pick us clean.
My husband shouted at me from mid-river, furious at my hesitation; his eyes wild. I could not leave him out there in the path of disaster. Nor could I stay in place. I put the truck into second-gear, low-range, four-wheel drive. This was the moment of survival. I made eye contact with my baby. He stared at me, round-eyed, but didn’t make a sound. I inched forward across the river, then began to move steadily. My heart rate must have topped two hundred then, because I could hear nothing but the roaring of blood in my ears, and my own internal screams. The fiendish ripples kept enticing me to the left; my husband yelling and gesticulating to stay to the right.
Two thirds of the way across, I saw that the parallel pattern in the water had disappeared. The rushing sound intensified; the floodwaters were rising again. My husband was already on the other side, but I still had about thirty feet to go.
I floored it – hoping to gain enough speed and momentum to stay in second gear, but I sensed it wasn’t going to be enough. As the tires bit into terra firma, I down-shifted into first.
And then, like the turtle it was, the old Franken-cruiser crawled up the muddy bank and came to rest, with all of us safely above the deluge.