Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer
Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2021 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
"The Color of the Wet"
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In order to comprehend the astonishing dichotomy between dry season vs. wet season in western Belize, it is necessary to have an overview of the geology and hydrology of the Cayo District. Such a lesson would have been greatly beneficial to me in June of 1976. But, unfortunately, like nearly everything else back in those days, I was destined to learn the hard way.
The river system was unique, and vast beyond imagining. It was comprised not only of countless tributaries of the nearby Mountain Pine Ridge, but also the broadleaf watershed of the Chiquibul to the far south and east – the most unspoiled tropical wilderness in all of Central America. The main thread of the Macal extended a mind-boggling 200 miles from its snaking headwaters near the Cockscomb Divide, to the lower valley where I now lived – the only seven miles of the Macal that was navigable by dory. Just below San Ignacio, it fused with the Mopan and formed the Belize River. However, exactly where the rains fell in those mountains was not only critical to what happened in the lower valley, but also when. That is to say, despite the utter absence of local rainfall, massive flooding could happen without warning. |
On the first day of June, 1976, the sky was blue and bright, the riverbank brown and parched, the river waters clear and green. Yet, high in the Chiquibul, the saturated clouds had already burst forth with new life. Soft drizzle had given way to soaking rains, and then riotous inundations. Hundreds of miles away, the loose soil and cumulative debris were being driven down the mountains in muddy onslaughts, first overwhelming the small springs, then satiating the tributaries, and then engorging the high narrow canyons.
It was not until June 4th, Friday, that the local rains began to fall. A stiff wind blew up the lower valley, flipping the leaves to expose their silvery undersides, and bringing the sweet smell of ozone. Then torrential rains assaulted the hard-baked earth until the brittle forest could relax, open its grateful arms to the sky, and drink in the life-giving moisture. Within twenty-four hours, everything had changed. The Macal had turned brown, the riverbank and surrounding bush morphing into a surreal landscape of brilliant greens in every imaginable shade. And when the clouds parted, it was as though the sunlight had electrified it.
The next day was Saturday, market day in San Ignacio. At the first sound of the outboard in the distance, I ran down to the riverside quickly, so as not to miss my ride. Dickey swung towards the bank to pick me up, and I saw his brow creased with concern. As we shoved off into the current, he said he almost hadn’t come at all today. He’d been keeping a close eye on the water. He explained that now, throughout the coming wet season, river travel would be intermittent. Within reason, we could still go to town when the river was high, but absolutely not when it was “actively flooding.”
I didn’t understand. Wasn’t this “flooding?” The water was brown, and the level was – maybe a foot higher than yesterday. Dickey shook his head.
“Dis da local waata. Valley rain. Yu must watch fu wen di waata di bile,” he said. “Dat mean di waata di kohn dong from di mongtins. Dat ah wen eh wa rayz up, an flod, fu tru. Dat ah wa veri daynjaras ting.”
In Kriol dialect, “bile” meant “boil,” I didn’t have a clue as to the distinction he was making. “Boil?” As in what? Hot? It wasn’t like the river was fed by a volcanic spring. OK. Obviously, this was turning into another of my “stoopid gringa” blunders, so this time I kept silent.
Dickey was tensed like a cat, his eyes constantly searching for…what? Dickey was a master dory man, builder and navigator. Right now he was like blind man speed-reading Braille, sensing things unseen. I had never seen him so focused, silent, and preoccupied. After only a few hundred yards of downstream progress, he suddenly executed an abrupt swing, and brought the dory around 180 degrees. Within seconds, we were pointed back upstream.
“Ah mus tek yu bak home right now, Miss Nancy,” he said, his face grave. “We kaant go no farda. Look right deh. Yu see? Di waata di bile.”
And, pointing to the surface, I saw the signature pattern he had spoken of, round concentric circles that mushroomed from beneath, like the water in a pot just before it comes to full boil.
In record time, Dickey had dropped me off, admonishing me to go straight up to the house and stay there – and not to go near the river. Then, rigid with tension, he navigated further upstream to his property at Macaw Bank. Much of his low-lying banana plantation was already a foot underwater. Passing his usual tie-up, he persevered another hundred yards or so to the base of a giant wild fig tree, and into a small eddy. Tilting his head back, Dickey appraised the new one-hundred foot rope dangling from the tree’s crown. A month ago, he had climbed this tree, and tied the rope securely to a huge limb, eighty feet above the waterline, and then secured the lower end to one of its immense exposed roots. Now he re-affixed this end to the dugout. The extreme mooring would allow his dory to safely rise on the floodwaters and drift to the edge of the ever-widening river. Dickey detached the outboard, shouldered it, and headed for higher ground. By nightfall, the spot where he stood would be sixty vertical feet underwater.
It was not until June 4th, Friday, that the local rains began to fall. A stiff wind blew up the lower valley, flipping the leaves to expose their silvery undersides, and bringing the sweet smell of ozone. Then torrential rains assaulted the hard-baked earth until the brittle forest could relax, open its grateful arms to the sky, and drink in the life-giving moisture. Within twenty-four hours, everything had changed. The Macal had turned brown, the riverbank and surrounding bush morphing into a surreal landscape of brilliant greens in every imaginable shade. And when the clouds parted, it was as though the sunlight had electrified it.
The next day was Saturday, market day in San Ignacio. At the first sound of the outboard in the distance, I ran down to the riverside quickly, so as not to miss my ride. Dickey swung towards the bank to pick me up, and I saw his brow creased with concern. As we shoved off into the current, he said he almost hadn’t come at all today. He’d been keeping a close eye on the water. He explained that now, throughout the coming wet season, river travel would be intermittent. Within reason, we could still go to town when the river was high, but absolutely not when it was “actively flooding.”
I didn’t understand. Wasn’t this “flooding?” The water was brown, and the level was – maybe a foot higher than yesterday. Dickey shook his head.
“Dis da local waata. Valley rain. Yu must watch fu wen di waata di bile,” he said. “Dat mean di waata di kohn dong from di mongtins. Dat ah wen eh wa rayz up, an flod, fu tru. Dat ah wa veri daynjaras ting.”
In Kriol dialect, “bile” meant “boil,” I didn’t have a clue as to the distinction he was making. “Boil?” As in what? Hot? It wasn’t like the river was fed by a volcanic spring. OK. Obviously, this was turning into another of my “stoopid gringa” blunders, so this time I kept silent.
Dickey was tensed like a cat, his eyes constantly searching for…what? Dickey was a master dory man, builder and navigator. Right now he was like blind man speed-reading Braille, sensing things unseen. I had never seen him so focused, silent, and preoccupied. After only a few hundred yards of downstream progress, he suddenly executed an abrupt swing, and brought the dory around 180 degrees. Within seconds, we were pointed back upstream.
“Ah mus tek yu bak home right now, Miss Nancy,” he said, his face grave. “We kaant go no farda. Look right deh. Yu see? Di waata di bile.”
And, pointing to the surface, I saw the signature pattern he had spoken of, round concentric circles that mushroomed from beneath, like the water in a pot just before it comes to full boil.
In record time, Dickey had dropped me off, admonishing me to go straight up to the house and stay there – and not to go near the river. Then, rigid with tension, he navigated further upstream to his property at Macaw Bank. Much of his low-lying banana plantation was already a foot underwater. Passing his usual tie-up, he persevered another hundred yards or so to the base of a giant wild fig tree, and into a small eddy. Tilting his head back, Dickey appraised the new one-hundred foot rope dangling from the tree’s crown. A month ago, he had climbed this tree, and tied the rope securely to a huge limb, eighty feet above the waterline, and then secured the lower end to one of its immense exposed roots. Now he re-affixed this end to the dugout. The extreme mooring would allow his dory to safely rise on the floodwaters and drift to the edge of the ever-widening river. Dickey detached the outboard, shouldered it, and headed for higher ground. By nightfall, the spot where he stood would be sixty vertical feet underwater.