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(12/05/22)
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Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer
Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2022 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER FORTY
"The History of Macaw Bank"
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It is early 1977. My husband, baby son, and I had arrived in Belize in January of the previous year, a couple of colorful hippie pioneers, naively looking for a tropical Eden. We had rented a house on the Macal River about five miles upstream from San Ignacio, and were now determined to buy our own “lee piece of Belize.” As luck and fate would have it, Daniel Harris (son of doryman, Old Johnny Harris) had forty acres for sale, another three miles further upstream, near Macaw Bank.
In the early 20th century, and for previous untold millennia, Macaw Bank had lived up to its name. Alive with vast flocks of scarlet macaws, they made their cozy nests in the giant hollowed-out trees of the Guacamayo, and then migrated seasonally, over the Cockscomb Range, to their sister settlement with the (near-eponymous) name of Red Bank on the Swasey River in southern Stann Creek District. In order to fully envision the geographical and historical significance of Macaw Bank, let’s embark on a virtual journey up the river system, starting on the coast. Let’s teleport ourselves into the body of a blue-crested kingfisher, and see the panorama through its eyes. We start where the mouth of the Belize River pours into the waters of the Caribbean at Haulover Bridge, just a few miles north of Belize City proper. Although Belize is only 68 miles wide, the serpentine path of the river means the water journey makes it closer to 180 miles. Winding our way, past Burrell Boom, up into the Cayo District and Spanish Lookout, the Belize River divides at Branch Mouth into two the primary tributaries: the Mopan River from Guatemala in the west, and the Macal from the mountain of the south. We choose the Macal, and soon reach the town of San Ignacio. |
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Beyond the majestic Hawkesworth Bridge, built by the British in 1949, we are captivated by the sight of one of the most spectacular river valleys in all of Central America. It is made all the more special because it provides eight miles of navigable waterway. Here, the dory men – those few old-timers, remnants of a previous era – still use paddle and pole to carry provisions and passengers to-and-from Macaw Bank, Cristo Rey, and San Ignacio.
Through the keen eyes of the kingfisher, we skim above the and then peer into deep, glassy-green eddies. Giant tarpon, up to nine feet long, thread their way between huge submerged boulders. Wild fig, trumpet trees, tropical cedar, prickle yellow, bush bamboo, santa maria, bullet tree, and cohune palm are festooned with a riot of vines and lianas. Some climbing philodendrons have leaves so large, you could crouch behind one, totally hidden. Dusky gray-and-orange garobo, with their impressive crest of spikes on their spine, proudly display this macho splendor.Along with the dull green females, they sun themselves on low-hanging branches, and then plop noisily into the water at our approach. At first, close to San Ignacio, the hillsides are low and rounded, dotted with the occasional small thatched house and a vegetable garden. There are fruit trees, chickens, pigs, and maybe a few goats on the slopes, or a vast field of grey-green watermelons.
Now the terrain gains elevation, and the hills rise to the ranks of forested mountains. But we see that the low savannah on one bank is almost always offset by the steep walls of chaotic, house-sized gray boulders on the opposite side. These rocks and cliffs are pockmarked with holes, and inhabited by bats and tiny swiftlets. Another curve in the river and these features swap positions. This is the nature of the river, and the topography by which we can read its history. Almost without exception, one bank is savannah, low and receptive to the floods; the other tall stands tall, rocky, and defiant, refusing to submit to the raging waters of the wet season.
Macaw Bank signifies the terminus. It is the last fertile valley, the last savannah, and the last boat landing. Our kingfisher host comes to rest near the top of the ceiba – the tree, like a lone monarch, rising majestically above the rainforest. South, beyond this point, the cliffs shoulder narrowly and become almost sheer; the canyon deepens, and the tumbling river becomes a roaring chasm of foaming white water. These are the gates. It is where man ends, and untamed wilderness begins.
In the old logging days, the Macal River had been the main artery for the transport of thousands upon thousands of harvested mahogany trees, rosewood, and other tropical hardwoods. So, it was here, in this place, with Macaw Bank on the eastern bank, and Negroman on the western – that the mule teams and skidders had dragged the great logs into the birthwaters that would float them downstream to Branch Mouth, Burrell Boom, Belize City, and on to the markets of the world.
By now, of course, the mahogany trade was long-gone from the valley. Older men of the upper Macal still told stories of the danger and adventure of the logging camps, the collecting of chicle in the high-bush. These same men – with names like Simpson, Green, Waight, and De la Fuente – now owned the bottom-land farms of Macaw Bank – fertile productive lands that, year after year, were fed by the abundant nutrients left by the seasonal floods.
The river property at Alta Vista, soon to belong to us, was not ideal by any stretch of the imagination. It was not within the valley itself, and not suitable for growing much of anything. Located on the eastern side, a mile downstream from Macaw Bank, it was the high-and-dry side, one of the boulder-ridden rocky escarpments with a steep perilous path from the river that led to an old rickety frame house at the top, baking in the sun, in the middle of a clearing. But, then again, Daniel didn’t want much for it, and we were young, poor, bullet-proof, and full of energy and imagination.
Even so, it couldn’t be our “lee piece of Belize” unless we endured one more test: to meet with the Honourable Florencio Marin, Minister of Lands and Agriculture in Belmopan, and secure a permit to buy property under the Alien Landholding Act. Rumor had it that he could be belligerent against young Americans. And, without the needed permit, there would be no deal, and our gringo pioneer dreams would end, right then and there.
"Hmmm, I might have to get creative," I remember thinking to myself. "But I will find a way…"
Through the keen eyes of the kingfisher, we skim above the and then peer into deep, glassy-green eddies. Giant tarpon, up to nine feet long, thread their way between huge submerged boulders. Wild fig, trumpet trees, tropical cedar, prickle yellow, bush bamboo, santa maria, bullet tree, and cohune palm are festooned with a riot of vines and lianas. Some climbing philodendrons have leaves so large, you could crouch behind one, totally hidden. Dusky gray-and-orange garobo, with their impressive crest of spikes on their spine, proudly display this macho splendor.Along with the dull green females, they sun themselves on low-hanging branches, and then plop noisily into the water at our approach. At first, close to San Ignacio, the hillsides are low and rounded, dotted with the occasional small thatched house and a vegetable garden. There are fruit trees, chickens, pigs, and maybe a few goats on the slopes, or a vast field of grey-green watermelons.
Now the terrain gains elevation, and the hills rise to the ranks of forested mountains. But we see that the low savannah on one bank is almost always offset by the steep walls of chaotic, house-sized gray boulders on the opposite side. These rocks and cliffs are pockmarked with holes, and inhabited by bats and tiny swiftlets. Another curve in the river and these features swap positions. This is the nature of the river, and the topography by which we can read its history. Almost without exception, one bank is savannah, low and receptive to the floods; the other tall stands tall, rocky, and defiant, refusing to submit to the raging waters of the wet season.
Macaw Bank signifies the terminus. It is the last fertile valley, the last savannah, and the last boat landing. Our kingfisher host comes to rest near the top of the ceiba – the tree, like a lone monarch, rising majestically above the rainforest. South, beyond this point, the cliffs shoulder narrowly and become almost sheer; the canyon deepens, and the tumbling river becomes a roaring chasm of foaming white water. These are the gates. It is where man ends, and untamed wilderness begins.
In the old logging days, the Macal River had been the main artery for the transport of thousands upon thousands of harvested mahogany trees, rosewood, and other tropical hardwoods. So, it was here, in this place, with Macaw Bank on the eastern bank, and Negroman on the western – that the mule teams and skidders had dragged the great logs into the birthwaters that would float them downstream to Branch Mouth, Burrell Boom, Belize City, and on to the markets of the world.
By now, of course, the mahogany trade was long-gone from the valley. Older men of the upper Macal still told stories of the danger and adventure of the logging camps, the collecting of chicle in the high-bush. These same men – with names like Simpson, Green, Waight, and De la Fuente – now owned the bottom-land farms of Macaw Bank – fertile productive lands that, year after year, were fed by the abundant nutrients left by the seasonal floods.
The river property at Alta Vista, soon to belong to us, was not ideal by any stretch of the imagination. It was not within the valley itself, and not suitable for growing much of anything. Located on the eastern side, a mile downstream from Macaw Bank, it was the high-and-dry side, one of the boulder-ridden rocky escarpments with a steep perilous path from the river that led to an old rickety frame house at the top, baking in the sun, in the middle of a clearing. But, then again, Daniel didn’t want much for it, and we were young, poor, bullet-proof, and full of energy and imagination.
Even so, it couldn’t be our “lee piece of Belize” unless we endured one more test: to meet with the Honourable Florencio Marin, Minister of Lands and Agriculture in Belmopan, and secure a permit to buy property under the Alien Landholding Act. Rumor had it that he could be belligerent against young Americans. And, without the needed permit, there would be no deal, and our gringo pioneer dreams would end, right then and there.
"Hmmm, I might have to get creative," I remember thinking to myself. "But I will find a way…"