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(12/26/22)
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Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer
Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2022 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
"Sticks and Stones"
As much as I’ve tried to create a mental picture of the Macaw Bank area, it still seems an impossible task. From the top, one can hardly perceive the profound drop into the valley behind the house. And, from the river, equally impossible to visualize the steep path back up to the top. Again, I ask my readers to remember that we had no cameras back in those days. But, decades after-the-fact, I received a vintage photo of Alta Vista, taken by a gringo friend who had visited in 1977. The photo also shows the fence – the construction of which shall be the topic of this episode.
The next project was to build a crude fence around the house, starting with the digging of fencepost holes. Unable to afford hog-wire, we would string barbed wire, and then weave sticks into the spaces between. The workmen went off into the bush in search of hog-plum and gumbo-limbo. These would make ideal fenceposts, as they would eventually take root in the ground, and become shade trees.
Belize’s geology is that of limestone karst, old sea bed, one of the first land masses in the Western Hemisphere to emerge from the ocean in the Cretaceous Period. So, although Belize is abundant with rich soils and nutrients, the bedrock beneath is still karst. Sometimes, it is friable (crumbly) and can be broken up into chunks and removed. Other times, it is solid limestone base, and all a man’s strength wielding a 70-inch iron bar, weighing over 16 pounds, may only dislodge a stone the size of your thumb. The men had been toiling away all morning, but by noon, the palms of their hands were blistered and torn. It those days, heavy leather work gloves (so commonplace in any U.S. hardware store) did not exist. With each blow against to solid rock, the iron bar rebounded, and the friction of resistance further tore their hands.
As usual, I had been up since dawn, tending to the animals, to my son, and doing other typical women’s work. Cleaning, sweeping, and cooking. And cooking. And cooking. Grocery stores in the States had several levels of built-in convenience; they were frozen, packaged, dried, canned, boxed, plastic-bagged, some with see-through windows of civilized cellophane. Kalim Habet’s sold provisions, scooped by hand from wooden bins, and put into small brown paper sacks. Bulk foods like rice, beans, flour, and sugar. Nothing was ready-to-eat. Beans had to be soaked and cooked for hours. Flour, baking soda, and salt were not “foods;" they were “ingredients” that were made into food -- first the dough, which was rolled into balls, rested, pressed out, and then cooked on a griddle or komal. Vegetables and fruits were bought at market, or taken in trade, and painstakingly packed in. Back then, we had seedlings in the garde, but as yet, no harvest. Food was never “fast.” Food was a “process.” And these men, with their phenomenal daily output of calories, ate like ravenous animals. I had nothing but respect. But cooking three meals a day for five adults and a child had become a full-time job.
That morning, I had stirred the pots. Then, my small son had accompanied me to milk the goats, and feed cracked corn and kitchen scraps to the chickens. The old thatched fowl coop – north of the house and garden, between the giant custard apple and the lime tree – was divided in two, half for the chickens, and half for the goats. Afterwards, back at the house, I stirred the pots. Hanging the wash would be next job. That, and stirring the pots.
My son had just gone outside to see the men, who were now taking a break under the cedar tree to the east. I suddenly realized just how tired I was of “women’s work.” So I followed, and stood in front of my husband and the workers. Like the others, his calloused hands red and raw.
“Give me the iron bar,” I said, holding out my hands, palms up. “Mine are the last good pair.” He arched an eyebrow, and smiled.
Lasting only about an hour, I wielded the heavy pointed iron bar, and the posthole digger with vigor – anything to get out of the drudgery of traditional female labor. Luckily, I’d hit friable limestone and managed to get two post-holes to depth. Then I’d used the spirit-level to make sure they were plumb, filled around the post with the same crushed limestone, and tamped it down hard. I stopped to breath, and realized exhaustion had replaced frustration. Now my hands were torn up too. I suddenly realized I’d worked out all my “mad,” and was all out of attitude. Mounting the steps to the house, I went back to the stove, and took the spoon from the worker who had been reassigned to bean-stirring in my absence. Suddenly, women’s work wasn’t all that bad.
The Belizean workers had found the whole episode amusing, but I later found out they had also come away with some respect for this lee mauga 24-year-old white girl who “wore pants” instead of a skirt. It pleased me that I’d turned out quite a bit tougher than they’d thought.
Once the fence posts were secured, the barbed wire pulled and stapled, we wove in what must have been a two thousand sticks. The end result was a truly ugly, but serviceable, fence. If course, it wasn’t real barrier. There were still plenty of wild predators in the area, ocelot and jaguar. But it was, at least, enough to roughly demarcate our territory as “human.”
As usual, I had been up since dawn, tending to the animals, to my son, and doing other typical women’s work. Cleaning, sweeping, and cooking. And cooking. And cooking. Grocery stores in the States had several levels of built-in convenience; they were frozen, packaged, dried, canned, boxed, plastic-bagged, some with see-through windows of civilized cellophane. Kalim Habet’s sold provisions, scooped by hand from wooden bins, and put into small brown paper sacks. Bulk foods like rice, beans, flour, and sugar. Nothing was ready-to-eat. Beans had to be soaked and cooked for hours. Flour, baking soda, and salt were not “foods;" they were “ingredients” that were made into food -- first the dough, which was rolled into balls, rested, pressed out, and then cooked on a griddle or komal. Vegetables and fruits were bought at market, or taken in trade, and painstakingly packed in. Back then, we had seedlings in the garde, but as yet, no harvest. Food was never “fast.” Food was a “process.” And these men, with their phenomenal daily output of calories, ate like ravenous animals. I had nothing but respect. But cooking three meals a day for five adults and a child had become a full-time job.
That morning, I had stirred the pots. Then, my small son had accompanied me to milk the goats, and feed cracked corn and kitchen scraps to the chickens. The old thatched fowl coop – north of the house and garden, between the giant custard apple and the lime tree – was divided in two, half for the chickens, and half for the goats. Afterwards, back at the house, I stirred the pots. Hanging the wash would be next job. That, and stirring the pots.
My son had just gone outside to see the men, who were now taking a break under the cedar tree to the east. I suddenly realized just how tired I was of “women’s work.” So I followed, and stood in front of my husband and the workers. Like the others, his calloused hands red and raw.
“Give me the iron bar,” I said, holding out my hands, palms up. “Mine are the last good pair.” He arched an eyebrow, and smiled.
Lasting only about an hour, I wielded the heavy pointed iron bar, and the posthole digger with vigor – anything to get out of the drudgery of traditional female labor. Luckily, I’d hit friable limestone and managed to get two post-holes to depth. Then I’d used the spirit-level to make sure they were plumb, filled around the post with the same crushed limestone, and tamped it down hard. I stopped to breath, and realized exhaustion had replaced frustration. Now my hands were torn up too. I suddenly realized I’d worked out all my “mad,” and was all out of attitude. Mounting the steps to the house, I went back to the stove, and took the spoon from the worker who had been reassigned to bean-stirring in my absence. Suddenly, women’s work wasn’t all that bad.
The Belizean workers had found the whole episode amusing, but I later found out they had also come away with some respect for this lee mauga 24-year-old white girl who “wore pants” instead of a skirt. It pleased me that I’d turned out quite a bit tougher than they’d thought.
Once the fence posts were secured, the barbed wire pulled and stapled, we wove in what must have been a two thousand sticks. The end result was a truly ugly, but serviceable, fence. If course, it wasn’t real barrier. There were still plenty of wild predators in the area, ocelot and jaguar. But it was, at least, enough to roughly demarcate our territory as “human.”