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(01/02/23)
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Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer
Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2022 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
"Hawk of the Air, Shark of the River, King of Macaw Bank"
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Dicky Simpson was an iconic figure on the Macal – a whipcord thin, slim dark-skinned man, wearing a straw cowboy hat, and a necklace of wild boar's tusks, perched in the stern of a long narrow mahogany dory. Coming downstream to San Ignacio, he would see his landing spot on the west bank, and suddenly push the tiller hard-right. The dory would respond by cutting a wide arc to the east, and then come about – executing a perfect 180 degree turn. In seconds, the craft would be facing upstream, its nose facing south into the current, the gunwale brushing the soft grassy bank, and kissing it like a lover. The man was an artist.
I had been 23 years old, washing my baby’s diapers at the river’s edge in Cayo, having just arrived the night before. I watched as Dicky had tipped his outboard forward, bringing its dripping shaft out of the water, then picked up his little red gas can, and stepped lithely onto the bank of the savannah. He tipped his hat politely, and gave me a broad smile. Dicky was the first Belizean to become my friend, and it was he who would give me my first dory ride up the river to the place that would be my new home. Although, in the future, I would often ride with other dory men – mostly his brother, Leopold “Don Poli” Simpson, or Don Eloy Waight – both of whom I liked immensely – Dicky remained my favorite. |
It was hard to say how old he was. Dicky could have been anywhere from 40 to 65. In those days, I had assumed him to be on the younger end. But, in retrospect, I think he was probably much older. With smooth taut skin, a nearly unlined face, and a lean muscled body, Dicky seemed to be carved from solid sapodilla. Along the river, many men shared this physique. In sharp contrast, the village women of Macaw Bank and Cristo Rey became fleshy. Staying home, stirring the pots, and having a baby every year (each of which would cost them a tooth) they often looked 50 before they turned 30. But, bush-men like Dicky were ageless. Their life was to mek plantaash, to slash and burn, to hunt, to plant and harvest, to sweat, paddle, and pole. Their perfectly metabolized bodies were efficient burners which utilized every calorie they ate, and then some. They remained sleek as the swift jaguars that still prowled the reaches of the Upper Macal.
Through the years, Dicky kept me safe, and my baby safe, a hundred times on that river. Occasionally, conditions would become perilous during the course of the journey itself, but never once did I doubt he would get me through. He could read that river like no one else, its every nuance and whim. Through Dicky, I learned the river's moods, its meandering passivity in the dry, and uncontained rage in the wet. I learned what it meant when the river "biled" (boiled) – a particular circular pattern of concentric circles, which enabled him to distinguish between local rain and great deluges might be taking place in the Chiquibul, leading to rapid and deadly flooding.
“Dis da local waata,” he would say. “Valley rain. Yu must watch fu wen di waata di bile. Dat mean di waata di kohn dong from di
mongtins. Dat da wen eh wa rayz up, an flod, fu tru. Dat da wa veri daynjaras ting.”
Dicky was immensely strong, almost super-human. His Macaw Bank neighbour, Onesimo Pot,* said he had gotten his strength as a young man with the Volunteer Guards, before the creation of BDF (Belize Defense Force) and from pulling and pushing his dory on the Macal since childhood. Many times I watched him pole against the torrents of the shallows – the "runs" of the river – keeping the bow pointed straight into the current, his whole body straining, the cords of his neck sticking out, muscles hard as purpleheart. One false move, in balance or direction, and the long dory would have turned broadside, and been swept downstream. We carried no life jackets, of course, and almost none of his other passengers knew how to swim. But, strong swimmers or not, we all would have died on the rocks, or drown in swift channels.
My first dory trip up the Macal with him had been the realization of a dream, in the most literal sense. I cannot logically explain why, or how, I had dreamed of this river in my youth, but I had. Many times. Flying dreams. And not just “a river," mind you, but “this river."
Soaring, with arms outstretched, I saw a recurring vision of a faraway land, as though through the eyes of an eagle. Effortlessly, I flew upward; the winds bore me high into the air. I knew this place. The landscape so familiar. I had been there many times. The sunlight glinting on the waters, the kingfishers skimming the surface, giant trees casting shadows, tarpon skirting mossy boulders half-submerged in the deep eddies.
In my mind’s eye, this secret green snake-of-a-river, threading its way northward through the cool shade of the forested banks, had been my refuge, the secret home of my heart. And now I had found that exact place. Again.
The river had taken my breath away. Its spirit had called me here. It calls me still. ❤️
There were no tourists in Belize in those days. So, it was as much of a novelty to Dicky as it was for me, to be able to point and explain the features of the river he had known all his life.
“Dat da de one de Maya call ‘ceiba.’ Ih very sof. We call it di cottonwood. De correc tree fu dory doan grow close to de riva. Wat
yu wan is de mahog’ny or de cedar trees wat grows inna de high bush. De wood is very haad. Dem trees haf to be, at leas', bout
six feet tru de centa, fu hav de big heartwood. Inna de old days dey use mules fu drag de tree. Now-days yu get wa fren wit a
tracta fu drag it close by de riva. Den yu cut away all de sof sapwood from round de outside wit de chainsaw, if yu got one, so
oanli de haad heartwood lef. Den yu dig out de centa wit de tool called de ‘adze.’ Yu use fyah too, fu burn it mo betta, den dig ih
out mo. Ih tek wa lang time fu mek it, an yu mus be careful when yu dig it out. Ih haf to be jus right pon the battam corve, an de
pint correc, or de dory wa drag sideway inna de waata."
The dory pushed through the smooth water that parted in a gentle rush. Orange-footed wood-rails darted in the underbrush, wild fig fruits plopped softly into still pools along the edge, and the call of Central American brown jays – whose cry of “chachalaca-chachalaca” – gave them their local name.
One particular sight from that first trip stayed with me, beyond all others. I saw a large log, impossibly high above the river, in the fork of an enormous tree. So high up that there didn’t seem to be any way it could have gotten there, nor any earthly reason, why someone would have put it there. (Or how.)
"Well, Mi' Nancy, yu see, de flood lef it. I seen dis river go up bout sixty five feet inna de hurricane. Why yu tink de houses build so
high up, away from de waata?"
At the time, I could not comprehend, in my wildest imagination any flood that could rise to that height. Yet, not long after, with my own eyes, I would see that very phenomenon happen. In fact, I would see it go even higher -- and more than once.
Through the years, Dicky kept me safe, and my baby safe, a hundred times on that river. Occasionally, conditions would become perilous during the course of the journey itself, but never once did I doubt he would get me through. He could read that river like no one else, its every nuance and whim. Through Dicky, I learned the river's moods, its meandering passivity in the dry, and uncontained rage in the wet. I learned what it meant when the river "biled" (boiled) – a particular circular pattern of concentric circles, which enabled him to distinguish between local rain and great deluges might be taking place in the Chiquibul, leading to rapid and deadly flooding.
“Dis da local waata,” he would say. “Valley rain. Yu must watch fu wen di waata di bile. Dat mean di waata di kohn dong from di
mongtins. Dat da wen eh wa rayz up, an flod, fu tru. Dat da wa veri daynjaras ting.”
Dicky was immensely strong, almost super-human. His Macaw Bank neighbour, Onesimo Pot,* said he had gotten his strength as a young man with the Volunteer Guards, before the creation of BDF (Belize Defense Force) and from pulling and pushing his dory on the Macal since childhood. Many times I watched him pole against the torrents of the shallows – the "runs" of the river – keeping the bow pointed straight into the current, his whole body straining, the cords of his neck sticking out, muscles hard as purpleheart. One false move, in balance or direction, and the long dory would have turned broadside, and been swept downstream. We carried no life jackets, of course, and almost none of his other passengers knew how to swim. But, strong swimmers or not, we all would have died on the rocks, or drown in swift channels.
My first dory trip up the Macal with him had been the realization of a dream, in the most literal sense. I cannot logically explain why, or how, I had dreamed of this river in my youth, but I had. Many times. Flying dreams. And not just “a river," mind you, but “this river."
Soaring, with arms outstretched, I saw a recurring vision of a faraway land, as though through the eyes of an eagle. Effortlessly, I flew upward; the winds bore me high into the air. I knew this place. The landscape so familiar. I had been there many times. The sunlight glinting on the waters, the kingfishers skimming the surface, giant trees casting shadows, tarpon skirting mossy boulders half-submerged in the deep eddies.
In my mind’s eye, this secret green snake-of-a-river, threading its way northward through the cool shade of the forested banks, had been my refuge, the secret home of my heart. And now I had found that exact place. Again.
The river had taken my breath away. Its spirit had called me here. It calls me still. ❤️
There were no tourists in Belize in those days. So, it was as much of a novelty to Dicky as it was for me, to be able to point and explain the features of the river he had known all his life.
“Dat da de one de Maya call ‘ceiba.’ Ih very sof. We call it di cottonwood. De correc tree fu dory doan grow close to de riva. Wat
yu wan is de mahog’ny or de cedar trees wat grows inna de high bush. De wood is very haad. Dem trees haf to be, at leas', bout
six feet tru de centa, fu hav de big heartwood. Inna de old days dey use mules fu drag de tree. Now-days yu get wa fren wit a
tracta fu drag it close by de riva. Den yu cut away all de sof sapwood from round de outside wit de chainsaw, if yu got one, so
oanli de haad heartwood lef. Den yu dig out de centa wit de tool called de ‘adze.’ Yu use fyah too, fu burn it mo betta, den dig ih
out mo. Ih tek wa lang time fu mek it, an yu mus be careful when yu dig it out. Ih haf to be jus right pon the battam corve, an de
pint correc, or de dory wa drag sideway inna de waata."
The dory pushed through the smooth water that parted in a gentle rush. Orange-footed wood-rails darted in the underbrush, wild fig fruits plopped softly into still pools along the edge, and the call of Central American brown jays – whose cry of “chachalaca-chachalaca” – gave them their local name.
One particular sight from that first trip stayed with me, beyond all others. I saw a large log, impossibly high above the river, in the fork of an enormous tree. So high up that there didn’t seem to be any way it could have gotten there, nor any earthly reason, why someone would have put it there. (Or how.)
"Well, Mi' Nancy, yu see, de flood lef it. I seen dis river go up bout sixty five feet inna de hurricane. Why yu tink de houses build so
high up, away from de waata?"
At the time, I could not comprehend, in my wildest imagination any flood that could rise to that height. Yet, not long after, with my own eyes, I would see that very phenomenon happen. In fact, I would see it go even higher -- and more than once.
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Dicky’s dark-brown eyes reflected experience and wisdom, calm and acceptance – yet also, humour and sadness. I remember those eyes. Like the river, Dicky was deep. We would talk. He told me stories of the river, people, and the spirits of the forest. He would come to our house sometimes, and I would cook for him. He told me he had never married, but once had a common-law wife, who passed away, and also a son who had died in his twenties. These references were brief and dispassionate. Besides his brother, Poli, (who had married Onesimo’s sister, Isobel) there were three other brothers, Reginald, Carlton, Thomas, and his two sisters, Hortense and Rosie. No one messed with Dicky; nobody dared. Dicky died in Esperanza in his late eighties. As a pastor and lifetime friend, Onesimo was called to be with him when he was dying. For a week, his body was ready to give up, but his spirit would not let go. The funeral took place at the San Ignacio Church of the Nazarene, and the appropriate tribute given in Spanish. Gavilán del Aire, Tiburón del río, Rey de Macaw Benque Hawk of the Air, Shark of the River, King of Macaw Bank Rest in peace, Your Highness. 👑❤️ |
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