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(03/20/23)
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Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer
Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2023 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
"Secrets of the Crocus Bag"
Unlike Cristo Rey, Macaw Bank wasn’t truly a “village.” It was more of a hodge-podge of a few houses, scattered across the last fertile valley of the Upper Macal before it narrowed into the unnavigable whitewater canyons of the Maya Mountains. Therefore, there were many locals I had never met. So, when I saw a small Maya man standing respectfully of our gate at Alta Vista, I didn’t know who he was. My husband went up to the gate, spoke with him, and then led him towards the house. The man seemed friendly enough, but also somewhat agitated. Approaching the front steps, he greeted me politely, removed his hat, and tried to compose his words.
"Buenos dias, Señora” he said, haltingly. “I mi got someting fu show yu."
“Igualmente, Señor. Muy bien,” I responded. “Que tiene?”
I had then actually expected him to show me a nasty jungle sore, or machete wound that required first aid. It was not unusual that local Belizeans automatically assumed I was a nurse, just because I was a white woman. And, indeed, I had already bandaged up a few, before sending them on to Don Elijio.
But, this time it wasn't anything medical; the man just seemed heavily preoccupied. He started to speak a second time, then stopped. He fidgeted, shifting his weight from side to side. He glanced into the bush beside the house, started to speak again, and then changed his mind. I reminded myself to be patient, that I was in a different culture. I waited.
"Well, really, I noh have it here,” he finally said.
“OK. Well, where is it then?” I maintained a very kind tone, and smiled. “I can’t see it if you don’t have it.”
He raised his left hand slightly, gesturing vaguely towards Macaw Bank.
"All right, then. Maybe next time?” I replied, not knowing what else to say. Weird. I was confused. This wasn’t adding up.
"Well, really, mi bredder have it.
“OK, so where’s your brother?”
He’s inna de bush." In a typical Belizean gesture, the man raised his head, and pointed with his chin and pursed lips.
"So, tell him to come in." (Yikes. Like pulling teeth, I thought.)
By now the man was sweating profusely, and not just from the increasing morning heat. I heard a slight rustling, and saw a second man emerging from the bush alongside the house. Apparently, he had been hiding there all along. A crocus bag was slung over his shoulder.
Now, I was hovering somewhere between annoyance and discomfort. My husband gave me a slight nod, indicating there was no worry; we would let the scene play out. Invited into the house, the two men entered, so cautiously, and we could not imagine why. Here we were, eight miles from San Ignacio, and a full mile away from even the closest neighbour. The second brother lifted the heavy crocus bag and set it on my kitchen table. Then he stood back, like an overseer keeping an eye on things; I assumed he didn’t speak English.
The first man took over. He removed three separate parcels from the bag, and began unwrapping one. The first bundle revealed a figurine, carved of black stone – a sort of half-human, half-beast, huddled in a crouching position. Because I’d had no previous idea what had been in the bag, it took me a few seconds to realize what I was starting at – a genuine Mayan artifact. The piece was badly scratched, and not particularly pleasing to the eye, other than the fact of its ancient origin. Nevertheless, I was intrigued, having always been a history buff.
Next, he opened up a smaller bundle. This time it yielded a handful of Mayan beads. They were unstrung and mismatched, varying in size, shape, and color. Two were tiny figurines, and several were flared convex pieces in black stone, with a pea-sized hole in the middle. I recognized them as ear ornaments, designed to receive another small cylindrical piece that would fit through the back of the ear, like a plug, to hold the piece in place. They were all authentic.
Now, I had started to sweat as well. I could feel my heartrate increase, and I was almost afraid to see what was next. My eyes widened as the man opened the third parcel, and a green stone came into view. I inhaled sharply.
There, on the rickety wooden table before us – in our clapboard shack of a house with a tin roof, out in the middle of the Belizean bush – lay a fabulous life-size mask of green jade. It was about eight inches long, five inches wide, and almost three inches thick, carved in the likeness of a warrior or a god. The long prominent nose jutted out below the sloping forehead and stylized headdress of stone feathers, and the impassive face, with its almond-shaped eyes, confirmed its nobility. No doubt, it was a grand visage of royalty or a deity – now venerated in stone. This piece must have been five hundred to eight hundred years old, I thought, but it was in amazing condition. I picked up the mask, and turned it over in my hands. Absolutely breathless.
"Yu wan buy dese Maya tings?" the man asked simply.
I couldn’t even talk. Neither could my husband. "How much?" he finally choked out, after a significant pause.
The one brother looked at the other and they nodded.
"Three hundred dollahs, BH.”
"Each?"
"No. Fu everyting."
My legs had practically turned to rubber, and I had to hold on to the table to keep from falling. My husband and I exchange a look. Given the exchange rate, these men wanted fifty U.S. dollars apiece for these priceless Mayan artifacts.
What could we say? At this point, our young family now lived on the edge of poverty ourselves. The Alta Vista property, and the positive displacement piston pump we’d needed to bring water from the river, two hundred feet below, had exhausted all resources in our modest financial nest-egg. The vegetable garden was still young; as yet, it had produced nothing. Yes, we had enough to eat -- fruits, rice-and-beans, eggs, and tortillas. We were able to buy enough gas for the old Toyota “Franken-cruiser,”but no more. Once a month, we might splurge on either peanut butter (imported from Canada), or jelly (imported from U.S.) but could never afford both at the same time. Our only dessert was cold rice with brown sugar.
There was no way. We couldn’t involve ourselves in illegal trade in Mayan treasures, and wouldn’t have done so anyway. No wonder the brothers had been so frightened. Woe to those who disregarded the International Illegal Antiquities Act of 1906. Nope. Wasn’t going to happen.
I never did ask the men’s names, and I intentionally did not commit their faces to memory. I didn’t want to know. We were now part of the Belizean culture of the river people – no better off than the poor villagers who were offering us priceless antiquities. My husband and I thanked the two men, wished them well, and sent them on their way.
But I could not help staring at the bulging weight in the crocus bag, as they politely closed the gate behind them.
"Buenos dias, Señora” he said, haltingly. “I mi got someting fu show yu."
“Igualmente, Señor. Muy bien,” I responded. “Que tiene?”
I had then actually expected him to show me a nasty jungle sore, or machete wound that required first aid. It was not unusual that local Belizeans automatically assumed I was a nurse, just because I was a white woman. And, indeed, I had already bandaged up a few, before sending them on to Don Elijio.
But, this time it wasn't anything medical; the man just seemed heavily preoccupied. He started to speak a second time, then stopped. He fidgeted, shifting his weight from side to side. He glanced into the bush beside the house, started to speak again, and then changed his mind. I reminded myself to be patient, that I was in a different culture. I waited.
"Well, really, I noh have it here,” he finally said.
“OK. Well, where is it then?” I maintained a very kind tone, and smiled. “I can’t see it if you don’t have it.”
He raised his left hand slightly, gesturing vaguely towards Macaw Bank.
"All right, then. Maybe next time?” I replied, not knowing what else to say. Weird. I was confused. This wasn’t adding up.
"Well, really, mi bredder have it.
“OK, so where’s your brother?”
He’s inna de bush." In a typical Belizean gesture, the man raised his head, and pointed with his chin and pursed lips.
"So, tell him to come in." (Yikes. Like pulling teeth, I thought.)
By now the man was sweating profusely, and not just from the increasing morning heat. I heard a slight rustling, and saw a second man emerging from the bush alongside the house. Apparently, he had been hiding there all along. A crocus bag was slung over his shoulder.
Now, I was hovering somewhere between annoyance and discomfort. My husband gave me a slight nod, indicating there was no worry; we would let the scene play out. Invited into the house, the two men entered, so cautiously, and we could not imagine why. Here we were, eight miles from San Ignacio, and a full mile away from even the closest neighbour. The second brother lifted the heavy crocus bag and set it on my kitchen table. Then he stood back, like an overseer keeping an eye on things; I assumed he didn’t speak English.
The first man took over. He removed three separate parcels from the bag, and began unwrapping one. The first bundle revealed a figurine, carved of black stone – a sort of half-human, half-beast, huddled in a crouching position. Because I’d had no previous idea what had been in the bag, it took me a few seconds to realize what I was starting at – a genuine Mayan artifact. The piece was badly scratched, and not particularly pleasing to the eye, other than the fact of its ancient origin. Nevertheless, I was intrigued, having always been a history buff.
Next, he opened up a smaller bundle. This time it yielded a handful of Mayan beads. They were unstrung and mismatched, varying in size, shape, and color. Two were tiny figurines, and several were flared convex pieces in black stone, with a pea-sized hole in the middle. I recognized them as ear ornaments, designed to receive another small cylindrical piece that would fit through the back of the ear, like a plug, to hold the piece in place. They were all authentic.
Now, I had started to sweat as well. I could feel my heartrate increase, and I was almost afraid to see what was next. My eyes widened as the man opened the third parcel, and a green stone came into view. I inhaled sharply.
There, on the rickety wooden table before us – in our clapboard shack of a house with a tin roof, out in the middle of the Belizean bush – lay a fabulous life-size mask of green jade. It was about eight inches long, five inches wide, and almost three inches thick, carved in the likeness of a warrior or a god. The long prominent nose jutted out below the sloping forehead and stylized headdress of stone feathers, and the impassive face, with its almond-shaped eyes, confirmed its nobility. No doubt, it was a grand visage of royalty or a deity – now venerated in stone. This piece must have been five hundred to eight hundred years old, I thought, but it was in amazing condition. I picked up the mask, and turned it over in my hands. Absolutely breathless.
"Yu wan buy dese Maya tings?" the man asked simply.
I couldn’t even talk. Neither could my husband. "How much?" he finally choked out, after a significant pause.
The one brother looked at the other and they nodded.
"Three hundred dollahs, BH.”
"Each?"
"No. Fu everyting."
My legs had practically turned to rubber, and I had to hold on to the table to keep from falling. My husband and I exchange a look. Given the exchange rate, these men wanted fifty U.S. dollars apiece for these priceless Mayan artifacts.
What could we say? At this point, our young family now lived on the edge of poverty ourselves. The Alta Vista property, and the positive displacement piston pump we’d needed to bring water from the river, two hundred feet below, had exhausted all resources in our modest financial nest-egg. The vegetable garden was still young; as yet, it had produced nothing. Yes, we had enough to eat -- fruits, rice-and-beans, eggs, and tortillas. We were able to buy enough gas for the old Toyota “Franken-cruiser,”but no more. Once a month, we might splurge on either peanut butter (imported from Canada), or jelly (imported from U.S.) but could never afford both at the same time. Our only dessert was cold rice with brown sugar.
There was no way. We couldn’t involve ourselves in illegal trade in Mayan treasures, and wouldn’t have done so anyway. No wonder the brothers had been so frightened. Woe to those who disregarded the International Illegal Antiquities Act of 1906. Nope. Wasn’t going to happen.
I never did ask the men’s names, and I intentionally did not commit their faces to memory. I didn’t want to know. We were now part of the Belizean culture of the river people – no better off than the poor villagers who were offering us priceless antiquities. My husband and I thanked the two men, wished them well, and sent them on their way.
But I could not help staring at the bulging weight in the crocus bag, as they politely closed the gate behind them.