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(04/03/23)
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Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer
Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2023 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
"Tea & Carvings with Her Majesty's Forces"
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The invitation to visit Airport Camp from helicopter pilot, Captain Tony Martin, of the Worcestershire and Sherwood Foresters Regiment, was the beginning of a beautiful cultural and financially relationship with the Brits. Arriving in the Officer’s Mess was an odd combination of bustle, noisy laughter, and drinking, yet it was combined with utmost courtesy, deference, and proper British etiquette. After having lived “back-a-bush” in the quiet of Mother Nature for over two years, the abrupt contrast to such a rich social environment was overwhelming.
It was cocktail hour, well before dinner, and the side table was laden with tea, scones, and biscuits, as well as a full bar, stocked with beer and wine, and mixed drinks. At least 50 men gathered around me, lieutenants (pronounced “left-tenants”), captains, and lieutenant colonels flocked around me, all jostling for position and vying for my attention. Good grief. I felt like Scarlett O’Hara surrounded by her dozens of beaus at the Twelve Oaks Barbeque. And their questions came all at once. |
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“So, you have cows, do you?” one officer asked, in a nasally-British accent that made him sound like Alec Guinness in Bridge on the River Kwai.
“What makes an American girl like yourself come to a place like Belize?” asked another, with genuine interest.
“Back off, you rogues,“ Captain Tony Martin commanded, as he elbowed his way through the cluster of officers. “I saw her first, and she is MY guest.“ He laughed, then stood at attention in front of me, saluted, bent stiffly from the waist, and formally kissed the back of my hand.
“At ease, Captain,” I said, laughing in turn, with a mock return salute. “Thank you for inviting me. Everybody has been so kind. All the men are so accommodating.”
Well, of course they were accommodating. I was a WOMAN. Although I was tempted to think that I was maybe all-that-special, the fact was that this was an all-male environment – so at Airport Camp, and in a skirt, I was a rare and endangered species. Women of any age, any nationality, any color, or any ethnic background provided them infrequent and extraordinary distraction. Plus, I had come bearing gifts. Not from gifts from me, but gifts for them to buy as souvenirs, to take back to U.K.
It must be remembered that this was an era long before even the first inklings of tourism. At that time, the Belize mainland had nothing whatsoever to offer in the way of artistic handicrafts. Only on Ambergris Caye were there one or two tiny shops featuring craftsmen who had begun to work with black coral, making it into beads and carved sea creatures. I had taken Captain Tony’s advice, and had gone to San Pedro and bought additional black coral as raw material. My first carvings were crude and – compared to the works-of-art I would carve in later years – in retrospect, they are an embarrassment. But, such is the nature of progress.
“This little black coral dolphin is jolly brilliant,” a handsome red-headed flight lieutenant inquired, politely. “How much are you asking?”
Since the soldiers didn’t use U.S. currency (which would have been easy to determine at the always-and-forever two-to-one ratio to BH dollars) British Pound Sterling constantly changing in value, I would learn to carry a small calculator on future trips. (And yes, it WAS still “BH” dollars back then; BZE dollars didn’t start to come into play until Belizean Independence in 1981.)
Through the next few years, my visits to Airport Camp played a vital role in improving our lives. Her Majesty’s Forces had long required a certain amount of jungle training for Her troops. So, through the cyclical six-month tours of each regiment, I got to know not only the Worcestershire and Sherwood Foresters, but also the Welsh Guards, the Royal Irish Rangers, the Cheshire Regiment, the Queen’s Own Highlanders (with their bagpipes), and the Black Watch. The men under QE2 were many and varied: they were ordnance men, engineers, bomb squads, Army Air Corps with their little Gazelle and Scout helicopters, and even the Gurkhas. I got to know many of Her Majesty’s Air Forces, the Puma helicopter pilots and their ground crew, and became friends with several Harrier jet pilots. Once, I was invited for tea in the private residence of the Brigadier General and his wife.
Twice, I had dinner with the Officers. The company was great, but the food was terrible, and would have taken my Belizean rice-and-beans-and-stew-chicken over their Beef Wellington, limp overcooked vegetables, and disgusting steak-and-kidney pies any day. (Yuck! Gross.)
Sometimes, I visited the Sergeant’s Mess as well. They, too, were enthusiastic about my carvings, and also became my customers. On one occasion, I was even given a special tour on one of Her Majesty’s Navy ships off the coast of Belize, motored over by small transport craft. That was a singular treat, although in retrospect, I regretted wearing a dress that particular day. I hadn’t anticipated how many grinning sailors would linger at the bottom of each of the ship’s ladders, whenever I went up or down to another deck, trying (and succeeding) in getting a quick glimpse of extra leg.
Although black coral was in vogue with the soldiers, I never liked carving it. The raw coral was splintery and unstable. And because it grew in rings – in layers – like a tree, it was as frustrating as carving an onion. If I went a little too deep, one of the layers would suddenly fly off across the room. Black coral was also environmentally unfriendly, as it was found in the ocean only starting at depths of 150 feet – well-beyond the limits of safe scuba. Only the more radical divers, using a special mix in their tanks would dive for it, and had to allow for prolonged decompression stops on the way back to the surface. Eventually, black coral was declared endangered, and all commercial use was prohibited.
But that was actually fine with me. I much preferred using small scraps of rosewood burl and other Belizean hardwoods, which didn’t require trips to San Pedro, and were free, easily obtained from Johnny Roberson’s sawmill on the Western highway. Rosewood was a comparative delight to carve, having none of the bad habits of black coral. So the soldiers bought my rosewood pendants, beads, and carvings instead, and took them take back to their sweethearts in the U.K.
Although I no longer make rosewood jewelry, as seen here, I have continued to create various rosewood burl works-of-art, on the side, here and there, throughout the last 40 years, having advanced greatly in overall professionalism. My current genre is tiny musical instruments, about 6” tall. Since they are carvings, and don’t actually “play,” I (humorously) call the collection “No Strings Attached.”
The first question is always, “Wow, how long did it take you to make something like that?” To this, I have no reply, as it is immaterial to me. Carving is meditation and relaxation, and I work on the piece until it speaks to me, and lets me know it is finished. It is the creative process itself that I love.
And it all started with a British Army helicopter, and a cardboard sign with the letter “T.”
“What makes an American girl like yourself come to a place like Belize?” asked another, with genuine interest.
“Back off, you rogues,“ Captain Tony Martin commanded, as he elbowed his way through the cluster of officers. “I saw her first, and she is MY guest.“ He laughed, then stood at attention in front of me, saluted, bent stiffly from the waist, and formally kissed the back of my hand.
“At ease, Captain,” I said, laughing in turn, with a mock return salute. “Thank you for inviting me. Everybody has been so kind. All the men are so accommodating.”
Well, of course they were accommodating. I was a WOMAN. Although I was tempted to think that I was maybe all-that-special, the fact was that this was an all-male environment – so at Airport Camp, and in a skirt, I was a rare and endangered species. Women of any age, any nationality, any color, or any ethnic background provided them infrequent and extraordinary distraction. Plus, I had come bearing gifts. Not from gifts from me, but gifts for them to buy as souvenirs, to take back to U.K.
It must be remembered that this was an era long before even the first inklings of tourism. At that time, the Belize mainland had nothing whatsoever to offer in the way of artistic handicrafts. Only on Ambergris Caye were there one or two tiny shops featuring craftsmen who had begun to work with black coral, making it into beads and carved sea creatures. I had taken Captain Tony’s advice, and had gone to San Pedro and bought additional black coral as raw material. My first carvings were crude and – compared to the works-of-art I would carve in later years – in retrospect, they are an embarrassment. But, such is the nature of progress.
“This little black coral dolphin is jolly brilliant,” a handsome red-headed flight lieutenant inquired, politely. “How much are you asking?”
Since the soldiers didn’t use U.S. currency (which would have been easy to determine at the always-and-forever two-to-one ratio to BH dollars) British Pound Sterling constantly changing in value, I would learn to carry a small calculator on future trips. (And yes, it WAS still “BH” dollars back then; BZE dollars didn’t start to come into play until Belizean Independence in 1981.)
Through the next few years, my visits to Airport Camp played a vital role in improving our lives. Her Majesty’s Forces had long required a certain amount of jungle training for Her troops. So, through the cyclical six-month tours of each regiment, I got to know not only the Worcestershire and Sherwood Foresters, but also the Welsh Guards, the Royal Irish Rangers, the Cheshire Regiment, the Queen’s Own Highlanders (with their bagpipes), and the Black Watch. The men under QE2 were many and varied: they were ordnance men, engineers, bomb squads, Army Air Corps with their little Gazelle and Scout helicopters, and even the Gurkhas. I got to know many of Her Majesty’s Air Forces, the Puma helicopter pilots and their ground crew, and became friends with several Harrier jet pilots. Once, I was invited for tea in the private residence of the Brigadier General and his wife.
Twice, I had dinner with the Officers. The company was great, but the food was terrible, and would have taken my Belizean rice-and-beans-and-stew-chicken over their Beef Wellington, limp overcooked vegetables, and disgusting steak-and-kidney pies any day. (Yuck! Gross.)
Sometimes, I visited the Sergeant’s Mess as well. They, too, were enthusiastic about my carvings, and also became my customers. On one occasion, I was even given a special tour on one of Her Majesty’s Navy ships off the coast of Belize, motored over by small transport craft. That was a singular treat, although in retrospect, I regretted wearing a dress that particular day. I hadn’t anticipated how many grinning sailors would linger at the bottom of each of the ship’s ladders, whenever I went up or down to another deck, trying (and succeeding) in getting a quick glimpse of extra leg.
Although black coral was in vogue with the soldiers, I never liked carving it. The raw coral was splintery and unstable. And because it grew in rings – in layers – like a tree, it was as frustrating as carving an onion. If I went a little too deep, one of the layers would suddenly fly off across the room. Black coral was also environmentally unfriendly, as it was found in the ocean only starting at depths of 150 feet – well-beyond the limits of safe scuba. Only the more radical divers, using a special mix in their tanks would dive for it, and had to allow for prolonged decompression stops on the way back to the surface. Eventually, black coral was declared endangered, and all commercial use was prohibited.
But that was actually fine with me. I much preferred using small scraps of rosewood burl and other Belizean hardwoods, which didn’t require trips to San Pedro, and were free, easily obtained from Johnny Roberson’s sawmill on the Western highway. Rosewood was a comparative delight to carve, having none of the bad habits of black coral. So the soldiers bought my rosewood pendants, beads, and carvings instead, and took them take back to their sweethearts in the U.K.
Although I no longer make rosewood jewelry, as seen here, I have continued to create various rosewood burl works-of-art, on the side, here and there, throughout the last 40 years, having advanced greatly in overall professionalism. My current genre is tiny musical instruments, about 6” tall. Since they are carvings, and don’t actually “play,” I (humorously) call the collection “No Strings Attached.”
The first question is always, “Wow, how long did it take you to make something like that?” To this, I have no reply, as it is immaterial to me. Carving is meditation and relaxation, and I work on the piece until it speaks to me, and lets me know it is finished. It is the creative process itself that I love.
And it all started with a British Army helicopter, and a cardboard sign with the letter “T.”