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(05/08/23)
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Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer
Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2023 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
"Hurricane Greta - Part 2 - Swallowed"
RECIPE:
- Take sky, land, and water, and put in blender.
- Blend at 120-140 miles per hour for 6 or 7 hours,
- Pour 6,000,000 billion gallons of brown slurry on the slopes of the mountains.
- Observe for 72 hours, and allow to settle
- Watch it inundate your world, and destroy everything in its path.
- Take sky, land, and water, and put in blender.
- Blend at 120-140 miles per hour for 6 or 7 hours,
- Pour 6,000,000 billion gallons of brown slurry on the slopes of the mountains.
- Observe for 72 hours, and allow to settle
- Watch it inundate your world, and destroy everything in its path.
The thatched hut for the chickens and goats still stood, but half the thatching was gone and two of the walls were sagging badly. The goats were unharmed, although highly-insulted at having been soaked to the skin. Some of the chickens were missing, and all the guinea fowl, and hens that had not been blown away looked wet and bedraggled in sodden heaps. In the darkness of the tempest the night before, the outhouse roof had been flung into the trees, as well as its collapsed walls. Only the wooden box seat, with the hole cut in the top, stood alone in the yard, and naked to the sky.
The custard apple tree was gone. Once towering over sixty feet tall, the enormous tree had born the sweetest pink anona fruit in the valley. Now it lay on the ground in tangled confusion. Worse yet, it had fallen right on top of our largest lime tree, as well as having crushed the huge stretch of new fencing we’d just constructed.
Everywhere was awesome destruction. The high bush was mangled and crushed, looking like it had been chewed up and spat out by dinosaurs. Smaller bush was flattened to the ground. Branches and limbs, leaves and palm fronds trashed every mountainside. Huge trees, snapped in half, lay on the ground next to their white splintered stumps, the air redolent with the resinous sap that bled from their open wounds…
But, somehow, our house had survived. Upon closer inspection, one corner of the tin roof was curled upward; the nails pulled out completely. It wouldn’t have held more than a few more minutes when the hurricane had begun to abate. One wooden shutter and its glass window beneath had been smashed by an enormous tree limb, and many household items had gotten wet. But all in all, we were lucky. Although shaken, we were all alive and well. Nobody had been injured.
My husband’s first reaction was that he must get to the river immediately. NO. I knew better, I argued. It wasn’t over – just because the winds were gone, and the rain had stopped. The valley was awash. Flash floods would rush forward, a wall of water, surging overtop of the already turbulent waters. I had spent much time learning about the river from Dicky Simpson.It would take days for the river to even stop rising, let alone begin to subside. But, then again, the piston pump was the single most important piece of machinery on the property. Without it, we could not live at Alta Vista – not without being able to pull river water to the top.
There was no stopping him. I knew that. He said he was just going for a quick look, to assess damage so we could plan our next move. He took the machete to clear whatever bush would now be blocking the path. Four times he had to chop through fallen bush on what used to be a path. The mud, mixed with wet leaves, mosses, rocks, clay, and loose gravel made for a deadly combination. He slipped once and fell painfully, bruising his buttocks and thighs. Then, only two-thirds of the way down to the bottom of the valley, there it was – the roaring river, suddenly at his feet. The ground rumbled like an earthquake; the water crashed and pounded like thunder. He gasped in awe. The pump house was gone. The flood had consumed it. He took a bearing on a few recognizable landmarks, and tried to estimate where it might be – if it still existed at all. He took a long stick, and probed the filthy brown water, at last finding a corner of the roof.
Back at the house, meanwhile, I paced nervously in the yard, listening for the baby with one ear, and for his return with the other. It crossed my mind – what if he simply failed to return altogether? It could happen. Sometimes people just disappeared into the bush. Finally, he re-emerged from the footpath, brown with mud from head-to-foot, and gave me an update. He went straight to the storage room, and grabbed a length of rope, some bolt cutters, and a few other tools, and prepared to head back down the mountain. I knew what was coming next: he would ask me to go with him.
He faced me, and I met his gaze. It was terrible. I felt sick. But I knew what had to be done. Our little son had just fallen asleep, after having been awake throughout the most terrifying night of his young life. Exhausted, he should sleep for hours. But now my husband was proposing that we gamble on that, because he would need me to go with him. He could not carry the pump alone. Here was our baby – the most important soul in our universe – and we would have to leave him unattended, asleep on the hill, alone in the house, at age 3 – while his father and mother would be battling the monster deluge in a fight to recapture the water pump. Pump = survival. We had to chance it.
The details are hazy now, as I try to recollect this scene, or maybe I just don’t want to. It haunts me still. My baby was asleep, alone, and unprotected on the mountaintop after a violent hurricane. What if WE simply failed to return altogether? Suddenly, I had a horrifying vision of him waking up, and being afraid. He would wander around, and head some direction: either into the bush, into Polo’s pasture, or down the Macaw Bank road, looking for us. He would be hungry, and crying “Mama.” He would fall in deep mud, get bitten by bugs, get up, cry some more, and fall again. All the while, I could imagine a large “mama” jaguar lurking nearby, a big cat who knew the hurricane had just leveled the playing field…
Hiking and sliding down the hill, we were only two-thirds of the way down when we came to the water’s edge. This was incomprehensible. Normally, the footpath “down to the river” went on for another 80 feet or so. Shocked, I had stopped dead in my tracks. However, my husband didn’t hesitate. He tied one end of the rope to a nearby tree and, with the other, tied a fixed loop around his chest. He tried to dive, but was hindered by his own natural buoyancy. Also, the powerful current roared just a few feet away, and he had to stay in the eddy, the curling little backflow current. It took many attempts to locate the pump house door, and several more to get the key into the lock while underwater. Pushing his lungs beyond capacity, he’d nearly drowned trying to get the door open. But his focus was that the pump simply must be rescued. With an almost superhuman-strength born-of-necessity, he finally wrestled the pump to the edge of the water, where I was able to make a timely assist, and help him drag it up to small perch up the path where we could catch our breath. Then we started lifting and dragging, lifting and dragging. Again, all I could think of was my baby, up at the house, possibly waking up without anyone there.
Getting that waterlogged piston pump up the muddy hillside was one of the most profound physical efforts I had ever made in my life. (At least, up until then. 😉) The path was steep and narrow. Several times one of us stumbled and almost fell off the gradient. On one hairpin turn, my husband slipped and went down hard with the pump in front of him. It hit a large rock on the edge of path, and when his face collided with the iron pump, it knocked out the middle of his two front teeth. I tried not to react, but from my perspective, it added a surreal element of visual horror – to see his face like that, broken and bleeding. Yet, he barely reacted, physically or emotionally, as there was no time. This was life-or-death. Together, we were strong-in-crisis, and now running on pure adrenaline. We were in battlefield mode, ready to execute the crusade, and get-the-hell back to the castle.
Cresting the hill, and into the clearing, there were only our grunts, laboring to carry that (confounded) life-giving water machine. No cries came from inside the house. OK. That was good. But, with my heart in my throat, I still needed to see him. I went up the back steps, and peeked into the bedroom.
Despite all the storm and destruction outside, despite the fact that our external jungle world had been put in a blender, my baby son was still blissfully asleep, and safe.
At least for the moment…
The custard apple tree was gone. Once towering over sixty feet tall, the enormous tree had born the sweetest pink anona fruit in the valley. Now it lay on the ground in tangled confusion. Worse yet, it had fallen right on top of our largest lime tree, as well as having crushed the huge stretch of new fencing we’d just constructed.
Everywhere was awesome destruction. The high bush was mangled and crushed, looking like it had been chewed up and spat out by dinosaurs. Smaller bush was flattened to the ground. Branches and limbs, leaves and palm fronds trashed every mountainside. Huge trees, snapped in half, lay on the ground next to their white splintered stumps, the air redolent with the resinous sap that bled from their open wounds…
But, somehow, our house had survived. Upon closer inspection, one corner of the tin roof was curled upward; the nails pulled out completely. It wouldn’t have held more than a few more minutes when the hurricane had begun to abate. One wooden shutter and its glass window beneath had been smashed by an enormous tree limb, and many household items had gotten wet. But all in all, we were lucky. Although shaken, we were all alive and well. Nobody had been injured.
My husband’s first reaction was that he must get to the river immediately. NO. I knew better, I argued. It wasn’t over – just because the winds were gone, and the rain had stopped. The valley was awash. Flash floods would rush forward, a wall of water, surging overtop of the already turbulent waters. I had spent much time learning about the river from Dicky Simpson.It would take days for the river to even stop rising, let alone begin to subside. But, then again, the piston pump was the single most important piece of machinery on the property. Without it, we could not live at Alta Vista – not without being able to pull river water to the top.
There was no stopping him. I knew that. He said he was just going for a quick look, to assess damage so we could plan our next move. He took the machete to clear whatever bush would now be blocking the path. Four times he had to chop through fallen bush on what used to be a path. The mud, mixed with wet leaves, mosses, rocks, clay, and loose gravel made for a deadly combination. He slipped once and fell painfully, bruising his buttocks and thighs. Then, only two-thirds of the way down to the bottom of the valley, there it was – the roaring river, suddenly at his feet. The ground rumbled like an earthquake; the water crashed and pounded like thunder. He gasped in awe. The pump house was gone. The flood had consumed it. He took a bearing on a few recognizable landmarks, and tried to estimate where it might be – if it still existed at all. He took a long stick, and probed the filthy brown water, at last finding a corner of the roof.
Back at the house, meanwhile, I paced nervously in the yard, listening for the baby with one ear, and for his return with the other. It crossed my mind – what if he simply failed to return altogether? It could happen. Sometimes people just disappeared into the bush. Finally, he re-emerged from the footpath, brown with mud from head-to-foot, and gave me an update. He went straight to the storage room, and grabbed a length of rope, some bolt cutters, and a few other tools, and prepared to head back down the mountain. I knew what was coming next: he would ask me to go with him.
He faced me, and I met his gaze. It was terrible. I felt sick. But I knew what had to be done. Our little son had just fallen asleep, after having been awake throughout the most terrifying night of his young life. Exhausted, he should sleep for hours. But now my husband was proposing that we gamble on that, because he would need me to go with him. He could not carry the pump alone. Here was our baby – the most important soul in our universe – and we would have to leave him unattended, asleep on the hill, alone in the house, at age 3 – while his father and mother would be battling the monster deluge in a fight to recapture the water pump. Pump = survival. We had to chance it.
The details are hazy now, as I try to recollect this scene, or maybe I just don’t want to. It haunts me still. My baby was asleep, alone, and unprotected on the mountaintop after a violent hurricane. What if WE simply failed to return altogether? Suddenly, I had a horrifying vision of him waking up, and being afraid. He would wander around, and head some direction: either into the bush, into Polo’s pasture, or down the Macaw Bank road, looking for us. He would be hungry, and crying “Mama.” He would fall in deep mud, get bitten by bugs, get up, cry some more, and fall again. All the while, I could imagine a large “mama” jaguar lurking nearby, a big cat who knew the hurricane had just leveled the playing field…
Hiking and sliding down the hill, we were only two-thirds of the way down when we came to the water’s edge. This was incomprehensible. Normally, the footpath “down to the river” went on for another 80 feet or so. Shocked, I had stopped dead in my tracks. However, my husband didn’t hesitate. He tied one end of the rope to a nearby tree and, with the other, tied a fixed loop around his chest. He tried to dive, but was hindered by his own natural buoyancy. Also, the powerful current roared just a few feet away, and he had to stay in the eddy, the curling little backflow current. It took many attempts to locate the pump house door, and several more to get the key into the lock while underwater. Pushing his lungs beyond capacity, he’d nearly drowned trying to get the door open. But his focus was that the pump simply must be rescued. With an almost superhuman-strength born-of-necessity, he finally wrestled the pump to the edge of the water, where I was able to make a timely assist, and help him drag it up to small perch up the path where we could catch our breath. Then we started lifting and dragging, lifting and dragging. Again, all I could think of was my baby, up at the house, possibly waking up without anyone there.
Getting that waterlogged piston pump up the muddy hillside was one of the most profound physical efforts I had ever made in my life. (At least, up until then. 😉) The path was steep and narrow. Several times one of us stumbled and almost fell off the gradient. On one hairpin turn, my husband slipped and went down hard with the pump in front of him. It hit a large rock on the edge of path, and when his face collided with the iron pump, it knocked out the middle of his two front teeth. I tried not to react, but from my perspective, it added a surreal element of visual horror – to see his face like that, broken and bleeding. Yet, he barely reacted, physically or emotionally, as there was no time. This was life-or-death. Together, we were strong-in-crisis, and now running on pure adrenaline. We were in battlefield mode, ready to execute the crusade, and get-the-hell back to the castle.
Cresting the hill, and into the clearing, there were only our grunts, laboring to carry that (confounded) life-giving water machine. No cries came from inside the house. OK. That was good. But, with my heart in my throat, I still needed to see him. I went up the back steps, and peeked into the bedroom.
Despite all the storm and destruction outside, despite the fact that our external jungle world had been put in a blender, my baby son was still blissfully asleep, and safe.
At least for the moment…