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(09/25/23)
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Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer
Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2023 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
"Hola, Hormiga Mia"
Back in the day, when the hippie-homesteaders lived close to the land, we all shared a Tarzan-movie-inspired fear about certain creatures in the forest – mostly jaguars and snakes. But we soon learned that jaguars would instantly flee the approach of a human, and almost all snakes greatly disliked human confrontation, with the exception of the tommygoff (a.k.a. fer-de-lance, barba amarillo, yellow jaw) who would gladly bite you with relish. (Or even without relish.)
Nope, it was the ants that would get you.
Nope, it was the ants that would get you.
Although I cannot hope to guess how many varieties of ant are actually in Belize, these are the ones with which I’d made habitual contact:
First, the super-tiny crazy ants I’d find on my kitchen counter. They’d be busily swarming over the few grains of sugar that had spilled from my spoon, on its way into my morning tea.
There were the fire ants, coloured rust-red and black. Upon contact with a human body, they would surreptitiously crawl under clothing, like spies, undetected – often as far as the waistline before sending out the pheromonal signal for everyone to bite in perfect unison. I have seen many a modest gringo strip to the skin, in front of numerous amused gawkers, unashamedly peeling off their clothes, slapping, and vociferously shouting, “Fire ants! Fire ants!” 🔥👺🐜😱
First, the super-tiny crazy ants I’d find on my kitchen counter. They’d be busily swarming over the few grains of sugar that had spilled from my spoon, on its way into my morning tea.
There were the fire ants, coloured rust-red and black. Upon contact with a human body, they would surreptitiously crawl under clothing, like spies, undetected – often as far as the waistline before sending out the pheromonal signal for everyone to bite in perfect unison. I have seen many a modest gringo strip to the skin, in front of numerous amused gawkers, unashamedly peeling off their clothes, slapping, and vociferously shouting, “Fire ants! Fire ants!” 🔥👺🐜😱
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In late May, or early June, the seasonal “winged ants” would arrive, which were actually not ants at all, but rather flying termites. This event always happened at night, just before the first big rain of the wet season, and thus these critters were harbingers of spring. These insects got to enjoy only one night of airborne freedom. They would cling to screens, drawn by the lamp light inside. The next day, there would be only ephemeral fluttering piles of long oval wings on the floor, the insects having already disappeared into the woodwork.
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Out in the high-bush were the cecropia ants, who lived exclusively in the hollow trunks of their eponymous tree. Also, the vicious cockspur ants, who inhabited the hollows of the equally vicious eponymous thorns. Many a stoopid gringo attempted to chop one of these formidable thorn trees with machete, only to have it shudder, and then rain biting ants onto the unsuspecting machete-wielding bare flesh below. All homesteader gringos did this at some point or other. But they only did it once.
Then there were the wee-wee ants, the leaf-cutters – jungle favorites -- who meticulously excised sizable pieces of leaves from preferred trees, and then paraded them down the trunks, and through the Belizean outback. Their millions of little ant-feet pounded the dust to create trails, often six inches wide, like miniature highways, which ran for miles before disappearing into the ants’ underground lairs. There, the wee-wees would compost the vegetation with just the right heat and moisture content, so as to grow an edible fungus, which was their food. Another type of underground ant, the coccid-tending ants, were dairy farmers, who propagated aphids, and then milked them for their “honeydew.”
Last, but not least, the stars of this particular episode – the audacious and inexorable army ants. Marching through the bush like a full battalion, the column could be a yard wide, or a quarter mile wide, invading the entire landscape like one of the plagues of Egypt. It appeared as an incomprehensible, seething, breathing, writhing, living carpet of tiny alien creatures, fixed on the single purpose of taking over Planet Earth. There was no denying the offensive, or deterring the force-of-nature. Beat the wall with a wooden spoon, shoo them away, and stamp your feet. Forget it. You might as well stand on the beach and yell at the rising tide.
When Mick and Lucy Fleming had arrived in 1976, they had no idea that their little homestead on the Macal would one-day become the world-famous Chaa Creek Cottages, and eventually grow into the world-renowned Lodge at Chaa Creek – Belize’s first, foremost, and finest bush resort. Whereas my family and I had lived on the high, rocky, eastern flank of the river near Macaw Bank, Mick and Lucy’s place was further downstream and on the western bank – a set of low, contoured emerald hills that made it one of the most beautiful properties on the river. That sloping pastureland had a way of catching the pure early-morning light, as sparkling drops of dew clung to the grasses, and the sun bathed the valley in a golden glow.
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To say their domicile wasn’t fancy would be an understatement. Mick and Lucy lived in a primitive, one-room thatched hut. Within a short time, they would build a more substantial wooden building with a metal roof right next to it. But they, like us, were still poor as church-mice. There was a bed, a butane stove, their clothes, cooking utensils, buckets, and some tools. Like all other gringos, they would have to start from scratch, and figure out just how they were going to make a living.
There were no tourists back then. Not even a hint of the tourism that wouldn’t start in earnest until the mid-1980’s – let alone the great diaspora which would flood the area |
in decades to come. Nevertheless, the occasional European back-packer would hear about Mick and Lucy’s place from someone in Cayo.
There were no tourists back then. Not even a hint of the tourism that wouldn’t start in earnest until the mid-1980’s – let alone the great diaspora which would flood the area in decades to come. Nevertheless, the occasional European back-packer would hear about Mick and Lucy’s place from someone in Cayo. They would suddenly arrive, uninvited, having gotten a ride upriver from one of the dorymen. They’d walk up the hill, introduce themselves, and beg for a place to stay. Mick and Lucy were sociable people and gracious hosts, and these visits would end up changing their lives.
There were no tourists back then. Not even a hint of the tourism that wouldn’t start in earnest until the mid-1980’s – let alone the great diaspora which would flood the area in decades to come. Nevertheless, the occasional European back-packer would hear about Mick and Lucy’s place from someone in Cayo. They would suddenly arrive, uninvited, having gotten a ride upriver from one of the dorymen. They’d walk up the hill, introduce themselves, and beg for a place to stay. Mick and Lucy were sociable people and gracious hosts, and these visits would end up changing their lives.
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Even though the European back-packers looked like paupers, and traveled with a paperback called, “Belize, On Five Dollars a Day,” many of them had monied families back in Germany or Switzerland. They would pay to simply pitch a tent on the riverbank, and then would contribute to cost of provisions. As word spread about the friendly British-American couple on the river throughout those early years, their hospitality slowly turned into a business. It had started slowly, and organically. Mick and Lucy got a generator and a pump to bring water from the river. They hired in some help, built a guest cabin, served food, and Mick served drinks. People ate, and drank, and swam in the river. Mick opened a bar. Guests stayed over, and came back again the following year. Money began to come in. First a trickle, then a stream. Another cabin was built. And then another. As time passed, Mick and Lucy found they could hardly keep up.
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(The young couple could not have possibly imagined that -- decades later -- Chaa Creek Lodge would be hosting Prince Harry and his retinue…)
Lucy still had the broom in one hand, and the dust pan in the other. She brushed a few sweaty strands of hair back away from her face, and answered the guests matter-of-factly:
“OK. Currently, we have one cabin without a door, and another cabin that has a swarm of army ants. But, don’t worry, they won’t bite unless you step on them, and they’ll pass through pretty quickly. Besides, it actually a good thing; they’ll chase away all the palmetto bugs and scorpions.”
The guests went a bit wild-eyed, looked at each other, and the wife answered quickly.
“We’ll take the one without the door.”
“OK. Currently, we have one cabin without a door, and another cabin that has a swarm of army ants. But, don’t worry, they won’t bite unless you step on them, and they’ll pass through pretty quickly. Besides, it actually a good thing; they’ll chase away all the palmetto bugs and scorpions.”
The guests went a bit wild-eyed, looked at each other, and the wife answered quickly.
“We’ll take the one without the door.”
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<<<PREVIOUS: CHAPTER SEVENTY
"...Or a Gunman" |
NEXT: CHAPTER: SEVENTY-THREE>>>
Coming Soon... |