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(12/05/22)
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Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer
Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2022 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER FORTY
"The History of Macaw Bank"
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It is early 1977. My husband, baby son, and I had arrived in Belize in January of the previous year, a couple of colorful hippie pioneers, naively looking for a tropical Eden. At first, we had rented a house from Mrs. Blackmore about five miles upstream, but now we were determined to buy our own little "piece of Belize.” As luck and fate would have it, Daniel Harris, son of doryman, Old Johnny Harris (see episode 24) had forty acres for sale, another three miles further upstream, near Macaw Bank.
In the early 20th century, and for previous untold millennia, Macaw Bank had lived up to its name. Alive with vast flocks of scarlet macaws, they made their cozy nests in the giant hollowed-out trees of the Guacamayo, and then migrated seasonally, over the Cockscomb Range, to their sister settlement with the eponymous name of Red Bank on the Swasey River in southern Stann Creek District. In order to fully envision the geographical and historical significance of Macaw Bank, we will embark on a virtual journey up the river system, starting on the coast. We teleport ourselves into the body of a blue-crested kingfisher, and see the panorama through its eyes. We start where the mouth of the Belize River pours into the waters of the Caribbean at Haulover Bridge, just a few miles north of Belize City. Although Belize is only 68 miles wide, the serpentine path of the river makes the journey by water closer to 180 miles. It winds its way past Burrell Boom, past Roaring Creek, up into the Cayo District, and |
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to Spanish Lookout. At Branch Mouth, the Belize River divides into the two primary tributaries: the Mopan River from Guatemala in the west, and the Macal from the mountains of the south. Turning left, we soon reach the town of San Ignacio. Beyond the majestic Hawkesworth Bridge, built by the British in 1949, we are captivated by the sight of one of the most spectacular river valleys in all of Central America—made all the more special because it provides eight miles of navigable waterway. Here, the dory men—those few old-timers from a previous era—still use paddle and pole in dugout canoes, to carry provisions and passengers to-and-from Macaw Bank, Cristo Rey, and San Ignacio.
Through the keen eyes of the kingfisher, we skim above the shallows, and then peer into deep glassy-green eddies. Giant tarpon, up to six feet long, thread their way in channels between huge submerged boulders. Wild fig, trumpet trees, tropical cedar, prickle yellow, bush bamboo, Santa Maria, bullet tree, and cohune palm are festooned with a riot of vines and lianas. Some climbing philodendrons have leaves so large, you could crouch behind one, and be totally hidden. Dusky gray-and-orange garobo, the large male iguanas, proudly display their macho splendour with an impressive crest of spikes along their spine. Along with the dull-green females, they sun themselves on low-hanging branches, and then plop noisily into the water at our approach.
At first, close to San Ignacio, the hillsides are low and rounded, dotted with the occasional small thatched house and vegetable garden, or a smal field of grey-green watermelons. There are fruit trees, chickens, pigs, cattle, and maybe a few goats on the slopes.
Now, the terrain gains elevation, and the hills rise to the ranks of low forested mountains. But each low savannah on one bank is countered on the opposite side by chaotic boulders and steep walls of rock. These cliffs are pockmarked with holes and small caves, inhabited only by bats and tiny swiftlets. Another curve in the river, and these geological features reverse sides. This is the nature of the river, the topography by which we can read its history. Almost without exception, one bank is savannah, low and receptive to the floods; the other side stands tall, rocky and defiant, refusing to submit to the raging waters of the wet season.
The former settlement of Macaw Bank signifies the terminus. It is the last fertile valley, the last savannah, and the last landing. Our kingfisher host comes to rest at the top of the towering ceiba tree—a lone monarch that rises majestically above the rainforest. This is where human habitation ends, and untamed wilderness begins. Beyond this point, the walls narrow and become sheer cliffs. We are in a deep canyon, a roaring chasm of tumbling white water.
In the old logging days, the Macal River had been the main artery for the transport of hundreds of thousands of harvested mahogany trees, rosewood, and other tropical hardwoods. It was here at Macaw Bank on the eastern bank, that the mule teams had dragged the great logs into these birthwaters, and would float them downstream to Branch Mouth, Burrell Boom, Belize City, and on to the markets of the world.
But now, of course, the mahogany trade was long-gone from the valley. The old-timers of the upper Macal still told stories of the danger and adventure of the logging camps, and the collecting of chicle in the high-bush. These same men, with names like Simpson, Harris, Green, Waight, and De la Fuente, now owned the enriched bottom-land farms of Macaw Bank—fertile productive lands, fed by the abundant nutrients of seasonal floods.
Soon to belong to us, the river property, casually named “Alta Vista” (High View) by Daniel Harris, was not ideal by any stretch of the imagination. Located on the eastern side, a mile downstream from Macaw Bank, it was located on the high-and-dry top of the escarpment. A perilous path. 200 feet high, and 400 feet distant connected the river to a rickety frame house in the middle of a clearing. The tin-roofed house baked in the hot sun; there was no water, and no shade. For this reason, Daniel had offered it to us for cheap. We wanted a place to call our own, and were young and poor, but hopeful—full of energy and imagination.
Even so, it couldn’t be our little “piece of Belize” unless we endured one more test: to meet with the Honourable Florencio Marin, Minister of Lands and Agriculture in Belmopan. We must first secure a permit to buy property under the Alien Landholding Act. Rumor had it that the Minister could be belligerent when dealing with young Americans. And, without the needed permit, there would be no deal, and our gringo pioneer dreams would end, right then and there.
"Hmmm, I might have to get creative," I remember thinking to myself. "But I will find a way…"
Through the keen eyes of the kingfisher, we skim above the shallows, and then peer into deep glassy-green eddies. Giant tarpon, up to six feet long, thread their way in channels between huge submerged boulders. Wild fig, trumpet trees, tropical cedar, prickle yellow, bush bamboo, Santa Maria, bullet tree, and cohune palm are festooned with a riot of vines and lianas. Some climbing philodendrons have leaves so large, you could crouch behind one, and be totally hidden. Dusky gray-and-orange garobo, the large male iguanas, proudly display their macho splendour with an impressive crest of spikes along their spine. Along with the dull-green females, they sun themselves on low-hanging branches, and then plop noisily into the water at our approach.
At first, close to San Ignacio, the hillsides are low and rounded, dotted with the occasional small thatched house and vegetable garden, or a smal field of grey-green watermelons. There are fruit trees, chickens, pigs, cattle, and maybe a few goats on the slopes.
Now, the terrain gains elevation, and the hills rise to the ranks of low forested mountains. But each low savannah on one bank is countered on the opposite side by chaotic boulders and steep walls of rock. These cliffs are pockmarked with holes and small caves, inhabited only by bats and tiny swiftlets. Another curve in the river, and these geological features reverse sides. This is the nature of the river, the topography by which we can read its history. Almost without exception, one bank is savannah, low and receptive to the floods; the other side stands tall, rocky and defiant, refusing to submit to the raging waters of the wet season.
The former settlement of Macaw Bank signifies the terminus. It is the last fertile valley, the last savannah, and the last landing. Our kingfisher host comes to rest at the top of the towering ceiba tree—a lone monarch that rises majestically above the rainforest. This is where human habitation ends, and untamed wilderness begins. Beyond this point, the walls narrow and become sheer cliffs. We are in a deep canyon, a roaring chasm of tumbling white water.
In the old logging days, the Macal River had been the main artery for the transport of hundreds of thousands of harvested mahogany trees, rosewood, and other tropical hardwoods. It was here at Macaw Bank on the eastern bank, that the mule teams had dragged the great logs into these birthwaters, and would float them downstream to Branch Mouth, Burrell Boom, Belize City, and on to the markets of the world.
But now, of course, the mahogany trade was long-gone from the valley. The old-timers of the upper Macal still told stories of the danger and adventure of the logging camps, and the collecting of chicle in the high-bush. These same men, with names like Simpson, Harris, Green, Waight, and De la Fuente, now owned the enriched bottom-land farms of Macaw Bank—fertile productive lands, fed by the abundant nutrients of seasonal floods.
Soon to belong to us, the river property, casually named “Alta Vista” (High View) by Daniel Harris, was not ideal by any stretch of the imagination. Located on the eastern side, a mile downstream from Macaw Bank, it was located on the high-and-dry top of the escarpment. A perilous path. 200 feet high, and 400 feet distant connected the river to a rickety frame house in the middle of a clearing. The tin-roofed house baked in the hot sun; there was no water, and no shade. For this reason, Daniel had offered it to us for cheap. We wanted a place to call our own, and were young and poor, but hopeful—full of energy and imagination.
Even so, it couldn’t be our little “piece of Belize” unless we endured one more test: to meet with the Honourable Florencio Marin, Minister of Lands and Agriculture in Belmopan. We must first secure a permit to buy property under the Alien Landholding Act. Rumor had it that the Minister could be belligerent when dealing with young Americans. And, without the needed permit, there would be no deal, and our gringo pioneer dreams would end, right then and there.
"Hmmm, I might have to get creative," I remember thinking to myself. "But I will find a way…"