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(02/28/26)
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Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer
Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2026 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
"Another Lorry in the Dark"
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After the mugging incident, I’d realized I would have to be more vigilant in Belize City. Strange that I had lived “back-a-bush” for four years by then, and aside from natural disasters, I’d never had a life-threatening encounter with a human. To me, the jungle was safer than the city. In the bush, a snake looked like a snake, acted like a snake, and bit like a snake. In an urban setting, the snakes walked on two legs, and looked like everybody else.
By this point in time, I wasn’t just a hippie-chick farmer, hoeing vegetables and milking goats, I was an established
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gringa entrepreneur. (God bless the Queen, and the British Army.) It was the first time we had had a regular source of income, and it was changing everything.
The biggest upgrade in safety was our acquisition of a decent vehicle: a used two-door, blue, Chevy pick-up. Unlike the old clap-banger "Franken-cruiser" (see Episode 25) the Chevy would not be leaving broken parts of itself strewn along the roadside. Surprisingly, the previous owner had painted the famous Road Runner cartoon character on the two door panels in a touch of whimsy, giving it both personality and singular recognition. As the early 80s had now also brought modernized communications to inland Belize, we gringos could actually talk to each other for the first time on VHF marine band radios. It was a whole new era, and our call-sign became: “Beep, beep. Road Runner.” |
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Now living on a piece of property on the Western Highway, about four miles east of San Ignacio. business was thriving, and I was making trips to Airport Camp about every three weeks. To keep up with demand, I had hired an assistant to help me with production, and to accompany me on selling trips. A lovely young girl, both cheerful and enterprising, Lupita was a native villager from Cristo Rey, whom I had known since the days of Alta Vista.
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On this particular night, it would be a slow ride for Lupita and me back to Cayo. I’d needed to purchase 18 bags of cement for a construction project my husband was working on. Each bag, weighing 94 lbs. would pretty much max-out the Chevy’s capacity. In case of rain, I’d had the workers lay out a long oversized rectangular plastic tarp on the truck bed, with more than half of it flapping over the roof and the bonnet. Once the cement was loaded, I had them fold the loose portion back over the bags and tuck in the corners. Lupita and I crowded into the single-cab space, along with my jewelry display board, our bags, and purchases from Brodie’s and Augusto Quan. Sure enough, just as darkness fell, a wicked thunderstorm gathered in the western sky. |
The stretch of Western Highway between Hattieville and Roaring Creek was still a “no man’s land.” The narrow two-lane road was as desolate as ever, straight and flat, utterly devoid of pavement markings, or any sign of human habitation. The rain was vicious, coming down in torrents, falling so hard that the wipers, even on high-speed, could not begin to keep up. Even with the high-beams on, visibility was almost non-existent. No white or yellow line divided the road, demarcating eastbound and westbound traffic. No white line distinguished where the edge of the tarmac met the berm. And, with all the weight of the cement, the truck was handling like a tank—slow to move, slow to respond.
Suddenly, a collage of unintelligible images flashed before me. With the deluge of rain, my mind could not make sense of what my eyes were seeing. Thunder boomed, lightning fractured the sky, and briefly illuminated the silhouette of the distant mountains. Lupita and I first saw the dark shape of a stationary lorry in the eastbound lane. Immediately after was a confusion of blinding headlights, shining through a tangle of wet wreckage and shattered glass. They were headed straight towards us. Where was the road? Nothing made sense. Suddenly, we were past the lorry, past the wreckage, and somehow, past the headlights—all of the jumble had been in the eastbound lane. Then we heard the chilling CRASH. Only after-the-fact were we able to piece together what had happened.
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Just as Bishop Sylvester and his wife had been killed by colliding with a parked lorry in the dark (see Episode 60), so had a previous vehicle crashed into this lorry, creating the tangle of wreckage. The bright headlights had belonged to a third vehicle, a maroon pickup, also in the eastbound lane. In the black night, the pickup had been blinded by our headlights, just as we had been blinded by theirs. They might have escaped by swerving into our westbound lane, but we’d been directly in their way. Had Roadrunner gone past just five seconds earlier, the maroon pickup might have had time to swerve safely into our lane behind us, bypassing the double wreckage, and avoiding the pile-up.
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Lupita and I looked at each other in shock as I applied the brakes. “We’ve got to go back,” she said. I gulped, and nodded. With all the weight, it took much longer than it should have to make a U-turn. We parked well onto the berm. Lupita grabbed the big-beam flashlight from the glove-box, and we both jumped out, getting soaked to the skin in seconds. No one from the initial collision was still present. Any rescue effort would be completely up to the two of us, and the scene was straight out of a horror movie.
The front end of the maroon truck had been demolished. The cab doors were stuck and almost impossible to get open. Inside was a Belizean family of three. The father had been driving, with the mother and 9-year old daughter on the bench-seat—sitting three abreast, none of them wearing seatbelts. The steering wheel had crushed into the father’s chest. The mother’s ample body was up and caved-over the dashboard, her head having shattered the glass. But, worst of all, the small tender girl of about nine—light as a feather—had flown face-first into the broken windshield. The entire right side of her face was a dripping mass of blood, with huge lacerations, and protruding jagged shards of glass.
The front end of the maroon truck had been demolished. The cab doors were stuck and almost impossible to get open. Inside was a Belizean family of three. The father had been driving, with the mother and 9-year old daughter on the bench-seat—sitting three abreast, none of them wearing seatbelts. The steering wheel had crushed into the father’s chest. The mother’s ample body was up and caved-over the dashboard, her head having shattered the glass. But, worst of all, the small tender girl of about nine—light as a feather—had flown face-first into the broken windshield. The entire right side of her face was a dripping mass of blood, with huge lacerations, and protruding jagged shards of glass.
Lupita made a bee-line to the driver’s side, and coaxed the moaning man to get out. Pumped with adrenaline, I managed to lift the young girl, bodily, out of the passenger’s side, and carry her back to Road Runner. Somehow, we managed free a corner of the plastic, and compelled the badly-injured father and daughter to climb up under, on top of the cement. Then we went back for the mother. How Lupita and I physically managed to get all three aboard, I do not know; the details have faded with the years. But now it was critical to get them to the Belmopan hospital.
It would be the longest drive of my life. With almost 1700 lbs. of cement, plus 700 lbs. of human, the truck was tortuously slow. The deluge still blasted the windshield in near-zero visibility. Road Runner was going no better than 35 MPH, flat to the floor, literally pedal-to-the-metal. Literally. No urging on my part, nor pounding heart-rate, nor the anxious looks exchanged with Lupita, could make the truck go any faster. All I could think of was that the people behind me, under the plastic tarpaulin, might be dying—bleeding to death atop rock-hard bags of cement.
It would be the longest drive of my life. With almost 1700 lbs. of cement, plus 700 lbs. of human, the truck was tortuously slow. The deluge still blasted the windshield in near-zero visibility. Road Runner was going no better than 35 MPH, flat to the floor, literally pedal-to-the-metal. Literally. No urging on my part, nor pounding heart-rate, nor the anxious looks exchanged with Lupita, could make the truck go any faster. All I could think of was that the people behind me, under the plastic tarpaulin, might be dying—bleeding to death atop rock-hard bags of cement.
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Just before Roaring Creek Village, we made the left turn onto the Hummingbird Highway. Before this, it had always seemed that the modest capital of Belmopan was just a stone’s throw from the turn-off. But it was still another agonizing three miles before we pulled into the long drive of the hospital. I ignored the “Quiet. Hospital Zone” signs, and laid on the horn, in lieu of the siren I wished I’d had. I felt bad for the patients inside, but I needed to announce my arrival as though I were an ambulance. And it certainly worked. By the time we
pulled up to the emergency entrance, eight or ten staff |
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were already pouring out the double doors, and wheeling gurneys. No one thought of chastising me for honking. I remember Lupita and I trembling, crying, and holding each other. Beyond that, I cannot recall another single detail of that night…
A year or so after this incident, I was again driving east to Belize City. About four or five miles beyond Roaring Creek, I saw a teenage Kriol boy and his younger sister on the side of the road, waving for passage. This was a standard practice, and like anyone else in an open pickup, I pulled over in common courtesy.The two climbed into the truck-bed, and gave the roof a soft double-tap—the universal signal that they were situated and ready to go.
A short time later, at Hattieville, I heard the same double-tap, and I stopped to let them out. After jumping lightly out of the back, and assisting his sister, the boy gave a last double-tap in thanks, and I waved. No words were exchanged. None were necessary. But as I pulled away, I saw the girl’s face reflected in the rear-view mirror. The entire right side was a tangled mass of hard white crisscrossed scars, contrasting sharply against her dark skin.
She would never know me. Nor would I ever learn her name...
A short time later, at Hattieville, I heard the same double-tap, and I stopped to let them out. After jumping lightly out of the back, and assisting his sister, the boy gave a last double-tap in thanks, and I waved. No words were exchanged. None were necessary. But as I pulled away, I saw the girl’s face reflected in the rear-view mirror. The entire right side was a tangled mass of hard white crisscrossed scars, contrasting sharply against her dark skin.
She would never know me. Nor would I ever learn her name...