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(05/01/26)
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Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer
Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2026 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
"El Cazador" (Part Two)
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Everyone in the hunting party was in anguish and feeling utterly helpless as they crouched around Guermo, watching him writhe in unimaginable pain. The tommygoff’s fangs had sunk deep into his ankle, which was already swollen, distended, and fiery-red around the puncture wounds. Even so, I imagine each of his companions must have had the same fleeting thought: the jaguar they’d been pursuing was above them in the tree—maybe thirty-feet over their heads—looking down in confused curiosity But its presence was now simply a painful irony. The men’s focus was only on Guermo, and the situation was dire.
Although Alan carried antivenin daily, they had set out that morning thinking the jaguar was close, and it had been left behind in the truck. Since Machario was the fastest runner, he had already taken off through the bush with Alan’s instructions. He was back in an astounding thirty minutes.
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Old-timers said that a tommygoff bite “makes a man bleed from every pore of his body.” While not technically accurate, the venom does destroy the body’s ability to clot, so blood can leak from unexpected places—enough to frighten the most seasoned veteran. By the time Alan was able to inject 20 cc into each buttock, there were already dark blotches around the bite, and Guermo was bleeding from his eyes and tongue.
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Meanwhile, Machario and Jack had built a make-shift stretcher, while Bader ran ahead to the timber camp to see if he could radio for an airplane. Now, Alan and Machario, already on the verge of exhaustion, began the near-impossible task of carrying Guermo. Their arms and legs quivered as they pushed up and down the hills, and crossed streams.
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Rest stops became more frequent until, at last, neither of them could lift the stretcher. Eventually, Bader returned with four men, who bore the stretcher back to the truck, and then to the airstrip. By the time Guermo was admitted to the Belize City hospital, it had been a grueling five hours since the bite.
Their arrival at the hospital was chaotic. Doctors there didn’t seem to know what to do, except administer additional antivenin in the leg. Alan suggested using an intravenous drip of anti-venin, but their only drip-rig was clogged and unusable. When one doctor mentioned “possible amputation,” Bader was ready to knock him out-cold. What they needed was to get to the British Hospital. But since Guermo was Belizean, it was against policy. Nevertheless, Alan pulled some strings with the British Army, and got him admitted.
Bader and Alan walked the halls, trying to assure themselves that Guermo was now in good hands, but the feeling turned out to be short-lived. A Creole nurse had approached the two asked why they hadn’t taken Guermo to a “snake-doctor” first? She was not being disrespectful, nor facetious, but both of them felt an involuntary shudder. Surely, the British Army Hospital had been the right choice? After all, what would a shaman do? Prepare an herbal drink, chant Mayan prayers, and burn some copal incense? Eventually, they realized there was nothing more to be done; the dogs and the rest of the team were waiting. So, they flew back they to the Cockscomb camp, and prepared to start out on the hunt again the next day.
In the morning, one of the little bait-pigs was gone. The trail was so hot that Timber, Blue, Duke and Red were all released at the same time, and in a matter of minutes, the dogs had successfully treed the cat. Bader and Alan decided to use only 3 ccs of tranquilizer each—enough to sedate the cat, but not to the point where it might fall from the tree and be injured. One dart hit, and one missed. The groggy cat started climbing down, then jumped. It ended up being face-to-face with Alan, then bounded over his head, knocking him to the ground. Another heart-pounding dash until the dogs located the cat in a fallen hollow log, hissing and snarling, green eyes flashing. Another dart, and the sleeping feline was finally hauled out.
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This was Alan’s first jaguar capture without using cages. The cat was measured, weighed, radio-collared, slowly brought back into full consciousness, and then successfully released. Testing the radio frequency, Alan got a signal. The jaguar was on the move. It was their “eureka” moment.
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Bader went back to Belize City to check on Guermo, and Alan was back in camp by early afternoon, where he collapsed on the bed, and didn’t wake for eighteen hours. The next day, refreshed and renewed, he decided to go to Dangriga for provisions and call Bader for an update. Unlike Alan, Bader sounded neither refreshed and renewed. He was morose.
“He’s dead, Alan,” said Bader. As the impact hit home, Alan’s his legs gave way, and he collapsed to the floor.
What? Guermo had been doing better, getting blood and glucose, while the leg was being drained of excess fluid. He was expected to make a full recovery. That is, until his wife showed up with a “snake doctor,” and insisted to the doctors that Guermo should be discharged, so the shaman could treat him. Since Guermo was sedated, his wife had signed off and had taken him home. He had died the same night they had successfully captured the jaguar.
Worse yet, Guermo’s wife, and many other of the locals, ultimately ended up believing that Alan and Bader—in taking him to the hospital, rather than to a snake doctor first—had caused his death. A psychological pall had been cast over both men, and it sickened them. Suddenly, the idea of hunting with dogs and darts had died, just as surely as Guermo. Bader went back to Orange Walk. Alan retreated to Cockscomb camp, where his native friends now gave him a wide berth.. Alan grieved for a month, in solitary, until he gradually began making forays into the jungle. Alone.
What? Guermo had been doing better, getting blood and glucose, while the leg was being drained of excess fluid. He was expected to make a full recovery. That is, until his wife showed up with a “snake doctor,” and insisted to the doctors that Guermo should be discharged, so the shaman could treat him. Since Guermo was sedated, his wife had signed off and had taken him home. He had died the same night they had successfully captured the jaguar.
Worse yet, Guermo’s wife, and many other of the locals, ultimately ended up believing that Alan and Bader—in taking him to the hospital, rather than to a snake doctor first—had caused his death. A psychological pall had been cast over both men, and it sickened them. Suddenly, the idea of hunting with dogs and darts had died, just as surely as Guermo. Bader went back to Orange Walk. Alan retreated to Cockscomb camp, where his native friends now gave him a wide berth.. Alan grieved for a month, in solitary, until he gradually began making forays into the jungle. Alone.
Shortly thereafter, a Maya named Cirillo (above) started working with Alan, to design better trap-cages. On their first day out to do prey surveys, they experienced another near-catastrophe. Cirillo had noticed an armadillo hole, and reached towards the opening to see if it was fresh. Then he leapt backwards.
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A large tommygoff was beside the hole, all coiled up, shaking its tail in warning. Cirillo cut a long forked stick, and pinned the snake behind its head.
“Kill it, Alan,” commanded Cirillo.
“Use the backside of the machete to break its back, but don’t chop it through. Listen to me, gringo. DON'T chop it through."
“Use the backside of the machete to break its back, but don’t chop it through. Listen to me, gringo. DON'T chop it through."
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Alan obeyed, and struck the thrashing snake more than a dozen times with the blunt side. Still, it did not die. Finally, Alan used the sharp edge and chopped through the snake several inches behind the forked stick. What followed was a scene from a science-fiction monster movie. The head turned and hurtled towards them—bloody-guts trailing behind, jaws open and fangs extended. Two minutes later, and ten yards ahead,
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Cirillo found the snake’s mate, and killed it. And thus, all the legends of the tommygoff had been borne-out as true.
(This is the head of the actual tommygoff that chased Alan and Cirillo, AFTER it had been beheaded.)
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Another tommygoff (above) killed by a shotgun blast to the head.
Two old friends and jungle buddies. Author, Nancy Koerner, meets up with Bader Hassan, "El Cazador," in an impromptu reunion in 2021.
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NEXT: CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO >>>
Coming soon... |