(04/25/26)

Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer ​

​Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2026 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER EIGHTY
"El Cazador" (Part One)
Belize covers just under nine thousand square miles, yet more than half of it remains cloaked in forest. Much of that interior—especially the Maya Mountains and the southern basin country—is so rugged, roadless, and river‑cut that large swaths are still, in effect, unreachable. For this reason, I never got to meet Alan Rabinowitz personally. However, I knew the famous jaguar hunter Alan employed. ​Bader Hassan, “el cazador” had been a close friend of mine for years.
I remember the first time I’d been to his house. It was a pale-peach stucco, rather modern for its time, and inside was a hunter’s museum of gorgeous animal hides. A striking black and white zebra skin dominated the floor of the front room. Upholstered chairs were draped with puma, ocelot, and jaguar pelts. Mahogany shelves on the walls displayed a variety of animal skulls, along with tasteful jungle artwork, and additional animal pelts. But nothing was more surprising than the full-grown domesticated puma, and margay, that nonchalantly walked in and out of the rooms—young orphaned cubs that Bader and Mary Anne had raised by hand. 
​Although many readers will recoil at the thought of killing these magnificent felines, it must be  remembered that this collection had come from an earlier era, and a very different mindset. Jaguar-hunting had been legal in Belize up until 1974 and, decades earlier, Bader had already developed an international reputation as a big game hunter. Jaguars were abundant in those days, and when Mennonite ranchers in western Orange Walk District complained of attacks on their livestock, they would come to him for help. Bader would then contact one of his rich clients in the States, or in Europe, who had been awaiting such an opportunity. Afterwards, the client would have his trophy, and Bader would get paid a huge fee—while also providing a service to the ranchers. He rarely participated in the kill-shot; that was what the client paid for. What he loved was the thrill of the hunt itself. 
​So, when Alan came to Bader in 1983, proposing a series of hunts, a long-term project to capture, collar, and track live jaguars for the purpose of protecting their vanishing habitat, Hassan lit up with excitement. Plus, Bader had never hunted the Cockscomb before, and so looked forward to this as his most dangerous challenge. Three weeks later, he showed up in a Land Rover, with three dog-handlers, and six dogs. The two older hounds, Timber and Blue were veterans, and excelled at picking up cold trails. Duke and Red were of enormous size, and the primary stars of the hunt, once the trail warmed-up. The youngsters were long-eared black-and-tans, and overly-excitable, but useful if a cat bolted—in which case, preserving the scent trail was no longer an issue. 
Machario (left) was the primary dog-handler, a former chiclero*, among the toughest and most capable bush-men in Belize. He had the extraordinary talent of being able to run at almost top-speed, while still wielding a machete “like a lawn mower” to clear a rudimentary trail with Timber and Jack. Guermo (middle) was an easy-going, but disciplined young Creole, who had been highly-trained in the Belize Defense Force. He controlled Duke and Red until the trail was hot enough for release. Philip (right) was later replaced by his father, Jack, a resilient older man, who brought up the rear of the column with the young black-and-tans. Bader stayed roughly in the middle, where he could coordinate and communicate with both ends of the team. And although Alan (lower right below) had hardened-up considerably, it was now everything he could do to just keep up—especially as he was the one also hauling all the tracking equipment. 
Bader Hassan was one of the most compact, muscular, and fearless men I’ve ever known—with legs of steel, and arms of near bone-crushing strength. But this terrain had turned out to be rougher than any of them had anticipated, and even Bader was feeling it. After four days, they were scratched, bruised, battered, and bloodied—each having lost about 15 pounds. Bader was also concerned for the dogs, who would drop dead of exhaustion, rather than quit. So, he said they’d have to take a break, and then re-group. Alan expressed concern that maybe he was giving up, but Bader just laughed, assuring him that they hadn’t even gotten started yet. This first foray was just “boot camp”—an important step in getting acclimated and battle-hardened. A week later, the team was back, and the hunting began in earnest. 
The men were up at 3:30 AM, and while breakfast was being prepared, Bader went to check the area where the two little bait-pigs had been staked out. Though neither had been touched, there were jag-tracks he judged to be only six to eight hours old along the old logging road, where they’d parked the truck for this campsite. By 4:15 AM, the hunting party was on its way in the pre-dawn light—Machario in the lead. By 6:00, Timber and Blue’s cold trail had turned warm, and then hot. Bader signaled Guermo to release Duke and Red. What followed was two hours of running at top-speed—the howling, baying, chaotic bloodlust of cat-chasing madness, mixed with the manic shouts of the men. Soon, Alan and Jack found themselves to be a half-mile behind. Then, abruptly, all canine and human noise ceased. Despite the ever-present birdsong of the bush, and trill of cicadas, suddenly the jungle seemed overlaid with an eerie silence. And then came the panicked shouting of the men, and cries of alarm. Guermo had been bitten by a snake.
There are many tall-tales about a certain venomous snake in Belize, a pit-viper with hemotoxic venom. They said, once confronted, this particular snake would not retreat, but proactively and aggressively chase the offender. It was said that the short, fat ones, called  “jumpers,” could launch themselves into the air at a 45° angle, and strike five-feet off the ground. And, apparently, there was never just one snake, but two; its mate was always nearby. Worst of all, even if decapitated with a machete, the bodiless head would still pursue, with jaws snapping. Elsewhere in the world, this snake was known as the fer-de-lance. In Belize, they called it yellow jaw, barba-amarillo, or tommygoff.
 I had heard all of these rumours before. But it was only when Bader had told me this story that I found out each statement was absolutely true. And it was a tommygoff that had bitten Guermo. 
​* chiclero – a jungle worker who collects the latex-like sap of the zapote tree, which was originally used as the primary ingredient in chewing gum, before it was replaced by modern synthetic materials ​