Sisimito I--Ox Witz Ha Read online

  I had travelled the Southern Highway many times before, but that day had special significance for me as I had always wanted to climb the Victoria Peak. Dawn was breaking when we stopped on the Kendal Bridge which crossed the Sittee River. We jumped out of the vehicle to relieve ourselves, and as we pissed onto the boulders and into the river below, I looked west towards the Maya Mountains. I could not see Victoria Peak as it was blocked out by tall trees and the initial mountain chains, but I knew it was there … waiting. We were yet on the coastal plain, but not far away, towering over the mountains, would be the majestic Victoria Peak.

  Illustration 5: The Kendal River looking West.

  Illustration 6: The Kendal River looking East.

  We continued south and crossed the mighty South Stann Creek River, calm and almost silent at that time of year. Engineers were yet to build a bridge that could withstand the power of the river when it flooded. I smiled. My jungle. Untamed. Powerful. Deadly …

  After another half-hour, we reached the Alabama road cutoff at Flour Camp. If the Southern Highway was only a wide dirt road, then the Alabama road was only a very narrow overgrown dirt road with a high ridge in the middle. We didn’t, however, have to worry about meeting another truck or vehicle of any sort. There was no vehicular traffic and probably wouldn’t be any other than our truck. The road was so overgrown that there was little dust and that was pleasant, for the freshness of the morning was absolutely clean and invigorating. Before, we had been driving through mostly pine forest and orchard savanna with occasional transitional low broadleaf jungle and scrubland. As we got closer to Alabama, however, the broadleaf jungle was becoming predominant.

  “Fok,” grumbled Corporal Pascascio. The early morning cool and mist of the jungle kept fogging up the windshield and the wipers weren’t working. “Army transport,” he griped and smiled as he used his handkerchief to clean off the moisture.

  We arrived at the village of Georgetown just after six-o-clock. It was a very small unkempt and bushy village. There was absolutely no one about and I assumed it was because of our early arrival. Most of the current inhabitants were residents displaced from their coastal village of Seine Bight by a hurricane. Government had seen it fit to change the villagers from fishermen to farmers. I looked at the unhappy results. We passed by a small school and health clinic and a large overgrown open area just adjacent. The field had goal posts, almost hidden by tall grass, at either end. I felt a tinge of sadness for I loved football50 and played intensely. I could not appreciate a football field being overgrown with bush. Where were the players for the early morning practice and exercises? An empty, unkempt sports field was always sad as it was an indication of illness, unhappiness, dissatisfaction, in a community. I was not very interested in the success or failure of governmental policies that morning, however, and my attention returned to the continuing journey to Alabama village.

  We reached Alabama at six-thirty and stopped by one of the long, rotting and broken down overgrown banana sheds. No one worked there anymore and it was depressing to look at, seeing shrubs growing where workers once stood and packed bananas. It reminded me of a poem I liked to recite as a youngster at Father Stiobhan’ school. Every Friday afternoon we had “Elocution” and I suppose I rendered the poem so often that everyone in school knew it by heart. It was written by Joyce Kilmer and called The House With Nobody In It. I had forgotten most of it, but I always remember the first stanza:

  “Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie tract

  I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black.

  I suppose I’ve passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute

  And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it.”

  I probably remember the poem because its sadness made me think of what might become of me. Would I be sad? Lonely? Empty? After all, man is like a house. We have windows and doors through which things pass. Sometimes we can’t control the things that pass through, but at times we can and we still don’t. We allow things that are not good for us to enter and things that are good for us to leave. I shook my head and brought myself back to Alabama Village. I was then leading an expedition into relatively unknown territory and that had to be my main concern. I would not allow anything to go wrong so I had to stay focused on the now. I got down to the business at hand.

  “Okay, men,” I began. “Each man put his stuff in front of him.” They looked half-a-sleep. “Come on, men! On the fokin double! The dozing stopped when the truck stopped.” I scanned the bergens the civilians had brought and closed my eyes in disbelief. The photographer, Clarke, had a crocus bag attached. There was also a lantern and a plastic bottle. It seemed that one civilian had followed my instructions well, but the other had not. The guilty bergen not only had the crocus bag perched precariously on top, but was obviously bulkier and heavier than the recommended weight. Each civilian had been given one army bergen to carry with the instructions of what and how to pack. They were not wearing combats and, of course, did not have the SLRs51 and extra magazines we, the soldiers, carried.

  “You were given instructions about the weight of your bergens,” I continued. “If you’re overweight, unpack now and give the stuff to Corporal Pascascio. Once we are on our way, if you have to get rid of anything it will be lost to the jungle … and we don’t want to mess up the jungle. Please note also that everyone is responsible for his own stuff … and what about the lantern and that’s a bottle of oil, I suppose?” My men did not move nor did Parham. Clarke lifted his augmented bergen and frowned. He looked real worried.

  “I need everything in it,” Clarke muttered. “I may have to check the cameras at night and I will need light.”

  Illustration 7: The Overloaded Crocus-bag-Bergen.

  I looked at him then simply nodded as photographing the expedition was important. He would be carrying the weight himself and he was a big guy, anyhow. I walked towards the truck and Corporal Pascascio followed. “Thanks for all your help with this expedition, Mr. Hulse,” I said.

  “Good luck and have fun. I’m sorry I can’t go, but I’m too old for that now. Let Junior take over. It’s a good thing he’s going as he knows the place, at least some of it. Take care,” advised the older Hulse.

  “Corporal Pascascio. Final briefing, please. We should be back here on the evening of the third, Easter Monday. I read in the brief that Harry Parham’s birthday is on Saturday, the eight. So, when we get back, we’ll celebrate Parham’s birthday early and he will be buying all the beers. Right Parham?”

  “Yes, Sarge!”

  “You bet! Anyway, Corp, as I said, I plan to spend only five days, but, I suppose, it could actually be seven.” I briefed.

  “And if you’re not here?” the Pascascio asked.

  “Then you return every evening. If we have not returned in ten days, have Headquarters send a search party. They have a map of the route we will be travelling and you have one. As I have civilians with me, I don’t know how well they will hold up. We may have to advance more slowly than we normally would, but I expect we’ll cope alright. I am told they have been training.” I shrugged my shoulders and added, “You’ll join us for the celebrations with a few cold ones at Pal’s Inn?” He smiled and nodded. I added, laughing and looking at him, “And imagine, Corporal, a young virgin invited me to go to the Sapodilla Cayes with her on Easter Monday. Ah! Untouched. Unspoiled. Unentered. The sweet things I give up for the army. Tóolok is very angry.”

  Corporal Pascascio laughed out loudly. “The only virgin you’ll be seeing for the next few days is that jungle out there, Sarge. Take care. Remember, you’ll be totally out of touch until you’re back here.”

  “Don’t you worry. I’ll be back. After a few days in the bush with a bunch of men, Tóolok will begin to remind me it’s time to get out.” Pascascio laughed loudly again then he and Mr. Hulse got into the truck, waved, and drove off.

  “Take care,” I repeated to myself. I was indeed concerned about t
aking two civilians on the jungle training mission turned Expedition Bold as named by Private Hulse. We had no radio to contact Headquarters if anything went wrong. Our supplies had been streamlined because we had to carry everything we needed. I had included two days extra food supplies should there be a delay, but that was two days only. I was not too concerned about food, however, as we could certainly live off the land … the jungle was full of wildlife and such an endeavor would provide good training for the men. Our medical supplies were also very limited. Again, if necessary, we could resort to medicinal plants that grew everywhere in the tropical jungle. We had brought sulphur tablets and an antidiarrheal mixture for diarrhea, Antisan Creme for insect bites and scratches, Listerine and Savlon Creme as antiseptics, Piriton tablets for itching, Panadol and Aspirin for pain, Medicated Mexana Powder for the feet and between the toes, ointment and drops for eyes and ears, water purification pills, not that we would need them in my jungle, band aids and bandages, and insect repellant. It was ensured that the civilians were vaccinated for Tetanus and Typhoid and on Malaria prophylaxis; my men already were. Also, we carried anti-venom snake kits. There were only two of those, however, and we weren’t sure how well they would hold out in the warm jungle. We just had to make sure that we were not bitten by a poisonous snake.

  Illustration 8: Taking a last look at the deserted Alabama banana shed.

  Illustration 9: Marching into the Unknown. Pte. Hulse, M. Pte. Taylor, R.

  Pte. Anderson, H. and Mr. Harry Parham.

  We left Alabama at seven-o-clock, the men marching in double file, looking smart. It was not that I expected to see anyone. I just wanted to maintain a strong feeling of discipline. I believe that the greater the discipline, the less the chance for accidents. I did not want any accidents, avoidable or unavoidable. I would not allow myself to think about what could go wrong on the expedition, however. I had already done that during the planning stages. A lot of research had been done in trying to make the trip as disaster free and easy as possible. Several routes were studied and the apparently best one chosen. Rainfall charts were reviewed. Rainfall amounts in the Cockscomb Basin, where Victoria Peak towered, varied from twelve to twenty-two inches in July to one to three inches in March and one to four inches in April. That’s why Expedition Bold was being undertaken then. During the rainy months, besides enduring constant tropical downpours, flies and mosquitoes were almost always present and snakes were plentiful. There were two recent expeditions that attempted to climb Victoria Peak. The organizers had chosen the July-August months, the worst months one could possibly choose to hike through the Cockscomb Basin. The first of the two was headed by Britisher Keith Pitman, a volunteer teacher, and comprised Clifford Slusher, Zacario Palascio and Austin Gabourel Jr. The second was by Philip Andrewin, Harold Topsey and Norman Arnold, recognized Scouts of British Honduras. They had very few pleasant memories of their unsuccessful trip, based on the information known. Unfortunately, there are no exact records of those failed attempts or earlier successful expeditions of which, reportedly, there have been only a few.

  We walked due north for about three and a half miles, following an old road, then I ordered a break. We had been walking on relatively flat terrain and, for the initial two miles, it was only the abundant tall grass that impeded our progress. After that, we crossed over several small hills with the broadleaf jungle encroaching more and more onto the old road. I noted that there were plenty ku-che52 trees and wondered momentarily if they had been planted by the loggers. The old roadside was often lined with cot-a-cam53 which my then dead grandmother told me warded off evil influences. I gathered some and tucked it away in my bergen.

  I was happy to see that the civilians were doing well, so far, although I knew that we were going at only a moderate pace and over relatively even ground, the hills not having much elevation.

  The men, except for Private Hulse, had not been involved in much of the preparation for the expedition and I was not sure if they knew what to expect as most of our exercises were done in Pine Ridge forests. I did know that there were many stories circulating about the jungle in the region of the country we were in, but as I did not want their anticipation to be based on stories, I had looked for an authentic description of the region. The only depiction I found was from a passage in an old Colonial book which I copied and brought with me. As the men relaxed, I removed the paper from a notebook I had in my bergen. After they had a drink of water from their canteen and some cheese and poada bons,54 I called them around me.

  “Men, I have a passage that gives a description of the area we are going into, the Cockscomb Basin. I found it in a book called Lands In British Honduras. It was written by the Colonial Office and is its Colonial Research Publication Number Twenty-four. It’s from 1959, but I guess things haven’t changed much in this region. It states:

  ‘Landscape: Foothills begin abruptly at the edge of the coastal plane. Most hills are sandstone and shale which have eroded to give a steep, much dissected topography. In some valleys, granite intrusions reach the land surface, and here the land is strongly rolling, and with a taller and heavier jungle than is to be found on the steep hills. Only these valleys have seen the feet of man and then only infrequently when visits are made to cut the few mahogany trees that can be easily dragged to the river and floated downstream. In the valleys, the streams are filled with sweet water through the year and wild pig, night-walker, quam, curassow, and tiger cat are frequently met with. The tapir and the anteaters are not nearly as common as in the limestone country. Through the day, the undergrowth is filled with the noise of many hummingbirds. To the west, the mountains become even more rugged and few people (Fowler in 1880) have ever crossed them. On the ridge tops, the jungle becomes very thin and open and some peaks have been colonized by pine and tall grass. The Cockscomb Range (Victoria Peak 3,650) stands out as a precipitous jagged narrow ridge of quartzite running east-west for a distance of about fifteen miles. The steepest slopes are thinly clothed in mosses and lianas forming footholds for the mountaineer. These peaks, reasonably accessible from their northern slopes, have been scaled by two or three parties, the first occasion being 1888.’

  Illustration 10: The Victoria Peak and the Cockscomb Basin.

  As I read the passage, I could feel tension build. Although I knew that my men would cope with what lay ahead, I couldn’t talk for the civilians. I, nevertheless, saw a slight betrayal of anxiety in my men, perhaps even fear, as I read lines like ‘Only these valleys have seen the feet of man’ and ‘the tiger-cat are frequently met with.’ I wondered if I should accept their anxiety as a reasonable apprehension. We were going into a jungle where very few people had been. Even those who had travelled there, had followed only narrow paths through the basin and so most of the land was still unknown territory. Man, I suppose, even when he treaded into the unknown willingly, will fear or be apprehensive of that unknown. I had seen only a shadow in the men’s eyes, but I had seen it and I wrote it down in my brain. Fear! Was I afraid too? Could I also be a victim of fear in my own jungle? No! I was at home in my broadleaf jungle. I was born in it. I grew up in it. The first time I fucked, I was in it. I shrugged my shoulders. I had been on numerous jungle patrols before. Yet, as I thought back, the patrols were always near to a village and there was always backup nearby. Expedition Bold did not have that. We were going in alone and would be there alone. If anything happened, we would have to manage whatever happened alone. But we were soldiers, trained soldiers … except, of course, for the civilians.

  The men were uneasy, brushing at themselves, and I realized that I had allowed myself to drift for a moment. I had broken contact with the men I was commanding. That was not a good thing. I saw Bas’s eyes staring into mine. I could almost hear his question, What the fok are you thinking about? But then, Bas probably wouldn’t use the word ‘fok’ … at least, not at a time like that.

  “Okay, men,” I added, to break the tension that had developed. “Don’t let that passage fok you up. All it
is saying is that we are explorers.” I shook my head and smiled. “We are going to do what only the best have done before. We are soldiers. We have that on our side. We will be careful, not only because we should be, but because we want to get to that mountain, climb it, and get out again by Easter Monday, if possible. There are a lot of cold beers and a warm body waiting for me.” They laughed, loudly. I had not made any distinction between the civilians and the soldiers and that was my message to the civilians that they would not be treat treated any differently from the soldiers. They were soldiers for the rest of the expedition. “Well, let’s go soldiers.”

  Private Taylor was the machete man at that time and he led the single file march. There was still not much to chop for we remained on the old dirt road. It was never a proper road, just a truck pass, and was broken with ridges and potholes and covered in most parts by grass and shrubs. Private Hulse kept monitoring the compass and seemed a bit preoccupied with it at that early stage of our journey, but I said nothing. Of the civilians, Parham made notes as we went along and, every now and again, I heard the click of one of Clarke’s camera shutters. Parham noted the number of each picture Clarke took and wrote a brief description of what it was and where we were. Anderson was engrossed with everything around him and Bas, who followed the rest of us, marked our progress with his eyes, committing our path to his memory.

  We were travelling in the general direction of west-southwest through a small valley whose canopy had not as yet formed that formidable wall between us and the sky. However, from time to time, as the branches of the tree tops met above us, the shadowed road was becoming less and less discernible in the undergrowth of small herbaceous plants and trees. Dead and decaying leaves covered the ground and, occasionally, we had to cross over a blowdown.55 Ferns and new growth were becoming more abundant and, sometimes, we had only the central ridge of the road as a guide, or the river stones used long ago to fill in the large potholes for the logging trucks.