REPORT #481 April 2002
BELIZE- A VERY GOOD PLACE TO DISAPPEAR


Produced by the Belize Development Trust

I remember him! What Belize is really about! ( 40,000 recent immigrants each with their own skeletons in the closet )
Ray Auxillou

A Very Good Place to Disappear
By Dan Koeppel

The jungles of Belize conceal ruins, renegades, and wildcatsÛand the secrets of one familyÌs past.

When a man decides to vanish into the jungle, itÌs usually for a good reason. And if you go to find himÛif you find himÛyou may discover thereÌs nothing romantic about it.

But a few years ago, standing in my fatherÌs study, looking at a 50-year-old pictureÛa man in a military uniform, with a sharp nose and a scar sliced into his face, glowering at the cameraÛthe whole idea seemed thrilling, mysterious.

ÏWhoÌs this?Ó

ÏThatÌs my uncle David,Ó my dad said. ÏHe livesÛor livedÛin Belize.Ó

Belize? I thought Koeppels were supposed to reside in Queens (or Brooklyn, for the adventurous ones). What was an uncle doing in Central America?

ÏHeÌs crazy,Ó my father said.

An insane, scarred, pissed-off, jungle-hiding dead relation? How could my dad be so blas»? Who was this Uncle David? I pressed my father, and he tried to fill in the blanks.

I already knew the background: My ancestors were German-speaking Jews who lived in what is now Poland. Most of them emigrated to the United States in the 1920s and 1930s. The world was splendidly lousy with Koeppels (and Kñppels and Kopels) in those days.

It turned out that my grandfather grew up in an extended family of seven siblings and a slew of cousins; David was one of the youngest members of the household.

After the Nazis rose to power, that web of relational intimacy was destroyed. Some Koeppels escaped. Many didnÌt, including DavidÌs parents.

David was serving in the Polish Army and attending medical school when World War II started. He decided to stay in Europe and fight. When Poland was overrun, he escaped and enlisted with the British Army.

The war gave David a taste for adventure. After it ended, he fought alongside Zionist partisans who wanted to create the modern state of Israel, then began traveling the world as part of BritainÌs Royal Army Medical Corps.

HeÌd stay at a remote posting for a few years, help build a hospital or two, shack up, have a few kidsÛillegitimatelyÛthen bolt. Sometime in the 1950s, he arrived in Belize (then British Honduras). After my grandfather passed away in 1970, my family lost the scant contact it had with David.

ÏHeÌd be at least 80 by now,Ó my dad said. ÏHeÌs got to be dead.Ó

But he wasnÌt certain. I wanted to find out, but I couldnÌt seem to work a Belize trip into my schedule.

Then, recently, I landed a magazine assignment to write an article about the Cockscomb Basin Wildlife Sanctuary in BelizeÌs southern jungle. I planned an extended stay. IÌd bring my mountain bike. Do a little exploring. Maybe find my uncle.

Belize has always been Central AmericaÌs gringo oddball. It was one of the last outposts of the British Empire, having gained independence late, in 1981.

Before the English, there were the Maya, who covered the region in palaces and pyramids, many of which lie in jungle so deep few people have ever visited them. The country is the size of Massachusetts but with just 250,000 people.

Belize is an unpaved nation. There are more rivers than roads and just five traffic lights (only three actually work). The jungle starts at the beaches and spreads, more or less uninterrupted, to the hills along the western and northern borders.

Hemming the countryÌs shores is the largest coral reef in the Caribbean, along with dozens of tropical islands and deep blue holes. Belize is a good place for eco-yuppies, scuba enthusiasts, and Margaritaville tramps.

Since the country is so smallÛand since my uncle was a doctor there at a time when the country had very little in the way of medical careÛthere was a good chance that many people knew of him.

ÏNever heard of the man,Ó said Mick Fleming as he poured me a drink and lit a cigarette. ÏAnd I bloody well know everyone in this country!Ó

Fleming came to Belize from Britain in the late 1970s with his wife, Lucy. In a Belize City bar, a man offered to sell them some land in the Cayo district, BelizeÌs remote central quarters.

Sounds good, they said, then learned that the only way to reach the new homestead was by canoe. That was no problem, Mick recalled. ÏWe were young.Ó

In the decades since, their once inaccessible spreadÛnow reached by a dirt roadÛhas become an elaborate retreat, The Lodge at Chaa Creek, with cabanas, a tent camp (where I stayed), and an outdoor bar where Fleming is cheerily loose with the Cuba Libres.

Fleming wasnÌt terribly optimistic about my finding David, even though a government official I had met a couple of days earlier at the airport had an instant recollection: ÏOh, yes. He was a very famous doctor.Ó

As the official and I drove through Belize City, we stopped at an old house on a street of tattered, sun-bleached colonial buildings. ÏHis office was here,Ó the official said. ÏHe must have delivered half of the babies in this country.Ó

The place was abandoned.

ÏDo you know where he is now?Ó

ÏNo,Ó the official said. ÏIÌm sorry.Ó In 1978, he explained, Hurricane Greta hit, severely damaging Belize City. Records were lost. People vanished. ÏA lot of things changed after that,Ó he added. ÏI havenÌt heard of him in 20 years.Ó

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