Nancy contacted me on October 31, 2008. She wrote: " . . . I lived in the country of Belize for thirteen years where, as you know, the tapir is the national animal. Part of my latter years was spent as a jungle tour guide in the Maya Mountains in the Cayo District. If you have ever seen the book called 1000 Places to See before You Die, there are only three entries for the country of Belize. One of them is a horseback tour company called Mountain Equestrian Trails, and I am its founder. I have in my possession the skull of an adolescent male tapir, killed in its own national forest in Belize. The story of the skull is part of my book Belize Survivor: Darker Side of Paradise and I thought it might be of interest to attach the chapter segment as well as the photo. What the book doesn’t reveal is what happened afterward. Per my instruction, my Mayan foreman returned to the where the body lay, cut the head off, and buried it in an anthill. Six months later, I had him go back and dig it up, the skull by then picked clean and white. This poignant symbol of Belizean natural history has now been my treasured possession for the last twenty years. As we both share the love of this marvelous creature I . . . invite you to publish this chapter segment and photo on your website to generate further interest in the cause of tapir preservation."
Chapter 7____________________
(an excerpt)
. . . As the trail rose in elevation, the soil became drier. The vegetation changed and the trees became thinner and taller. The sun had come out of the clouds and the patches of blue were a welcome sight. The riders rode along the edge of a ravine, and sunlight flickered on the brown leaves and lichen-covered rocks. Suddenly, Alexis held up her hand to halt the riders. She sensed something – a murmur, or buzzing, something she could feel, rather than hear. Then a deep chuffing sound came from ahead and the hair prickled on the back of her neck.
Tsam slid the machete from its scabbard and dismounted. Without a word, the little Maya crept around the horses, ascending into the underbrush and disappearing. Alexis twisted around on Ash, and put a finger to her lips, motioning the guests to stay silent. It was an unnecessary gesture. Seeing their faces, she realized they were too scared to say anything.
Standing out of sight behind the saw-palmetto, Tsam stared down at the bleeding animal. The young tapir had been shot in the gut and left to die a slow painful death. Flies had already gathered on the wounds, and vicious ants were eating his flesh while he still lived. Tsam wished he had a rifle to put a clean shot into its head. A machete was a messy way. With regret, he thrust his long blade between the tapir's ribs and into its heart. The beast gave one last shudder and expired.
"It okay, Miss Alexis,” Tsam called out. “It was just a danto. Look like somebody shoot it. It was sufferin' bad. I finish him. He done dead already."
After wiping the bloody machete on the ground, Tsam shoved it into his scabbard and walked back into view where the riders waited in anticipation. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glint of brass and blue plastic. Picking up the spent cartridge, he carried it to where Ash stood and tossed it to Alexis.
"Twelve gauge," said Tsam.
"Zander," she leveled her reply. They understood each other perfectly.
"Have to be Zander. He de only one who got de twelve gauge shotgun around here."
Alexis felt a hot flash of anger but knew she had to keep cool in front of her guests. As Tsam remounted his horse, she started the tour moving again. "I'm sorry for the delay, everyone. It seems that someone has been using the trails for purposes other than sightseeing."
"Somebody shot an animal? I thought this was a National Forest Reserve," said Chuck.
"It's a Reserve, but unfortunately, not a Preserve,” said Alexis. “That's an important distinction to the government. In a Reserve, you can still get a permit to do virtually anything you want, like logging, or even hunting."
Taking the next switchback up the hill, the trail passed within view of the dead beast. Like most Americans, these tourists were animal lovers and ardent conservationists. The crude scene of the animal lying in a pool of blood disturbed them. Above the tops of the trees, vultures circled overhead. Soon they would be gorging on the feast.
"What kind of animal is it?" said Jenny. "I've never seen anything like it before."
"Most Americans haven't. They don't look like any other animal. The locals call it a ‘mountain cow’ or ‘danto,’ but the real name is tapir. Looks like a cross between a pig and a small hornless rhino, but it’s actually a distant relative of the horse. They’re herbivores with a prehensile snout, and they're completely harmless. Jaguars are their only natural enemy, other than man. This poor thing was barely a teenager, maybe a year and a half old, probably about three hundred pounds. Full grown they weigh around six hundred."
"Why was it shot?"
"A local guy has been chopping down a piece of high bush every year so he can plant his corn and beans. Since the high bush is all but gone around the perimeter, he's starting to intrude on the National Forest itself. The tapir is the Belizean National Animal and this one was killed inside the boundaries of its own National Forest. Zander probably shot it because it was trampling his bean patch. Then he didn't even bother to use the meat or hide. He just left it to rot."
"That's sick," said Chuck. "This Zander guy, he's a Belizean? The one who shot it?"
"Yes," Tsam answered. "He de one who shoot it. He is Creole, not Maya like me, and he got one bad attitude. He no like de gringos coming in here, makin' de money. Plenty a people no understand dat de bush is what Belize got for bring tourists. Zander only want to chop it down fu plant his corn. He got no mind for de future. Zander used to be a friend, but he change plenty."
"That's right. When we first opened the trails, Zander worked for us," said Alexis. "Later, we offered him a job as a guide. But as soon as we depended on him to be here on time, he was late, or didn't show up at all. I told him if he didn't want to be a guide, he could still take advantage of the tourist trade on his own. I suggested that his wife could make lemonade and meet our riders on the trail, and charge for drinks. Or get his kids to paint cohune nuts, or carve souvenirs. Instead, he chose to make life difficult. Sometimes he even chops down trees maliciously, just to block our trails."
Zander had done that, and much worse. About a half mile inside the National Forest was a spectacular sinkhole. Unlike artesian springs whose water gathers on the surface, a sinkhole is just the opposite, serving as a drain for the surrounding jungle. In this case, one side of the sinkhole formation was a gigantic semi-circular rock face of limestone, adorned with huge feathery ferns. The other side was a sloping hill bisected by a small rivulet. In heavy rains, the water rushed down the bank and disappeared into a cave-like hole at the bottom. Topside, above the rock face, tall hardwoods shaded the entire region. Ten degrees cooler at the mouth, the sinkhole was alive with tropical orchids and bromeliads. Often, riders had seen peccary or coatimundi there, and even the rare white morpho butterfly. Aside from the waterfalls and spectacular caves farther south and east, the sinkhole was one of the most beautiful features on the trails. Zander had chopped it all down. The bare rock formation lay raped and denuded under the harsh tropical sun. Then he had burned the area to a charred ruin and planted his corn.
"Sorry about the tapir, everybody,” Alexis apologized. “Adventure mixes the good with the bad. Didn't mean to bum you out. But, as they say, it's a jungle out here. . . ."
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