(01/16/23)
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Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer
Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2023 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
"Polo Neal & Ornery Jack-Ass"
The beast was absolutely terrifying. With lips curled, huge square-teeth bared, and long ears laid flat on his neck, Polo’s jack donkey snorted and came charging towards me, full speed, with single-minded malevolence. He was the meanest four-legged animal I had ever seen. The fact that I was on the opposite side of the gate, and atop my horse, gave me no feeling of safety. But I was certainly glad that I hadn’t already entered the pasture before this jack-ass decided to launch his blitzkrieg. I had come to Macaw Bank to visit Polo’s wife, Luisa, but apparently, I wasn’t going any further. I pulled the reins tight and tried to calm my mount. But the horse danced. Sweat soaked his mane, the whites of his eyes gone wild. The jack donkey was standing his ground, weaving back-and-forth maliciously. The scars on his neck and flank showed utter contempt for barbed wire, a testimony to his many previous excursions right through the fence.
Hipolito “Polo” Neal lived with his family in Macaw Bank. Once a full-fledged village, Macaw Bank had held great |
historical significance as launching point for major logging operations. But when the mahogany had tapped out, its inhabitants had slowly drifted away, until Macaw Bank had become little more than just another river bank. There were still a few family members in the area: Waight, Simpson, and De La Fuente, but most had departed, long ago, to San Ignacio or Santa Elena.I never knew Polo in his younger years. But now, in his late 40’s, he was still a force to be reckoned with – a large heavy-set, coarse-complexioned bulldozer of a man, with big hands and a rough manner. He owned a dory, actually one of the largest and most commodious crafts on the river with ample room for cargo and passengers. But Polo didn’t have the mindset, or studied patience of a riverman like Dicky Simpson. He was a hard-driving man, literally, who preferred to make his trips to San Ig in his truck. And coincidentally, his truck had the very same personality as his donkey.
In the dry season, my preferred method of “getting passage” to San Ignacio was via the river. But now, as the wet season began, I had to go to Saturday morning market via the wickedly-punishing Cristo Rey Road, which was dominated by Polo’s equally wickedly-punishing four-wheel drive vehicle. Just as Dicky had been “Hawk of the Air,” and “Shark-of-the-River,” Polo Neal was the self-proclaimed King-of-the-Road. And, as stated, he didn’t just “drive” his truck, he aimed it. Just like the jack-donkey. Full throttle. Pedal-to-the metal.
There were only two brands of vehicles in Belize in those days: beat-up Fords and beat-up Land Rovers. Polo’s was a beat-up Ford with big knobby tires, dual rear wheels, and a homemade wooden cab on the back with built-in wooden benches for passengers. When that truck came barreling up the hill (or barreling down the hill) passengers would rush to the roadside, and prepare to mount, almost on-the-fly. It was surprising to see how the village women – holding their plastic handbags in one hand and their shoes in the other – could move with such sudden alacrity. The truth was that Polo didn’t like to come to a full stop because the personal mechanics of his body didn’t allow for it. Apparently, he had been in a bad roll-over accident sometime in the past, that had given him a head injury which, in turn, had caused a lame right leg. The end result was that, in order to put on the brake, Polo had to manually use his hands to literally LIFT the bad right leg OFF the gas pedal and ONTO the brake. Therefore, he made sure to do as rarely as possible. So, the vehicle would careen wildly over the deeply-rutted muddy track, swaying violently from side-to-side. Rising up and crashing down between the washed-out runnels, we passengers would actually experience a moment of weightlessness, like some nightmare roller-coaster – without benefit of even seatbelts, let alone a protective cage upon which to cling. Even worse were the points of the nails that had been used to build the cab, raw spikes protruding through the ceiling overhead.
As a young man, Polo had been a mule-breeder, providing sturdy animals for the chicleros and loggers in the last days of the logging industry. Now in the mid 1970’s, he still kept this one mean-as-hell jack donkey, and continued to breed him to the mares.* The females hated the jack’s amorous advances, as he was a rough lover as well – viciously biting them on the back of the neck as he mounted.
“He done killed two mares already,” Polo had told me.
So, finally, to keep the beast under control, Polo had shackled the donkey with 25-feet of high-tensile mooring chain, big enough to anchor a yacht – each link about four inches long, and thick as my thumb. The chain looped around the donkey’s neck, and ran straight down through the middle, between his fore and hind legs. It dragged heavily on the ground, constantly interfering with the creature’s gait, causing all four legs to wing-out crazily as he ran. And the length of the chain was so long, that it extended well-beyond the entire ass’s – well, ASS.
Polo explained, “I gave him that to slow him down.”
As for Polo himself, there was interesting postscript to his story. Apparently, about two weeks after Polo’s terrible accident, he had pulled out a sizable shard of glass, about two inches long from the top of his skull. It had been buried to the hilt. Evidently, the offending shard was responsible for the partial paralysis of his right leg.
The villagers explained, “God gave him that to slow him down.”
****************************************************************
* Mules are sexually sterile, and cannot breed with another mule to create little mule offspring. The only way to create a mule is to breed a jack-donkey to a female horse, a mare.
In the dry season, my preferred method of “getting passage” to San Ignacio was via the river. But now, as the wet season began, I had to go to Saturday morning market via the wickedly-punishing Cristo Rey Road, which was dominated by Polo’s equally wickedly-punishing four-wheel drive vehicle. Just as Dicky had been “Hawk of the Air,” and “Shark-of-the-River,” Polo Neal was the self-proclaimed King-of-the-Road. And, as stated, he didn’t just “drive” his truck, he aimed it. Just like the jack-donkey. Full throttle. Pedal-to-the metal.
There were only two brands of vehicles in Belize in those days: beat-up Fords and beat-up Land Rovers. Polo’s was a beat-up Ford with big knobby tires, dual rear wheels, and a homemade wooden cab on the back with built-in wooden benches for passengers. When that truck came barreling up the hill (or barreling down the hill) passengers would rush to the roadside, and prepare to mount, almost on-the-fly. It was surprising to see how the village women – holding their plastic handbags in one hand and their shoes in the other – could move with such sudden alacrity. The truth was that Polo didn’t like to come to a full stop because the personal mechanics of his body didn’t allow for it. Apparently, he had been in a bad roll-over accident sometime in the past, that had given him a head injury which, in turn, had caused a lame right leg. The end result was that, in order to put on the brake, Polo had to manually use his hands to literally LIFT the bad right leg OFF the gas pedal and ONTO the brake. Therefore, he made sure to do as rarely as possible. So, the vehicle would careen wildly over the deeply-rutted muddy track, swaying violently from side-to-side. Rising up and crashing down between the washed-out runnels, we passengers would actually experience a moment of weightlessness, like some nightmare roller-coaster – without benefit of even seatbelts, let alone a protective cage upon which to cling. Even worse were the points of the nails that had been used to build the cab, raw spikes protruding through the ceiling overhead.
As a young man, Polo had been a mule-breeder, providing sturdy animals for the chicleros and loggers in the last days of the logging industry. Now in the mid 1970’s, he still kept this one mean-as-hell jack donkey, and continued to breed him to the mares.* The females hated the jack’s amorous advances, as he was a rough lover as well – viciously biting them on the back of the neck as he mounted.
“He done killed two mares already,” Polo had told me.
So, finally, to keep the beast under control, Polo had shackled the donkey with 25-feet of high-tensile mooring chain, big enough to anchor a yacht – each link about four inches long, and thick as my thumb. The chain looped around the donkey’s neck, and ran straight down through the middle, between his fore and hind legs. It dragged heavily on the ground, constantly interfering with the creature’s gait, causing all four legs to wing-out crazily as he ran. And the length of the chain was so long, that it extended well-beyond the entire ass’s – well, ASS.
Polo explained, “I gave him that to slow him down.”
As for Polo himself, there was interesting postscript to his story. Apparently, about two weeks after Polo’s terrible accident, he had pulled out a sizable shard of glass, about two inches long from the top of his skull. It had been buried to the hilt. Evidently, the offending shard was responsible for the partial paralysis of his right leg.
The villagers explained, “God gave him that to slow him down.”
****************************************************************
* Mules are sexually sterile, and cannot breed with another mule to create little mule offspring. The only way to create a mule is to breed a jack-donkey to a female horse, a mare.