Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer
Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2021 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
"Cock Tax"
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In Cayo, in the 1970’s, sending or receiving mail required major effort, as nobody had a mailbox, and there was only the one Post Office. If I wanted to get in touch with the world, it would be a day-long affair in San Ignacio. I had to either catch a dory, or commit to a round trip on the tortuous Cristo Rey Road.
The Post Office was on the 2nd floor of the Police Station, accessible via the exterior cement steps on the west side. Inside, there was a slight musty smell, as though the place still belonged to a previous century. And it was dimly lit, with only soft natural daylight sifting through the dingy glass windows. The walls were dark green with hardwood wainscoting, and aged hardwood floors. The half-wall on the south side had a hardwood counter that ran the entire length of the room. Although there were several service windows, they were always closed except for the Postal window. For the first few months, our mail had come “general delivery.” But, by April 1976, I was able to rent a P.O. Box. (This was SO long ago that the box was numbered in the mid-40’s!) |
However, as the assigned PO boxes were still located behind Mr. Jaime Zetina, the attendant at the window, I still had to wait my turn in line. He would check the box for me, and then personally hand me my mail.
On this particular day, there were only four people in front of me. But for the first time, I noticed that one of the other service windows was open. Three Belizean men stood there in line, waiting.
Immediately, I recognized Henry Lisbey, who owned land on the lower Macal, a short distance upstream from the bridge. I had visited his farm twice with Dickey Simpson when we had stopped there in the dory. The rich, fertile valley soil allowed Henry to grow fruit trees, vegetables, and some very healthy livestock. Besides his pigs and a few goats, he had a huge number of laying hens, who produced an abundance of thick-shelled brown eggs with yolks as orange as sunset. There was also an extraordinarily handsome rooster who insured that these eggs would be fertile, and the hens would be happy. On one of those occasions, Henry made a point of telling me how much he loved eggs, and that he “ate a raw egg every day.”
“Good for the back,” he’d said, making a particular gesture with fist-and-cocked-elbow, that seemed to infer he wasn’t really talking about his “back.”
Henry was quite the handsome rooster himself, a real Latino ladies’ man. With swarthy good-looks, short sleek black curls, and dark shining eyes, he was trim, fit, and well-muscled from hard work on the farm.
“Buenos dias, Don Enrique,” I greeted him from my queue. His face lit up, white teeth flashing below the black, pencil-thin mustache.
“Buenos dias, Dona Nancy. Evirting aarait wit yu?”
“Erviting gud,” I said, practicing my Kriol, in the usual pleasantries. “I’ve never seen this window open before,” I said, indicating where he stood. “Is it for the mail too?”
“Noh, dis da di line fu pay taks,” he replied, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Fu pay mantaynans.” Now, the other men in Henry’s line smiled too. Not all of them had turned their heads towards our conversation, but they were ALL listening.
Tax? “Mantaynans? His Kriol was heavy on my ears. I was not catching the word, nor the meaning. So far, in Belize, I had never heard about any kind of tax. No sales tax. No income tax. (Oh, wait. “Maintenance.” OK.)
“Maintenance? For what? To maintain your property? Your house?”
“Noh. Ah di pay fu mi cock-tax.” Now, Henry was choking back laughter, and I was still standing there. Clueless. (Stupid gringa.)
I thought of Henry’s farm. His chickens? His handsome rooster? Cock tax? Did Belize require a tax to maintain poultry? Language barrier? Cultural gap? (Damn, baby. It ain’t easy being white!)
“Ah di pay fu mi cock-tax,” he repeated, emphasizing the words with one raised eyebrow, a sly flirtatious smile, and obvious macho pride. “Mantaynans. Fu mi outside children, dem.” (Maintenance. For my outside-children, them.)
And I burst out laughing, as did every single person in the entire Post Office!
Belizeans, I thought. Mayn, Ah mi lov dis kontri…
(Man, I love this country.)
On this particular day, there were only four people in front of me. But for the first time, I noticed that one of the other service windows was open. Three Belizean men stood there in line, waiting.
Immediately, I recognized Henry Lisbey, who owned land on the lower Macal, a short distance upstream from the bridge. I had visited his farm twice with Dickey Simpson when we had stopped there in the dory. The rich, fertile valley soil allowed Henry to grow fruit trees, vegetables, and some very healthy livestock. Besides his pigs and a few goats, he had a huge number of laying hens, who produced an abundance of thick-shelled brown eggs with yolks as orange as sunset. There was also an extraordinarily handsome rooster who insured that these eggs would be fertile, and the hens would be happy. On one of those occasions, Henry made a point of telling me how much he loved eggs, and that he “ate a raw egg every day.”
“Good for the back,” he’d said, making a particular gesture with fist-and-cocked-elbow, that seemed to infer he wasn’t really talking about his “back.”
Henry was quite the handsome rooster himself, a real Latino ladies’ man. With swarthy good-looks, short sleek black curls, and dark shining eyes, he was trim, fit, and well-muscled from hard work on the farm.
“Buenos dias, Don Enrique,” I greeted him from my queue. His face lit up, white teeth flashing below the black, pencil-thin mustache.
“Buenos dias, Dona Nancy. Evirting aarait wit yu?”
“Erviting gud,” I said, practicing my Kriol, in the usual pleasantries. “I’ve never seen this window open before,” I said, indicating where he stood. “Is it for the mail too?”
“Noh, dis da di line fu pay taks,” he replied, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Fu pay mantaynans.” Now, the other men in Henry’s line smiled too. Not all of them had turned their heads towards our conversation, but they were ALL listening.
Tax? “Mantaynans? His Kriol was heavy on my ears. I was not catching the word, nor the meaning. So far, in Belize, I had never heard about any kind of tax. No sales tax. No income tax. (Oh, wait. “Maintenance.” OK.)
“Maintenance? For what? To maintain your property? Your house?”
“Noh. Ah di pay fu mi cock-tax.” Now, Henry was choking back laughter, and I was still standing there. Clueless. (Stupid gringa.)
I thought of Henry’s farm. His chickens? His handsome rooster? Cock tax? Did Belize require a tax to maintain poultry? Language barrier? Cultural gap? (Damn, baby. It ain’t easy being white!)
“Ah di pay fu mi cock-tax,” he repeated, emphasizing the words with one raised eyebrow, a sly flirtatious smile, and obvious macho pride. “Mantaynans. Fu mi outside children, dem.” (Maintenance. For my outside-children, them.)
And I burst out laughing, as did every single person in the entire Post Office!
Belizeans, I thought. Mayn, Ah mi lov dis kontri…
(Man, I love this country.)