(07/03/23)

Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer ​

​Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2023 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
"Cowboy Boot & the Ocelot"
In the old days, JB’s wasn’t a real building like it is now. In fact, it would have been a compliment to even call it a shack. It was barely a home-made lean-to with a canvas shade, a portable counter-top on blocks, and an ice chest sitting on bare dirt. Never could figure out how JB could bear to be out in the dust, heat, and blinding sunlight – and in bot’lass country – during the hottest hours of the day, just to bring succor to the weary traveler, but we blessed him for it. That stretch of the Western Highway, between Hattieville and Roaring Creek, wasn’t called “no man’s land” for nothing. The roadside hut was like a fountain in the dessert, with JB as messiah-in-the-wilderness – with-a-bottle-opener.

On a return trip from Belize City, I ran into John Carr drinking a Belikin at JB’s. He was sitting on one of the two rickety bar stools that had recently been added to the venue. These constituted a regal improvement, as previously, all JB’s patrons had to stand-up, as close to the counter as possible, in order to lean into the meager shade. I order a cold Coke, and exchanged greetings with JB.
Noticing that John had two crutches propped against the feeble structure, I saw that he wore his signature cowboy boot only on one foot, whereas the other ankle was thickly wrapped in white gauze bandages. The wound must have been very fresh, as faint streaks of blood had seeped through.
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              “Hey, John. What’s up? You been running marathons again?” I joked, gesturing to his foot.
 
              “Nope,” he said, a bit sheepishly. “I pulled a ‘dumb gringo.’”

              “Oh, boy," I said, shaking my head. "This ought to be good.”

​I gave John a hug, then perched on the other bar stool, and sipped my Coke. We’d all made some pretty bad cultural blunders and verbal faux-pas. But John’s misadventure had been physical. Very physical.

“Well, I stopped at Richard Foster’s place a couple of days ago," he began. "You probably know he’s been collecting rescued wildlife to use in some film projects for a U.K. company.”
 
When I met him in the late 70's, Richard Foster, future icon of Belizean cinematography and future National Geography rock-star, lived about five miles west of Gracie Rock, the main mountaintop marl-quarry that had provided building material for the Western Highway. Richard was soft-spoken, very British, and unfailingly polite. But he had the all of attributes of the quintessential distracted artist. His mind was constantly full of images, camera angles, filming locations, and planned edits, and his body just pretty much followed his mind around, wherever it went. At that time, no one had a thought that this location would, one day, become The Belize Zoo. The collection of exotics was modest, to say the least. In fact, I used to tease Richard about his vast menagerie of “one tarantula, and two and a half snakes.”

“So, Richard and I had had a couple of beers together…” (Uh-oh, I thought to myself. Any story that starts with “a couple of beers together ” usually does not turn out well.)
 
“His workers had built a new enclosure for a young ocelot. Richard and I were standing there, checking out the new tenant -- a handsome young lad, licking his spots in the dappled sunlight. But then Richard had to go deal with some construction issue, and he left me standing there, fiddling with my camera…”
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 “But you couldn’t get the angle you wanted,” I interjected, “so you opened the door and went inside the pen…”
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 “But I couldn’t get the angle I wanted,” John echoed, “so I opened the door and went inside the pen…” ​

He gave me a squishy kind of smile. “I know, I know,” he said. “Stoopid gringo, right?” I knew. I got it. I had compassion. We’d all done dumb stuff. In fact, some of us were lucky to even be alive. “The young tom didn’t seem all that impressive. But he had, by then, looked up from his grooming session, and eyeballed me suspiciously. I mean, the cat was just an adolescent. And then it happened. Like lightning, he was across the pen, and wrapped around my foot. His claws and teeth sliced through the leather like it was butter, and buried them into my ankle.” John laughed, a bit ruefully. “Wait a minute. I have something to show you.” He grabbed his crutches, hobbled over to his truck, grabbed something from the cab and limped back. He handed me the cowboy boot, the mate for the boot he was wearing. It was slashed and sliced through in several places. Yikes. It looked like it had been on the losing side of a sword fight with a Viking.

​“If I hadn’t been wearing the heavy leather,” John said, “the damned cat would have taken my foot off.”

​“So, what did you do? I mean, you couldn’t move. It wasn’t like you could punch it in the nose like a shark, or shake it off like a naughty puppy.”

“No, ma’am. In fact, every time I wiggled, the cat tightened up his grip. I called out, to see if any workers were nearby. One of them finally came over, and then went to find Richard.”

It had been a scary situation. It wasn’t like anybody could just enter the pen and disentangle victim-from-attacker. And there was no way anybody was going to suggest shooting the cat, although one of the workers joked that maybe they could shoot John.

Finally, Richard decided to go to the chicken pen, and grab a yellow baby-chick. They tied a string to its legs, threw it into the pen, then pulled it back, as though trolling for a fish. At first, the cat didn’t react. He’d already bagged his big game, meaning John, and was not inclined to give up the prize. But finally, the lure of easy-prey distracted him, and he let go.
 
​“I’ll tell you,” said John, “I bolted for that gate almost as fast as the cat had crossed the pen to nail me. You asked if I’d been running marathons lately but, I’ll tell you, I could have won a gold medal for that sprint. Richard got me to a doctor, who gave me a bunch of stitches, plus an antibiotic shot, a course of pills, and some advice. He said not to enter any more cages containing wild animals.”

​Afterwards, I didn’t see John and Carolyn Carr for several months, but when I finally did, John showed me the impressive lattice-work of pink and white scars crisscrossing his ankle.
 
I also noticed he was wearing new cowboy boots.
Perhaps it is wise to remember the Kriol proverb that deals with small cats and attitude.

“Tiga maaga bot ih kakataari.”
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