(02/25/26)

Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer ​

​Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2026 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
"Ugo's First Halloween"
​In 1977, Belizean law stated that gringo residents couldn’t be employees. On the contrary, we U.S. imports needed to create jobs and employ Belizeans, not subtract from the local labour force. With little machinery, everything depended on strong backs and strong hands. There were no shortcuts. We would need some hired help. 
 
Upstream, in Macaw Bank, Polo Neal (see Episode 46 - “Ornery Jack Donkey”) and his wife, Luisa, had several children. The oldest was a 17-year-old boy, whose mother had given him the unintentionally pretentious name of Victor Hugo Neal. When he had first introduced himself using his middle name, I couldn’t quite catch what he was saying.  Of course, Latinos routinely use a silent “H,” but at the time, the sound of “OO-go” didn’t quite register. When I asked him to clarify by spelling it, he shrugged—like maybe he didn’t know. “U-G-O?” he’d said, answering my question, with a question. 

Having lived all his life on the riverside, and accustomed to hard physical labor, Ugo was smoothly muscled, well-defined, 
Ugo, on left, we passengers aboard, and Don Eloy at the helm.
and very strong. With his loose mop of curly black hair, and high cheekbones, it was pretty obvious that he did not physically “favor” Polo at all. As a result, Ugo had always tried to stay clear of his tempestuous step-father, and when he started working for us on a daily basis, it benefitted everybody. He’d helped with the heavy physical work of clearing brush, building fences, planting and hoeing, and de-stumping the property. 
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​Early on, we realized it would only make sense to build him his own little thatched hut on the property. It would save him the twice-daily mile-long walk to-and-from Macaw Bank. The resultant tiny house had two small window openings, east and west (with no actual windows) and a door made of sticks, woven together with strips of the inner bark of the rattan palm, known as basket tee-tie. For the first time in his life, Ugo now had his own little space, and was proud of his interior décor. It consisted of a low-slung string hammock, a tiny plank table to hold his kerosene lamp, a hook on the wall for his machete, and a small cardboard box for his two extra shirts, and extra pair of pants. There was also a burlap sack (locally known as crocus bag) containing his “town shoes.” Otherwise, Ugo went barefoot. 
​In the days before science provided explanation, human beings, the world over, believed that spirits and supernatural creatures were responsible for all sorts of natural phenomenon. So, like all “back-a-bush” Belizeans, Ugo was superstitious. Embedded in his mind since childhood were stories of miscreant folkloric spirits of the forest: dwendes, the sisimite, and la llorona, the crying woman. (See Episode 50 - “Dicky and La Llorona”)
 
In turn, we told him about Halloween in the States, how kids would celebrate the tradition by dressing up in costumes. Although called “trick-or-treating,” it was mostly just about collecting candy from indulgent neighbours. After dark, on October 31st, the streets would be full of pirates, ghosts, witches, demons, vampires, skeletons, werewolves, and wizards. Well, apparently, I had still retained a little of that trickster Halloween spirit, and I suggested to my husband that we play a little prank on Ugo. 

​​On our way to Belize—driving overland through Mexico—we had first stopped in New Orleans. It had been only weeks before Mardi Gras, and the costume shops were doing brisk business. On a whim, I had bought a cheap paper mask. (I still don’t remember exactly why…)

​So, it was the proverbial “dark and stormy night.” With the dry season about to break, thunder rolled, and lightning cracked intermittently, illuminating angry black clouds against a backdrop of pale eerie purple. My accomplice-husband and I began to execute our plan. He picked up the spare kerosene lantern, and a book of matches. I draped a black cloth around my upper body, grabbed the mask, and we prepared to creep up to Ugo’s house, about 75 yards away. 

​We huddled below the west side window-opening. My husband quietly lit the lamp, and raised it slowly. From my crouched position, I rose slowly, along with the lamp, while making a low moaning sound. The flame had flickered on my demonic face, dark-red and black and orange—a disembodied skull-like demon, with teeth, and blackened hollowed eyes… 
​It was supposed to be practical joke, but I had underestimated Ugo’s response. I will never forget the way the young man’s eyes grew as big as saucers, seeming to fill his whole face, as he uttered a shriek of pure terror. One second later, he turned and executed a perfect one-handed vault through the small eastern window—one that would have made an Olympian proud. His body never even touched the sides.