(03/29/26)

Junglepixiebelize - Recollections of a Gringa Pioneer ​

​Nancy R Koerner - Copyright@2026 - All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
"Emory King - O.G. Historian"
 It was just before noon when the gift shop manager and I concluded our business. There would now be no reason to pursue further sales anywhere else, as the Fort George had just purchased every last piece of my inventory. Just then, I heard a commotion behind me, accompanied by a familiar voice. Emory King was one of those characters who was larger-than-life. His boisterous persona seemed to fill up any room he entered.
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“Emory” I called out, cheerfully. ”How goes it, you old pirate?” He turned to me with his crooked grin, and doffed 
his signature white straw hat with the exaggerated bow of a old-time colonial. What a charming ham, I thought. Impetuously, I crossed the room, gave him a brief hug, and light peck on the cheek.  “Uh-oh. Now you’ve got a pink lipstick mark,” I said, beginning to rub it off with my finger.
 
“Hey, unhand me, fair maiden,” he laughed, resisting my touch. “I’ll wear it as a badge of honor. It proves that I can still get a girl to kiss me. And, besides—pink makes my eyes look bluer.” 
Emory King was a singular entity in the streets of Belize City. He was not only a walking encyclopedia of Belizean history, but also a gifted raconteur. The man had also been responsible for bringing a plethora of various influences and essential contributions into the country, some of which had made a tremendous long-term impact.
 
“I don’t suppose you’d allow me to treat you to lunch at the restaurant upstairs. After all, it would further enhance my reputation as an irresistible ladies’ man?” He pointed to his cheek, and wiggled his eyebrows. “And would go well with my pink lipstick mark.”
I relished Emory’s company for the same reason I enjoyed my interactions with the British Army. They were engaging and humourous. I’d always had a flare for language, and unfortunately, living “back-a-bush” had gradually diminished my vocabulary. But now, my verbal polish had returned, and I gave him a quick rejoinder. 

“Have no fear. I’d be delighted to assist in the strategic over-dramatization of your prowess,” I quipped right back, as I took his proffered arm. “Onward, milord.” 

The Fort George second-floor restaurant had a lovely post-colonial vibe to it—cool, relaxed, still  old-school, but modern enough to have good food, and an excellent wait-staff. The main dining area had pale green walls, hardwood tables, and comfortable wicker chairs. But nothing was more  stunning than the full view of the wide-open sea along on the eastern side, running the entire length of the room. Emory looked so at home in this ambiance, he could have been painted right into the mural behind him.
“Belize always been a unique place,” Emory explained. “We're ‘a land of reluctant immigrants. No racial discrimination, no political discrimination, and no religious intolerance. I used to say we had six races, and eight languages, but really it's a shifting blend of ethnic groups: Creole, Mestizo, Garifuna, Maya, East Indian, Mennonite, Chinese, Lebanese, British, and Americans—the languages being English, Creole, Spanish, Garifuna, three Maya languages, Mennonite German, Cantonese, Lebanese, and even a Spanish‑based Kriol near the Guatemalan border. We've got no killing, no wars, and we’ve never had a coup. We're the only country in the world, that I know of, that's never bee invaded,  and never invaded anybody else. We enjoy ear-splitting serenity. Because of the British, we've had a completely different historical tradition from the rest of Central America. We’re a Caribbean country, not a Latino one. 
“By the way, how did you get here, Emory? I don’t think I’ve ever asked.”
 
“Some friends and I sailed down here on a yacht in 1953. Like so many others, my entry was rather typical, if not downright traditional. It really was a matter of ‘making landfall.’ We shipwrecked on the reef. My friends went back; I decided to stay. I was 22 at the time.”
 
Utterly surprised, I asked, “What? How did you get ashore? Did you have to swim? Even in front of San Pedro where the reef is closest, it’s still, like, a mile."
 
“Ha!” he laughed aloud. “Also, quite traditional. Like many sailors of yesteryear, I never learned to swim. We were rescued by a couple of fishermen.” 
Throughout our casual meal, Emory entertained me with his vast library of historical knowledge. The first British arrived in 1638, when Captain Peter Wallace sailed up the Belize River and made haven. His crew then became the first of “the Baymen” to settle its lower banks. They were the first to begin cutting logwood for its famous purple-to-black dye. Short afterwards, the world’s best quality of mahogany was also discovered, and British Honduras engaged with the lucrative markets of Europe. Peter Wallace is now remembered for his surname, which was bastardized first into Waliz, and then Baliz—finally becoming the Belize River.
I especially enjoyed Emory’s take on the controversial subject of slavery. Although slaves were most certainly part of the “reluctant immigrant” category, it was a totally different equation than one might think. There was never a market here for “black cargo,” captured in Africa. Instead, slaves arrived in Belize as accidentally as their masters. They were already a generation or two removed from Africa, then reluctantly transplanted from Jamaica, Cuba, Puerto Rico, and other Caribbean islands. Rather than being “under the lash of cruelty,” these folks were more like willing family servants; they were part of the household. When the Baymen went out logging, the family slaves went with them. The bush was a terrifying place—full of common enemies. Therefore, master and slave alike carried weapons, pistols and machetes, equally armed against that which could bite, or eat you.
By 1954, Emory King was already a close friend to George Price, who would later become Belize’s First Prime Minister. Upon hearing that a group of displaced Mennonites in Durango, Mexico, were to be expelled, and sought a new country, it was Emory who acted as liaison and facilitator. Using his relationships with Belizean leadership to help secure land and provide legal guarantees for the new Mennonite settlement, his involvement was “hands-on”—personal, practical, and rooted in his unique talent for making outsiders feel welcome in British Honduras. 
This particular aspect of Emory’s work struck a personal chord in me. The contributions and 
talents of the modern Spanish Lookout  were helpful beyond-measure, and often the only thing that made life possible for us in the early days.* In a country that still languished in the infancy, they could get things done. ​The Mennonites farmed, they had tractors. They built granaries, hatcheries, raised meat pullets and milking cows. They had gas stations, dry good stores, repair shops, and welding shops—all born from the simplified traditions of their forefathers—and their uncanny natural ability to make due. 
In retrospect, it difficult to describe the countless ways Emory King has affected Belize’s destiny. He authored nine books, all with his linguistic flair, and trademark satirical wit. He became a columnist/editor for the Belize Times, and later served as National Film Commissioner, having brought three Hollywood movies to be filmed in- country: “Dogs of War,” with Christopher Walken, “Mosquito Coast,” with Harrison Ford, and “Caribe” with Stephen McHattie. 

Fun fact: In each of these cinematic films, Emory was given a small cameo appearance. But he always played himself: a real-life character, in a bar, and having a whiskey, while smoking a cigar.

​(In the accompanying photo, in which “tough guy” Emory is wearing an olive-and-white checked jacket—the image on the right is the back of Harrison Ford’s head.)
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Although my copy of “Hey Dad, This is Belize” has been lost to me through the decades, I still remember a typically-satirical excerpt from this first book, in which he contrasts different forms of government, for the benefit of own son. 
​“Hey Dad, This Is Belize” by Emory King
(And forgive me, if I paraphrase…)
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Democracy: You have a cow. You feed the cow, and you get the milk. 

Socialism: You have a cow. You feed the cow, and government gets the milk. 

Fascism: You have a cow. Government shoots the cow, and puts you in a concentration camp.

Mercantilism: (This is what we have here in Belize): The cow lives in Holland. The milk is powdered, put into a can, shipped across the Atlantic, to Belize, and then sold to you, retail, by a Lebanese shopkeeper. 

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​​Yes, dear readers—that’s classic “Emory” for you. (Thank you, old friend.)
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