Melville CookeFlash my dread flash my dread, flash my natty dread
Of what fun it is to ride on a CB400
Jamaican Christmas Carol
AFTER MY most recent run-in with the traffic cops, I have been thinking a lot about the emphasis the government puts on collecting revenue from motor vehicles. I have come to the conclusion that, from increased gas taxes to hiked traffic fines, it is as much
a punishment as a source of
revenue.
You see, most of you uppity Jamaicans were never supposed to have cars in the first place. You just don't know your places and, for the sin of daring to secure your own transportation, you will pay. And pay. And pay. And pay.
Think about it. The traffic jams that we are experiencing are evidence enough that the Jamaican road system was not designed to accommodate so much traffic. It takes longer to get from Portmore to Half-Way Tree during peak hours than it does to get from Six Miles to Falmouth, Trelawny, for crying out loud! And don't tell me about population boom; we were at 2.5 million people from I was wearing short pants to Lyssons All-Age School until some enterprising men broke through the 2.6 million barrier recently.
For those of us with short memories, do not think that the recently increased fine system is the first ploy to dig "a money" out of car owners and in fact everybody, because once transportation costs go up, everything follows suit.
We should all know that the Seaga-led JLP administration of the 1980s faced their own gas tax riots, just as the PNP did more recently. But who remembers the licence plate scam that the JLP government ran, when everybody had to change their plates? Aha! Knew you had forgotten that one. Yup, that is when the yellow government plates and green rental ones came in.
And how many of you remember when the motor vehicle importation policy was changed
and deportees started to roll in by the shipload? I can recall the first time,
in about 1992, when I called for a cab and a white deportee rolled around. I was
expecting a Morris Oxford and it took me a while to realise that the cab was sitting
there waiting air-conditioning and all.
Prior to the liberalisation, which in itself was a duty-collecting, money-making
strategy, someone who wanted a car to buy had to put their name on a list at
an approved dealer and wait months until a shipment came in. Escalations had
to be paid and, if you did not want or could not afford the car when it finally
came at double the cost you expected, there were hordes of people waiting to
pay the price, so you could move and keep moving.
(Hey, who remembers the slogan "you can rely on a Lada"? And when
cars appreciated in price as they got older?). Then along came the free for
all imports and chaos reigned.
Y'see, the people who control such things never dreamed that so many Jamaicans
would be able, or strain themselves to buy a car. Reading their minds from a
layman's point of view, they probably thought that tertiary-trained professionals
and a few lucky others would be able to ride in comfort, while other persons
just jolly well took the buses or walked.
But no. Along comes Tuffy, who never passed any exams worth mentioning, sailing
along the highway in a criss Caldina, rims sparkling and dancehall music thumping
away on the stereo. He is overtaken by Carol, who bought her RAV 4 through the
good old buy and sell and not by renting out her considerable ass-etts to a
'big man', looking cool as the wind tries to blow her very stiff false hair.
Yu tink Babylon really like dat? Hell no! So thou upstart car owners shall
pay. And pay. And pay. And the intended shall suffer for the unintended.
Of course, if successive Jamaican governments had given Jamaicans living in
the metropolitan areas a decent bus system, instead of the hog and goat situation
which existed up to two years ago, then there would not have been this mad rush
to purchase cars. And mad it is, because shelling out over $500,000 for a car
that will need at least half that over the ensuing three years (excluding gas)
to keep it running, while making payments, is crazy.
Footnote: This idea for this piece was liberated, shall we say, from
Gleaner entertainment reporter Tanya Batson. Moral of the story? Never mention
nascent notions to desperate columnists and eligible men to single girlfriends.
Melville Cooke is a freelance writer.
