There is a gentleman from my community who must be well into his ‘80s. He was offered a lift two weeks ago as he limped under threatening weather along a challenging, undulating St Joseph street.
In his hands was a manila envelope of the size
and type people take with them at times of important business.
Only this time it was an Inland Revenue Division
“Notice of Assessment” for the payment of Property Tax. The envelope was bulging
so there may have been associated documents – presumably identification and
heaven knows what else.
Turns out he was on his way to the Tunapuna
Piarco Administrative Complex, specifically the District Revenue Office, to pay
the contentious Property Tax. “It is what citizens do,” he said proudly.
Given his age and physical condition, it may
have been that he had had the option of completing an Application Form for
Deferral of Assessed Tax as stipulated under Section 23 of the Property Tax Act
on the grounds of “impoverished condition and … inability to improve … financial
position significantly by reason of: age, impaired health (or) other special
circumstances, that would create undue hardship.”
He is the kind of person who would know
this. But he chose, instead, to do “what citizens do.” He did not know whether
he needed to take cash with him or he could have used his bank card.
Fast-forward to last week and my turn. I
thought all the while about my neighbour, whom I had not seen since his Property
Tax trip. I was especially reminded of him when I realised that the elevator to
the first floor of the building had (for years now I determined) remained “out
of order.”
I strongly made my way up the stairs
alongside three people who were quite clearly my seniors (and I am no spring
chicken). “This place is not for old people,” one gentleman said. “Tell me
about it,” I chimed in, purely for purposes of extending solidarity, of course.
When we got to the top of the stairway, we
were greeted by a very polite security guard who directed us to a relatively
short queue of about 10 people - average age 70, was my guess.
Uh oh, “Cash or Cheques Only”. My bad. I
should have known. I should have checked. I wondered how Mr St Joseph had made
out with his bank card.
So, off I went about 150 metres westward in
the direction of the Tunapuna Market to the ATM. Would I have to use my karate skills
on the way back to the Revenue Office with all that cash in my pocket? Are they
serious about the “Exact Change” notice there? Do I have sufficient 20s? Do I
need singles?
So, 300 metres later, I am back up those
stairs alongside two slower moving dutiful, elderly citizens. The line was
shorter now, but the day had started getting hot, and the location of that section
means you line up under cover, but in an unenclosed setting. The
air-conditioning that breaks down and “closes cash” for the day is inside where
the clerks sit.
First, you go to a window to have your
assessment “checked” and, following several clicks of a keyboard, you are
handed another document with the same information as the assessment one. Do not
pull out the cash … yet. Then, you leave the counter with these two documents
containing the identical information and move to another line to pay.
In that line, people are whispering about
doing all of this “on the computer.” Somebody steupsed. I kept quiet. I have
written enough times about state failure/refusal to enter the digital age. I
not saying nothing.
There I was with two pieces of paper containing
the identical information and a handful of cash in my pocket, in a line, in the
heat (what happens when it rains hard?), and a waterlogged piece of cardboard
is blocking a window I imagine was designed for a third cashier.
A very courteous lady (whose face I cannot
see) takes the cash, keeps the second piece of paper, loudly rubber stamps what
turns out to be a third piece of paper, the receipt, and sends me on my way.
What a way, I thought, of handling the VIPs
of this particular moment in our economic history! My neighbour, I quietly surmised,
was more “VIP” than the people assigned special seating some public venues. Dutiful
citizens are now more valuable, nationally, than the “VVIPs” at the various
fetes.
How can an increasingly cash-strapped country,
in search of enhanced revenue streams, treat some of its most important
citizens, our real VIPs, so?
