Notes From A Small Rock

I CAN PREDICT THE FUTURE AND THE FUTURE IS FUZZY

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 02:00:00 +0000

How we landed on this small rock still puzzles me. I remember The Husband said I had three choices.
Three.
Perhaps what is astounding is not that there were three possible paths but that I actually believed these were my only options.
One. Two. Three.
They say bad things happen in threes. So, if you break your wrist, then lose your wallet on the bus, you know there is only one more nasty surprise coming your way before the cosmos is properly re-aligned. Good things on the other hand never come in packages of three. No one wins the lottery, finds true love and gets the Nobel for discovering a cure for cancer.

‘I have looked at all the places in the world we can live that would give us and the boys a good life and I’ve come up with a short list.’ he announced.
‘Really? You’re kidding right?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. Just for fun, where should we live?’
‘Bangalore, Singapore or Barbados.’
Just like that.
There was not a hint of doubt in his voice. From nearly two hundred countries in the world he could coolly narrow the field to three.
‘Humm. Seems a bit arbitrary to me.’ I ventured.
‘Not at all. Bangalore is a very happening city where the kids will also have a chance to understand their cultural heritage.’
‘But they have lived all their tiny lives in south London. This is their culture.’
‘They will never be fully accepted as British. Not in their lifetime.’ he snapped.
‘Well, I’ve never even been to Bangalore so can’t say it appeals to me.’
‘You should go visit then.’
He was completely serious.
‘And Singapore?’
‘Ah yes. Very safe. And the kids will come out disciplined and ready for university.’
‘But Singapore is one big, soulless, shopping mall.’
‘We could leave on weekends and long vacations.’
‘Why can’t we stay in London and continue they way we are? What’s wrong with our life here?’
‘Didn’t you always say you wanted to go back to the Caribbean?’
‘That was when I was twenty-one. Not now. This is my home. I have spent my entire adult life here. I learnt to drive here. Voted here. My kids were born here. I’m not leaving.’
But even as I spoke I knew it was pointless to argue. It had been a brief, bloodless coup. Besides, wasn’t Barbados paradise?

Two and a half years on we are settled into our new home and have just completed works on His Office and My Studio. A tiny part of me still nurses jealousy and resentment as to who got the better deal. If we are talking square footage and views then, yes, the bastard won. But my space, while smaller, is better organized, also has views and is well positioned for nipping to the kitchen for cups of tea. And our contract expressly states that I have reserved the right to occupy such other spaces (including His Office) as is deemed necessary for the completion of art projects.

The Husband’s office is admittedly more tasteful than I thought him capable of creating. Instead of a traditional desk he has opted for a large refectory table and two Eames office chairs. There is a large white sofa that Jack the Jack Russell views as his bed and it all overlooks the garden of Samaan, Immortelle and Mahogany trees. But the most interesting thing is the pride of place he has given to a large crystal ball – a present from TK, a close friend and former colleague. The Husband may have moved on from predicting dollar/yen but he still divines the future and what he has to say is not nice. I live in fear that one more public statement of doom and gloom will tip the authorities over the edge and he will be stripped of citizenship.

Of course we all wish we had a reliable crystal ball to know the future. Obama could use it to know how and when to pull troops out of Afghanistan. Indonesians would have minimized the deaths and devastation these past months from tsunami after tsunami pounding their islands. Our friend Brian would have known he would soon influence the development of a nation as the next governor of the Bank of Jamaica. And the crystal ball would have assured us that this small rock was indeed the best place for our children. It is a place with low crime, great climate, decent education and good connections to the rest of the world.

But there is no need for a predictive tool – crystal ball or sophisticated mathematical model - to know that paradise does not come cheap. I have only reluctantly accepted that the price of living on an island of 270,000 people is that I will forever be an outsider finding friendship and solace with other outsiders. And to have the same variety of intellectual and cultural stimulation that I had in London would be arrogant.

For today it is enough to be writing in a room with a view of a garden filled with Samaan, Immortelle and Mahogany trees.

LOST IN TRANSIT

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 03:35:00 +0000

I have neglected Notes in the misguided belief that this would allow extra hours to be dedicated to a larger writing project. Instead it has meant even less words committed to paper. So at Miami airport with time to spare I will, dear readers, try to make amends.

Since returning to this small rock in September it appears to have shrunk to even less than the 21 by 14 miles acknowledged on maps. Some days even the air seems scarce. The unusual heat is partly to blame. Or it could be the intrusion on our civil rights of mandatory fingerprinting at Grantley Adams International Airport introduced without warning or legislation. Perhaps the island also got a little smaller the day a photograph was published in The Nation showing the public flogging of school children – just punishment meted out for arriving late at school. Most surveys, radio call-in programmes and press have joined in a righteous chorus supporting “de rod”. I am considering home schooling.

‘Paradise is slipping away.’ I whispered to Jack the Jack Russell.
He did not even open half an eye in acknowledgment. And this is supposed to be man’s best friend. I want to go home. Of course it is an absurd request. So I kissed the family goodbye for a couple days hoping to inhale different air.

In Miami there are the well-rehearsed distractions of sushi, a few arty friends and shopping. I planned to buoy up the economy with purchases of Christmas presents, novelties for holiday entertaining and fulfilling First and Second Born’s impossibly long wish list. But that required stamina and enthusiasm for all manner of unnecessary plastic objects. After a day of sushi for lunch and dinner as well as mandatory visits to the Apple Store and Pottery Barn I had lost the will to buy. By the following day I had opted instead for a poolside lounger coupled with a divine novel – the latest offering from William Trevor recounting the ordinary tale of a chance at present love denied by ghosts of a distant past.

But peace never came in this temporary home. Sleep was impossible. I spent last night haunting the less obvious spaces of the hotel and exploring the deserted financial district that surrounded it. My fellow insomniacs and I made a curious sight. Shift workers walked quickly and stayed in the shadows. Above the streets two lovers laughed and kissed on their balcony. Later I stumbled on Walgreens – Open 24 hours. My friend H. had a request so I went inside in search of Reece’s sweeties. Despite pacing up and down each aisle only two packets of candy and a new toothbrush found their way into the shopping trolley.

I walked out past a woman with a harsh, angular face and blank eyes, a cigarette burning between her fingers. We did not acknowledge each other. It seemed the only way to respect whatever private demons had led us at this unusual hour to these lonely streets. I walked and walked and walked hoping the act of one foot in front the other would make time tick faster. Back at the hotel the wall clock showed 5am. In one hour the night would be forced to give way to the first tentative morning light. A man seated in the lobby was wearing yesterday’s light blue suit and a still knotted paisley tie. His left hand twitched with involuntary spasms. His face was oddly contorted. He used his steady hand to keep the coffee cup from spilling. I wanted to go over, hold his hands and tell him everything was going to be okay. If his trembling stopped would mine not also end? As if sensing my intrusive thoughts he got up abruptly and walked over to the lift and with a deep sigh pressed the ‘up’ button. He was ready at last to confront the dread within his well-appointed room. Does this dread follow him, hiding under the bed and behind the curtains? Is it in every hotel room in every city? I stared at his disappearing form and tears flowed down my face.

By 7am this morning in the full glare of morning I decided to return to Bim earlier than planned. The household will survive without the new linens, kettle and DS games I should have secured. The first available flight is not until early evening but I cannot stay in this room and I am too exhausted to walk anymore. Airports are great places to be alone and yet surrounded by people. Eight hours in Miami International might in different circumstances be a descent into hell but today it is a respite. Instead of the airport lounge I have opted for the loudest, busiest spot available. I opened my laptop and began to write.

With each tap of the keys the night is lulled to sleep.

I'll be home soon.

THE TRUTH, THE WHOLE TRUTH, AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 10:42:00 +0000

Billy Joel (please say you remember him) once cooed that,
Honesty is such a lonely word.
Everyone is so untrue.
Honesty is hardly ever heard.
And mostly what I need from you.
Well Billy boy, if its honesty you crave then you should have left New York ever since and taken up residence on this small rock. They don’t come more honest than your average Bajan. We call it like we see it: a spade is a spade. Of course there are exceptions in every community but I am talking about your average Marlon and Mavis catching the Black Rock bus pon a morning.

This search for truth is most evident when it comes to naming persons, places, animals and things. Where else will you find a producer forthcoming enough to brand his product C-thru White Rum. It does exactly what it says on the tin so proceed with caution.

And giving your child a conventional name like Melanie or Peter will not prevent them acquiring one closer to their true nature – as seen through Bajan eyes. Sheila, with her bee-sung lips, is known as Lipton while Desmond, with his larger than average head, is Bus Stop. As if this were not difficult enough to live with, how about being hailed on Broad Street as Gun Prick, Old Girl (for a man) or Biff (big igrant foolish f**ker). Oh and by the way my spell checker is working. Someone who is not very smart but thinks they are is ‘ignorant’ to a Trini and ‘igrant’ in Bim.

But the honesty Bajans display goes beyond naming. It may be hidden deep beneath layers of social obligations and reservations. This will never be an obstacle. Nor will a Bajan let the truth be obscured by silly legal niceties. The Nation newspaper column - Puddin’ an’ Souse - titled after the unofficial national dish, has as its raison d'être the uncovering of illegal and immoral goings on in a voice that neatly side steps potential libel suits. A typical, recent Puddin an' Souse outing of the truth was this:
Who is the legal mind who is involved with a woman half his age?
And why does he think that the child she has is really his?
This woman and her relatives get themselves into all kinds of mischief because they know the man would protect them.
People in the know want this man to shift these bad-behaved folks because he is already losing respect.
In a population of 350,000 you can be sure a goodly portion of the chattering classes know the identity of the unfortunate gentleman and are already sending telegrams to those who don’t.

This all makes me think that perhaps there is a place for a little dishonesty. Maybe not outright lies, but occasionally I find myself nostalgic for a soupçon of reserve. A long lost European friend or relative would never greet you:
‘Oh luss gul, you was real nice when yuh did young. Now yuh gine get fat and ugly.’
But in Bajan terms it is as if they had said,
‘Hi there! Haven’t seen you in ages. Gosh you’ve changed.’
From the translation it is manifestly clear the greeting is without malice – merely observation of your position on the wrong end of the body fat index. To compound matters such an observation is often swiftly followed by the generous offer of a home cooked feast. To decline would be very rude so stuff your chubby face with macaroni pie and stew chicken and let the diet begin tomorrow.

I guess it all depends on how you prefer to face the slings and arrows of this outrageous life. There is no avoiding the arrows ripping into your flesh so you can either take them in the chest or back. Consider the experience of a recent visitor from foreign parts to our small rock. He had lost one eye. Within days total strangers were affectionately greeting him as ‘Cyclops’. But he knew he a fully paid up member of the parish when he was christened ‘S - Blank’ – a reference to the domino piece with one dot and a blank space. Bajans love a game of dominos and indeed the world champion, Ronald ‘Suki’ King, is a Bajan to the bone. S-Blank is crucial to the game.

Back in London people who encountered S-Blank pointedly refused to comment on his missing eye. At least they never made a comment directly to him. That would have been considered poor form – a bit too honest. Yet on this small rock the failure to acknowledge and incorporate his distinctive look would have been the dishonest act. So if you are planning to rock up to Bim anytime soon remember to thicken your skin and get ready for nuff sincerity and honesty to last a lifetime.

EDUCATING MUMMY

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Sat, 05 Sep 2009 16:49:00 +0000

September signals the end of the silly season of summer frivolity but my kids are not going down without a fight. They are convinced that only a truly heartless bitch would insist they return to full time education while it is so hot, humid, rainy or while a replacement for Second Born’s exploded fountain pen has not been procured. Well flying fish, it’s been a long, fraught, nine weeks and they can either go safely back to school or risk commencement of adoption proceedings.

And I will lead by example. Yup. Even though First Born considers me one step away from a Zimmer frame, I’m going back to school. I’ve been hanging out at one educational establishment or another since the age of three and the fact that I now live on this small rock is no reason to radically change the habit of a lifetime. And there is something about September that says it is time to take stock and maybe make amends. Whatever resolutions were made in January have long since evaporated into the ether. But September is a time of second chances. New battle cries can be heard on the buses to take classes, join gyms, or finally knit that teacosy you always dreamed of, your whole life.

But going back to school when the glow of youth has dimmed is not easy. So you want to learn, but what? Is this the right time in life to finally get beyond ‘hola’ en español? Or maybe since I live in the ‘bread basket’ of Barbados I should read for a Diploma in Inspection in Meat and Other foods. Having already engineered one career switch, good sense dictates I stay focused on my current subject matter. This of course is when the constraints of small island life slap you round the face. The particular research degree I want to pursue is not offered in paradise. Sigh. I need the sunshine but I also need the space to think through the making of art. You never know what you’ll find. Monteverdi in the seventeenth century founded a style of music (stile concitato) after reading medical treatises. How cool is that. Mummy will just have to be educated through some juggling act involving airline food, thermal underwear and missing Jack (the unbiddible Jack Russell).

While we negotiate the pursuit of knowledge I have found another way of sneaking back into a place of learning. Teaching. The Community College is the only game in town offering a degree in fine art so I begged them to have me.
‘You know we only pay the absolute minimum we can get away with and not be called slave traders?’ said The Boss looking down at me.
‘Yes!’ I enthused. ‘I won’t dream of asking for a cent above the cost of giving the children a little salt bread pon ah morning.’
‘Excellent. You’re hired.’ said She Who Must Be Worshiped.
‘Thank you so much.’ I gushed. ‘I won’t disappoint you, I promise.’
‘Yeah. Whatever. Close the door on your way out.’
'Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.’ I said, all the while bowing as I walked backwards out of The Giver of Contracts office.

Anyway, I’m thinking that now they have officially hired me they’ll want me to stick around – thus saving themselves the hassle of finding another deranged artist willing to be institutionalized for minimum wage. So I might as well create havoc. Today was the first day and it was more fun than I have had in ages. The second year students on the bachelor of fine arts programme are now my very part-time responsibility.

We met and I was utterly smitten. They are naïve, self-assured and full of life. I had so much fun trampling over the safe, little paths they had projected for the term ahead. They looked less happy. Okay, so I may have accused one of confusing art with therapy and told another she was in a space of ideas not dogma. But I did encourage them to consider their relationship to the other and to question the gaze through which they filtered the world. Artists should have to struggle to find what their practice means and its relationship to the quotidian – and if not, they should be forced to. I can hardly wait for the next class.

HEAVEN ON EARTH

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 10:46:00 +0000

When the Eagles wrote Hotel California I think they had Barbados firmly in mind. You know the bit where the night man explains that,
You can check out any time you like,
But you can never leave.
Well, that is Bim.

Never assume that traveling a few thousand miles to a hamlet comprising three toothless hags and five straggly sheep, on a lake in northern Cumbria, means you have checked out of island life. On day three of our stay the owner of our delightful, small hotel asked if we lived in Barbados and was The Husband in finance.
‘Why are you asking me this?’ I demanded with more than a little suspicion.
‘Well it’s just that I overheard your boys talking about Barbados. I have a friend from Barbados and I think you know each other.’
Of course it turns out that a Bajan acquaintance comes to the very hamlet every summer to get away from it all.

We managed to respect each others privacy but only just because whenever the rain ceased we were out walking. Our most memorable walk was to the summit of Cat Bells, on the western shore of Derwentwater Lake. It is described in the definitive Wainright’s guide as a walk for ‘grannies and toddlers’. What he must have meant was that granny and toddler mountain goats would find it a stroll. Those of the ‘two legs good’ species had to use both hands and feet to negotiate the craggy outcrops and muddy paths.

But making it to the summit was worth the ache I felt in both knees that night. Cat Bells is only 1479 feet high but yields panoramic views across the lake. There is also this wonderful camaraderie at the top. A couple gave the twins orange squash and tips for an easier descent. Complete strangers, bonded by the shared experience of conquering this little peak, chatted like old friends and wondered aloud about walks they might attempt another day when the sky was as blue and cloudless. Others sat eating their sandwiches staring out at the overwhelming perfection of nature. I lay on the grass high on pure mountain air.

Walking is a way of being still. It is the control of movement at your own pace on your own strength. Indeed, the most centred person I know, a man who exudes calm confidence, lives by turns in the Swiss or French Alps so that walking and climbing can be a routine part of his life. He is up a mountain at every opportunity and in every kind of weather. The attraction he says, apart from the beauty, is the peace that comes from a completely focused mind. And then there is the eerie quiet of being in these vast, empty spaces. Pushing his body to new heights of endurance is also part of the fascination. Since he is the humanist equivalent of a ‘godfather’ to our boys I am hoping some of his character and love of nature rubs off on them.

And on the theme of walking the artist Richard Long has a retrospective on at Tate Britain which you still have time to see if you are on this small rock. Long’s art is based entirely on walks he has made everywhere - from his home in Bristol to places like Mongolia, Peru, the Canadian prairies and Australia. In the gallery space we see formal sculptures of rocks collected, photos taken of small interventions (or even no interventions) into the landscapes of his walks all accompanied by explanatory text. For example there is a picture of rocks barely visible through thick fog and across the bottom of the photo are the words,

BETWEEN A ROCK AND A HARD PLACE
FOUR DAY WALK ON DARTMOOR 2009

In another work we have a photo of a white line of rocks made in a valley between snowcaped mountains with text that reads,

A LINE IN THE HIMALAYAS
1975

Sometimes the only ‘evidence’ of the walk is text like the piece that states,

WALKING TO A LUNAR ECLIPSE
FROM MIDDAY HIGH TIDE AT AVONMOUTH
A WALK OF 366 MILES IN 8 DAYS
ENDING AT A MIDNIGHT TOTAL ECLIPSE OF THE FULL MOON
A LEAP YEAR WALK IN ENGLAND 1996

Walking as sculpture and poetry in motion. If this exhibition does not make you get off your sorry arse and go for a walk nothing ever will.

CHILLIN’ ON (ANOTHER) SMALL ROCK

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 08:35:00 +0000

It is August and on my usual small rock it is raining hard and stiflingly humid. Time to escape to another rock. For once the coolness of London’s lack of summer is refreshing and we have been chilling out doing nothing in particular. But The Husband has other plans. Trips have been booked. There are hills to climb and culture to be absorbed. First stop is Venice. And it is also the first time in all our decades together that he has organized the holidays. I bet First Born a euro we would not make it past Gatwick. And I have had to pay up. The first trip went like clockwork.

So off we hopped to the sinking island of gondolas, Vivaldi and the Bridge of Sighs. But we were not the only Bim posse indulging in Venice’s cultural extravaganva. Parked right up in front de people main square, San Marco, if yuh please, was de biggest, fanciest yacht and pon de back was the Barbados flag ripping through the wind (photographic evidence enclosed). The ultramarine and gold cloth, with broken trident, is not a flag of convenience so is ah real body, most likely living pon de west coast, who own de ting. Forget Trinis anxious to use the death penalty again and cricket in limbo while players and managers cuss and carry on. The pressing issue of the day is this: would the owner of the big ride parked for everybody to see please make themselves known to the nearest West Indian. Just tell one of us and we will ensure quick and efficient circulation of the news. Inquiring minds need to know.

Big ups aside, we were joined in Venice by thousands of jostling, fellow travelers. It still managed to be beautiful. The city forces you to surrender to its maze of tiny corridors and crooked bridges. In return it yields one perfect, peeling, pink villa or exquisite church after another. The children were less impressed. A full day spent walking around the Arsenale looking at some of the curated exhibitions of the Venice Biennale was punctuated by,
'Excuse me please mum. I never want to see any art, EVER again.'
'I'm thirsty. Can I have another fizzy drink, pleeease. My last one, I promise'
'It's hot. Can we see the art in an air conditioned building?'
After the Arsenale they pleaded to be left at the hotel Kids Club to play hide and seek with new found best friends. I could only persuade them to leave the confines of the hotel if it involved an exciting Vaparetto or water bus journey or perhaps a scoop of gelato. But I found that the pain of dealing with these whining, whinging, uncultured, almost-nine-year-olds was significantly diminished after a Bellini or three (drink not painting). Nothing like a drop of peach nectar to keep a mother’s sanity.

But even the peach juice could not raise the quality of the art at this Biennale. It was mainly underwhelming – except for the odd miracle of water into wine. Peter Greenaway, the filmmaker, has undertaken a project of revisiting nine classical paintings, and, with the aid of technology, re-imagining the scenes. I have already missed Rembrandt’s Night Watch at the Rijksmuseum, and Da Vinci’s Last Supper in Milan, being brought to life through Greenaway’s eyes. But I was lucky enough to arrive in time for the last summer showing of his treatment of Paolo Veronese’s The Wedding at Cana, at the Palladian Refectory on San Giorgio Maggiore, the site where the painting was originally hung. Napoleon had the original cut up and taken as booty to France where it was reassembled. You will find it today at the Louvre. But in 2007 a very, very good, full sized, digital facsimile was created and hung on the wall the original once graced.

Greenaway uses music, text and a filmmaker’s wizardry to dissect and animate this huge twenty four by thirty three foot painting. The drama of Jesus’ first miracle is imagined within the political, social and economic context of its day through snippets of overheard conversation and enormous projected close-ups of some of the one hundred and twenty six characters Veronese included. Swirling lines on the painting highlight the speakers. It feels like the painting is in constant motion although it never actually moves off the wall. We hear and see the servants worrying about the gatecrashers who have forced them to stretch a feast meant for 500 to feed 800. Guests catch up on local gossip while some worry about real estate. Others make snide remarks about the dowry, the foreign bride, the commissioned painter and this Jesus chap who not only brought his mommy and a group of fishermen to the wedding, but seated himself in the centre of the feast thereby upstaging the bride and groom. When the water is turned into wine there is skepticism. But even the wine snobs have to admit it’s acceptable stuff and “(t)astes like a south-facing mountain grape”. It is art and history touched by magic and made accessible to a contemporary audience.

I know deep down in my heart that one day First and Second Born will thank me for force-feeding them these cultural offerings. I can wait. That day is only a couple of light years away.

WALKING ON BROKEN TILES

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Tue, 04 Aug 2009 10:18:00 +0000

I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.

T.S. Eliot - Four Quartets, East Coker, iii

Well it’s all over and a good cry is in order. But I have no tears. Strange that. I mean, I cry over the slightest hurt or loss. I bawled when Mr. Hooper from Sesame Street died (now that dates me). I had to be practically sedated when ET looked up at the sky and pleaded to go home. And I cannot turn a page of The Confessions of Nat Turner without having to restrain myself from jumping off the nearest cliff. But in this instance my tear ducts are dry.

Of course at some level I always knew it would never last. That does not stop my mind swirling around with regrets and wondering what I could or should have done to keep it together. But then in a world where the only certainty is uncertainty, the very idea of keeping something so fragile and beautiful intact must itself be irrational. I still want to cry. I still have no tears.

And with every loss there is also anger – or so goes the Kübler-Ross model. Why did it have to happen to me? Did I not give enough of myself? Life is so unfair. And the way it happened too. You see the large groups of summer camp kids who visited the Barbados Museum last week played Hop Scotch on the tiles whenever the security guard was on his tea break, lunch break, newspaper break, water break or pay-your-bills break. He said by the time he saw them it was too late. And then there was the kid who pushed his baby sister’s pram over every single one of the 110 tiles. And we must not forget the men who set up the sound system for the opening night reception. I think they started the ball rolling by breaking the first two tiles of the installation. As the old Bard put it, ‘A plague a' both your houses!’

For the installation, Stroll Down Memory Lane, I had put down 110 tiles in a meandering path through the grounds of the museum. Each tile showed a photograph with added text of a dwelling that I had encountered on a walk through Bank Hall, around the Empire cricket ground, and then up through the avenues of neighbouring Strathclyde. There used to be a wall, in living memory, down the middle of Strathclyde Road dividing Bank Hall and Strathclyde. Some say the wall was made of sand blocks and had iron rods poking out at the top and bottom. Others say it was made of bricks and chains. That wall no longer exists.

I can’t lie. The installation was a bitch to make. But it was up and intact on Tuesday evening when I showed the Minister of Culture round the whole exhibition. It was pure relief that lulled me to sleep that night. By Friday morning that relief was shattered by the news it had to be removed on health and safety grounds because the broken bits of tiles were an accident waiting to happen. I was due to leave Bim on Sunday for one month. There was nothing else to do but make each of the f*^@king tiles all over again. I did not cry. I just set to work and literally did not stop until four hours before BA 2155 was due to take off.

This time I took the precaution of mounting the images on thick, marine-grade ply. It is not as beautiful as the silky, white tiles but it is fairly indestructible. This time, even if they jump up and down they cannot break my tiles. Or my heart.

UNCOVER, RECOVER, DISCOVER

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Sun, 26 Jul 2009 15:28:00 +0000

Exhibition at Barbados Museum and Historical Society, The Garrison, St. Michael, Barbados

Opens 28 July 2009.

Uncover, Recover, Discover

We must confront what we remember and why we forget.
The time has come to celebrate the heritage we possess,
mourn what has been lost,
uncover the obscured,
recover the endangered
and discover the hidden.

UNESCO took the initiative in 1992 to create the Memory of the World Programme to guard against collective amnesia. Its premise is that the world's documentary heritage belongs to us all, and therefore should be preserved, protected and permanently accessible to everyone.

Heritage is not a luxury. It is integral to the protection of all human rights as laid out in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948). It is the foundation from which the values and practices of local communities are understood, respected, encouraged and accommodated. Without this respect our future heritage resources will not be sustained. Local communities need to have a sense of ownership of their heritage. This reaffirms their worth as a community, their ways of going about things, their culture.

This exhibition, to coincide with Barbados hosting the annual meeting of the International Advisory Committee of the UNESCO Memory of the World programme, will feature original materials from Caribbean memories that have already been inscribed on the International Memory of the World Register :
- The Eric Williams Collection, Trinidad
- The C.L.R. James Collection, Trinidad
- The Derek Walcott Collection, Trinidad and
- The Documentary Heritage of Enslaved Peoples of the Caribbean, Barbados.

It is also a chance to see memorabilia of iconic figures from many fields including calypsonians Red Plastic Bag and Adrian Clarke; pioneering artist Francs Griffith; father of the nation Sir Grantley Adams and cricket legend and National Hero the Right Excellent Sir Garry Sobers.

In addition to curating the exhibition, The Barbados National Committee for the Memory of the World also asked artist Ingrid Persaud to make work on the theme of memory. The resulting film, Talkin’ Wid De Old Folks, features local children talking about their elderly relatives and provocative installation, Stroll Down Memory Lane, which raises questions about the many facets of memory, are also on view at the Barbados Museum.

EMERGENCY ART

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Mon, 20 Jul 2009 15:50:00 +0000

I can’t think clearly. It may be symptomatic of my space becoming a dumping ground while The Husband sets up his workspace in a fabulous man-cave overlooking the garden. Of course I’m not jealous. I would never begrudge His Grey Eminence such small necessities when he is in residence. Apparently he thinks best while pacing up and down. And if he paces the length and breath of this modest office each day there will be no need for a Surfside Gym membership so giving Top Dog the space is a no-brainer.

Or perhaps the blame for my lack of creativity could be put squarely at the feet of his kids. At first I thought it was tinnitus but the doctor said that particular aliment is normally associated with a constant buzzing sound whereas the ringing in my ears includes language. It usually starts with “MOmmm!” and then “I’m bored.” Or “MOmmm! I’m starving”. I have tried to explain that being bored between meals during July and August is part of a balanced childhood. They remain unconvinced.

So if the failure to make the artwork I have been commissioned to do is not a result of environmental factors maybe the cause lies deep within my psyche. It would be a real blow to discover there is no one else to blame. Well I’m not there yet. There are still more contributory factors to consider. Geraldine, who after a distinguished career in HR has gone back to university to study psychology, was telling me about the importance of the hypothalamus. Her lecturer’s notes included an aide memoire reminding students that this almond-shaped, all-important bit of the brain “controls the four f’s of survival: feeding, fleeing, fighting and mating”. Clearly my fs are out of sync.

Of course the people who have commissioned the work don’t give a flying fish about my angst as long as it is all done and dusted when the hoi polloi turn up on 28 July. But I have a proper dilemma. I was asked to make work about memory in the context of a larger exhibition about the international preservation of documentary memory. The proposal they accepted had me waxing lyrical about participatory work in the community that celebrated the memories of ordinary people. They loved it. But when I started to implement said plan to make the participatory art I encountered a tiny glitch. The community did not want to participate. Out of a couple hundred residents from two neighbourhoods only two people talked to me; one heckled (‘Guyanese, yuh lookin’ sweet); one threatened me (‘You better watch yuhself’); several let their dogs do the talking; and one chased me off her property.

So I tried a different tack. I asked young people from two schools to talk to their elderly relatives or neighbours about old times and report back. I would film the result and be hailed the next Spielberg. This time I greased the path with all-you-can-eat pizza and guzzle-till-you-feel-queasy fizzy drinks.
Lights, camera…
Silence.
It would be easier to get Madoff out of jail than to get these relatives to actually talk to the children and then for the children to talk to me. The children were mainly clueless about the past. Ironically most admitted to spending significant amounts of time with their grandparents or even living with them.

All of this leaves me with two choices. I could give the money back, saying how sorry I am while citing my own dysfunctional childhood as the root cause of today’s non-performance. Or, I could give them the sad reality I have found. Like my patrons, I too had sepia-toned ideas about memory and time and narratives passing down the generations. I forgot that not enough time post-independence has passed for us as a people to be at ease with our past. Economic circumstances may have gotten better but for many the changes have been incremental. Social mobility continues at the pace of a Giant African Snail. Walls dividing neighbourhoods may have come down but custom still dictates where you are welcome.

Memories are things we have a place in our history for. Trauma is the stuff that has not yet found its place. What I found was the trauma of the unfinished and the unspeakable that refuses to take its place in history. Our experiences cannot yet be done and dusted and offered up for history. And how do I stay true to that trauma without neutralizing it through art? Answers appreciated before 28 July.

THE ARTIST, THE HUSBAND, HIS FREEZER AND HER OVEN

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 17:05:00 +0000

The benefits of travel are enormous and especially important if your experience is confined to a rock that is twenty one by fourteen miles. If only our people travelled more then they might be less afraid of the pesky immigrants crashing through their borders. This became clear when the nice man who came to fix our stove took one look at our statute of Buddha pouring water into a small pond and exclaimed,
‘Wat dat?
Pause.
‘It’s a representation of Buddha’ I said.
‘You Muslim?’ he retorted.
‘No.’
Pause.
I really needed to get this conversation back to the flaming stove.
‘I am not religious but people who worship Buddha are called Buddhists.’
He screwed up his face, assumed The Prancing Grasshopper pose and growled,
‘I know dat! Dat Bruce Lee, Kung Fu ting!’
‘Great. Now, do you have the part the stove needs?’

And I need the stove to be in perfect working condition because it is the summer vacation and First and Second Born appear to be going through a growth spurt. How else can one explain the mountains of food they consume? Every minute of the 69 days, 8hours that school is officially closed has to be carefully orchestrated with some activity a long way from the kitchen like golf or squash, just to distract them from eating. The North American tradition of packing their suitcases and waving them off to a camp where they will learn such life skills as handling a kayak, or killing a mosquito Obama-style, is beginning to look very attractive. In the meantime I am stuck cooking three full meals a day and providing snacks in between.

So when my birthday rolled round this week I demanded a cooking-free day. My delightful parents came over bearing Chinese take-away and a present. They gave me an oven.
‘What do you mean this oven is my present? I didn’t put this on my Amazon wish list!’
‘Your mother knows you really needed an oven sweetheart.’ replied Papa calmly.
I fought back the tears.
‘So what’s it going to be next year? ‘A super-duper vacuum cleaner?’
Mom grinned.
‘Do you want the new Dyson vacuum dear?’
Is it any wonder the first two years of therapy are spent talking about your mother?

When I finally mopped up the puddle of tears I had wept at getting older and getting an oven I looked around at the rest of the appliances and realized Da Costa Manning had still not repaired the new freezer I had bought from them. The thing had worked for three months then refused to get cold. That was March. I was tired of being fobbed off week after week so decided it was time to deploy the only weapon that works in getting things done in Bim: an assertive man. Ladies, before you stamp on my bunions consider the number of times you have asserted your rights only to realize that your voice is only heard if it is attached to a body with a penis (size irrelevant).

The Husband was marched down to the department store. First Born pulled him aside to offer some advice.
‘If they don’t fix our freezer tell the manager you will call his mother.’
Armed with this ace, and the awareness that sexism may be in decline, he approached the store manager. She did the same polite “we are waiting for the parts” routine. Then the magic began.
‘Would you agree that waiting for the parts for three months is unacceptable?’ he asked in his mild but firm voice.
‘Sir, we are doing all we can.’ (I was never Ma’am!)
‘That is not what I asked. Do you agree that waiting for the parts for three months is unacceptable?’ he insisted.
‘Sir, I am going to call the port tomorrow morning and call you tomorrow morning with what I find out.’ she replied.
‘I’m sorry that is not what I asked. Do you agree that waiting for the parts for three months is unacceptable?’
‘Yes it is unacceptable.’ she sighed.
‘So when you call me tomorrow morning, if you do not have the part will you instead offer me a solution to this unacceptable position?’
We were offered an action plan to be implemented within twenty-four hours.

But there was no need. They turned up early the next morning with the impossible-to-locate parts and fixed our freezer.

I’m off to bake the family a cherry pie.

WE PROMISE YOU PARADISE

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Fri, 03 Jul 2009 20:54:00 +0000

Times are hard and money is too tight to mention. If you can still afford a vacation we really want you to come to our small rock. Never mind the scandalous treatment of undocumented workers or the huge hike in water rates because the water company failed to put aside funds for depreciation. None of this will perturb your paradise. You must come here for the exquisite beaches, superb restaurants and friendly people.

Well the beaches are fantastic but maybe best to avoid Mullins Beach because the extensive building works in that area have directly caused severe beach erosion. Restaurants are world class but once you are prepared to pay London prices your digestion will be easier. And the friendly people you might meet on the beach are very friendly if you want to buy shells or get your hair braided. The rest of the population will treat you as if you have had a longstanding quarrel or more likely ignore you.

But these are minor matters. I really, really want you to choose Barbados rather than Bali for the summer or winter hols. Maybe you have been put off because there are questions you have but were too afraid to ask. I have gathered a number of such questions that the Tourist Board have neglected to address and provided answers to the best of my ability. These are authentic, hearsay inquiries. If you have others please drop me line.

1. What part of Jamaica is Barbados?
Barbados is NOT part of Jamaica. Yet. However, on current trends Jamaica will become part of Barbados. If you are in Jamaica and trying to find Barbados take an airline called LIAT and keep heading south. You might get here one day. Your luggage never will.

2. Do the natives speak English?
If this question is from an American then the answer is yes they do speak English so bring a dictionary and phrase book to help you along.

3. Is the hurricane season rainy?
Oh just a little. Best to have a brolly.

4. Are there nudist beaches?
Yes! Yes! Yes! Accra Beach on the south coast. Anytime. It is not compulsory so you might find everyone else in beachwear but do not feel constrained. Text me when you plan to be there.

5. Can I go topless around town?
Yes! Yes! Yes! Let nature’s soothing breezes caress your chest. Again, text me when you plan to be there.

6. What side of the road do they drive on in Barbados?
Difficult this one but suffice it to say it is never the one you expect.

7. How good is the ganga?
This organic herb is occasionally grown in St. Philip. However, Barbados is part of the Caribbean Economic Community and cheap imports from neighbouring St. Vincent are in plentiful supply. Note that free movement of goods is still way ahead of free movement of Vincentians, Guyanese and Jamaicans. (Dear First and Second Born: I didn’t inhale.)

8. I hear there are a lot of Russian escorts - is this true and are they less expensive than in London?
Yes. No.

9. Is there a website where female tourists can choose a beach stud for a two-week vacation?
www.iwantofoopinbarbados.com

10. How do I say “Good Morning” in Spanish?
Good Fooping.

11. What if I die on the way to Barbados? Will they fly my body straight back or must it go through immigration first?
Meat and meat-related products may not enter the country without an appropriate permit obtained from the Licensing Authority in The Pine so please obtain one before you die.

12. I met a boy on Accra beach last summer. We fell in love and had the most amazing two weeks together but he has not responded to my letters or emails. His name is Marlon. Can you help me find again?
Normally I would have to ask you to write to Dear Christine in The Nation but Lady Luck is with you my friend. Marlon is still renting beach chairs at the Crane Beach and looking well fit. You still have to pay his hourly rate but for true love it is a small price.

13. Can you buy a decent burger and fries?
Sandy Lane Club House does an excellent burger. It will cost the same as a small Chattel House, but if a fish cutter is not your thing then go for it. The economy needs more people like you.

14. Where does Rihanna live?
100 yards from Chris Brown.

THE WHEELS ON THE BUS GO ROUND AND ROUND

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 10:28:00 +0000

No body said living in paradise was easy but for the past two and a half years of living on this small rock I have felt privileged and incredibly lucky. Then a week like this one happens and I pause with a heavy heart hoping we made the right decision.
It’s the kids you see.
They were on a daylong school bus trip and a few parents were asked to follow the bus in cars to help with general law and order. More kids turned up for the trip than anticipated and instead of saying they could not be accommodated the school just shoved them all on. In each row of two bucket seats one child per row sat in the middle on the partition.
‘Are you sure it is safe to have the children sit like this?’ I asked the Transport Board bus driver.
‘Yeah. Dat is how we does always carry de children.’
‘How many people can you take?’
‘Ninety-six.’
‘But that must be a certain number sitting and the rest standing.’
‘No. Once is ninety-six in all we good.’

It was only in 2007 that a bus crashed killing six and injuring thirty-seven people on their way to the Party Monarch Finals on the East coast. As Crop-Over draws near again our little society mourns this tragedy at Joe’s River. Somewhere, buried deep beneath a pile of papers on someone’s desk, are a series of proposals for improving safety on buses patiently awaiting implementation.

A few more children clambered on the already overflowing bus.
‘Hurry up! We running late.’
‘Are you sure you want to take on the risk of children seated like this?’ I again asked the two teachers who taught First and Second Born.
They sighed in resignation.
‘Fine. We’ll ask the principal.’

A few months ago the artist Corrie Scott and I embarked on a situationist dérive – the practice of abandoning one’s normal activities to experience a particular geography anew. Okay, so we only managed to ditch our cars and take a bus from Speightstown to Oistins and back. But cheese-on-bread the geography from that bus seat was totally new. I have never made it from one end of the island to the next so fast. Holetown was a blur. Bridgetown whizzed past our eyes. When we staggered off at Oistins it was only to fall into the nearest rum shop demanding soda water to settle our large and small intestines, liver and spleen back into their customary positions.

But it was all worth it for one reason. We shared the bus with a full bridal party. They too got on at Speightstown and off at Oistins. From our seats in the rum shop we saw the bride, in flowing white gown, and her beautifully turned out entourage, get off the bus and hail a ZR taxi. She and her party pushed in with the other passengers and sped off - presumably to the church where her groom was waiting. At least our bus had been on time or even ahead of schedule and we know ZRs will use whatever means necessary to get you to the church on time.

“The principal says if you have a problem take your children off the bus.’

So I did.

A couple other parents followed. But from the stinky looks all around it was clear that I was scornfully regarded as bringing my uppity foreign ways to bear on this Garden of Eden. Thirty-odd years ago my own parents would have shared their view. Our happiest summers were spent with another family squashed into their tiny car making our way from San Fernando to Mayaro beach in Trinidad. Five-year-old Mandy was perched on her mother’s knees in the front seat (no seat belt of course) and her slightly older brother Anton and I squashed ourselves between my parents. Instead of Nintendo we all sang songs, played “I Spy”, and waved or made faces at people in other cars. Life was simpler back then and we never considered the possibility of becoming road fatality statistics.

The first death I can recall was the loss of my much-loved Aunty Ruby when I was seven. She was always giving me presents of pretty dresses. The last one she gave me was white on top with a black skirt and a black velvet band around the waist. Her car crashed on the road between San Fernando and Mayaro. She died instantly.

AN ASSESSMENT OF THE CONTRIBUTION OF CAKE TO DEMOCRATIC REFORMS FROM 1789 TO 2009

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Thu, 11 Jun 2009 10:30:00 +0000

Maybe it was Marie-Antoinette, more likely it was Marie-Thérèse, but one of these bad-ass chicks said something like “let them eat cake”. Since then we have been faced with the vexed question of what was meant by that inflammatory remark made in the face of soaring bread prices. If Marie-Antoinette, a much-misunderstood woman, had indeed uttered these famous words, it would not have been the cynical statement it first appears. Hers would have been a plea that if her people can’t have baguette then they deserve something better. So historians have neglected to consider another vexed question: which cake exactly was Her Royal Sweetness referring to? Answers have been sought in the patisseries of Paris, with theories verging from a simple sponge like a Madeleine to some elaborate, cream-laden concoction. But it is on this small rock, where the population has no appetite for revolution, and salt bread prices are relatively stable, that the answer has at last been revealed.

Actually “revealed” is not quite correct. Not all 280,000 inhabitants of this small rock have tasted The Cake and there are no signs of it coming into commercial production. A man who makes his living by selling a Caribbean cake in a distinctive box at tourist outlets, (the locals know better than to eat the stuff themselves), tasted The Cake and was smitten. It was moist and overflowing with perfectly blended ingredients. A slightly tart frosting, the texture of pure cashmere, offset its sweetness. And every time the tip of the tongue touched this sensual paradise it quivered involuntarily. Apparently.

But I digress. The Box Cake man made the baker a proposition: I will buy the Holetown coffee house you are selling for the full asking price. But in return you must agree to give me The Cake recipe so that I may bake it, put it in a box, and sell it to the tourists and locals alike. She declined. He had already ruined one cake and she was not about to let him ruin another. Ten years have passed since that rejection. Still he asks. Still it seems she refuses.

Others have been less bold, preferring an occasional taste on The Cake, rather than coveting the recipe for private use. Emily was content that the baker agreed to make it for her wedding and Sharon asked for and received nothing more - or less - than The Cake for her big Five O. Two elderly ladies were known to make the journey by bus from St. Philip, on the other side of the island, every Thursday that God spare life, to eat The Cake and drink freshly brewed tea while the baker was in residence.

One day the coffee house did change hands and the baker departed taking the recipe with her. Years have passed but stories persist of a party in St. Lucy, or a wedding in Christ Church, when guests were treated to The Cake. By the time I came to live on this small rock The Cake was pure urban myth. Versions of the recipe have apparently been found around the island. Someone claimed it was among the many scribbles that covered the walls of Groots roti shop. A woman sent a letter to Dear Christine, our national agony aunt, with a version of the recipe she said was left on the seat of a ZR taxi. Still another said it was inside a bottle that washed up on Pebbles Beach. But these glimmers of hope have been short-lived. No one could reproduce anything like The Cake.

Such pessimism neglected to value one factor: chance. As a statistical probability I should have known I would sooner, rather than later, come face to face with the baker. Yet even as I was stumbling onto The Cake I was only half aware. It was Sunday morning and we were collecting First and Second Born from a sleepover.
'Come in! Come in!' said the gracious host.
'Thank you but we mustn’t impose. We’ll just get the boys and head off.'
'Please I insist.'
'Okay,' said The Husband as he pushed past me to join our host. He was dying for a boys chat – you know the sort of thing - modeling exchange rate risk or, for a real laugh, reforming the Bretton Woods system.

Tea and cake were offered. It looked like any other nice carrot cake. But from the first bite we were delirious.
'This is amazing cake!' said The Husband only to add in the same breath, 'Ingrid never bakes me a cake.'
I took a deep, deep, breath.
'It is not my comparative advantage. Perhaps you might like to take a baking course at the Community College?'
Our host coughed.
'Ahem. Have another slice,' and quickly pushed the cake stand towards me.

My homicidal mood melted with the next bite.
'Do you know about this cake?' asked the hostess to no one in particular.
And then I understood.
It was hard to keep from trembling.
'Is this The Cake?' I asked nervously.
'Yes. I’ve been making it for years. Used to sell it at my coffee shop in Holetown when I had the place. Got the recipe from a sculptor who was living on the island.'
I hesitated but this chance might never come again. There was nothing to lose and only girth to gain.
'Do you think I could maybe, please, possibly have the recipe?' I mumbled.
'Sure,' she replied. 'I’ll email it to you.'

My inbox is still empty.

FEEL THE FEAR AND HIDE

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 00:41:00 +0000

You should be afraid. Very afraid.

I know I am.

It started when I signed up for a writing course with the celebrated novelist, George Lamming. I will admit to being slightly in awe. And maybe I had a teensy-weensy crush on the professor (bright men have always been my Achilles’ heel). But, instead of producing reams of prose that would have provided further opportunities to enjoy Lamming’s company, I developed Writer’s Block. This aliment manifests itself whenever you attempt to marry fingers to keyboard in a tapping movement that generates words and potentially whole sentences. Any attempt at this movement causes stabbing pains right through to the carpals and metacarpals of the hand.

The pain is so acute that it is advisable to stop immediately and wrap your hands around a hot cuppa. If the pain does not subside then a second cuppa is required. Often this process of pain relief can take you right through to lunchtime as you sip cup after cup of tea and stare into space. Now everyone knows that skipping meals is a sure way of compromising one’s health. Writing is never good after a Caesar Salad and a Diet Coke so I usually wait awhile before attempting to touch the keyboard a second time. Be warned: the pain-cuppa-stare-into-space routine may be repeated several times. Often before I can say Felicitous Phrasing it is the end of the school day and First and Second Born are stumbling through the door demanding to be fed and watered.

Once they have been fed, watered and talked at (you will eat what I give you / pick your clothes off the floor / stop tormenting your brother / no I don't love him more than you) I usually once again attempt to overcome Writer’s Block. But Lamming’s voice is in my head repeating the Rules Of Writing. Also there are words I have been liberally sprinkling over prose like the contents of a pepper shaker that he has forever banned. The offenders include:
Paradoxically. (This is often used when really the unthinking typist/writer meant ironically).
Ironically. (Never in a month of Sundays - unless you have fully understood the lessons of King Lear and Othello).
Showcase. (What was wunna thinking?)
Hopefully. (Why don’t you just say three Hail Marys and get it over and done with?)
Far East. (And that would be far from where exactly, Mr. Europe-is-the-centre-of-the-universe-mapper?)

At this point I usually call an end to the workday, have a drink, and watch the news. But this has brought new worries. For one thing I have been kissing. It’s usually twice except when the Swiss are involved - then we are up to three smooches on arrival and three more on departure. Now fear and regret are my constant companions. According to the chair of the Congress of Trade Unions and Staff Associations of Barbados, Sir Roy Trotman, in an age of swine flu we should be vigilant in matters of hygiene. He strenuously urges “against kissing and shaking hands”. But before you weep at the thought of a world devoid of casual human contact, Sir Roy has an alternative:
“I would advise…colleagues to…bump your elbows or bump your shoulders.”

Okay… that’s a different approach to the H1N1 pandemic. But we should keep an open mind. It could be the start of a whole new craze. First there was Michelle and Barack bumping fists. We have simply extended this to elbows and shoulders. Remember it started right here on this small rock. But practice in front the mirror before engaging in elbow-to-elbow contact. An elbow bump should not cause injury to those you greet. Likewise a wimpy brush of the shoulder is the equivalent of contact with a damp squid. Bump body parts firmly and confidently. And don’t forget to moisturize.

Once you have accepted that an innocent expression of physical contact can be the instrument of disease and death, and modified your behaviour accordingly, fear should be contained. But as I was about to assume the lotus position to suppress my overwhelming fight-or-flight instincts, the morning newspapers confirmed the worst. A 19-year-old man who has never left these shores - ever - has a mild case of the H1N1 virus. I knew we were not doing enough. Telling people not to kiss or shake hands was never going to keep us safe. We should have taken direct action against the Mexicans in Barbados.

While the PM has been loudly proclaiming that undocumented immigrants have until 1 December to regularize their status or get “kicked out” (translation: Guyanese Go Home) we ignored the Mexicans in our midst. You did not know we had a significant Mexican population? I have barely scratched the surface and already unearthed whole clans on this rock with names like “Castillo” and “Fernandez”. Rock up to St. Lawrence Gap, party-central on the south coast, and one of the first establishments you encounter is none other than Café Sol Mexican Grill and Margarita Bar. Move a bit further down the coast to Enterprise Beach and there is Café Luna. Even at our Bridgetown port you can have a tortilla-like snack at Del Sol. Two establishments in the phone book are listed as “Mi Casa”, four as “Casa Blanca”, one as “Casa Pequena” and of course there is Casa Grande Airport Hotel and Resort, fronted by Mrs. Ram, but probably concealing a significant Mexican interest. The Mexicans are here. I'm going into hiding.

THE SUMMIT OF OUR EXISTENCE

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Mon, 04 May 2009 17:27:00 +0000

He says it’s a deal breaker. I say it’s not like I gave him swine flu. And I was not the only guilty one. My mother and father both sat through the speech and never heard him quoted with reverence. But if the official transcript, and telephone calls from friends, are to be believed, then His Grey Eminence was indeed cited by Dean Barrow of Belize in his speech at the opening ceremony of the Summit of Americas. Instead of jabbering on about not being appreciated by his own family he should be grateful. Had I heard the speech properly I would have been forced to make him bathe the dog, blow dry the dog’s hair, and cut the dog’s nails – all for the sake of keeping his ego in check. Instead when later told that his words of wisdom had been extolled I thumped him on the back in a gesture of pride and treated Jack to a mani/pedi at the vet’s.

The Summit may have passed you by but it was worth watching how a small island like Trinidad hosts the Big Boys – including Head Boy, Obama. Substantive outcomes were not on the Summit agenda. Fancy cars to ferry leaders back and forth were. Our agenda was for each two-by-four leader of every coral outcrop to have his/her picture taken with Barack. Too bad Barbados PM Thompson could not stop playing with his crackberry even while the official photo was being taken. And if there were a prize for “best Summit photo” it would be the one of Lara showing Obama how to swing a cricket bat. Thankfully we now know one thing Obama is absolutely crap at doing.

Apart from the photo opportunities, Trinidad laid on an all-inclusive fete the likes of which have not been witnessed since the heady days of partying with Louis XIV at Versailles. Did someone forget to mention the current global recession to the host government? Every single citizen of any talent was employed in our cultural extravaganza. Each aspect of Caribbean history, from the Caribs and Arawaks right through to the present day, was portrayed through song and dance for the benefit of guests. And just to be sure they understood that the men dancing with lowered heads and chains on their hands were depicting slaves, the announcer proclaimed this two minute segment of the cultural show “Slavery”. In due course Indian Tassa drummers with huge grins were also gravely announced as “Indentured Labourers”. And so it continued to the present day. I expected the show to climax with an effigy of Madoff made of dollar bills but had to settle for “A New Dawn” of peach and pink costumes fluttering on the stage.

Once we had shown the Big-Ups who we are and how we got here, the host Prime Minister thought this image should not be sullied by actually allowing real people to get near the venue. So, he put the entire nation under virtual house arrest. Port-of-Spain, a thriving capital, was reduced to a ghost town. Even the homeless had to be homeless some place far from visiting eyes. Maybe PM Manning was just being cautious that we did not expose our visitors to the horrendous crime rate that continues to be a feature of everyday life in Trinidad. The Jamaicans took a more liberal view of freedom of movement of its citizens when the Canadian PM flew from the Summit to Kingston for bi-lateral talks. But as if to prove we small islanders cannot be trusted, a “mentally disturbed” teenager, brandishing a gun, tried to hijack a Canadian aircraft bound from Montego Bay to Cuba. The hijacker demanded that the pilot take him to, wait for it, Cuba. The silly sausage should have just stayed put in seat 16F and he would have been delivered to the revolution. Instead he is sitting in a cell far from Havana and has had his Face Book page removed.

But for all its quirks and failures it is still wonderful to be back in Bim. A few things have changed. A classified add has announced that “Indian “wash him out your hair” oil is back in stock so get your supplies now”. The giant African snails that had previously been a problem in our garden appear to have gone back to Africa. Either that or Mr. Fenty the gardener (yes, he is a distant relation of Rihanna) has worked magic with something in a black bag he calls “Deadline”. I feel sure most of the pesticides used are banned in the EU and North America so we communicate on a “need-to-know” basis only. First and Second Born have concluded that they would be completely happy if only Barbados had a Bowling Alley and their friend Freddie visited more often. I am completely happy just to be with them.

THROUGH THE STREETS OF LONDON

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Tue, 31 Mar 2009 20:19:00 +0000

So how can you tell me you're lonely,
And say for you that the sun don't shine?
Let me take you by the hand,
And lead you through the streets of London,
I'll show you something to make you change your mind.
Ralph McTell, Streets of London

Second Born had some trouble placing apostrophes in the story he was writing.
“Why don’t you ask dad for help?” I suggested, gesturing at the man on the sofa whose face was hidden by an open MacBook.
He looked at the man with the computer head then back to me.
“Nah. He only knows about financial crises.”
World leaders may be queuing to debate his views but we know how to keep His Grey Eminence grounded.

And with the G20 leaders meeting this week, He Who Keeps BA In Business, has been a busy boy. So he has begged us to hang out on this other small rock so we can at least snatch the odd weekend en famille. I had steadfastly refused to visit whilst there was the possibility of sub-zero temperatures but the daffodils are now out and there was the need to check if the London house was still standing. The Husband is thrilled – even if he is hardly here. Janine asked where he was last week and I honestly did not know. First Born thought it was somewhere beginning with “B”. I suggested Berlin but was a day late. The Husband had indeed been to Berlin but had already moved on to Bratislava. I think next week’s letter is “P” since he leaves tomorrow for Paris, or it might be Prague, or maybe the Punjab. “P” will also be my special letter of the week. The change to British Summer Time should be properly celebrated with a jug of Pimms down my local pub.

While he tries to set the world on the right path to financial regulation the kids and I have been slowly adjusting to changes in London. It has been six months since we last embraced the motherland and she has not been having an easy time. Our local high street, in a neighbourhood of City types, is weeping. There are several shops with “for sale/rent” signs. The posh deli has disappeared. Restaurants and hairdressers are empty. The dry cleaners say business is down forty percent since my last visit. A stroll through our common means bumping into newly redundant dads, all putting a brave face on the misery of wondering where, and when, they will get another job. The very air seems suffused with anger, frustration and depression. Add to the mix these murky grey skies, and nasty, cold rain, and you will find me hiding under my duvet.

I have peaked out of the duvet a couple times and found even more surprises. Wandsworth, Chelsea and Islington might be in recession but the international market of Bond Street is not. My venture into Louis Vuitton to have a repair done was like entering a rugby scrum. In the thick of it were Singaporeans, Hong Kong Chinese and a smattering of Russians buying leather arm candy as if it were freshly baked salt bread from that nice bakery near Charles Rowe Bridge in St. George. And when a pal took me to Nobu, a pricey Japanese restaurant, the place was packed. On a Monday night. Peter, a friend in Nova Scotia, is probably right in suggesting that there is “less Bollinger being aerosoled around the west end”. But Peter some global citizens are still passing the vintage port.

And London of course is where the G20 will gather. Although their meeting is at the ExCel Centre in the eastern end of the City, it is the Bank of England that will be in focus. Expect Threadneedle Street to be the Mecca for an unholy alliance of protesters. Everyone wants justice. But the ideas of justice, and for whom, vary significantly. A few days ago we witnessed a pre-G20, “Put People First”, march. The crowd was urged not to accept the old politics, or the old financial institutions, but to put people first. Sounds fantastic. But how do the various calls to regulate this, and ban that, translate into workers’ rights or improve the lot of us Third World citizens in whose name so many march? There is a suspicion that those who enjoyed the City of London riots in 1999 are looking for a special, tenth anniversary punch-up, with a “Burn The Banker” theme. Do they know the Bank of England only has badly paid, keen geeks, who are hardly worthy opponents? For a real fight they should be heading to “Hedge Fund Alley” aka Curzon Street.

And my top tip for all wannabe anarchists: the rich guys wear polo shirts and Chinos. The suits are shop assistants.

WHAT’S ON YOUR MIND DEAR MONSTER, DEAR MAN?

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Tue, 24 Mar 2009 13:10:00 +0000

Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns;
And till my ghastly tale is told,
This heart within me burns.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

I write to you from a small, easily ignored, rock in the Caribbean Sea. Your trial and conviction for the most astounding crimes did register on our consciousness. Don’t get me wrong now – you were hardly the number one topic of conversation at the One Love Rum Shop in Holetown. A cricket coach who does not know the Duckworth-Lewis Method and cost us a match was the one we were busy putting obeah on. But you still made the airwaves during rush hour traffic last week. Funny thing is no one wants to talk about you. I tried having a conversation about you but my friend changed the topic to the more pressing issue of carbon emissions from parents leaving car engines running while waiting in the school car park for Marlon and Michelle at the end of the day. Perhaps we feel it is unnecessary to think about you because you are quite simply an aberration, a sordid monster. Would any human, any man, any father, do what you did? No. That you have two arms, two legs, and one head is a mere distraction. You must be an evil jumbie in the perfect guise of a good citizen.

But you are human and you and I have more in common than I care to admit. You hid your face with a blue binder because you were embarrassed. You broke down when forced to confront Elizabeth’s version of almost a quarter century of unbelievable horror. You changed your plea to guilty. You whispered sorry. These are all very human actions and reactions of a conscience plagued by guilt. You should not have done these human things. They deprive us of the easy, and I dare say, more convenient path, which brands you a green-vomiting, demonic alien beyond our comprehension. It is this inability to dismiss you as other that causes me the most distress. Could I do what you did Herr Fritzl? If you are as sane as I then the answer must be yes. The lasting harm that you have inflicted must be harm I too am capable of inflicting. And how can I acknowledge this evil within and live with myself?

But hopefully if I tried someone would notice and stop me. Maybe moving two hundred tons of earth, to enlarge rooms no one ever sees, does not get the net curtains twitching in Amstetten but in Black Rock it might raise a few eyebrows. And if I regularly bought groceries from Supercentre for twice the number of people in our household The Husband might follow the trail of breadcrumbs. If First or Second Born suddenly went missing and I said they had joined a cult several members of the family would go in search of them immediately. In short I’d like to think that, as a society, we care enough not be passive bystanders. But the world of is, and the world of ought, never meet. Society ought to be concerned. But when faced with the unsavory harm that we do to each other like rape, and incest, and domestic violence, we often turn away. The earth can get moved. The groceries can keep coming. The child can disappear. For twenty-four years. It worked for you that conspiracy of silence, didn’t it? Given Austria's history you were probably banking on it.

But should that silence be broken we like our victims to be very quiet and very broken. Like the perpetrator, victims are sullied. Dirty. So even though you raped Elizabeth over 3000 times in a purpose-built dungeon it was the murder of your baby son by neglect that got you life imprisonment. But Herr Fritzl I have trouble seeing this murder as the worst of your crimes. Take baby Michael’s death out of the equation and I would still want you to spend the rest of your life incarcerated. Actually at times this seems too good a fate. In spite of all my understanding of the right to life, a part of me wants your life in exchange for the living death you caused your family, locked behind eight doors and tortured in a cramped, airless, underground cave, crawling with rats for company. For twenty-four years. What does it mean to inflict or to receive torture for twenty-four years? What does time look like under these conditions?

Your crimes have come to light at a time when the world is in turmoil, spiraling downwards before our eyes. Enough is enough. We demand a happy ending Josef. You will stay behind bars until your last breath. Professionals will queue up to interview you to the very end. You will tell them of your warped childhood and how mother beat you. You will become myth. We will only remember the moment of supreme courage when Elizabeth faced you and forced you to acknowledge what you had done. We will hope that the youngest boy who is just six will lead a full and happy life. And we will never ask any difficult questions of how a society allowed you to do what you did, for as long as you did. Those questions are too painful for a shamed Austria. If they are too painful for Austria then why should we, continents away, care? After all, Josef Fritzl, there are no monsters like you on this idyllic, small rock.

MY THURSDAYS WITH LAMMING

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Thu, 12 Mar 2009 09:39:00 +0000

He said it is a common misconception of green writers that they believe a story must begin at the beginning. Our tale will therefore start at the end.

It is May 2009.

Actually let’s start on Thursday 28 May 2009. And the reader should not be guessing if it is morning or night. Do it simply with something like, “the sun was setting as George crossed the street”.

I have taken his words to heart as I always do.

On Thursday 28 May 2009 at precisely 5pm Suzanne walked the short distance from the car park to the classroom.

He also insists on location. Is the subject in a bar or on a bicycle?

She felt privileged to be part of these classes at the Errol Barrow Centre for the Creative Imagination.

Damn. Try again.

She felt privileged to be part of these classes at the Pedagogical Centre located in Errol Barrow Centre for the Creative Imagination on the Cave Hill Campus of the University of the West Indies in Barbados.

Does this mean that somewhere on this small rock is a Centre For The Uncreative Imagination? Who goes there and what does their Pedagogical Centre offer? Maybe this is the elusive centre responsible for so much of thinking that is firmly located within the box. But do not think on these matters dear reader. In our story Suzanne is most definitely doing blue sky with diamonds thinking.

A lanky, slightly stooped figure is bent over his table in the seminar room. His wild, grey hair makes him instantly recognizable even before he lifts his head. When she first met him it was this shock of hair that fascinated her. Tonight, the last Thursday evening she is sure to have with him, and it is clear that it is not his hair that has kept her rapt. Will she show him? Will he be appalled that for sixteen weeks she has sat in the same seat and looked intently at the lyrical movement of his hands as he explains his craft of writing? Will he understand that while she appreciated his words she also kept tracing the corners of his mouth as they formed that deep, upturned, curve that is his easy smile?

No, this won’t do either. But it is not hard to see that in his day he probably had the ladies swirling around him. Lamming has such poise, elegance and charm. I assume you already know his work and brilliant mind so that does not need elaboration. What you may not know is his commitment to ideas of equality. He is prepared to stand up for the underdog even when this is not a fashionable position.

He kept shuffling the endless piles of paper and then looking through his battered copy of The Quiet American then back again to the papers in an endless quest for the right bit of text.
“Suzanne.”
She jolted upright.
“Yes. I like this discovering-eye viewpoint that you take on. Yes. Yes. And very interesting to see what you as a Guyanese accustomed to vast rivers and vistas make of this tiny island.”
“I’m Trinidadian.”
“What? But your name. And I am sure you said you were Guyanese in one of the pieces.”
“I’m sorry. I believe I said I am often mistaken for a Guyanese. No vast vistas I’m afraid. Oil and gas country.”
He doesn’t bother to hide his disappointment.
“Humm. Yes, well I shall have to re-read that. I was so sure you had the sensibility of a Guyanese.”
For the first time in her life she really wanted to be Guyanese or even to have spent some time there – anything to avoid failing the master.

It is a small class – no more than a dozen – all at his feet wanting to write that novel we think is within us. His generosity is clear. Our little stories are treated with respect. They are all “intriguing” - the starting point for a sure fire bestseller. In return he asks that we take our writing seriously and practice daily. Writing for him is a job with a predictable routine much like factory work. In the early morning he reads the newspapers then begins his writing. After lunch he reads or has meetings. Old-fashioned discipline and sheer hard work is how Lamming became the Lamming. This is not a class in How To Write A Bestseller in One Weekend.

So every Thursday until 28 May between the hours of 5 and 7pm, you can find me at the Ecky-Becky Centre (as it is known on the street). I will be there, in my usual spot, quietly grateful for this unexpected privilege of an audience with Lamming. And I shall be trying to resist the urge to sketch that mouth or those hands just one last time.

STILL HIGH OFF DE MUSIC

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Fri, 27 Feb 2009 02:19:00 +0000

If you have procrastinated losing your Carnival virginity as long as I have, then when you finally do the deed it must be done properly, with due regard for its attendant history and traditions. At least that is what should be done. Instead I decided in January that I wanted a costume in a band that was sold out since last August. Izzy, who is a regular with the band Tribe, had already secured her costume, masquerading as a bird, the Spangled Cotinga. With so little at stake no one could be persuaded to re-sell her costume for me to join this section.

When I finally did get one it was as the much less interesting Night Owl. It even sounds like the section for girls who wear glasses. If you don’t know what I look like let me give you a hint: I wear glasses. But very occasionally the universe smiles on the myopic. During carnival the Spangled C’s did not cavort for or with the male of the species but for other girl birds, in a section with ninety percent females. Us Night Owls had to be content with a large male contingent of delinquent hunks, all too busy honing their tan last summer to buy a costume. We made the best of these nocturnal creatures.

But first contact with one of these delightful gentlemen almost de-railed my confidence completely. As I tried to dance with him he held me firmly away and said,
“No way. Not you.”
“Huh?”
“If I wine on you it will end up in your blog.”
What a miscalculation. Yes, I am referring to you – of mixed race, iron-pumped body clad with tiny shorts, no shirt, Cowboy hat and dragging on a large Cohiba. Had you simply gyrated with me for ten seconds I would have enjoyed the brief encounter never thinking for a moment it was blog-worthy. Scaredy cat.

And while the more general traditions of drunk and disorderly conduct were strictly observed the subtleties constantly tripped me up. Six hours, twenty-one minutes and eight seconds before Carnival Monday, I was reminded that everyone customizes their costume, albeit in a small way. Seven years of training in fine art were finally being put to the test. We headed to Samaroo’s, the Mecca for costume materials. It is busy, chaotic shop in the heart of downtown Port-of-Spain, stuffed floor to ceiling with jars of colourful beads, shiny gems and elaborate appliqués. I got yards of beads the exact shade of gold to add to the bikini top Tribe had delivered. Appliqués identical to the ones already on my costume were purchased for a bit more cleavage coverage. An hour before meeting the band I had only just finished customizing a T-Shirt to match the Night Owl’s bikini bottoms. It is an unwritten rule that no one plays in full costume on carnival Monday.

And there are many other unwritten rules and regulations that surfaced. Couples who play mas together are not often together by Ash Wednesday. Our personal conflict avoidance strategy obliged The Husband to accompany me to a few fetes and then disappear back to Bim. He was such a good sport I did not yawn once when at Brian Lara’s fete he began discussing his “bad apple” theory of financial regulation where blame is placed on individual people and things, rather than the real culprit, incentivised behaviour. Well that’s what it sounded like anyway. I was listening to him while simultaneously singing along to a dirty Soca ditty, Jep Sting by Hunter (Jep sting Naima, In she behind-na, Now she can’t wine-na …). And for the uninitiated “Jep” is Trini for a wasp or bee. If you have any further questions it is obvious that a responsible adult should adjust your computer access.

While chatting to people at the various fetes I also discovered that each carnival band has its own sub-culture, much like the Samba schools of Rio. McFarlene’s band is for those who enjoyed the glory days of Peter Minshall’s bands, for example, while a band like Harts has a lingering legacy of serving the descendants of the French Creole. Tribe is a racially mixed band known for its super efficiency. On carnival Monday the Tribe atmosphere was electric - full of anticipation. Oh, and very, very polite people. As we danced past people she knew, Izzy would introduce me and they would all shake my hand. It was just a little strange constantly shaking hands in this atmosphere of simmering erotic excitement. Mercifully this was a Monday phenomenon that had no place on Tuesday’s agenda of partying. But both days it was apparent that I was in a band where the birds spent a great deal of time preening. It was not unusual to see ladies re-touching their makeup while dancing. I am reliably informed that there are other bands where it is not mandatory to carry a make-up kit at all times.

The best advice I had for dealing with losing my carnival virginity was to stay mildly drunk at all times or the whole jumping up in a band thing would become too absurd. So I had a blast, along the way zapping several zillion brain cells with coke flavoured rum and happily grooving my way slowly through parts of Port-of-Spain I would otherwise only visit under armed guard – including the notorious Green Corner where many an altercation has spiraled into crime statistics.

Now I am safely back in Bim feeling a bit like Cinderella when the carriage turned back into a pumpkin. But Kerwin Dubois’s Soca hit 2 Days still speaks to me:
I hear I wave until I drop,
So I rest for 2 days,
And mih wining just couldn’t stop,
Please excuse mih rude ways…
Because I was high, high, high, high, high, high, high, high, high,
So high off de music.

CHADDI POWER

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Tue, 17 Feb 2009 17:58:00 +0000

Let’s be clear about one thing: pink is not the new black. It’s not even the old, new black. Pink is plain frivolity and fluffy bedroom slippers. But pink is having a radical moment and it makes perfect sense. In a world where the news keeps reminding us that our houses are worthless and our pensions safely stored with collapsing institutions, we need a little pink (even if it is merely the colour of the gin) to lighten our burdens. So on Valentine’s Day I wore a cheerful pink tee and thought of Marx whose economic and philosophical manuscript on the meaning of money contains the beautiful possibility that one day if
we assume man to be man,
and his relation to the world to be a human one,
then love can be exchanged only for love,
trust for trust, and so on…

But I digress. Now I have no pink passion but the pink top I greeted Bridgetown with on Saturday morning was also strategic. In India several women were recently attacked for sitting in a pub enjoying alcoholic beverages. I joined the Facebook solidarity group that advocated a peaceful protest of wearing pink and, for those in India on Valentine’s Day, sending pink chaddis to the militant, right wing group responsible for the attack.

I hung a pink chaddi (Marks and Spencer’s per una range), and some text about the attacks, from a tree next to the Frank Collymore Hall where the conference was being held. At every break I discreetly spied on the chaddi. True to their conservatism the good people of Bim resolutely ignored the smalls – despite its prominence. I did not see anyone read the text and no one tried to knick the knickers. As the sun went down I dejectedly retrieved the apparatus of protest and began walking towards the car park. One of the nice ladies who had helped at the conference stopped me.
“I saw dat ting in de tree and I said to myself dat have to be Miss Ingrid. No body else so crazy.”
We laughed. It really is a super small rock when your smalls hanging from a branch can identify you.
“But” I whined, “no one read the text. It was a blooming waste of effort.”
“Doh say so man. De ladies dem passed it straight. But de men dem had a good read when dey thought no body was looking. Is true dat. Doh fret yuhself girlfriend.”

So maybe this small gesture of solidarity was not a total failure. The majority may not think it relevant that a few women were kicked and beaten because they dared enter a pub. That incident belonged to an unfamiliar town a lifetime away. Our island women can freely enter a rum shop to enjoy an orange juice on the rocks or a flask of extra old rum, ice and chaser. Women can relax with their beverage of choice, order the same again, and, much later, stagger home - their only anxiety a suspicion that stopping for Cheffette fried chicken was a step too far. Or can they?

Can a woman, perhaps on her own, turn up to her local rum shop and enjoy a quiet drink undisturbed in the same way a man might? While she may not be attacked by fundamentalists who want her barefoot, pregnant and in the kitchen, there are unspoken limits on her ability to frequent a rum shop. Calculating those limits is a fine balance of the woman’s class, age, race, nationality and marital status in relation to the pub in question. Freedom and equality are only fully understood in their absence.

As an average, middle class, Trini-Indian I don’t feel able to enter a rum shop in a village in say, St. Lucy, just because I find myself there at 6pm on a Tuesday and fancy a Banks beer or even a Coke Zero. It is not the fear of physical danger but the invisible curtain that shuts me firmly outside this space. That thirst must be quenched elsewhere at a bar where foreign women are tolerated in a tourist zone like St. Lawrence Gap.

And speaking of absences, mea culpa. This past fortnight E. and I were putting the last frantic touches to work that is now on show in the Grand Salle. As a peace offering I am posting a video we have projected onto the side of our white cube. It is just a small part of a rich installation, The Search For Starman, full of photos, drawings and sculpture. It was quite a journey for both of us – one that took in many sites including a military base, sluice gates and a statute of Nelson. But without a doubt the best part of the experience for me was the privilege of getting to know E. better and finding that below all that cool is a gentle, generous man.

Hope you enjoy the video. And listen with the volume turned up high. The soundtrack is like so totally awesome man.

Click here to view video For Starman

WE NEED A BLUNT INSTRUMENT

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Fri, 30 Jan 2009 10:58:00 +0000

I hate chaos. A butterfly somewhere in the Pacific probably flapped its wings and we have ended up with annoyingly wet weather for the past week in this, the dry season. And readers in cold climes will not sympathize but the air is a tad chilly at night. That is almost my last complaint about paradise. My very last complaint - well for this week at least – is that a terrible serpent has entered our small rock of Eden. Actually we don’t have nasty snakes in Bim so I’ll re-phrase that: an ugly mongoose has been seen flaunting himself all over town. I feel this acutely because I forgot to have breakfast on Wednesday.

If you skip the most important meal of the day then by 11am, after a morning of running around doing stuff, you are likely to be hungry. I was. Wave after wave of hunger descended as I was about to enter a hardware store. Clearly I could not last through the protracted negotiations of buying a pair of French doors and a sash window without sustenance. But the cosmos was on my side and there, across the road, was a fruit vendor.
Banana.
All I needed was a banana and I could face the hardware’s Business Prevention Officers employed to stop consumers injecting cash into the economy.

A tall, slim gentleman with dreadlocks and his non-Rasta lady friend offered a perfect banana for 75 cents. As he handed over the fruit, Jah’s son gave me the biggest smile.
“You know Cindy?” he asked.
“No, I don’t think so. Sorry.”
“Man, you look jus like she. She even smile nice jus like you.”
I smiled again. It is rare to get a decent banana and a compliment all for 75 cents. He turned to his lady friend.
“Ent she look jus like Cindy?”
The lady looked me over and sneered.
“All dem Indian does look de same.” she replied and turned away.
I froze for what felt like a long, long, time. In a daze I walked back to the car. French doors and windows would keep for another day.

I am not naïve about racism. Equally it is not something I come across often or simply accommodate and hope it goes away. Hatred of Guyanese, particularly the Indo-Guyanese, with the usual chants that these aliens are in Bim to steal jobs and women, are regularly heard on the radio call-in programmes, blogs and TV. Sadly xenophobia slides off the tongues and pens of big-ups, boys on the block, and lots of people in between. What was appalling about this incident was the casualness of the racism. In her eyes I was so worthless she did not need to hide her contempt. We left London hoping our boys experience less of this. Racism is racism - whether it is white on black, or black on brown, or brown on black, and or any other colour of the rainbow against another. It just hurts more because I claim these Caribbean islands as my home.

So I shall not be trying to get back to wherever it is these racists think my clones and I should go, and nor, I suspect, will Bajans be rushing back to Africa. Is tolerance of difference so difficult? One method of bringing people together is through music. Daniel Barenboim and the late Edward Said have famously brought together young musicians, Jews and Palestinians, in the West-Eastern Divan Workshop and Orchestra, since the late 1990s. Bajans and non-Bajans have demonstrated we can come together to wuk up to soca, sing along under Rihanna’s umbrella and, more recently, shed tears with James Blunt.

Yes, the man with the most popular song to be played at funerals (Goodbye My Lover) performed during the Barbados Jazz Festival. We, the people of Bim, shared his sense of loss as he sang the hit “You’re beautiful”. It’s the one about seeing a face “in a crowded place, And I don’t know what to do, ‘Cause I’ll never be with you”. And there was not a dry eye in the stadium when this former soldier, who has traded a deadly gun for a mighty guitar, sang of atrocities witnessed in Kosovo:

There are children standing here,
Arms outstretched into the sky,
But no one asks the question why,
He has been here.
Old men kneel to accept their fate.
Wives and daughters cut and raped.
A generation drenched in hate.
Says, he has been here.

We say not another Burundi until Rwanda.
And then we say not another Rwanda until Kosovo.
And then we say not another Kosovo until the Congo.
Surely Bajans have no desire to be part of that cycle of hate.

WAITING FOR A MAN LIKE YOU (WITH APOLOGIES TO FOREIGNER)

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Thu, 22 Jan 2009 03:40:00 +0000

We should have been in DC for the inauguration. Accommodation, flights and babysitting were sorted since the end of November. The guilty party knows who he is. Let’s just say that when I refer to him, if I refer to him at all, he is, His Grey Eminence. And to compound the disappointment I found out on Facebook. There, posted on his page, was a flyer announcing his keynote speech to the Reserve Bank of India in Mumbai the day after the inauguration. Somehow this Trekkie thought he possessed a Transporter. Using voice commands like “Energize!” he could dematerialize at will from Pennsylvania Avenue, only to be reborn whole on the Subcontinent, and all in time for a quick chapatti before his lecture. Even Mr. Spock would conclude that this was highly illogical.

So the day America, and it seemed the world, welcomed a new, bright, handsome prince, I was a world away on this small rock glued to a TV screen. What an experience it would have been to hear the old people who came up from the south tell their stories and to feel the sense of hope and renewal surge through the two million strong crowd as they looked on, often through tears, and in almost complete silence, as he placed his hand on Abe Lincoln’s bible. Of course he had constitutionally become President five minutes earlier. The cameras showed his wife gently touch his shoulder at the stroke of noon to announce history had been made.

About a dozen of us, representing many nationalities, were gathered around our TV. Some had taken an extended lunch break while others had successfully pleaded for the Court of Appeal to recess for the afternoon so they could sit on the sofa and laugh and cry as we witnessed this overwhelming moment. When Aretha Franklin belted out My Country 'Tis of Thee from the depths of her soul, my spine tingled. And a tear or two might have rolled down my cheeks had I not been annoyingly distracted by her rather distinctive hat. Sista, even if you are the Queen of Soul, there are some crazy bow and rhinestone creations that belong to the 1930s, and should remain in the 1930s.

Like many non-Americans I had never bothered to watch an inauguration before so it was a novel experience. It must be the closest Americans get to a royal ceremony. Substitute the black beast limos for gilded, horse-drawn carriages, and a young, dark-skinned couple for some old white folks, and you could almost have been on the other side of the pond. If QE2 was watching telly I think her advice to the new royals would be succinct: practice your wave. Take it from a woman who has waved at crowds for over eighty years. You can’t keep up that enthusiastic movement of your wrist. The proper royal way is to slowly and gently rotate your uplifted, open, palm back and forth through no more than a forty-five degree turn or you’ll soon suffer repetitive stress syndrome.

The inauguration of the 44th President of the United States of America while regal was also full of moments ordinary people could relate to. When Obama sat down to sign the oath of office and took the pen into his left hand, the four lefties huddled around our TV squealed with excitement that he was one of them. Then someone shouted out,
“Man it look like Biden and Obama getting married!”
And if you did not know anything about the characters and proceedings, for a split second it did resemble a gay wedding being witnessed by two supportive families.

But not everyone was convinced by the joy of the occasion. Among our number were a few skeptics and conspiracy theorists. Obama’s choice of a classical quartet instead of some rhythmic African drumming was interpreted as a sign that he had, even in these early moments, already been assimilated into The Matrix. Instead of opening their hearts to the sounds of Yo-Yo Ma’s cello or Itzhak Perlman’s violin, there were mutterings that the John Williams composition, Air and Simple Gifts, should now be considered The Matrix theme song. West Indians are a tough audience.

Yet all agreed that even if the handsome prince were to lose his common touch he would never be touched by any, eh, overly enthusiastic White House interns. Who would want to have to account for themselves in front of this new, formidable First Lady? And Biden’s lady also put the brazen hussies of DC on notice. We already knew she had a doctorate but post inauguration we also know she has fabulous legs so don’t be messing with her Joe.

And so it continued for a few hours as we watched the ceremonial passing of power unfold. As Obama walked Bush to the waiting helicopter one of our posse blurted out,
“It look like Bush being escorted off de premises! Yes Obama, make sure he leave good and proper!”
The sight of him physically leaving, taking with him corruption, greed and a disregard for the basic human rights of others, was a profoundly satisfying one.

All over the world people listened as Obama’s words ushered in a new era of responsibility and dialogue. The ghost of Martin Luther king Jr. must have been smiling. How far fetched his dreams once seemed. Now we wait. We wait to see if the words match the deeds. We wait to see what will happen in 120 days when his temporary suspension of trials at Guantanamo Bay is over.

We all want so much of you Obama and we’re waiting.

MIS-GUIDED MAPPING

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Tue, 13 Jan 2009 10:09:00 +0000

I don’t know where I live. Honest. The main post office in Bridgetown assured me I lived in St. Michael and doled out my unique postcode – a phenomenon only introduced to this small rock within the past year. But the local post office spends several minutes a day scratching out St. Michael and substituting St. George from all our post before our post lady zooms by on her scooter to deliver it. Having consulted both parties and found that neither is willing to back down in their territorial claim, I fear an ad hoc arbitration commission will have to be convened soonest before the postmen and women come to blows. Personally I’m hoping St. Michael wins out for reasons that will be obvious later.

In some ways the St. Michael/St. George territorial claim is academic since there isn’t even a street sign to indicate you have reached Beacon Hill. Town and Country Planning said they will look into the matter but the gentleman I spoke with was pessimistic. When pressed, he explained,
“Madam, fuh ah new sign a body go have to make an inspection. Den de body go have to report de sign missing and den ah next body go have to get de sign make and put up.”

With so many layers of bureaucracy to penetrate I have little faith in getting a street sign before First and Second Born come of age. But this is a new era - the Yes We Can Age. Undefeated, I have actually made an (official-looking) one – ply wood painted white, with black letters, in what I hope passes for Times New Roman. But that was only half the problem. In a family of Hobbits, even aided by a ladder, none of us can attach the sign at a height that would be of use to anyone other than fellow Hobbits out on the St. Michael/St. George border for a stroll. There’s nothing for it but to persuade a passing Light and Power truck to nail it to the electric post at the start of our road. Failing that, the next tall person to visit may have to climb for their supper. So if you visit mi casa, are a good six-foot without shoes, and of sound body and mind…well, you have been warned.

Apart from naming a place, have you considered the other ways in which both my neighbourhood and yours can be mapped? Wandsworth in London is identified as a borough South of the Thames. It is also identified as “Nappy Valley” for having the largest number of residents aged 5 and under in the UK. When we lived in Battersea, a mere mile from Wandsworth, doctors told us we would never be natural parents. So we moved from our family-sized terrace house to a funky, white, glass cube in Wandsworth. Within a year not one, but two babies, were projectile vomiting their pureed, organic carrots all over that glass space. No one knows for sure but urban mythology suggests it’s all part of a top secret government experiment with the cappuccinos served at local cafes. The truth is still out there.

So what is the truth about the eleven parishes on this small rock? The opportunity for investigation came from a most unusual source. The Barbados Art Marathon, hosted by the rather posh Lancaster House Gallery, invited artists to be the art world equivalent of Jack Bauer and make a work of art, from idea to ideally wall, in 24 hours. Being crap at producing anything decorative I decided to do a map of Barbados with a twist. I handed out questionnaires to everyone who set foot in Lancaster House asking them to list the parishes they have made whoopee in the last five years. Once people got over the shock of the question they seemed eager enough to comply. One grown-up daughter was visibly shocked to see her mother happily ticking away while she had just the one parish on her list. Several people completed their forms only to retrieve them saying they had forgotten about “Bathsheba” and wanting to confirm that this sleepy village on the east coast was indeed in St. Joseph. Only one person refused to complete the survey and one man said I should be ashamed of myself.

The results showed that St. James is on top and a cluster of gold stars suitably identified this parish on my mis-guided map. St. Lucy is full of people sleeping alone so a few dried berries from the Casuarina tree were all that demarcated that parish. If you can’t make it to St. James then Christ Church (pink hearts) followed by St. Michael (multi-coloured foil confetti) is your best bet for a good time. Most people ignored St. Thomas and headed for St. Philip with its wide-open vistas and bracing winds. St. Andrew is not as dry as St. Lucy but still I don’t want to move there anytime soon. Perhaps St. George just has too many cows to rank in this survey. Now you understand why if Beacon Hill is where I am putting a new kitchen I really, really,really want it to be in St. Michael, BB19191.

OLDER AND LIKING IT

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Mon, 05 Jan 2009 01:22:00 +0000

In the manner of the Queen (or a former lady PM), we are delighted to announce that we were one in December. Yes, Notes is still contemplating life on this small rock and not much closer to penetrating the idiosyncrasies that make this place so beguilingly unique. For example, can anyone explain the Bajan obsession with cleanliness? Yes I know about the dirt/godliness axis, but why does every check out person in Supercentre wipe the conveyor belt before, during and after your tea, lettuce and ketchup have moved along its surface? And how does a Londoner morph from being bemused at Bajans driving around the island looking at tiny houses decorated with a disproportionate number of twinkling lights to actually having a night out privately rating these public displays from St. Lucy to St. Philip?

I seem to have done a lot of rating of public displays this season. On a small rock once you agree to judge one show you are asked, ever so nicely and persistently, to judge all manner of vaguely related shows. So the fact that I was a judge at the Caribbean Art and Craft Expo meant that when the Barbados Museum had its Christmas fair and wanted to give a prize for the best stall I was called up for duty. While I strolled around with the kids looking at the displays and helping them choose presents for grandparents and teachers etc., the other judge, armed with clipboard, attacked the fair in a methodical fashion, properly scoring each stall. In the end we separately came to the same conclusion and awarded the prize to a stall suggested by First born right at the start. He had taken a look around and declared the winner a stall that was neat, with everything clearly displayed in a manner that enticed him to spend his pocket money. If only I could steer him away from his passion for racing cars he could have a fine career as a critic.

Apart from looking at lights, craft, and also helping award the critic’s prize in an excellent show at Zemicon, (the only art gallery in Bim that dares to show experimental work), the mood of the festive season was subdued. Maybe it was knowing that this rock is not insulated from the effects of the global financial crisis that halted some of the excess of Christmases past. Ours was a simple holiday of pottering around nibbling the yummy Trini Black Cake Alison had thoughtfully sent. Our household imbibed more than the recommended number of daily units of alcohol and settled grievances in the time honoured fashion of Chinese Checkers and Monopoly by day and Scrabble by night. By New Year’s Eve while others dashed from one good time to the next, I was ensconced in a hammock with duvet and pillow, gazing at a star studded sky, and being gently rocked by the cool Christmas breezes. I have a vague recollection of feeling simultaneously smug and horribly middle aged that hammock plus stars plus breeze equals perfect happiness.

But all the signs are that the festive season is nearly over. Only a few straggly slices of the second baked ham are left. The Black Cake can make it to tomorrow only if we confine our servings to communion-thin wafer slivers and the kids are frantically finishing their school project on spiders. Bet you didn’t know there is a Spitting Spider or a Diving Bell Spider. Bet you don’t give a rat’s ass either.

But the end of the festive warmth was properly signaled by L. reporting that her seventy-nine year old auntie was almost a victim of serious crime. She surprised a would-be thief at her home. He grabbed her handbag and whispered menacingly,
"Ah going to rape yuh today."

Auntie froze on the spot.

But within seconds her expression went from terror to a coy smile to a grin of delight.
"Hold yuh horses sonny boy!" she yelled, "Let meh bathe and powder-up first!"

Our burglar dropped the handbag and ran at a speed that would challenge Bolt's 100m record.

But he can't hide. Someone answering to his description was spotted yesterday - in Grenada.

LETTER TO LAPLAND

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Sun, 07 Dec 2008 15:31:00 +0000

Dear Santa,

First and Second Born are refusing to write to you this year even though I assured them I have your private address in Lapland and that you read and answer all correspondence. They scoff, claiming you are not “real” and that they have known this since last Christmas. Where did that lack of faith come from? Please know you remain very real to me - as real as The Husband - and I only ever know what’s happening in his life from Facebook.

Which brings me to your Facebook page. Saint Nic, your appeal cannot be overstated. Admittedly, Madonna is richer, fitter and more famous. But Joe The Plumber-Cum-Author’s memoirs will never outsell any tome that recounts your antics up and down the chimney. So how, how, HOW, do you have less virtual friends than quiet, gentle Warren, nestled in the burbs of Kingston, Jamaica? And would it kill you to upload a new photo of yourself and the family once in a while? What joy to the world if we got a glimpse of cheeky Comet and brave Blitzen all grown up.

You have not posted any links or joined any cause. Don’t worry - I’ll send you a link to Close Guantanamo Bay Now! And you really must update your status. Santa is… nada. For crying out loud – this is your busiest time of the year! There should be feeds to our inbox every few minutes as you race to the four corners of the earth making your list and checking it twice. (A quiet word in your ear: the Obama children have fought a historic campaign and deserve that much longed for, bi-partisan, puppy who will bring about real change.)

We want - nay need to know the minutiae of your existence. You might think it unimportant, but the cyber circuit cares that,
Santa hates coming to Bim because, for the third Christmas in a row, they are fixing the ABC highway and causing major traffic jams at Wildey.
Or maybe there are issues you cannot resolve alone. But be careful what you ask for. The number of comments posted will shock were you to admit what is an open secret:
Santa wishes for a bail out of his ailing American toy manufacturing business with the same speed and no-questions-asked approach as those naughty bankers got.

And please don’t use that tired excuse that you can hardly keep up with the goings on of Prancer and Dancer, much more communicate with a vast, virtual, network of near strangers. Flesh and blood friends do take up tons of time and emotional energy with their doubts and fears over jobs, money, lovers, sickness, children – the list is endless. Cyber pals are more considerate about demanding face time you don’t have to give. And physical friends are becoming impatient, saying that if people take you for granted and expect you to always smile and shout, “Ho, Ho, Ho!” it is because you let them. But Santa, explain your need to please, and its root causes in a childhood devoid of praise, and the Facebook floodgates of compassion will swing open. Kevin, who you last saw in 1985, and only found in cyberspace a week ago, will write on your wall:
“Claus! It’s been ages!! Sorry you are feeling taken for granted!!!! Have you tried reflexology??? If you’re ever in LA I know a great healer who will clear that negative energy in a couple sessions!!!!!”

You really are missing out Papa Noel. Both you and your cyber pals have a unique technological opportunity to be endlessly constructed and mediated by a few strokes of a keyboard. If one cyber mate has become boring - ditch ‘em. You'll find another from the smörgåsbord of humanity online just as fast as your search engine can manage. There will be no residual hard feelings because cyber chums confine and define messy emotions with “emoticons” - a darn sight better than tantrums and tears! So Rudolf has betrayed your confidences to Erin Elf in HR? Please share and remember to type :-| or :| for the graphic of a Disappointed Face to appear. We in cyber space will never hesitate to give a Left Hug [type ({)] or Right Hug [type (})] - depending on our dominant side. And if that man-eater Mrs. Claus brings you grief just tap those keys and comfort will come. Whose aching heart was not made lighter on finding a friend had taken the time and thought to send love in the shape of a Red Heart and a Martini to your inbox. If the positions were reversed Santa baby, I am partial to the odd lychee martini or three. Group hug please.

I began by saying my kids no longer believe. Yet they would be devastated if you didn’t leave something under the Samaan tree. First Born would be chuffed to get Wii games and a dart board. Could you please also give the kid a little more self-confidence. He is so easily wounded. Second Born’s life would be transformed by something called Webkinz – the cow and a pig. Don’t ask. But he has to learn that being cute and bright is not enough. What about sending a subliminal message on the value of hard work? And then there is The Husband - a man with the world at his feet. Apart from peace in our time, I bet he longs for a double or at least to be made into a hologram so he could be in Qatar while simultaneously enjoying the weekly breakfast Salon at Happy Days in St. Lawrence Gap. Don’t clone him. Please. I have my reasons. Perhaps you could encourage him to live in the moment or some such thing. As for me Claus, I’m just a simple island girl dreaming of a future where both sex and Amazon deliveries are cheaper and more reliable. Oh, and can I have someone to paint my house?

Santa, you’re a star. Merry Christmas.

your NBVF (New Best Virtual Friend)

xxxxoooooo

SEASON'S GREETINGS EVERYONE. NEXT BLOG IN JANUARY 2009.