Notes From A Small Rock

The Second Poui Writers’ Workshop: Two-day intensive Master Class and Publishing Workshop with novelist Oonya Kempadoo

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 08:33:00 +0000

The Department of Language, Linguistics and Literature, Cave Hill, announces the second in the series of Poui (Cave Hill Journal of Creative Writing) Writers’ Workshops, in partnership with the Frank Collymore Literary Endowment and sponsored by the Central Bank.

The two-day intensive Writing Master Class and Publishing Workshop under the novelist, Oonya Kempadoo, will run from 10am-4pm Saturday 20 and Sunday 21 February, 2010, and will take place in the Meeting Room of the Frank Collymore Hall.

Oonya Kempadoo’s writing is notable for its unusual frankness and honesty in dealing with sexuality, as well as its humour. Her acute social observation and ear for everyday speech lend drama and comedy to her work. Her first novel was Buxton Spice, a semi-autobiographical account of a young girl growing up in Guyana under the Burnham regime. Buxton Spice was auctioned in London between major publishers and was published in 1998 in the UK, in 1999 in the USA and in five foreign language editions in Europe. Her second novel, Tide Running, is set in contemporary Tobago, won a Casa De Las Americas prize in 2002 and is published in Spanish in Cuba. It was also well received on both sides of the Atlantic, was published in the UK in 2001 and the US in 2003, and Kempadoo named a "Great Talent for the 21st Century" by the Orange Prize judges. She is now working on her third novel and a film-script of Tide Running.

Kempadoo will share her writing process and publishing experience, as well as offering feedback through workshopping. The free two-day workshop is divided into a Writing Master Class on Saturday 20, and a Workshop on Getting Publishing on Sunday 21. Application may be made for one or both of the days, but places are limited to 12 per day and will be allocated on a first come first served basis. To register, email angela.trotman@cavehill.uwi.edu, indicating whether you want to attend one or both days.

WE HAVE FINALLY GOT THE SCOOTERS!!!

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Fri, 22 Jan 2010 19:36:00 +0000

It cost $1052.00 and took two months to clear the two scooters Santa promised First and Second Born because of the interesting classification that was insisted upon coupled with the system for getting goods through the port.

NISHI RESTAURANT REVIEW BY ANISH AND ISHAN PERSAUD

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 18:19:00 +0000

NISHI
Second Street
Holetown, St. James
Phone: 246-432-8287

The service was very quick. The staff seemed happy to serve.

There were many options to choose from. They have a bistro menu and a sushi menu. We ate at the sushi bar upstairs. The food was great and filling. The fish was very fresh. Ishan liked the nigiri salmon sushi and Anish liked the spicy tuna sushi.

Kids are very welcome. If you eat at the bar the chef will let you look and see how they prepare the sushi. They gave us kids some shrimp tempura with two types of sauces to try for free. If you did not like sushi you could have Italian food or burgers.

The dining room was very posh. In fact the whole place looked great. The room was done in different types of dark wood and the lighting was good. They played trendy Buddha Bar cds.

Nishi is on a main road in Holetown and easy to find. It has a big sign so you won’t miss it.

OVERALL RATING: 9/10

IT WAS THE BEST OF TIMES

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Sun, 03 Jan 2010 01:22:00 +0000

(New Year's Eve in Bridgetown, 2009 - photo by William Cummins)

January marks our third year in paradise and like many I am in stock taking mode. The past year was an eventful one and in the spirit of optimism that marks new beginnings this will be a “best of” 2009.

1. I sorted every last box in the garage and found a home for everything. Well, except the bunk beds and a single candlestick that has lost its best friend. But they are earmarked for a woman who wrote to The Nation’s Dear Christine column in need of basic furniture.

2. Hurdler Ryan Brathwaite brought home the first bit of gold ever for Barbados from the World Championships.

3. The One True Remote, which possesses the supernatural power to control all other remotes, arrived in the house via Amazon. Its abilities include turning chaos into order, bedlam into calm and clutter into simplicity. However, with power comes responsibility to control the vast stores of music, TV and DVDs. It puts The Keeper in a position of truly terrifying authority. Naturally, I appointed myself said keeper and have managed to keep possession lest the evil twins who roam our house find it and unleash its destructive power.

4. THREE new sushi places opened on this small rock. So bye, bye, macaroni pie. It continues to defeat me why a tropical island should adopt as one of its staple foods a dish of hot carbohydrate and melted fat designed to fuel Europeans through grim northern winters. In any case, the pie and I have now parted company without regret.

5. With the help of fellow sexpots Sonia and Helga, I set up the Hot Mamas Club with a mission to help each other sizzle. This culminated in me wearing a rather daring dress for our New Year’s Eve soiree – the kind sold on the basis that less is more. The Husband looked at me with a weird, disbelieving look and mumbled,
‘You look rather sexy.’
I was speechless.
The last time he said something similar was November 12 1999. And before you dismiss this faint praise be assured it is his reserved way of stating that you look hot enough to pork in all twenty-four positions illustrated in the Kama Sutra.

6. Second Born came third in the Under Eleven age group of the Guardian General Junior Squash Championships.

7. A wonderful weekly tea salon was institutionalized at Beacon House during 2009. Drop by any Sunday from 4pm onwards. A word of warning: if you say it, be prepared to defend it. After 7pm we do this neat trick where the Darjeeling turns into Merlot before your very eyes.

8. I continued to show my art in Barbados in spite of obvious public indifference to any work that is not a big, bright painting on canvas. If I find the courage to continue in 2010 that will be an even bigger personal achievement.

9. I found a new love. Golf. My friend Janine has begged me to stop before I go down the route of buying tartan clothing, making The Husband a golf widower or having numerous indiscreet affairs with identikit blonde party girls.

10. No one close to me died and as a bonus a couple gorgeous babies were born. Life goes on.

JUST HEAR THOSE SLEIGH BELLS CLICK, CLICK, CLICKING

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 16:46:00 +0000

They boast that they have not believed in Santa since they were six. And they knew there wasn’t an Easter Bunny or Tooth Fairy. But I know different. It was only when Second Born found a baby tooth accompanied by his note to TF, carefully stored in the safe, that his faith was finally shattered - and that was just last week. This year they presented me with letters addressed to Mrs. Claus containing a printout of an Amazon wish list. The Elves agreed we could manage an electric scooter each and have them shipped to Bim along with bits of furniture needed for the home. The goods duly arrived in Bridgetown early November. It is Christmas week and I am still waiting for the much-anticipated scooters to clear customs.

You see on this small rock, with currency exchange controls and high import duties on nearly everything, it ain’t over even after the last click confirming your credit card details. Assuming you have a credit card that allows you to pay in dollars or pounds, you then have to persuade your overpriced shippers that you are the client and that they should clear your goods. I have found to my cost telephone promises are not worth spit. I only got action when I sat quietly in their office and refused to leave until someone assumed responsibility for clearing the goods. Mr. Lee Parken promised to personally take on “my case”. Sure enough at 7pm, a week later, the very night before six houseguests descended, the flat pack furniture was offloaded onto our front porch. In the hours of screw-driver assembly that followed I did not notice the scooters were missing. By the time I did, dawn was breaking and it was Saturday. They don’t work weekends.

‘Oh yes they are still in Shed Three.’ said Mr. Lee Parken when I finally got him on his mobile. ‘I can’t get hold of the officer in charge to know why they aren’t releasing the scooters.’
Then he added ominously, ‘ I’ll get back to you.’
Another week of constant phone calls followed only to be told each time that the elusive officer could not be found within these twenty one by fourteen miles of coral. So I got his number and tried to deal with him directly. When we did talk I found that my alternative dispute resolution skills were no match for the mighty Customs and Excise. Indeed the negotiators in Copenhagen would have been more successful had they cut their teeth doing battle with the customs officers of Shed 3. And as in COP15 definitions were all important.
‘What yuh call dis ting? Ah scooter?’ asked Officer McBady
‘Yes. It’s a toy for my son.’ I replied.
‘Dis eh no toy. It have ah battery. Dis could go pon de road. Yuh cahn clear customs till yuh get a licence.’
‘It’s a toy. It can’t go more than five miles per hour.’
‘Man, dis battery have nuff power. I telling yuh dis could go pon de road.’ he repeated.
I sighed. ‘It can’t and he can’t. He is not using this except in our yard.’
‘Well it eh leaving here till it have ah licence.’
‘Okay. What kind of licence do you think I should get? A bicycle licence?’
‘No ah vehicle licence. And yuh go have to pay de 100% duty plus environmental fee, plus licencing fee, plus road tax plus handling and storage.’
‘It’s a toy!’ I yelled.
Then I remembered who was wearing the trousers.
‘Please would you mind reading the instructions on the box?’ I pleaded. ‘It is for children up to twelve years old.’
‘Doh tell me is some kinda ting to play wid.’’ he shot back. ‘I looking at de ting right now and dis eh no toy. I doh have to read nutting to know what dis is. It go have to get ah road licence or it staying just here.’

And sadly he is right. The rules provide an unbeatable combination of broad discretion coupled with a lack of transparency. I might have been a lawyer once but he is The Law. There is absolutely nothing I can do except cough up. So, although furious, I have agreed to pay. It cost enough to get the evil things here and it is Christmas and the boys will be disappointed if Claus does not come through for them. But that was not quite the pound of flesh the officer had in mind. He now insists I must wait for a mythical creature known only as, The Chief Inspector, to approve the clearance and sign off. This creature was of course last sighted about the same time as the Hobbits began exploring Middle-Earth.

We are T minus three days and I have as much chance of getting those scooters as Tiger has of a cozy Christmas with the wifey. So, if you have a couple electric scooters going spare ‘tis the season to be generous and call me.

PUBLIC INTELLECTUALS AND THE FINANCIAL CRISIS

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Fri, 18 Dec 2009 09:19:00 +0000

A worthy winner: Simon Johnson, Professor at MIT, Peterson Institute fellow and former IMF chief economist

Public intellectuals and the financial crisis
Jonathan Ford
16th December 2009 —
Who has contributed best to the "public conversation" during these turbulent times? Prospect names the top 25 brains of the financial crisis

The financial crisis has destroyed both wealth and received wisdom. The idea that prices are always right and markets self-correct is fatally challenged. Even Alan Greenspan admits that the “whole intellectual edifice” of the efficient market hypothesis collapsed in the summer of 2008. The financial establishment is in a state of deep confusion. As the FT’s Gillian Tett put it in September’s Prospect: it is like “a priest who has lost faith in the Bible, but still has to go to church.” But this is not a bad thing, for it has opened up new ways of thinking about markets, institutions and the all-important cause of financial reform.

Unfamiliar voices have come to prominence, aided by a new wave of financial bloggers eager to push fresh ideas. But who has made the most impact? Prospect assembled a panel of experts to draw up a list of leading “public intellectuals” of the financial crisis in 2009 and then decide on the most important. Our criteria were simple. Anyone who had made an impact on policy with their ideas, or who had changed the “public conversation” was a candidate.

The panel sifted hundreds of names, with an unavoidable bias towards Britain and the US, but felt the most important contributions had been in financial reform—those trying to work out what to do next. The crisis has laid a staggering financial burden on the world, with some $14 trillion propping up US and EU banks. We cannot afford another one. Moreover, we urgently need a new regulatory philosophy. Are liquid markets always good? Is complexity in financial services harmful? Can finance firms stop “herding,” creating wild booms and busts?

The role of the banks themselves is also being rethought. They have mushroomed in size without doing a better job—Royal Bank of Scotland’s balance sheet grew 20-fold in the decade from 1998. Some banks have become too big to fail and hence dangerous. Should we return to the strict division between commercial and investment banking, as proposed by Paul Volcker and Mervyn King? And how can we now rein in this super-sized financial system with its powerful lobby? Many of the surviving megabanks have pressured governments for a return to the status quo ante. They want their old economy back, with the implicit warning that if they don’t get it there will be no recovery—and politicians will be blamed.

We considered all of this, and gradually whittled the names down to a shortlist of just 25 (see facing page), and then a top three. In reverse order, the bronze medal went to Adair Turner, chairman of Britain’s Financial Services Authority, who bravely questioned the social usefulness of some financial activity, and called for regulators to force banks to hold more capital against risky trades, cutting their profitability. Next, silver went to Avinash Persaud, a respected analyst who spotted nine years ago the dangerous interaction between firms “herding” and new risk management techniques. During 2009 he has been arguing for new “macro-prudential” regulation to stop what he discovered a decade ago.

But there was a clear winner. He is Simon Johnson, an economist at the prestigious Peterson Institute in Washington, DC, who has been leading the argument against overmighty banking. His ideas are well grounded in theory, but he has also done more than any academic to popularise his case: writing articles, a must-read blog, and appearing tirelessly on television. As the FT’s Martin Wolf told Prospect: “Johnson’s significance is that he is a member of the establishment—a former IMF chief economist, no less—who has emphasised the capture of the state by big finance, for the latter’s own ends. An expert on crises in emerging countries and in transition from communism, he has called what he has seen: crony capitalism at the heart of the financial system.” In particular Johnson’s essay “The Quiet Coup,” in the Atlantic of May 2009, is one of the great polemical essays of the crisis. Far from skulking in an ivory tower, he has urged citizens to the streets.

We need an informed debate about making finance safer. Johnson, Persaud and Turner led that debate in 2009.

PROSPECT’S TOP 25 BRAINS OF THE CRISIS

1. Simon Johnson Professor at MIT, Peterson Institute fellow, former IMF chief economist, blogger, troublemaker and scourge of once-mighty banks—a worthy winner in 2009.

2. Avinash Persaud, Financial liquidity analyst, adviser to governments around the world, the man who has studied “herd” behaviour in finance, and now the man trying to stop it.

3. Adair Turner An unusually bold regulator, Turner made headlines worldwide slamming “socially useless” finance (in Prospect) and suggesting a Tobin tax to put sand in the wheels of global finance.

Ben Bernanke Cerebral Federal Reserve chairman, seen by many as saviour of the US economy while congress dithered.

Andrew Haldane Bank of England director who warned of a “doom loop” of perpetual banking bailouts.

Philip Hildebrand Swiss banker who boldly pushed cutting his country’s banks to size.

John Kay Well-regarded British economist who wants a return to simple banking.

Mervyn King Bank of England boss, initially wrong-footed by the crisis, but had a better, more aggressive 2009.

Richard Koo Insider adviser to politicians and banks, an expert on the lessons from Japan, and deficit dove-in-chief.

Paul Krugman Celebrated economist and author of a must-read New York Times essay on the failures of economics.

Christine Lagarde French minister of economic affairs who got just the right mix of stick and carrot for French banks.
donald mackenzie Edinburgh professor, author of many sharp LRB essays unpicking the anthropology of finance.

Lucy Prebble 28-year-old British author of Enron, the best play yet on irrational exuberance.

Nouriel Roubini Legendarily gloomy, normally correct finance analyst whose blogs alone can move markets.

Brad Setser Young policy wonk, co-blogger with Simon Johnson and author of Bailouts or Bail-ins? with Roubini.

Robert Shiller Credit-crunch US sage and behavioural economics pioneer.

Jon Stewart Brainy American satirist whose Daily Show has made finance a laughing stock.

Joseph Stiglitz Nobel laureate, chair of UN commission on financial reform and harsh critic of finance-as-usual.

Matt Taibbi US journalist, wrote a celebrated scathing attack on Goldman Sachs.

Paul Volcker Ex-Fed chair, pushing for splitting up investment and savings banks.

Elizabeth Warren Harvard professor, consumer rights watchdog, leads the panel watching over Obama’s bailout money.

Martin Wolf FT writer and the Anglosphere’s most influential finance journalist.

Paul Woolley Innovative LSE thinker on “capital market dysfunctionality.”

Yu Yongding Influential economist at the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences.

Zhou Xiaochuan Bank of China head, architect of China’s response to the crisis.

Thanks to those who helped us pick a list or select winners, including: Rudi Bogni, Diane Coyle, Will Davies, Meghnad Desai, John Eatwell, Christopher Hird, Will Hutton, Faisal Islam, Stephanie Flanders, George Magnus, Jasper McMahon, Felix Salmon, Richard Sennett, Rohan Silva, Laura Tyson, Isabel Hilton and Graham Turne

http://www.prospectmagazine.co.uk/2009/12/public-intellectuals-and-the-financial-crisis

CHRISTMAS FEVER

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Tue, 15 Dec 2009 11:10:00 +0000

Christmas is partly defined by music. For years it meant an annual pilgrimage to listen to the Tallis Scholars and then Handel’s Messiah at St. John’s Church in Smith Square, London. In keeping with new traditions on this small rock we heralded the holiday season last weekend with Carols By Candlelight on the grounds of the Prime Minister’s official residence, Illaro Court. This year’s concert featured top musicians like the jazz artiste André Woodvine and several very talented young people including about a hundred kids from the Mustard Seed drama club. But the music and dance were merely nice background scenery for a carefully planned picnic with friends. And as darkness descended the park was transformed into a place of pure magic lit by a sea of candlelight. When you are sitting on the grass on a warm night in mid December, with candles and stars to light your way, it is obvious this is paradise.

This holiday season we are also lucky to have live music at home. Our two budding guitarists have been serenading us with precisely three-quarters of Silent Night. Several times. Every day. I am hoping that both St. Cecilia, the patroness of musicians, and their tutor, the extremely patient Paco, will take pity on us and teach them the last bit before the Christmas break so that we may all finally take the song to its logical conclusion and Sleep in Heavenly Peace, Sleep in Heavenly Peace.

This rock is however anything but silent as businesses gear up for the season. There is little sign of the restraint and fear that characterized last Christmas. The day I collected visiting relatives there were seven full flights from the UK at Grantley Adams International. Add to that visitors from Canada and the USA and you can see why it feels like the population has doubled almost overnight. And the shops are heaving. All my presents were bought to the song track of click, click, click. But there is always one forgotten person who I will have to find a gift for at 3pm on Christmas Eve. Can’t remember who that is but I’m sure all will be revealed at the appointed hour.

I have actually, by instruction, opened one of my presents already – a gift from our helper who knows my fondness for kitsch. This treasure is a Santa beyond anything I could have hoped for. Once fed three AA batteries, the ten-inch plastic doll does some pelvis thrusting that in real life would get him arrested for disturbing the peace while belting out a Katrina and The Waves song,
Now I don't want u back for the weekend,
Not back for a day,
No, No, No,
I said baby I just want you back,
And I want you to stay.
Put it this way: I have already had to replace the batteries as no one can resist this totally ridiculous object. The national health service should distribute them to anyone in need of a bit of laughter therapy. And clearly I am not alone in loving Fat Boy Red because when I went to the little Chinese shop on Swan Street that Diane had found him, his clones were all sold out.

While my Fat Boy Red and the Christmas tree are our household’s most prominent signs of the season, First and Second Born are increasingly curious about the true meaning of Christmas. At nine and a third years they have no trouble with the cultural precedents of gift giving, or more precisely, gift receiving. They appreciate the atmosphere of plenty with special food and decorations in the house as well as the numerous party invitations. But they are puzzled by our insistence that they participate in the religious activities of their Anglican school.
‘I still don’t want to go to the Carol Service.’ said First Born.
‘Everyone will be there. You have to go because you are a member of that community.’I replied.
‘No. It’s a Christian thing and I’m not Christian.’
Silence.
‘Mom, what am I again? A humanist?’
‘Yes honey.’
It had been a long day and I did not want to rehearse the whole Dwarkins God Delusion arguments but he was unyielding.
‘So basically we don’t believe in a God up in heaven?’
‘Yup.’
‘So why do I have to sing all those songs and say all those prayers to God?’
‘Because that is part of your education and it is good to understand all religions so later on you can decide if you still want to be a humanist.’
‘I’m fine with being a humanist mom. Really. And I don’t want to do any of that church stuff.’
‘You will go to church services with your classmates. No more discussion please.’
‘I don’t have to go if you send a note to my teacher.’
‘I’m not sending a note son.’
‘But you don’t go to church.’
‘I’m bigger than you and I don’t need a note from my mother.’
‘Grandma goes to church.’
‘Look I don’t need a note to get out of church. I stopped asking my mom for one when I hit forty.’
We settled into silence for about thirty seconds while I tried to find the page of a novel I was longing to continue reading.
‘But I am still getting an electric scooter for Christmas? Okay lovely mama?
‘Only if you are a very good, humanist boy and tidy your room.’

Don’t you just love Christmas?

FOLLOWING THE THREADS

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 14:52:00 +0000

Straight.
Back.
Blanket.
Running.

I am stitched up.

I have been stitching from early morning to late night in the studio, BBC radio 4 my only companion. Three weeks it’s been like this. Sequestered with jewel-coloured threads, acres of cotton material, and photos from fifty-eight people who responded to a call to collaborate. I have stitched so intently and fiercely that the metacarpals of the ring finger on my left hand look strangely deformed.
‘How you manage to mash up yuh ring finger?’ asked E. ‘People doh use dat finger sewing.’
‘Have you seen my demented sewing? I countered.
He shook his head.
‘Exactly.’

And there is no opportunity for him to now witness the crazed, compulsive needlework because it’s all over. C’est fini. It’s been a long haul. I have taken the offerings from my virtual community and transferred these digital images onto cotton – itself a tedious, involved process - then blanket-stitched these cloth photos to larger cotton squares. The large squares were then joined, bits and a border added for effect, and the whole sodding thing quilt-stitched to form what passes for a king-sized blanket. And it is a blanket for while it borrows elements from quilting it does not adhere to the rules of that craft.

The exhaustion from repetitive cutting and stitching is satisfying honest labour but at the same time I can’t wait to be rid of the blanket. The work is done and needs to find its own space. But stored somewhere in my hands is a lingering memory of hours and days and weeks of quiet meditation about the people who sent the photos, the images themselves and the shifting meanings of our individual and collective humanity in both real and cyber spaces. Benny has a thriving law practice in London. His picture was taken in the kitchen where once a week he helps cook and feed the homeless. Richard was boarding a BA flight. Indu in Trinidad watched over her sleeping baby boy. On Long Island George showed off his skill with a rip stick. Daniel is in Ghana. I have no idea when we’ll see each other again.

Square, by cotton square, the virtual offerings from places as far as Iceland, and as near as Bridgetown, became an object of physical comfort to a woman hunched over in her studio pulling needle and thread. And when the last stitch was stitched, and it was accepted that that was the last time my needle would push thread through three layers of cloth in an effort to bind them together, when I was completely sure, I did the only thing left to do. I striped off and wrapped the soft, warm fabric around my body.

After a few quiet moments of reflection it sunk in. I threw the freaking thing on the floor, checked on the internet that it was 11am somewhere in the world, and although most Bajans were having breakfast, I cracked open a celebratory bottle of the good plonk usually reserved for high days and holidays. Thank you London for being conveniently four hours ahead of this small rock. If you happen to be in Bim the real blanket is at the Morningside Gallery as part of a group show on collaboration that opens on 5 December. The virtual one is yours to keep. Or not.

I wanted to do a performance work by sleeping under the blanket in the gallery space for the opening. Second Born intervened.
‘You can’t sleep in the gallery, mama.’
‘I can if I think it will be a strong performance that will add another dimension to the blanket.’ I replied.
He looked at me intently with a pained expression.
‘That’s just weird.’ he whined. ‘People will think you’re a homeless person.’
‘No they won’t.’ I retorted.
‘Yes they will.’ he shot back.
‘Won’t.’
‘Will.’
‘Won’t.’
‘Will.’
‘Won’t.’
‘Will too.’
‘Well it’s my art and I can if I want to.’ I said and folded my arms to signal I was The Boss.
‘You can’t have any food at the opening then ‘cause you’ll be in bed and you said we can’t eat in bed.’
He had a point. While everyone was gaining a happier perspective on life with the aid of a little free rum and hot fish cakes I would be stuck under the blanket on a make shift bed trying desperately to have a nap. But that now had to be weighed against the perverse pleasure of knowing you are a proper embarrassment to your kids.
‘Well I guess people can imagine sleeping under the blanket.’ I conceded. ‘It’ll be on the floor anyway.’
Second Born’s little face exuded pure relief through every pore.
‘Yeah, mom. That’s so much better.’
He walked off satisfied at having saved his family from public humiliation. Wait till he finds out about my next work that requires tea and a naked woman by the sea.

WHAT THE HUSBAND DID NEXT

noreply@blogger.com (INGRID PERSAUD) — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 12:58:00 +0000

Nov 26th 2009
From The Economist print edition

Two new papers explore how to regulate the financial system as a whole

BANKS mimic other banks. They expose themselves to similar risks by making the same sorts of loans. Each bank’s appetite for lending rises and falls in sync. What is safe for one institution becomes dangerous if they all do the same, which is often how financial trouble starts. The scope for nasty spillovers is increased by direct linkages. Banks lend to each other as well as to customers, so one firm’s failure can quickly cause others to fall over, too.

Because of these connections, rules to ensure the soundness of each bank are not enough to keep the banking system safe. Hence the calls for “macroprudential” regulation to prevent failures of the financial system as a whole. Although there is wide agreement that macroprudential policy is needed to limit systemic risk, there has been very little detail about how it might work. Two new reports help fill this gap. One is a discussion paper from the Bank of England, which sketches out the elements of a macroprudential regime and identifies what needs to be decided before it is put into practice*. The other paper, by the Warwick Commission, a group of academics and experts on finance from around the world, advocates specific reforms**.

The first step is to decide an objective for macroprudential policy. A broad aim is to keep the financial system working well at all times. The bank’s report suggests a more precise goal: to limit the chance of bank failure to its “social optimum”. Tempering the boom-bust credit cycle and taking some air out of asset-price bubbles may be necessary to meet these aims, but both reports agree that should not be the main purpose of regulation. Making finance safer is ambitious enough.

Policymakers then have to decide on how they might achieve their goal. The financial system is too willing to provide credit in good times and too shy to do so in bad times. In upswings banks are keen to extend loans because write-offs seem unlikely. The willingness of other banks to do the same only reinforces the trend. Borrowers seem less likely to default because with lots of credit around, the value of their assets is rising. As the boom gathers pace, even banks that are wary of making fresh loans carry on for fear of ceding ground to rivals. When recession hits, each bank becomes fearful of making loans partly because other banks are also reluctant. Scarce credit hurts asset prices and leaves borrowers prey to the cash-flow troubles of customers and suppliers.

Since the cycle is such an influence on banks, macroprudential regulation should make it harder for all banks to lend so freely in booms and easier for them to lend in recessions. It can do this by tailoring capital requirements to the credit cycle. Whenever overall credit growth looks too frothy, the macroprudential body could increase the minimum capital buffer that supervisors make each bank hold. Equity capital is relatively dear for banks, which benefit from an implicit state guarantee on their debt finance as well as the tax breaks on interest payments enjoyed by all firms. Forcing banks to hold more capital when exuberance reigns would make it costlier for them to supply credit. It would also provide society with an extra cushion against bank failures.

Each report adds its own twist to this prescription. The Bank of England thinks extra capital may be needed for certain sorts of credit. If capital penalties are not targeted, it argues, banks may simply cut back on routine loans to free up capital for more exotic lending. The Warwick report says each bank’s capital should also vary with how long-lived its assets are relative to its funding. Firms with big maturity mismatches are more likely to cause systemic problems and should be penalised. The ease of raising cash against assets and of rolling over debt varies over the cycle, and capital rules need to reflect this. Regulators should also find ways to match different risks with the firms which can best bear them. Banks are the natural bearers of credit risk since they know about evaluating borrowers. Pension funds are less prone to sudden withdrawals of cash and are the best homes for illiquid assets.

The Warwick group is keen that macroprudential policy should be guided by rules. If credit, asset prices and GDP were all growing above their long-run average rates, say, the regulator would be forced to step in or explain why it is not doing so. Finance is a powerful lobby. Without such a trigger for intervention, regulators may be swayed by arguments that the next credit boom is somehow different and poses few dangers. The bank frets about regulatory capture, too, but doubts that any rule would be right for all circumstances. It favours other approaches, such as frequent public scrutiny, to keep regulators honest.

When banks attack

No regulatory system is likely to be fail-safe. That is why Bank of England officials stress that efforts to make bank failures less costly for society must be part of regulatory reform. That includes making banks’ capital structures more flexible, so that some kinds of debt turn into loss-bearing equity in a crisis. Both reports favour making systemically important banks hold extra capital, as they pose bigger risks when they fail.

The Warwick group also thinks cross-border banks should abide by the rules of their host countries, so that macroprudential regulation fits local credit conditions. That would require that foreign subsidiaries be independently capitalised, which may also be necessary for a cross-border bank to have a credible “living will”, a guide to its orderly resolution. This advice will chafe most in the European Union, where standard rules are the basis of the single market. But varying rules on capital could also be used as a macroeconomic tool in the euro area, where monetary policy cannot be tailored to each country’s needs. Regulation to address negative spillovers that hurt financial stability might then have a positive spillover for economic stability.

* “The role of macroprudential policy”, Bank of England, November 2009

** The Warwick Commission on International Financial Reform, November 2009

Boomtime politicians will not rein in the bankers

By Avinash Persaud

Published, Financial Times: November 26 2009 21:09

One of the features that singles out the Warwick Commission on International Financial Reform, which publishes its final report on Friday, is that while other expert groups tiptoe around it, we have been able to point to the true source of the worst financial crisis since the 1930s: regulatory capture and boomtime politics.

Today regulators are working conscientiously to address the issue of banks being too big to fail; the lack of responsibility that can follow securitisation; imperfections in credit ratings; capital requirements which accentuate boom and bust; regulators which were global champions for their local banks; and more. But we should not forget that just a few years ago, regulators, with few exceptions, wanted big banks to have lower capital requirements if they had sophisticated risk models; they were cheerleaders for securitisation and asset sales by banks because, they said, this spread risks; they hard-wired credit ratings into bank risk assessment; they promoted home country regulation over host country control; and they dismissed the idea that regulation was dangerously pro-cyclical.

These and other regulatory mistakes all pushed financial institutions in the same direction. Large international banks compete better on “process” and “models” than credit assessment, and reap economies of scale when rules that segment finance within and between countries are liberalised. As I wrote here in 2002, financial regulation had all the hallmarks of being captured by banks, to the detriment of financial stability.

Separate but related to regulatory capture is the politics of booms. A boom persists because no one wants to stop it. The government of the day wants it to last until the next election. The early phase of a boom brings extra growth, low inflation and falling defaults. Governments tout this as a sign of their superior performance. Bankers argue such alchemy justifies their golden handshakes and excuses their golden handcuffs. Booms spread cheer by providing finance to the previously unbanked. Donations to worthy causes and universities temper traditional channels of criticism. How easily can the underpaid regulator stick his hand up and say it is all an unsustainable boom?

The capture and influence is subtle and there is always a genuine reason, if a wrong one, for why it is different this time. Indeed, one of the key challenges not yet seriously addressed is why the universities and press, falling over themselves to kick bankers today, did not play a more effective counterveiling force to this capture.

One indirect consequence of capture is the mistaken treatment of risk that lies at the heart of regulation. Many politicians and watchdogs think of risk as a single fixed thing inherent in instruments. As a result they put faith in processes that link capital to measures of risk, or in committees charged with determining what is safe and what is risky and banning the risky. But risk is a chameleon: it changes depending on who is holding it. Declaring something safe can make it risky and vice versa. Investment scams are attracted to booms, but booms are in fact built on the belief that some new thing has increased the return or reduced the risk of the world: motor cars, railroads, electricity, the internet or financial innovation. There is often a large element of truth about the original proposition – the world will be different – but the over-investment creates new risks.

In a world in which risk is poorly measured and regulators are vulner-able to political influence, we cannot rely as a defence against a crisis on the regulation of financial instruments, statistical measures of risk, systemic risk committees or the foreign “home country” regulator.

It is not financial instruments but behaviour we need to change. A better defence will come from increasing capital buffers at financial institutions, making these buffers counter-cyclical, and focusing on structural – not statistical – measures of risk capacity. Liquidity risk is best held by institutions that do not require liquidity, such as pension funds, life insurers or private equity. Credit risk is best held by institutions that have plenty of credit risks to diversify, such as banks and hedge funds. No amount of extra capital will save a system that, because measured risks in a boom are low, sends risk where there is no capacity for it.

The writer is chair of the Warwick Commission, chairman of Intelligence Capital and an emeritus professor of Gresham College

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.