Can't Say Fairer than That

The RER comes to a shuddering stop. The doors open and the mademoiselle in the clipped accent says charmingly “Bienvenue a Chatelet Les Halles” but there is not much to welcome. I can see it in my mind’s eye. The exit to Rue du Reamur Sebastopol. The swinging doors where the same blind man with the uneven legs sits soliciting funds in a grey bucket sits, permanently stationed. The queues of African men and women to Ligne 4, heading to Porte de Clignancourt and the waves of French Mesdames and students headed the opposite way to Porte d’Orleans. You stay in Les Halles and you can either go up the stairs and be confronted by the huge H&M on the right or Le Fnac on the left. You can walk a bit further on and find the Starbucks and a cinema, playing the latest American flicks in VO (version originale). The actors in this mise en scene are always there, young extravagantly dressed young men and women, wearing the latest urban styles, expensive baskets- Nike or Adidas, congregating before a jaunt to KFC. They do not meet in Chatelet by accident, they meet in Chatelet because it is where the RERs from the outer regions of Paris intersect; they bus themselves in, by the trainload, every Saturday to the epicentre, as if to stake some adverse possessary right to this arrondissement.

The latest cap on housing benefit has led to outcries that London will be soon like Paris in that the suburbs will be ghettoised and the areas in the middle of town would be reserved for the uber- rich, not even the Camerons and the Spencers of this world, but maybe, even more frighteningly for the bourgeoisie- the Baidikovas, the Assaubayevs and the Amin Al-Shareefs who are only in residence 90 days a year, lest they be asked to pay UK tax. Others say well so be it. There are millions of hard working men and women who cannot afford to live in these affluent areas, and who make do with going to work each day from less than perfect conditions, facing a long commute from Romford, Bexleyheath and even as far away as Folkestone. My first PA was one of them. She did a two hour commute each day, twice a day to get into work. It certainly seems absurd that taxpayers should be asked to pay upwards £104,000 a year, so that individuals who are supported by the State could live within a hop skip and a jump of the City’s and the West End’s amenities. Is the price of social diversity necessarily so high?

I know that we are hypocrites in London. We want equality but we are not prepared to bear the inconveniences. We admire the village character of Paris but we also believe that everyone has a right to his/her betting shops and branch of Morleys. We believe in the welfare state until the recipients of benefits live in nicer houses than we do, in nicer areas than we do.

We certainly do not wish for another Clichy-sous-Bois, where the police are afraid to enter except with bullet-proof jackets, and where young men in hoods, with sharpened faces and razor tough glints patrol the streets. We do not wish for the outskirts of London to become synonymous with severe impoverishment, segregation and gang violence all because unemployment has hit critical masses. We do not wish that in a few years, Clegg and Cameron start speaking of the “racailles” on the outskirts who infest the good town of London. Nonetheless, where I depart from Tolynbee and the rest of the Guardian leftists is that I genuinely do not believe that this is likely. Contrary to Boris Johnson’s politically ambitious insinuation that the cap on benefits would result in a Kosovo style cleansing, the statistics show that very few persons will be affected by this measure; the estimate is barely 5,000. A cap of £200 a week means that enough poorer people will still get to live in the fancy areas in wealthy boroughs, but maybe that they won’t leave in the most luxurious townhouses with Saatchi and Lawson as neighbours. And isn’t that okay?

I know that lots of us love the idea that the Sloanites and Muswellites and Hampsteadths have had to learn to live with persons of different backgrounds like anyone else because the council flats are almost superimposed onto their end of terraces, but this is only a figment of our imagination- Londoners are already strongly separated by class and by income and most of the individuals who live in these areas hardly even look at the “hoodies” down their street, much less to integrate and to live together in inner city “one-love” harmony. It is clear that out inner city experiment does not work and that it only serves to highlight the glaring gaps between rich and poor in areas like Islington and Notting Hill. There is already a sub-ghettoisation which already occurs. Lewisham, Southwark and Greenwich councils houses a substantial proportion of workers who cannot afford to live in the nicer parts of town.

Fact is that the proposed reforms will see hundreds of thousands of people facing less than a £20 decrease in housing benefit and if the odd anomalies of councils paying for seven bedroom houses in Maida Vale at £4000 a week cease to exist, I can’t say fairer than that. I simply cannot see the case for taxpayers funding housing at levels which ordinary policemen, doctors and lawyers cannot afford. In fact, many of us started off by living in shared accommodation in nicer areas, and if we wanted to live on our own, we decided to live further out of the city of London, eastwards and southwards, in Kent and Essex. It is said that these measures will only affect 692,000 persons in total living in private rented accommodation paid for councils, and if the decreases are only modest, I cannot fathom how this will result in a mass exodus. Social housing in the middle of London will continue to exist, and rightfully so.

We do, however, need to be vigilant. These cuts come at a time when hundreds of thousands of public jobs are being made redundant. There are also corresponding cuts to Job Seeker’s Allowance, and a change in the index on which benefits are being pegged. In many cases, individuals are not being able to find jobs because they do not exist. It is tempting to label job seekers as “scroungers” but when individuals are on £67 a week, out of which bills and other essentials need to be paid, it does not take a genius to work out that the cumulative effect of all these measures may just be a run on the poor.

Are we aggressive?

The BBC has not always managed to work its way past stereotypes so I believe that we were all elated when the first winner of The Apprentice was a young, black man who proved that the words diversity and merit were not mutually exclusive.


I should open by way of disclaimer by saying that I have mixed feelings about the show- how is it that a reality talent show focussing on making people better entrepreneurs has as its prize being someone else’s employee? This, in my opinion, is contradictory, counter intuitive and reductive. Surely, a better plan would be to give those individuals the backing, financial assistance and advice to put in the hard graft into their own business ideas? This is why I believe that for all the braggadocio and smarmy sales pitch of the wannabe young Sugars, none of them must be particularly bright. Unless, maybe, this is just a way to improve their marketability (I call this doing a “Kate Walsh”): the ultimate aim is not winning the job, but to use it as a stepping stone toward different opportunities.

I digress, in any event. I took particular umbrage with the show’s comments over the past couple of weeks. The women’s group were a lesson in inefficiency, but as usual, this did not reflect on their own personalities, no- it was an indictment of all women in boardrooms across Britain. These gaggling and cackling hyenas were treated as if they represented the best of womankind, something that did not even dawn on Suralan to say applied to the men at all. The males on the show fail on their own merits and for themselves. If they are dickheads they are dickheads. They do not embarrass “mankind” as a group with their hilarious, inept antics. The fact that the women are singled out in this manner, by no less than a woman, is indicting. Don’t we have enough guilt and burdens already?

I was also taken aback when Joanna Riley was called aggressive by her colleagues and by the Sugarites. Tactless, yes. Opinionated and stubborn, yes. An asshole. Possibly. Aggressive? I certainly did not see her inspiring or threatening violence in any kind, or intimidating others in such a way to inspire a fear of being confronted or attacked. After all, this is a show which values a cut-throat, go-getting attitude; is it surprising then the Type A personalities who might think of being a contestant would have more balls than a juggler?

I have an almost switchblade reaction to the word aggressive when it is used to describe a black woman. It is all too trite, too easy, too clichéd. The word aggressive is loaded it brings together all the worst parts of anger, edginess and danger, much in the fashion of a bitch marking its territory and waiting to give birth. This is the favourite word utilised in disciplinary meetings, reviews and appraisals, bandied about so much as the word of choice when there is nothing else to say or to be commented upon, hurled against that person who would dare be even slightly contrarian in a conservative meeting environment that we eventually retire into a shadow of ourselves and retreat to become less us, less overt. This is not the first time that the image of the angry black woman has played out on the Apprentice- we were all hooked on the USA version featuring the Crown Princess of Mean- Omarosa. Omarosa was painted as an aggressive go-getter, the only other side to her two dimensional character was her love of “drama”, another poignant stereotype.

I do not deny that there are obvious cultural differences at play. In the Caribbean and in Africa, we often use elaborate gestures to communicate our respective positions on an issue. In a market stall or during a simple conversation exchange, voices can become raised, people can become shrill and the debate would still not be characterised as an argument. In a middle class milieu, it may be that these very same cultural traits can be interpreted very differently. Passion can sometimes be a solid indicator of competence but if this passion, however, is interpreted as confrontational, then this perception is often what matters.

Young Joanna Riley seems to have made a way in the world for herself. She is the mother of twins who found herself in a dead-end job and was inspired to start up a cleaning company in her hometown so that she would be able to provide a better life for her children. She rose above the cliché. What use is there, then, in painting her with another? She appears to be bright and personable and maybe she is slightly rough around the edges, probably because she has had to fight hard and rough to achieve most things that she has wanted out of life. She reminds me a lot of a younger me- spirited, brutally and shockingly honest, and emboldened. She said a few things I would have said- no, one should not apologise for airing one’s views or giving input, and yes, I too expected the other girls to nail the presentation- what’s aggressive about those views even though they were said with a flourish? There was no screaming, kicking, gnashing of teeth. I am disappointed that now she appears to have retreated into a wet, boring carapace for fear of being misinterpreted. How many others in boardrooms across New York, London, Atlanta and Los Angeles, have lost their fire, lost their spirit and have become muted former versions of themselves to succeed in a corporate environment? Too many, perhaps. I say a silent prayer for their (maybe our?) resurrection.

The Political Calypso

All those who promise free and just debate


Then blow up radicals to save the state,


Who allow, in democracy’s defence,


A parliament of spiked heads on a fence


All you go bawl out “Spikes things aint so bad”


This ain’t the Dark Ages

This is Trinidad.

Derek Walcott in his seminal poem- The Spoiler’s Return brilliantly and beautifully captures the role of the calypsonian in the Caribbean political climate. Spoiler returns from the dead sitting high upon a bridge in Laventille lamenting that something is rotten in the State. He traces the stench to the inept political figureheads of the day and outlines their hypocrisy and eagerness to hide the true state of affairs from their constituents. In so doing, he becomes and acts as agent for the opposition, a grassroots dissenter who is at the same time the voice of the people and his own voice.

The calypsonian as de facto parliamentarian has not always existed. The development of the calypsonian as the one of the main players in the political landscape marks the evolution of calypso from a medium of entertainment, to a social agent for political change. This is the political calypso- the calypso that transcends the realm of calypsonian as spectatator and reporter, into agitator and a veritable opposition.

In this paper, I focus first on the evolution of the political calypsonian in Trinidad & Tobago, not because the politicisation of calypso did not occur in the other islands, but because Trinidad & Tobago has witnessed a traceable leap in the development of its artform. I discuss briefly the role of the other islands, moving on to address the role of the calypsonian in the UK.

The Political Landscape in Trinidad and Tobago in the 1940’s

The political landscape in Trinidad and Tobago in 1940’s was characterised and influenced by wartime infrastructure. Various areas in Trinidad were leased to create naval bases in the area around Chaguaramas. It was also the period of the Labour riots. These riots of 1937 spearheaded by T.U.B. Butler (an immigrant from the neighbouring island of Grenada) led to the formation of the modern Trade Union movement. Butler was jailed from 1937 to 1939, but was re-arrested when the United Kingdom entered World War II and jailed for the duration of the war. After his release in 1945 Butler reorganised his political party, the British Empire Citizens' and Workers' Home Rule Party. This party won a majority in the 1950 General Elections.

It was within this climate of war and repression and the burgeoning movement for workers’ right that early calypso came to develop a political voice of its own.

The Early Years of Calypso

In the early 1940’s the calypsonian was limited by his role as entertainer. In fact, calypso was only just then emerging as a separate genre. This was the era of the chantuelles- singers who chanted alongside the stickfighters and spurred them into action and composed ditties for various masqueraders. In fact, most calypsonians were chantuelles who derived their songs from the chant of the Kalenda bands. Most chantuelles preferred, however, to sing for the upper classes and identified themselves as heroes of war. Calypsonians, on the other hand were associated with prostitution, the life of the lower class and carnival jamettes .

Calypsonians were seen by many in society, and particularly by the Roman Catholic population, as sinners and propagators of the devil’s work. The calypsos were often lewd and crude as they pandered to popular opinion.

One such calypso was sang by the Roaring Lion in the 1920’s:

“Nettie Nettie
Give me the thing that you got in yuh belly
If yuh cyan stand de digging
Give me back me shilling”

Sociologist Pete Simon recalls the “fly-by-night, wine, women and song calypsos" of the calypsonians of that era. Smut was a feature of early calypso, the lyrics depicted the art of sex and the storylines were generally obscene.

Other than smut, the topics dealt mostly with various elements of life in post-war Trinidad & Tobago and world events. Lord Beginner crooned “Nora the War is Over” and the Duke of Iron regaled with a song dedicated to Mickey Cipriani. Women still featured, however. Lord Invader sang “Fan me Saga Boy” to great acclaim and the Duke of Iron had a very catchy tune known colloquially as “Matilda”.

However, during these early years, there remained a few calypsos which broke the mould and were sang in the vein of political commentary

“ When they say calypsonians musn’t mix with politics
Ah does watch them fix
Still they want calypsonians to redden up dey finger
But that’s only for kicks
You see every period before an election
You could hear them begging for vote from calypsonian
You see me so longs’t I vote
Ah go sing on dem political cutthroats
Because in this government have another government
Undermining the real government
In that government have some other government
Only retarding improvement
All dey mean is calypsonians must sing on bacchanal
Or make roadmarch for them to go jump for carnival
But not me, ay, Ah fus ah love mi country
So ah go sing on everybody”

During the late 1940’s calypso ceased to become primarily a form of amusement. It had begun to emerge as a critical and potent genre in engaging public opinion.

The PNM Years

The 1956 General Elections saw the emergence of the People's National Movement under the leadership of Eric Williams. The PNM, opposed by Dr. Rudranath Capildeo of the Democratic Labor Party and Ashford Sinanan, who later founded the West Indian National Party (WINP) continued to dominate politics in Trinidad and Tobago until 1986. The party won every General Election between 1956 and 1981.

After the 1956 General Elections, Dr Williams was hugely protected by the calypsonians, largely because he dared to stamp on the old ideas of colonialism and to relegate old ideas of the inferiority of the black man. The PNM years were characterised by an uneasy symbiosis. Indeed, at the opening of the 1957 Tent Season, the Original Young Brigade Singers including Sparrow and Striker feted Dr Williams’ achievements. Sparrow’s William the Conqueror is probably best known:

I am no politician
But I could understand
If wasn’t for Brother Willie
And his ability
Trinidad wouldn’t neither go nor come
We used to vote for food and rum
But nowadays we eating all the Indians and dem
Now we voting PNM
Praise little Eric rejoice and be glad
We have a brighter future in Trinidad
PNM
Ain’t got nobody like them
Cause they have the best leader
William the Conqueror.

It was Sparrow again who leapt to Williams’ defence in “Leave de Doctor alone” when rumours of Williams’ secret marriage was featured in the press. Sparrow in fact played a critical role as a supporting agent in the PNM political machinery. Sparrow continued to denigrate the opposition and the trade unions of the day whenever there was any showing of non-support for Williams:

In his Sewerage Talk he sang:

No gas today
No phone tomorrow
What next I don’t know
No drain digging
No rubbish cleaning
Is only corbeaux working the island as you see
Suffering politically
Because the present government
Have some stupid opponent
Not one is intelligent

In general, the calypso fraternity, belonging to the underclass of the day, was largely sympathetic to the PNMs’ political agenda and this led to the relationship between calypsonian and politician ceasing to mature. There were a series of pro PNM propaganda calypsos such as PAYE sang by Sparrow in 1958 which began with an anti income tax agenda but ended with the message that it was going to assist in job creation.

That is not to say that calypsonians, including Sparrow, did not openly criticise some of the PNM’s policies. Later, in the early 1970’s, as Williams lost popularity, there were a series of calypsos which were critical of the party- Maestro’s “To Sir with Love” and “Dread Man” in 1977 and Relator’s “Our Children Deserve Better”, are notable examples. However, a crucial turning point occurred after the death of Eric Williams.

The Turning Point

Williams died in office in 1981. The PNM remained in power following the death of Dr. Williams, but its 30 year rule ended in 1986 when the National Alliance for Reconstruction (NAR), a multi-ethnic coalition aimed at uniting Trinidadians of Afro-Trinidadian and Indo-Trinidadian descent, won a landslide victory by capturing 33 of 36 seats.

This victory, some say, did not occur by accident and it is was from that moment the power of calypso in the political arena became clear.

Chambers’ popularity fell to ebb when a calypsonian locally known as Gypsy sang “The Sinking Ship” in 1986.

The Trinidad, a luxury liner

Is sailing the Caribbean sea

With an old captain named Eric Williams

For years sailed smooth and free

But sadly Eric Williams passed away
The ship hit rough water that day

And someone turned the bridge over

To a captain named Chambers

Made blood crawl, things start to fall


(Chorus)

Captain, the ship is sinking

Captain, the seas are rough

Shall we abandon ship?

Or shall we stay on it
And perish slow? We don’t know
We don’t know

Captain you tell me what to do

This calypso was seminal not just in its message but in its style and in the way it was catapulted into the centre of political action. The NAR advertised its meetings with the words “ The Ship is Sinking” whilst PNM t-shirts read “This Ship is not Sinking”. To his credit, Chambers did not take personal offence to the song and invited Gypsy onto his personal platform. Gypsy said that he willed the song to bring Trinidad & Tobago out of its political apathy. Regardless of intention, this song became the pinnacle and reference point for political calypsos for the next few years. It is to be however noted that the tone of the song is respectful and the imagery of the double entendre is used to carry the message.

The Modern Political Calypso

The duality in meaning, and the dialectical culture of the political calypso means that the double entendre was prized and the most utilized medium of expression.

This is not particularly so with the modern genre of political calypso. The new political calypso uses the art of direct questioning to engage directly with the objects of its discourse, much in the form of an open parliamentary debate.

In The Stage is Mine, Sugar Aloes sings:

“ But even though they chastise me
They can’t take away this voice

It is very plain to see that

I am the People’s Choice

And I’m going to jam them hard

Anytime they cross the line

Commonsense must tell them

The Stage is Mine”

These lyrics show the calypsonian in open confrontational mode, declaring a form of verbal warfare with his opponent. He becomes at once the opposition and the free press, the leader of his own political party and a type of Ombudsman who will reign in the leaders of the day. He is trusted to lead the fight and valiantly, courageously and openly assumes battle.

Sugar Aloes later sings in “Never Again”

“Civil disobedience that’s Panday’s requests
Encouraging his people to incite social unrest
Use allyuh vehicles, block roads and pavementte
He want them to march in town and shutdown the government
He just want to get back in power, so he doh care who the hell get kill
Until we have constitutional reform, he not supporting no Bill

Panday is a demon, who come straight from the depths of hell

When he’ll face reality, well boy only time will tell”


These new kinds of political calypsos are detailed and biting and do not operate through the bias of a veil. The political calypsonian openly reveals his opposition and attacks him aggressively, without restraint. The new political calypso is now characterised as being slightly rough around the edges, and though the format is loud and often vulgar, it is only ever expected to be true, aligned with the position on parliamentary privilege.

The Political Calypso in other islands

In other Caribbean islands, the political commentary also kept pace with developments in Trinidad and Tobago.

In Grenada, for instance, social agitators for change like the Black Wizard led the way in the early 1980’s with songs like “I am the IMF” which verbally assaulted the government of the day’s policies on debt restructuring. These early calypsos followed the dialectic of the mask or the frame.

In the early 1990’s there was a critical shift in the political commentary found in the islands. Singers like Finley Jeffrey “Scholar” and Raymond Matthew “Beast” were early proponents of the new form of calypso which focused on hard-hitting politically biting songs. Scholar’s “Prefer to Go to Hell” marked the development of the political commentary as a virtual replacement of the opposition in Grenada during the 12 years of rule of the New National Party, and during the period when the opposition won no votes in the island. These calypsos were punchy and the focus was placed on “plain speech”. The calypsonian became the voice of the people in the absence of an opposition and played a crucial role in the preservation and maintenance of democracy and free speech.

This is also the same in islands like St. Vincent and Barbados, where local calypsonians continue to see their role as de facto representatives of the people.

The Political Calypso in Britain

The calypso culture in Britian has evolved over slowly over a period of time, but only significantly within the boundaries of the Notting Hill Carnival and the London Calypso Tent. Contrary to the Caribbean where calypso is the national music of choice, calypso is marginalised in the society and as a consequence, so is its role. To Caribbean migrants, who are twice diasporised, the calypso enjoys a cult status but to the rest of Britain, who are mainly onlookers, the calypso remains a genre which sits on the fringes of British society.

Composers like Lord Cloak and the Mighty Tiger in the early years, crystallized the genre as a source of entertainment and social commentary. In the early years, Londoners starved for news, also tended to focus the calypso on issues experienced at home. However, others, like Alexander the Great began very early on to sing about issues that were relevant to the UK context and actively agitated for change in this respect.

In more recent years, there has been a decisive focus on the social issues faced in Britain and calypsos on political issues have been sung by the new generation of artists such as Brown Sugar, Helena B, and Wen D. Some posit that this is because they are becoming more and more comfortable with the United Kingdom as home and stake their rights to comment on the issues and structures that affect them.

The political calypso in the UK has not, however, taken off where the contemporaries in the Caribbean have left it. The calypsos are more somber in mood and respectful in tone. G String’s “Obama” (2009) and Akima Paul’s “The Audacity of Despair” (2009) do not possess the gritty tones and hard hitting punch-lines that the political commentaries of the Caribbean.

The question is do they need to? In a country where democracy is clearly enshrined and free speech is indeed free, what becomes of the role of the calypsonian? Where is the vacuum he is trying to fill? The author would suggest that the calypsonian maybe cannot speak for the vast majority of British subjects who are already ably represented in the Westminster model, but he or she can speak for the new British subjects.

Perhaps the calypsonian perhaps can be the voice of the immigrant as his role unfurls in British society? Maybe the calypsonian can speak for the Romanians, the Poles and the Kazakhs too as we all play a part within this Diaspora? Perhaps calypso can become the voice of the unrepresented much as it is in the Caribbean, and it is possible that it will develop beyond the confines of the tent into a valuable agitator for change?

Photo from Joseph Jones photography.

A Perpetual State of Servitude?

Blank invests blank into flailing Caribbean economy. This story has become tired, ran with the sagging perpetuality of a Latin telenovela, loaded with the characteristic sub plots of suspense, intrigue and of course, the disappointing denoument. The first blank could be one of any number of foreign investors. The second blank can range from hundreds of millions to, in some cases, a negative sum, when taking into account the demands of tax breaks, reverse kickbacks and multiple concessions. The story has been the same for a number of years but greedy villageois politicians never get tired of its charm. Outsiders profess to pump millions into the Caribbean economy and in blind and empty faith, we sell our best and finite resources, our collective patrimoine, for thirty pieces of silver and promises of another Ritz Carlton or Sandals.

I do not say this to say that I have anything against foreign investment. Even London, with its healthy financial veins, prospers through the biais of the arteries of Russian and Arab influence. Foreign investment, if well targeted and managed, can be the instrumental lifeblood of any economy. What perturbs me, is the overenthusiastic proliferation of this investment:  virtually none of it is local or homegrown. It says a lot about our pysche as our people if we are content to remain perpertual grafters, unwilling to peddle, sell or grow an idea, and always uninspired to discover and build upon avenues for growth. Is the influence of the slave trade and indentured labour so great that we are unwilling to be entrepeneurs and bosses and are content to remain in a constant state of servitude to someone else's ideas?

The Caribbean, as a burgeoning economy, is awash with opportunities. The deregulation of the telecommunications industry has led to unbridled opportunities in this sector. Where are the mobile phone middlemen? Where are the Carphone Warehouses and Phones 4 U of this industry? So far we are content to let the duopoly rest with Bmobile and Digicel who thrive on the pay as you go model. There is no one, at present, pushing the contractual model with any ferocity. Similarly, I only know of one professional telephone "unlocker" in Grenada, and virtually no shops specialising in technical repair.

There are similar parallels in the hotel industry. So far in Grenada, we have been content to rest on our laurels to market the typical white sand beach experience that we believe that tourists seek. It took a couple from the UK to develop a boutique industry around Petite Anse in the North, to let us realise that our potential is not just limited to Grande Anse Beach. There are still no backpacker hostels, and throughout the Caribbean we do not have the equivalent of a lastminute.com, encouraging island hopping and promoting small hotels and industries. The fashion industry is not dissimilar. Clothing is a major item of expenditure for Caribbean youth. There are many "boutiques" specialising in mass manufactured items of clothing imported from China or India via Miami or New York, but there are virtually no individuals who have forged those links directly with the manufacturers. On an even more promising level, where are our couturiers and our seamstresses who will specialise in bespoke Caribbean fashion design? They do not exist; they are all chasing the service dream instead of the liberating proprietor model- studying to become lawyers, cooks, chefs, landscapers, architects, all  the same fricking thing.

So many of our resources go unnoticed and undeveloped. We export cocoa at less than 80 cents for one pound when the final product is made into fine chocolate which is sold for more than ten times the cost of the original raw material. This is why I salute the Grenada Chocolate Company, but then again, it took a clever New Yorker with a dream to make it happen. Where are us in this equation? There are so many opportunities for well managed micro industries, but we appear to lack the commercial nous and the enquiring and independent mindsets to manage and direct our own resources.

This is why, in one sense I welcome Richard Branson's announcement that Virgin Unite will be launching a Branson Centre of Entrepeneurship in the Caribbean. The irony is not lost on me that again, it takes someone who was born outside of the Caribbean to support entrepeneurship in the Caribbean. Nonetheless, it seems to be a positive step in the right direction- instead of training our young people to become better maitre d's and bellboys and maids as continues to be the case, 18-35 year olds will be provided with support and capital to set up their own small businesses with an emphasis on sustainable tourism. The centre will be based in Montego Bay, Jamaica but there will be satellite centres in different parts of the Caribbean. Richard Branson's latest brainchild is the follow-up of a similar centre in Johannesburg in South Africa where young people have been encouraged to build start ups in IT, fashion and the like. It remains to be seen what the uptake will be. For instance, Branson appears to require a proven entrepeneurship track record, which many who are resigned to the fate of having a "good job" will struggle to fill. Will this ultimately be a gimmick and a marketing opportunity for Virgin Holidays?

Either way, with or without Branson, it is imperative that we develop the modus operandi of self sufficiency. It is not enough to simply hope for a job and to assist in the execution of an idea. We must be willing to hold our countries fate by the balls and to play active roles in developing our economies. The rallying cry is often "E doh have work". I ask then, why not? If there are no jobs, it must be because we are not creating them, and if we are not creating them, then it is because we are not creative enough. The Caribbean must cease to  be the epicentre of service, not only because we are not really good at it (a separate blogpost) but because it creates a serious culture of dependency and "gimme" that is not ultimately healthy for our development.  I really believe that it makes a mockery of emancipation if we are content to live and to exist in a perpetual state of servitude.

Marche!

*I have been inundated at work and in the middle of producing a paper for a calypso conference. So as not to let the blog stagnate I have posted a poem this week that I wrote a couple of months ago.*

Alone,


The brute brown beast barked and whelped

In beautiful anger within its encyclopaedic white-hot cage

Enraged,

The yellows of its rumshot eyes fluoresced and smarted

as the ghost of eternal chalkdust mocked it,

Haunted,

sips of water splayed from its yelping tongue

as the corners of its black mouth drizzled.

Its nose almost flared blood at a slight misdemeanour

(We had arrived 1 minute late perhaps),

as it frightened the rest of the young pack before it.

I was a small child but I was not afraid of this old mangy speckled animal.

Marche Dog! Allez bête!

It knew that it liked to eat its young

And I had once watched those brown dirty grizzly paws

Try to dance across my sister’s chest.

The old dog snarled some more

Rendering naked its tray of scissoring molars

Its long salmon tongue forking and darting

As if to render me afraid.

But I was not afraid and I held the stand of its gaze.

Daring it to pounce, daring the old stink dog to bite.