Cocoa seeds

A few weeks ago, I went to the Tate Modern to see Ai Weiwei’s much vaunted and critically acclaimed “Sunflower Seeds”. To the untrained, unlearned eye, it would have seemed unspectacular- a sea of over one hundred million of what seemed like small pebbles placed into a giant exhibition area, much like an expanse of Brighton beach indoors. This was especially so as Weiwei’s vision that we would touch and interact with the art was nipped in the proverbial bud by Health and Safety jobsworths as the herds of Londoners stamping on the seeds created some form of dust that was apparently unsafe. Bollocks. I think that the millions of Londoners walking away with a few seeds in their pockets and backpacks was more of an issue.

I say seeds, but this is incorrect. These were really porcelain replicas of sunflower seeds. They seemed identical but they were all unique and hand-crafted by families and individuals in the porcelain crafting region of China, Jingdezhen. Each ceramic seed was individually moulded, sculpted and hand painted by persons trained in the art working in family workshops and at home. By so doing, Weiwei turned the cliché of Made In China on its head: here it was in front of us- mass production alongside traditional craftsmanship. Weiwei explains in his video that sunflower seeds were a common street snack shared with friends which carried some association with Mao Zedong’s Cultural Revolution during 1966-1976 where Chairman Mao was depicted as the Sun and the people as sunflowers who turned towards him. The effort was poignant to me- the dignity and the desire to work of the Jingdezhen people was striking- they wanted and actively sought out more work and took pride in creating the sunflower seeds to perfection. It raised important questions about materialism and consumerism in today’s society. What is the dividing line between individuality and our mutual commonality.
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I couldn’t help, when viewing this exhibition, to ponder on the Caribbean condition. We have traditionally prided ourselves on our attention to detail, our individuality and our uniqueness- we are too small to mass produce anything. I couldn’t help making an analogy with the seeds that would be used to represent our condition, were such an exhibition to be launched. I thought we could use cocoa seeds- cocoa representing a traditional export that was meticulously grown and harvested, resplendent in their jewel colours of red and yellow, an export that has now become secondary to the cheap fast tourist product. I recall days of traipsing fields of cocoa, shaded by overarching canopies of nutmeg, breaking the prized pods open and sucking on the opaque, almost cataract pulp of the fruit, careful not to ingest too many in case, as legend had it, we died of short breath. We picked cocoa, we carried buckets of them back home on shaky donkeys, wide banks and unsteady heads. We laid it out to dry in the sun in huge cocoa drawers, careful to save them from a torrent of rain. We danced headily, turning these prized globules with our feet. Cocoa too, could be associated with periods of one man rule in our islands. Who could forget Uncle Gairy on Grenada's cocoa plantations, speaking to the workers and consecrating himself their Saviour?

Cocoa is still prized in the islands, but our brand of Trinitario has been overtaken by the cocoa industries of Ghana. We are not able to compete on size nor on production range and we have been beaten on prices and plagued by disease. In the early 1970s most farmers switched to production of bananas as the cocoa crop was too unpredictable. The end result was that cocoa was only grown sporadically and exported in its raw form to more profitable centres for production. Now, due to the fact that it is estimated that cocoa will soon be worth its weight in gold (a true fact), there is a renewed effort by the region in its cocoa producing capabilities, and rightfully so.  The EU has funded the Caribbean Fine Flavoured Cocoa Forum with a view to capitalise on the flavoursome Caribbean bean as opposed to the ordinary, bulk, cocoa beans. The potential can be enormous. Professor Denise Thompson of the University of Trinidad and Tobago noted that we were exporting raw cocoa at $3 a kilo, which was being sold in the market at $1500 a kilo. It is my hope that this project takes off, for the benefit of our people and for the benefit of our islands.

Maybe in two years time, a young artist would place an exhibition in the Tate telling the history of our revitalised love affair with these seeds, representing the bounty of hard labour.

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.

Wouldn’t a LaTreivius by any other name sound as sweet?

The BBC ran a story a couple days ago on why black Americans don’t swim. It was a deeply embarrassing but heart wrenching story: I have long lamented the fact that lots of people I know on my island do not swim in spite of us being surrounded by water. The facts were that in that particular instance, eight teenagers died trying to save each other from water in the Red River in Shreveport that was not even that high or that deep. However, even more surprising, what struck me and my work colleague who read the stories at the time were the names of the victims- DeKendrix, JaTavious, JaMarcus, Takeitha, Litrelle, LaTevin and LaDarius. Why? I would love to say that these were the most inventive I have heard. But this is sadly untrue. I have heard of a Tanashaka,  I know a Shavasia, my friend's son is called Deqwante and I used to teach a Shalyndria.

Now, I would gladly defend my community on a few troubling issues. I would sometimes excuse a lack of foresight and financial planning- it’s hard to plan for a future where the basis point is deprivation and which conspires against you. I would excuse a certain level of posturing- our backbones have been metaphysically crushed so we find any excuse to be the “man” in various situations. I would make absolutions for the absence of structure in our family lives- it is difficult to be a man when your foreparents have only been treated as sires. I would even defend ‘ebonics” and “blackspeak” in the appropriate environments- this is our dialect and our way to appropriate our mental processes and not to capitulate to the The Man. However, on these inventive or unique or downright crazy, awful, made-up, self-harming, stumbling block names , I have to say the buck stops here and I draw the line. Black people, this onomastic vomit needs to stop. Halted. Discontinued. Brought to a goddamn halt. Okay, once again, more politely. I should be grateful if you would desist from making up stupid names and bestowing them on your children. Kind regards. Kimaspeak.

I feel strongly about this, and not because Freakonomics raised the issue of whether children with black sounding names will definitely progress less than children with white sounding or conventional sounding names. There is no reason for our children to be Emilys, Margarets or Kates. Tough. The system will have to get used to Keishas and Imanis in the workplace. I already write emails to a Tenisha and it's fine, liberating even. Besides, Freakonomics shows that the name is not the real hindrance, it is only a symptom of the malaise- the parents who call their children Demetrius and Marquis and Jeondre are often parents with low aspirations for their offspring in the first place.

I feel strongly about this because the art of naming in the African tradition is being misrepresented and shredded to a figleaf of what it actually represents. African naming traditions are important and a person’s name is perhaps the strongest indication of identity and roots. Our naming traditions are varied, but they are all based in reason. Sometimes they depend on the time of the birth and/or the day of the week of an individual’s birth. Hence, among the Akan and the Fante in Ghana, names such as Yaw, Kwadwo, Akua and Abena mean that an individual has been born on a particular day of the week. Some names often depend on the position of the individual within the family and the circumstances of the birth. For instance, the name Idowu means ‘child born after twins’. Some names are fraught with hope and thanksgiving such as Ayoke, meaning ‘one who is blessed’, others are gleeful such as Bayo “to find joy” and others are simple, yet proclamatory, such as “Nailah” which means “succeeding”.

The very act of naming can be in itself deeply symbolic. For example, it is very often that he oldest member of the family carries out the naming ceremony. Amongst Swahili speaking Kenyans, the first or birth name called ‘jina la utotoni’ is given to babies as soon as they are born. This is chosen by an elderly relative and usually refers to the child’s appearance, like ‘Biubwa’ which means ‘soft and smooth’. After up to 40 days, the parents and paternal grandparents choose the ‘jina la ukubwani’, or adult name, for the child. With the Akan Ghanaians, it is the father of the baby who chooses the name of a beloved relative in the hope that the child will grow up to be like the namesake.

In Nigeria, a name takes on a spiritual significance. Each name tells something about the child and the family. The first name is the child’s personal name and may reflect the circumstances of the family. The second name is a descriptive name that expresses the personality of the child, expresses what the child might become, or is an attribute that the child is hoped to acquire. The third name relates to the child’s kinship. It could be the name of the earliest ancestor, a famous ancestor, or the name of items that are sacred to the family.

Given the fact that most black people of African heritage and/or origin were not allowed to name themselves or their offspring and had to adopt the name of a slave-owner, we would think that the act of naming would take on an almost spiritual significance. Condemned to carry the pouch of a plantocrat’s remnant of a name as a constant reminder of who we were not, one would think that we would ensure that the name we give to ourselves and to our sires would stake our pride,  loudly proclaim our roots,  declare our allegiance to our culture and  be a solid representation of where we choose to head in the future. In the 60’s, there were already distinctive black names- Kizzy, Abileen- but they did not verge on the ridiculous- they were proud manifestations of  black resistance. Similarly, in the 70’s, Islamic names became in vogue (another blogpost) but at least, they meant something. A child is already the metaphysical joining of its parents- we don’t need names like KelShanique to evidence that a girl is the offspring of Kelly and Shanique. Neither does adding an extra apostrophe or accent carry the hallmark of sophistication- especially, I may add, when the name in question is spelt incorrectly- the name S’hawnté springs to mind and so does Tifphanee (if you can spend nine months carrying a child, maybe it might be advisable to spend at least 5 minutes to check the spelling of his/her name?).

In writing this, I battled with myself because I am a true libertarian- little Mashekonda’s name doesn’t really hurt me so why shouldn’t I just live and let live? Isn’t the creativity of the names a manifestation of our unique culture and way of doing things as a people? Should we be really applauding LaQuonsheetia’s parents? At least they did not go for staid, safe brown paper bag names like Lucy or Anne and at least they did not try to pass of their children for who they were not. No offences to any Lucys or Annes. And isn’t it just psychological profiling and a sign of mental servitude to say that names should not be necessarily created?

I have thought about it from so many angles and I say no, because a name is a proclamation, a name determines what we allow ourselves to answer to and represents us from birth as who we are to others (at least until we change it). A good creative name should not be a name that is stupid. A name should not be an object of ridicule because it means that the owner is then ridiculed. I know that our communities struggle for identity in spite of socioeconomic disadvantages. However showing one’s independence in what is often a hostile environment should not manifest itself by saddling our kids with names that make them sound illiterate and which project an image of a gum chewing, gold toothed, ex-prison father and a mom on welfare. Stereotypes are rampant and perpetuating them is not cute. A unique name can still be dignified and abound in meaning and significance. Let's fix up.

I don't like when you call it Saltfish!

The Caribbean is not unique in its multiplicity of names for a female’s delicate regions. While at university, I performed in Eve Ensler’s The Vagina Monologues, and I was amazed at the number of names that this single body part could lay claim to. Muffin, monkey, nunnie, chicken, pussy, squish mitten, wolf, Vajayjay, cootch, the love park, Buffy, Kitty- I have heard them all. The company Mooncup ran a competition last year to find the most original words. Some were side splittingly hilarious.


Nothing however strikes home more than the Caribbean names we have for these nether regions-pim-pim, sand sand, fly-fly, pumpum, and coon- coon are but a few (I shudder as I write this). I note that most of them rely on some level of child like repetition- was this some attempt to make them more accessible, approachable and innocuous? Animal metaphors abound- we also use the word monkey and flying fish alongside the almost universal metaphor of the cat. Jamaicans use the word punany and it has now been adopted by the oral dictionary of Common Caribbean Usage but I must admit that the one I find most irksome, the one that has me most curious and the one that I find THE most off putting is probably the word that most Grenadians use most commonly to describe their lady parts- it is the ubiquitous saltfish.

Saltfish the ingredient is traditional salted and dried cod, originally manufactired in Norway. Salted dried cod has a storage life of many years. Dried cod and the dishes made from it are known by many different names, as it gradually became part of the cuisine of many European nations. For example, it is known as bacalao (Spanish), bakaiļao (Basque), bacallà (Catalan), morue (French), baccalà (Italian), bacalhau (Portuguese), klippfisk/clipfish (Scandinavian), saltfiskur (Icelandic) and bakalar (Croatian). In Norway, there used to be five different grades of salt cod. The best grade was called superior extra. Then came (in descending order) superior, imperial, universal and popular. These appellations are no longer extensively used, although some producers still make the superior products.

The popular salted cod was transported to the Caribbean during slavery as a form of cheap protein to feed the slaves. It was rationed to the slaves and bartered in Sunday markets and after some time it was savoured as a culinary delight- in accras de morue in Martinique, saltfish and green provision in St. Lucia, with ackee on a Sunday morning in Jamaica, and as a pungent accompaniment to bake (I say its plural bakes) in Trinidad. Saltfish was known for its firm flavoured flesh and its distinctive, pungent smell. If a neighbour was cooking saltfish three or four doors down the road, one would know.

I am not sure when the association between the vagina and saltfish began: all I do know is that it is strongly cemented as part of Caribbean culture and part of the local parlance. One of the most popular calypsos sung by The Mighty Sparrow, Calypso King of the World was his Ode to Saltfish, which was a very thinly veiled double entendre. He entreated:

“Saltfish stew is what I like/So doo-doo, give me day and night

I like you food, so don't find me rude

My favorite, I sure every man in here already eat it

Saltfish
Nothing in the world sweeter than Saltfish

Saltfish

English, colloquial, Bajans

Saltfish

It's sweeter than meat

When you want to eat

All saltfish sweet


Very well, I like the taste/Though the smell, sometimes out of place

It hard to take, but make no mistake/I want you to know, it's because it extra sweet it smelling so boy it's


Saltfish/Big money does run behind it

Saltfish/man does lick down man to find it

Saltfish/It's sweeter than meat

When you want to eat

All saltfish sweet”

This alleged “Ode” although a guilty pleasure of mine, encapsulates all the reasons that I have against naming and claiming our precious regions after a fish that is hung out to dry without a head. In Italy, and in Sicily in particular, the word baccala (saltfish) is reserved for the smell associated with dried cod fish and by association, a woman’s nether regions with odours. Sparrow’s “Ode” reiterates the very same prejudice- that a woman’s private parts are smelly and dirty. When we use the word “saltfish” to describe the essence of our feminity, we verbally and implicitly agree that our private parts are inherently grimy and filthy. A vagina is not a thing of scorn, is it the birthplace and the fountainhead of humanity. Paul Lai of the University of St. Thomas has challenged this olfactory prejudice in his piece: Stinky Bodies, Mythological Futures and the Olfactory Sense in Larissa Lai’s Saltfish Girl. Allowing our bodies to be characterized and labeled in this way goes counter to the matrifocal spirit of the Caribbean, where feminist emancipation has strode along in leaps and bounds.

And besides, it is just too ordinary a word for our most prized feature. Saltfish is traditionally the dish of last resort. Admittedly, it is much loved and eaten with much relish when prepared but it is also true that when my mother could not find a vendor or a fisherman selling fresh fish, or when we had had enough of chicken or turkey, salt fish was the go-to dish that was scraped up with lashings of onion, peppers, cabbage and garnish to create a simple, ready –go-meal? Is this what we wish to associate with our lady gardens? A fall back, ordinary option that was easily available? I am told that now salt fish is now King Saltfish (at least in the Caribbean) because it is a very expensive commodity due to falling cod stocks, however it still does not change the fact that were someone to visit, it would not be the dish of choice to be served. That says a whole lot. A nickname for our private bits deserves to take first place, centre stage.

Because of this, in the meantime I graciously use the other words, and at times, even the proper noun until someone comes up with a better alternative. Any suggestions? Hint: Something along the lines of fillet steak, Aberdeen Angus or caviar might do the trick.

(Photo compliments Tastes Like Home).

A Stormy Future in the Caribbean Basin

On my last sojourn home, I looked out of the windows of the noisy, claustrophobic 747 expecting to be greeted by the youthful but full bosom of green mountain peaks, garlanded by lush green vegetation, almost  like nature’s necklaces across the rich forests. Instead my island looked forlorn- a rustic, dry harmattan brown which painted so sorrowful a disguise that it only confirmed what I did not want to accept- my island in the dry season was a skeleton, a veritable arsonic corpse of its former self.

“You are now free to leave the aircraft. Please take all your belongings with you”.

As if I would leave anything behind me for these wretches who didn’t even want to give me extra peanuts! I leave the airplane, only to wade through the thick, almost impenetrable air that swamped my nostrils and crept over my throat at MBIA- the air was so balmy it didn’t feel like air. Asthma threatened, I struggled to breathe for about one minute. Get a damn grip I told myself. This is your country! Smoky wafts of heat escaped from the pitch.

I jumped in the car where I found my mother waiting, eagerly. “Oh gawd it dam hot” I exclaimed. “Don’t swear” she admonished. I love my mum. She often complained about the heat, but I paid her no mind, neatly filing her complaints about the heat into the miscellaneous “menopausal” cabinet in my mind- it was the cobwebbed compartment that held other complaints- the time it took to drive from Victoria to St. George’s, the little munchkins who stole her carefully tended corn, fencing, and the high mortgage interest rates at the Public Service Credit Union. I started the engine and began the one hour journey across Grenada that was so pleasurable each time I did it when I returned as I was able to see what was new and to hail old, familiar faces. “Plenty plenty jacks coming up- if you see jacks”, was my mum’s commentary as we passed the fishing mecca of Gouyave, referring to a particular species of fish, similar to sprat, that was usually plentiful and was the staple of island life. Jacks were usually very abundant but that year there was an over abundance. Boatfuls and boatfuls of jacks trashed onto our coast and over spilled, to the extent that fishermen could not manage a sale and some were left rotting. Too many jacks to dry, too many jacks to buy- too many to clean and to corn.

Something else was new when I stepped outside and entered my house and the small room that I outgrew a long time ago- there was a persistent vuvuzela-like droning, and I only managed to work out who were the culprits when I noticed purple and red welts on my now ultra sensitive arms and legs. I was insulted that I had stayed away so long even the mosquitoes (and their progeny) did not remember who I was! These wicked beasts, along with the vicious biting sandflies were in full bloom, almost resplendent in their plentifulness and splendour, were I not aggravatedly scratching and itching away. I took a glass of cold water out on my verandah and asked my mother- was it always like this? I do not remember my island to be this hot, the sun’s rays to sting so harshly, the air to be quite so muggy, the ocean so rough, the climate so steamy? It confirmed what I began to suspect. Had we already succumbed to the perils of climate change and global warming?

We have already learned that 2005 was the hottest year on average since records began. Apart from the warmer seas causing more extreme events and activity, warmer waters are already damaging our coral reefs, causing bleaching. The UK Guardian reported on 24 June 2008 that warmer seas and a devastating hurricane season resulted in more than half of the Caribbean’s coral reefs being destroyed. Interestingly, according to a presentation given by Ulric D’Trotz (PhD),developing island states only account for 1% of emissions but will probably experience over 50% of the effects of climate change. In fact, low lying small islands are reported to be the most vulnerable group, and the least adaptable. As such, since we have no control over global mitigation, the strategy seems to be one of resigned adaptation. What a cop-out! Predictions in 2008 were dire: in the next few years we would see sea levels rising- saline intrusions in freshwater aquifers, coastal flooding and erosion. We would also see increased temperatures, increased vectors and vector borne diseases. Our rainfall patterns will change drastically- we would see extended periods of droughts and extended periods of heavy rains. There would be decreased fresh water availability. Storm activity was also expected to be more intense. What is shocking is that a mere 2 years later, some of these “predictions” are already our experiences.

The effects can be far reaching. Apart from an ecosystem that is messed up, this can result in the direct loss of our agricultural and tourism revenues on which almost all Caribbean islands depend. The region would lose its attractiveness and in fact, the milder winters in the North might obviate the need for a retreat to our climes (which might be considered a health risk because it would be infested with mosquitoes anyway). Jobs in the industry would be lost as hotel rooms go empty. Insurance costs of promises close to the shoreline will soar. The Adapting to Climate Change Project for the Caribbean has gone some way to sensitising the public, strengthening technical capacity and training, and developing a business plan to contain the risk. But there seems to be an overwhelmingly complacent attitude of “there is only so much we can do”. Never mind that over 1.4 million people might lose their livelihoods and possibly their lives, due to flooding.

Although the Caribbean Community Climate Change Centre has planned a series of projects to assist in managing the crisis and has launched a series of practical strategies in partnership with the University of Oxford (including Caribsave), there has not been much pressure placed collectively as a region on the more culpable parties (probably because we are too busy prostituting for aid). How much more louder we could have spoken in Copenhagen if we had only one envoy and spoken with one voice?

Strategists consider the costs of inaction to be in the region of 75 per cent of GDP in countries like Grenada, Haiti and Dominica in 2100. This means that unless we come up with alternatives, we are creating a serious crisis for our children. The pundits tell us that all we need is time to come up with viable solutions. I am defiantly cynical. Chances are, with our current track record, the Caribbean will become uninhabitable and time will be the only thing left.

(Photo from triniforums.com. All rights reserved).

Yes, I am from the Caribbean but No, I don't smoke weed

The first dinner party I hosted in Europe with a Caribbean theme took place within the my miniscule room situated within the secluded loft of my leafy college, for a few fellow student union members. I remember assiduously cycling to Mill Lane to purchase ripe hands of over-yellow plantains, pungent bottles of caramel browning and jerk sauce, hoping to impress with pure guesswork, my then unhoned culinary skills and a few bottles of overproof rum. It went well – meaning no one was violently and instantly ill) but there was a dip of disappointment as everyone looked expectantly in my direction for the perceived traditional Caribbean petit four of some wacky backy: high grade, home grown weed. I think I was too embarrassed to say that I did not smoke, and I concocted a half hearted excuse of having none “at the moment”. I was petrified to admit the bare truth: I had never smoked weed in my entire life.

Since then, however, I have been surprised at how many people expect me to be a ganja connoisseur. “Surely you were surrounded by it”. Yes. “Is the weed in the Caribbean stronger and purer?” I haven’t the foggiest but I suppose so- we do everything better in the Caribbean. “Can you post us some when you go back?” Heck no. I would probably know where to get it, but they would probably refuse to sell it to me, and then tell my mother who would give me a proper licking, even at my age. So would the woman at the Post Office.

A guy I used to date briefly once complained “You are so goody-goody, so square”, and tried to persuade me to try a cigarette. Asthmatic that I am, I was puffing and huffing at the sheer odour before the darned thing ever had the front to get to my lips. The constant requests for sweet lucy probably means that I have been probably been very unsuccessful in harbouring home the fact that although the Caribbean has a deserved reputation for being ultra cool and chillaxed, the easy-going attitude of its residents has nothing to do with cheeky cannabis. Many are surprised to know that in general, Caribbean culture is very conservative, in fact almost prudish when it comes to attitudes towards drugs and alcohol.

For example, away from the cannabis analysis, beer is not considered to be a woman’s drink. Nice girls would never drink beer. At parties, fetes and social gatherings, most women would have the sweet barley based non-alcoholic malta. For those feeling a bit adventurous, maybe watered down rum and Coke; the more well-heeled would have a glass or two of wine. A woman bearing a Heineken or Carib or Stag proudly (except maybe at Carnival) would be looked upon oddly. (Personally, I don’t care. There is nothing like a beastly cold beer on a hot day.)

Weed, on the other hand, is another thing altogether. It is strange because I quite like the smell. I can match certain childhood memories with its fragrance permeating the air, almost like nature burning her incense. My neighbour was a heavy smoker and he often congregated on the walls of the old battered bakery behind our house with his pals, lighting up several ounces of spliff at a time and ruminating on obscure topics in the indolent and sluggish way that only men who are high can. Smoky billows wafted across, under the gospo tree, and over the wooden fence to provide the sweet-smelling olfactory footage that accompanied me while I was doing my homework. My neighbour across the road sold it and the number of heads that disappeared in between the two stone houses on a daily basis, was like a Catholic procession. The weed disciples would leave the trading temple, stoned, eyes bloodshot but displaying lackadaisical signs of peace. The pungent aroma was never far away on big celebratory occasions and activities. To be honest, on most Sunday afternoons. I often saw large trays of dried marijuana at the home of a friend, whose father built up a steady relationship with la marijeanne. I was somehow, never tempted. I was never presented with it (it would be an affront), and the idea of smoking even a cigarette was so preposterous to me, that it never crossed my mind. None of my friends smoked. Cheeky drinking was more daring, and yes, more acceptable.

Fact is, Caribbean countries’ attitudes towards cannabis varies. The Holy Herb, revered by Rastafarians, occupies a unique musico-cultural and historical significance in Jamaica, for instance. It is by far the largest manufacturer and exporter of marijuana. That is not to say that the official stance is not decidedly miltant, to comply with European and American big stick anti-drug policies. I would say that there is an attitude of grudging tolerance. Contrast St. Vincent and the Grenadines, which after the collapse of the Caribbean banana industry, has occupied a singular place as having the largest and most systematically cannabis fields in the Eastern Caribbean. The topography of hilly mountainous land and the liberal attitude of Prime Minister Ralph Gonsalves easily lend themselves to covert farms in the inaccessible north. Mr Gonsalves was elected on a mandate of “Rastafari, I am your friend” and he currently leads the charge for the decriminalisation of marijuana in the region, especially for those who use it for religious rites. In Grenada, and many of the other Caribbean islands, weed is readily available and sold on the black market although there is a faux militancy about its use and cultivation. A few ganja farmers’ plantations are targeted sporadically to appease the Christian religious communities.

I have a fairly level-headed attitude towards consumption of marijuana. I believe in its decriminalisation for personal consumption for the mere reason I think law enforcement should be freed up to deal with child abuse, sexual abuse, incest, cocaine trafficking and other more serious and harmful offences.. After all, Bill Clinton, David Cameron and Barack Obama all admit to smoking weed and they have not turned out too shabbily.

I do not think it should be legalised, primarily because it would ultimately become useless for income generation, as with all other products, India and China will ultimately flood the markets. There is a hope that perhaps, Caribbean grown cannabis can become like Habanero cigars, a luxury product but the debate on legalisation will come in a subsequent blogpost. For me, however, I am a risk-adverse person so I am unlikely to touch it, especially having heard of and investigated the link between ganja and paranoia, depression, long term memory loss and schizophrenia, especially among young black people. No thank you very much. I can’t help thinking that I might just be that one person who goes off the rails, thinking I can fly after just that one spliff, and I am too much of a scaredy-cat to justify the jeopardy. Let’s just say that the number of young, potentially productive persons I have seen walking around like lethargic zombies, red-eyed crusts of their former selves truly startles me. Call me dull, call me wet around the ears or boring. I can do without this high. Please can I have a bottle of Ruinart instead.

Sex on the Beach

“...We helped ourselves, to these green islands like olives from a saucer,

munched on the pith, then spat their sucked stones on a plate...

What the white manager mean

to say was she was too rude, cause she dint take no shit

from white people and some of them tourist- the men

only out to touch local girls; every minute-

was brushing their hand from her backside so one day

she get fed up with all their nastiness so she tell

the cashier that wasn’t part of her focking pay”

Derek Walcott, Omeros.

Time has moved on since Walcott wrote about dear Helen. Now, the bulging flights arrive from Sweden, the UK and Germany, depositing sediments of middle aged tourists, but they are not the brute male Lancashire clods of yesterday but instead, economically liberated, independent women. Caribbean female sex tourism is in full bloom. Hordes of financially generous Western women flock to the Caribbean in droves to assume Stella personas, hoping to get their grooves back. They are non apologetic: they are seeking island boys. However, it is never that simple and there is often no HBO special ending as Terry McMillan would testify.

It is a fact that on many of our island’s beaches, transient sexual relationships are courted by young men hoping to begin a liaison with a woman looking for a good time. Many of the women are invariably older, sometimes overweight (but not all the time) and are open to anonymous, casual relationships. A few openly state that they wish to overcome the taboo of dating black and to experience the appeal of what they call “The Big Bamboo” but I would say that the vast majority are lonely and unhappy and come to the Caribbean to seek love and romance. These women are more than grateful for the regular sex and constant attention and to a certain extent, they are happy to pay for it. They prize the young mysterious loafers and blissfully ignore signs of latent intent. They overlook signs that some of these men are prepared to missell their motivations and to peddle lies in order to land a profit. Many of these women delude themselves that they are falling in love, not knowing that many of their island boys are in search of any opening, any opportunity, and any plane ticket.

The sensibilities and sensitivities in this sex trade tourism have never really been explored. It is often presented as merely a form of reverse sex tourism. In the Caribbean, the reputation of the English in this new world trade precedes them. For example, in Tobago, there has been a marked decrease in the idler population since Virgin Atlantic began its frequent flights to the island- many previously wandering loafers have migrated abroad after phallic sojourns that have gone extremely well. My 20 year old friend in Grenada pleads with me to introduce him to an English girl, commonly seen as the easiest prey. Canadians spend the most, Swedish are the prettiest and the English are the neediest. “Desperation Days” is the disdainful term awarded to the days when BA and Virgin make weekly flights to the islands, so eager and willing are these female barterers. In Jamaica they are crudely known as Milk Bottles (white and in need of filling); those of the black variety known as Stellas. The men amusingly refer to themselves as working for the Foreign Service. In Martinique, it is telling that locals refer to incoming flights of Air Canada as "Air Coucoune" — French for "Air Pussy."

Sometimes this reputation is deserved but contrary to the casual liaison stereotype that is often presented in the press, I am not sure that a lot of these women know what they are letting themselves in for. I recently met a friend in the departures queue for a flight back to London. As I languished in the Economy class line, he whisked past with his “Sugar Mommy” to Upper Class, after having spent two weeks in the finest resort in the island at $2500 a night. Only last year he was selling craft on the beach. He fully intends to divorce his wife after the now compulsory two year period set by the Home Office and to take steps to bring his Grenadian girlfriend and child to the UK.

His story is representative of the fact that local liaisons can be bought in the currency of the latest gadgets, promises of a better life overseas and of course, cold, hard cash. Michael Seyfert attempts to explore this in his Jamaican documentary- Rent a Rasta. These exchanges are never express, however. They are set in the context of a romance. The transactions have no fixed prices- they are shrouded in the language of pretence- the locals feign undying love, a tourist provides the goods. The cyclical holiday season means that there are often repeat customers. The men in question, who hang around amidst the sea gliders and power surfers, are the beneficiaries to a very base contract. The offer is no strings sex , intimacy and companionship which may or may not come with expensive restaurants, an Ipod, Nike Airs and a mobile phone. Who would not accept? A Sex on the Beach liaision is very strong security in the international market; it can lead to marriage, permanent immigration status in the West, in short, a better life.

The Montreal Gazette ran a very interesting piece on the topic. They reported that by some estimates “ 600,000 Western women have engaged in travel sex sometime over the last 25 years, many of them as repeat customers, returning to the tropics every winter for some sun and some action” . Dr Joan Phillips, a researcher, who was quoted in Annan’s Boodram’s piece on Sex Tourism, argues that female sex tourism is based on romance, remuneration and entrepreneurship. She goes on to say that “it is based on racialised sexual fantasies of the black man...it's the new commodity on sale for the tourist dollar and the newly liberated in search of the post-colonial Mandingo."

I am not sure that I agree fully with Joan Phillips’ assessment. It is very easy to paint Westerners as exploitative and locals as innocents but not all women are out to fulfil a post cultural stereotype. Some are lonely and unhappy and are genuinely seeking love. For others, it is a simple economic trade off. It is very easy to denounce the parties who engage in this trade, perching from our pseudo moral pedestals, but if both individuals are of age, disengaged and involved in a symbiotic exchange of mutual benefit, and they both feel happy with the arrangements, then who am I to judge? Will the market not balance out itself without my interference? Should we then not be concerned and write it off as just a bit of fun? Or is this a new saga in sexploitation which should be stamped on his head? Who then is the real victim? Who is really taking advantage of who?

On one hand, I empathise with the locals who make dying declarations of love. They are merely seeking their own interests, because circumstances force their hands- they live on islands that do not offer much in terms of prospects and where there is no welfare state to cushion the blow of poverty. However, I also feel sorry for those women who are often manipulated into providing expensive holidays and who offer a life abroad, only to find that they do not feature in the long term plans of their lovers. It is always a pity when a woman feels that she needs to travel to another country to feel affirmed and loved.


(Photo from media.canada.com- all rights reserved).

Something to Talk About

When I was a child, I found this anecdote that was told to me about my two neighbours in a bus in the early 1990s quite funny:

"Mave I get the thing"
"Elsa, what ting?"
"De f"
"What is de f?"
“De ting I tell you about!”
“I aint know nothing you supposed to get starting with f”
"Steups. The phone!"

I found the story poignant, not because of my neighbour's poor spelling ability but because of her excitement over a telephone. It was an excitement I knew and lived because although I grew up in the 1990's, this was small-town-in-the-Caribbean nineties where a fixed line was a luxury. I remember the precise day Grentel (as it was then called) came to install our telephone line. We watched the men clad in yellow in admiration. They were heros.These were the days where not everyone had a refridgerator so those who did sold gigantic blocks of ice set in huge pan buckets. Where hair grease and butter were sold by the ounce, rice and sugar sold by the pound, and oil and rum sold by the eighth. Where there was no cable television and local television was so grainy we chose to read books and play football and cricket in our village pasture instead. It was a time when the local government school was haunted by bhakus and jumbies. My  seven year old nephew has told me it still is.

The Caribbean has moved on a lot since then. Now, our use of mobile phone technology has surpassed our own expectations. Fixed lines are now depassé and declassé. Cell phone mania has struck and it is with us to say. The first sign that I had of cell phone usage becoming out of sync with reality was in 2008,  when I saw one of my neighbours walking down the street with a cell phone clipped to his back pocket and another tied to his shoelaces. Other signs of mania are inevitably present. My twenty year old neighbour does not have a job but chooses to sport an Iphone. Blackberries, which cost upwards $1000 XCD are increasingly de rigueur with schoolchildren no less. The use of mobile phones is also profligate. In buses one can often be privy to an entire thirty minute conversation based on nothing more than "I am on the bus" and hours of juicy and salacious but mindless gossip. “Yes she throw de chile, she man beating her”.

In lots of  Caribbean countries, the number of active handsets and numbers exceeded the population so it appeared that a significant number of people in the Caribbean have a phone on both networks (Digicel and Cable and Wireless in Grenada, TSTT and Digicel in Trinidad). I found it telling that the highest mobile penetration rates in the whole of Latin America and the Caribbean in early 2009 could be found in Jamaica (115%). This should be taken in the context of the fact that mobile penetration in Latin America and the Caribbean on the whole was approximately 80% in early 2009, well above the world average which was about 58% (Telecoms Market Research, May 2009). The mobile phone market is quoted as being the most rapidly growing of all consumer electronics in the Caribbean (Entrepeneur Magazine).

Further statistics on consumer perception are astonishing. The Ericsson Consumer Survey on ICT in the Caribbean based on 40,000 interviews shows that there are a significant number of phone users who constitute the mainstream materialist and mainstream youth market: their characteristic justification: "My phone means I belong among my peers" and "I want a phone that makes me look good even when I cannot afford it". Shocking but not really surprising. I have actually heard a woman on a popular call in programme recite three different mobile numbers (all hers) whilst soliciting funds over the radio for her sick child’s hospital fees. When questioned why she was requesting assistance yet had three mobile phones she was rather non apologetic, explaining that she needed one on each of the competing networks and that the other had been a gift.

It is true to say that the Caribbean region has been a hive of activity over the past five years as markets have opened up. The key beneficiary to date has been Digicel, which has aggressively targeted incumbents generally run by Cable and Wireless. Digicel, run by Irishman Denis O’Brien, much to my chagrin, is seen as the saviour to the poor, saving us from a mobile free life, even though we can scarcely make two ends meet. It is telling that when Grenada chose to implement VAT on cell phone use last year, this issue stirred the most debate (even leading to a pop up Facebook group) although taxes were implemented on other essential, and arguably more important items.

I am not saying at all that the explosion in the use of cell phones cannot be used to harness development. It is certainly important that the gap between the information haves and have nots are bridged. Mobile phones can be used to stimulate business, for money transfers (Jamaica is a shining beacon) and for equally other laudable objectives. However, there are a few issues that concern me.

First, is the ongoing reliance on the pay as you go model. The pay as the go model, which relies on the availability of credit as and when one needs it, promotes a top-up culture. Top-up culture is now a part of Caribbean life. Transactions are bartered in telephone credit and support for services are sometimes expressed in terms of telephone cards. It is not uncommon to have someone ask for a ten dollar card in lieu of actual hard cash or a transfer of a dollar’s worth of top up credit. I do not like top up culture because it does not rely on reasonable forecasting, budgets, estimates and use projections. It relies on the blissful lack of awareness of how much one really spends on telephone calls as there is no bill, no breakdown, no account, and so there are no checks and balances. Top up culture is part of the culture of want it now, get it now, without regard as to how one decision might impact on others. Top up culture also prevents the building of any lasting relationships with a brand which is typical of the relationships built with mobile phone giants in the US and in the UK such as TMobile and Vodafone. Contracts exist, but without a strong contract culture, lots of customers do not get the additional tie-ins that many abroad take for granted such as inclusive minutes and text messages and a free-at-the-point-of-purchase handset. This means that the market is still young and  relatively immature.

Secondly, I have a problem with what I consider the exorbitant charges paid for telephone calls and telephones in the Caribbean. Persons on developing country wages are being charged developed country rates. For example, Digicel’s Flex rates for St Lucia are 75 cents a minute from a Digicel to Digicel telephone (almost 20p) when in the UK a network to network service is either free or 5p a minute. Calls to fixed lines are 80 cents a minute (the equivalent price in the UK). Surely, mobile phone prices should be linked to the purchasing ability of consumers? Then again, I have never heard a complaint about call charges so perhaps it is affordable and I am becoming a stingy, mean Englishwoman. I have the same complaint on the price of phones. The Blackberry 9000 comes in at an eyewatering $2400 XCD (600 pounds). This telephone retails for 305 pounds without a contract in the UK.

Thirdly, I have a problem with the iconisation of the mobile telephone as a status symbol. In my eyes, one can never be as well dressed as when wearing a hat and gown and there is a great status symbol in a degree hanging on one’s wall. The mobile phone is at the end of a long list in status symbols that we, the poor, try to emulate as a sign of supposed progress. Cheap clothes, brand name sneakers and yup Clarks, fall at the front of this category. Having a nice phone without having a steady job and a good education is akin to building a house and putting cable TV in before running water or buying a dressing table before a bed. Sporting the latest Blackberry, Nokia or Samsung will never hide an empty brain or an empty pocket.

Finally,  it is worth noting that Digicel sued Cable and Wireless for almost 300 million dollars for allegedly impeding its entry into the Caribbean market. This means that Digicel believes that a proportion of the Caribbean market is worth 300 million. The corporate social responsibility projects of these telecom giants do not reflect the significance of this market. Donations to individual artists and education and culture never reach the hundreds of thousands. Considering that the income of all the telecommunications companies come from the pockets of a struggling populace, it would be great if the companies come together to sponsor telecommunication projects and education schemes in the Caribbean islands that would empower our people. Then, and only then, will I have something to talk about.

(Image: Digicel Barbados, all rights reserved).

A Man, Two Heads and a Bucket

I could imagine the consternation of the female police officer on duty in Grenada, confronted with a seemingly ordinary man, who proceeded to pour out two decapitated bleeding heads from a bucket onto her desk.


It was probably a hot day, as it often is in Grenada, the sun perhaps broiling concrete buildings with impatient heat. She was probably used to domestic altercations, the odd praedial larceny complaint (“dey tief me damn callalloo!”), occasional rumblings and breaches of the peace after a few overloaded glasses of overproof rum at the local rumshop, and slices of juicy gossip in between. She probably thought nothing of the man heading towards her with a bucket. It could have been ripe purple melongenes, ready for the selling, bunches of home grown carrots, fresh from the earth, pleading to be bought and consumed, or sea scented slippery fish, recently skinned and gutted.

She certainly did not expect to see the freshly dead faces of two men, one with eyes bulging, caught by surprise at an act of sheer lunacy. She was probably right to faint, as I can imagine no rational, sane reaction to this wanton depravity. For, in the unruffled verdant green forest environs of the Balthazar area, Steve Gorrie, a handsome, seemingly normal, 32 year old machine operator, fond of landscaping and farming, allegedly hacked or sawed off the heads of two men with whom he shared a meal only moments before, with no evidence of an altercation or a dispute. My grandmother would say "Am ouais!"

According to unconfirmed reports, the proprietor of the farm, an ex police officer, a respected and intelligent business man with an interest in resuscitating the farming industry in Grenada, invited Gorrie and a friend to assist him with some task in his nearby property. My cousin Yvonne says the word "if" is weary and weighted and on this occasion it certainly was. Stories of cheating and tabanca and grudges were conceptualised and dissected, then hastily dismissed. No one could understand what motive would have persuaded a man to eat and drink with his compatriots and then to chop not one, but two heads off ten minutes thereafter, as easy as Sunday morning. Gorrie allegedly said that he “felt” like killing the victims. I have heard reports of him requesting a bucket of KFC as a meal on the night of the killings. The fact that he had no reason actually does not surprise me, the evidence points to a suspicion on my part that he is deeply and clinically psychotic.

What puzzles me, however, is that there are a number of very salient questions to be asked and holes in the account that has been related. It is not easy to kill a man by hacking off his head. A particularly sharp instrument is needed; something along the lines of a Samurai sword. Secondly, the person swinging the instrument must be very strong. And thirdly, an incredible motion or swing would need to be levelled to ensure that the vertebra is cut straight through. Gorrie may have had Olympian swing, but a machete that is used to cut coconuts or grass is hardly sharp enough to execute such a lethal blow, not when combined with the seemingly underpowering strength of his lithe, small frame. Then, having established that it is not easy to cut a person’s head off with a swing of a machete, I find it difficult to conceptualise how a man could be able to do such a thing twice, without the aid of suppressive measures. This leads me to believe that the heads were decapitated when the victims were already dead.

Why then? And how would Steve Gorrie, mechanic operator, be able to kill two men, the first a bright proprietor and former police officer, the second, a ruddy labourer? And all within the short space of time between the Last Supper at the rumshop and the Heading to the Hills? There was, apparently, no dispute. Gorrie was apparently fed and watered at the home of one of the victims. Who knows, however, what discussion ensued such that Gorrie decided that he would act on this overwhelming feeling to kill his companions? The property was reported as less than 100 metres away from the home of one of the victims- it was odd that no witnesses have reported hearing or suspecting anything.

Did Gorrie then plan the attack and administer a lethal substance? Did he deliver a lethal blow that rendered them both unconscious? Surely someone must have heard a cry, a bawl, a chainsaw (if latest accounts are to be believed). A murder in open air without witnesses, without a sound, is highly suspect. It either suggests that he did not act alone or he acted with calm, calculated premeditation that ensured that he was fully out of sight and that there was no soundtrack to his violent feature. Premeditation is not usually a mark of the clinically insane. Or was the decapitation the first step towards removing all members of the body, to suppress the evidence? Did he get cold feet and decided that since he was last seen with the suspects, it was likely that he would be suspected and that the court of public opinion would convict him in any event? Or is this overanalysis and was he just a madman with good planning skills, a build like Rambo and almost obsence bravery?

(Onlookers at the courthouse where he was charged)

I doubt that I will have answers. In any event, we may not have coherent ones. Gorrie has been meted out the injustice of not even been granted a lawyer (and yes, even a cold blooded killer deserves the right to be represented so that when justice is served, it is seen to be served and will not be under attack). Regardless of whether or not these questions are answered, it underscores our need to understand the causes of psychoses and mental illness in the Caribbean. To my knowledge, the scenario of a person cutting of another's head has happened twice before in Grenada relatively recently. The latest incident I recall was of a young, mentally ill man who last year who cut off his grandmother's head and was seen eating from it. The New Today also reports a killing ten years ago in the St David's area where a man killed his ex girlfriend and her new lover by cutting off their heads and parading them in the streets.

Gory stories like these happen all over the world (although undue attention is given to this by the media) but what is clear is that on many occasions in the Caribbean, mental illness remains largely undiagnosed and untreated. No one would have thought that a man who had the presence of mind to jump on a plane to visit his father in Brooklyn last year, who had a good job and a home life that did not appear disturbed, could have the capacity to commit such a heinous crime.

In the USA, it was reported that Black Caribbean males have an elevated risk of developing schizophrenia (National Study of American Life) but in more recent studies, it was found that Caribbean males had no greater risk of developing this condition but were more than five times likely to be hospitalised because of a lack of early treatment (Policy Studies Institute, University of Westminster). PAHO identified mental health as one of the main target areas for Caribbean cooperation. In the Grenada National Strategy Health Plan, it was reported that mental health services were provided in two locations- Mt Gay Hospital or Richmond Home but anyone who visits these institutions would know how basic the treatment facilities are. There is an obvious lack of a quality, structured approach to mental illness training. Dalhousie University in Canada has offered some support and has produced a document which focuses on mental health training for professionals in low income countries focusing on diagnosing and treating psychotic disorders, mood disorders, anxiety disorders and substance abuse disorders as well as cognitive behaviour counselling and psychopharmacology. The aim is that community health workers and nurses would be trained to spot and treat those who are in need of help, to prevent stories like these making the front page of the BBC, Yahoo News, the Huffington Post and parading all over Twitter, making out our small island paradise to be some haven for the depraved.

In the meantime, I am now suspicious of any unstable man with a bucket. I-bear, the man I buy my beloved Copee mangoes from in Grenada, is a tad unbalanced, gets naked on occasion for no reason, and is prone to random fits of cursing and swearing over nothing at all. He often walks with a machete stuffed into a dirty "fine-bag" and I engage in general banter with him on my verandah. I usually refuse to capitulate to his "expat tax" demands of an extra twenty dollars for five mangoes. After this incident, I am on my guard. I think I will take my chances and brave the stifling heat and gossipy mosquitoes and head to La Source Hill to source my own Copees.

All photos by my brother Mikey Hutchinson. All rights reserved. Thanks Mikey!