Sometimes a
holiday has to stand for more than just rest and relaxation. By the middle of
the nineties, my marriage was floundering. Following a huge row, I left our
home on a Sunday evening for a week-long training course, convinced that the
whole thing was over. But during a telephone conversation a few days later, my
wife suggested we take a holiday and try to see if we could put Humpty Dumpty
together again. Her mother would take the children so that we could have the
time for ourselves – time to see if we could take all that was good, all that
was strong and deep between us, rediscover its value together and put our
relationship, functioning, back on the road.
Late
winter/early spring is not the best time to look for warm holiday destinations
in Europe. But my wife had visited the
Caribbean as a girl and had good memories of one particular holiday there and
so in March 1995 we found ourselves crossing the Atlantic, our plane stopping
to refuel in Newfoundland, on the way to Barbados.
Barbados is the most eastern island in the
Caribbean, belonging geographically to the island group known as the Lesser Antilles. It is small (166 sq. miles) and quite
densely populated (284.000 inhabitants). Historically a British possession,
with an economy based on sugar cane, today it is independent and its major
industry is tourism.
Coming from
Europe and (I suspect) from the North American continent, the first thing you
have to get used to when you arrive in the Caribbean is that time is simply
different there. It moves somehow more slowly, languidly. It probably has a lot
to do with the balmy temperatures which prevail nearly all the time but I think
some of it also comes from the basic attitude to life which seems to be part of
the general philosophy of the people who live there. I remember someone who
knew Trinidad well once trying to explain it
to me with hoary old racist stereotypes about black people being prepared to
sit under coconut trees enjoying the sunshine instead of getting up off their
asses to do something.
The sad
thing about that particular cliché is
that it does contain a grain of truth, wrapped up in a huge mantle of prejudice
and misunderstanding. The history of the black people (the vast majority of the
inhabitants) of the Caribbean is one of hundreds
of years of slavery, followed by a further period of notional freedom but
systematic continued exploitation by an elite white minority up to around fifty
years ago. This kind of experience isn’t exactly conducive to identification
with all the values of a system which that elite has used to keep you down, and
from which the colour of your skin more or less automatically shuts you out. In
fact, independent states of the Caribbean (like Trinidad, Jamaica, the Bahamas,
St. Lucia, Barbados, etc.) have generally been doing pretty well since their
colonial masters pulled out. (Exceptions like Haiti
and Cuba
can arguably place most of the blame for their major problems since
independence on their former [colonial] masters.)
What the
people of the Caribbean do seem to have
learned from their history is a certain relaxed attitude to life, an attitude
which sees time as the servant of people and not the other way around. You may
have to wait a little longer for service in a shop here, but this isn’t because
the salesperson doesn’t respect you; rather it’s because (s)he is taking lots
of time for every customer, which may
include a longer conversation with the person who is ahead of you. Things seem
to move more slowly, because there is a feeling that life continuously offers
spontaneous small pleasures, pleasures which are there to be savoured. It is,
therefore, perhaps not coincidental that the most beloved relic of British
colonial rule in the Caribbean is the game of cricket, in which the West Indies
are a world power, and where the time for a game is measured in days, not
hours. Yet, within the relaxed framework of a cricket game, there are occasions
where speed is important, even vital, and anyone who claims that things in the Caribbean are just too slow should just take a look at Usain Bolt.
At any
rate, I will admit that, while I found the laid-back, friendly atmosphere in Barbados very
pleasant, I experienced some difficulties in adjusting my own attitude to it. I
had started an extremely demanding job the year before and it wasn’t easy to
just leave it behind me – in my head, I mean. But far more than that, the
future of my marriage was also at stake in these two weeks, and this was
overshadowing everything else.
One
afternoon in the course of the first few days there, somewhere in the middle of
the interminable negotiations involved in that summit meeting of hearts, I
found myself on my own, walking down Dover
Road towards St. Lawrence Gap. Maybe there’d been
a row, maybe my wife was just taking a nap, I don’t remember any more. The sun
was shining, it was warm, walking was like wading through warm treacle. I seem
to remember that I was heading towards the nearest supermarket, probably to
pick up a six-pack of Banks beer.
I’m sure I
was instantly recognisable as a tourist from Europe or North
America; white, slightly sunburnt, obviously preoccupied with my
own important affairs. Suddenly I heard a voice calling out to me.
“Hey, mon!
How are you, mon?”
I looked
around. There was a Rasta-man, sitting on a low wall in the shade.
Fuck it, I
thought to myself, I just don’t feel like this shit! All he wants is to hassle
me, probably beg a few dollars, or maybe engage me in a discussion about how
the white man and Babylon
had oppressed the children of Jah. I really
don’t need this …
“Hey mon!
Doan you wanna talk to I? What’s your problem, mon?”
Damn it! If
I just ignore him he might get nasty. I’ve heard that these brothers can get
quite aggressive, although it’s supposed to much better in Barbados than in Jamaica.
“No
problem, I’ve just got something to do, that’s all. Bit of a hurry …”
“What’s the
hurry, mon? Come over here a minute. Need to talk to you, my friend.”
Reluctantly
I went over to him. He patted the wall beside him. I sat down.
“So, you’re
on holiday, hey? You enjoying yourself? You like Barbados?”
I admitted
that I found Barbados
very pleasant, very nice.
“So why you
look so stressed, my friend? You wanna carry all the cares of the world on your
shoulders? I thought you were on holiday. You need to lighten up a bit.”
He looked
at me keenly and grinned, his strong white teeth shining warmly, and sang a
snatch of Bob Marley’s Three Little Birds,
“Don’t worry about a thing, ‘Cause every little thing’s gonna be all right …”
Then he
laughed, free and spontaneous, and clapped me on the shoulder.
Even now, I
find it hard to describe the feeling that came over me then. It was a strange
combination of shame, relief and insight. Caught up in my stereotypical, suspicious,
white-bred, first-world superiority, I had misjudged this Rasta-man very badly
and I felt ashamed for it. I felt relief, for my feeling of threat was gone and
I realised that I was on holidays and
didn’t have to carry all my worries around with me. This feeling moved into
insight as it became clear to me that, despite all the problems I had to deal
with, the world, the day, the moment here and now was beautiful and that,
somehow, every little thing was gonna
be all right.
We chatted
easily after that for a couple of minutes. He asked me about my sunburn and
gave me some aloe vera, showing me how to break the thick leaf and rub it on my
leg, the cool gel-like sap soothing my irritated skin immediately.
“There’s an
answer for everything in nature, mon,” he told me. “Aloe vera is good for
sunburn. Even for I-and-I. ‘Cause, you know, the black man can get sunburn too,
maybe not so easily, but it can happen.”
He asked me
where I was from, how long I was going to stay and wished me all the best for
my holiday.
“Now you go
on, bro’, and do whatever it is you were going to do. And just remember … Don’t
worry about a thing …”
I grinned
back at him and we finished the line of the song together.
“…’Cause
every little thing’s gonna be all right.”
And so I
went my way.
* * *
The
holiday, for me, really started after that encounter. My wife and I completed
our summit of hearts with a treaty of forgiveness and new beginnings. It didn’t
ultimately save the marriage which irrevocably broke down three years later,
but, in retrospect, that breakdown was unavoidable. The burden of mutual hurt
and the fundamental differences between us led to a situation where we both had
to accept, as the German saying puts it, “better a horrible end than horror
without end.”
But back
then, in March 1995, that was in the future. For the present, we still had the
best part of two weeks in Barbados
and it turned out to be a wonderful holiday. Thanks in no small part, as far as
I’m concerned, to that Rastafarian who helped me get my head straight.
A moment of
overstanding where I-and-I learned to aprecilove irie!
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Irie, Francis! The good vibes worked for you in two minutes. I'm a harder case, I had to marry one: not a Rasta queen but a Jamaican. She's been working on me for seven years now, with great success. We're getting there. Some would just call it love, but the evidence is all around that the West Indies has done a great deal for Britain.
ReplyDeleteThe combination of your words and Marley's voice have done a good number on my worries this evening, Francis. Your post came along when I needed it just like Rasta-Man came along for you.
ReplyDeleteThanks.
I'm sorry about what finally happened to your marriage. Although I went through a divorce too, and it was for the best.
ReplyDeleteBut, at this moment in my life, I needed so much to hear the Rasta-man story, and to hear that song, for myself and my son. It's uncanny! Thank you from the bottom of my heart
It was just a few days ago we saw the documentary 'Marley'. Even after all these years and despite the fact the man didn't stay long, his songs always have a wondrous effect on my heart.
ReplyDeleteI'm glad you got to meet a Rasta-man just when you needed him.