The Mongoose Chronicles

So I'm reading today's Nation newspaper and I come across an article on the Comment page. It's accompanied by a photo of one of our roundabouts, and called The correct Way to use a multi-lane road. And so I think "Finally. Someone with some authority is going to wake drivers up to some of the mistakes they've been making on our fairly new multi-lane motorways, and perhaps fewer people will die on the streets." And I suppose that's how it was intended, but it took a couple a very, very wrong turns. (See what I did there?)

The article is quite terse, and even sounds a little angry. And honestly, doesn't make much sense. The writer suggests that on a dual roadway, the right lane is always and only for overtaking the traffic on the left, and that once right lane drivers have overtaken, they should exit onto the left lane. Now I understand the concept. It reduces to this: the right lane is a fast lane. (Apparently I'm wrong, as you'll see.) If you intend in the short term to be going faster than the other drivers, the right lane is yours. When/if your pace normalizes or matches that of the average of other drivers, then you should switch to the left. At the end of the article, we're told, again tersely: there is no such thing as a slow lane and fast lane, which, following the earlier explanation, isn't strictly true. By definition, if the right lane is for overtaking, it is a fast lane, or at least a faster lane than the left.

But I suppose the ill-explained point is that you shouldn't take the right lane if you intend to keep pace with the average speed of traffic, or if you simply intend to 'drive fast'. The point is to overtake. Although, if none of the other drivers in the right lane understands this, you pretty much end up trying to overtake but with nowhere to go, because the driver in front of you is probably thinking she can hang out in the right lane since no one's going much faster than anyone else, as is the driver in front of her, and the driver in front of him. (And this will also tend to happen since, in a country the size of Barbados, there are approximately 5 centimeters on the motorway between roundabouts. So somebody who is not overtaking will end up in the right lane. It has to happen.) And so, apparently, the hideous cycle unfolds, with the undesirable effect of blocking the overtaking lane and therefore ending humanity as we know it.

And then we're told:

If you are being overtaken by traffic on the left you are creating an
obstruction...and...encouraging the dangerous practice of overtaking on the
left and zig-zagging through traffic.

So understand this: if you ever find yourself being overtaken by some impatient buffoon who is breaking traffic rules and the speed limit by overtaking on the left, you are to blame. It means that you must be too slow and stupid to know not to block impatient buffoons. And it is always your fault, because no one who finds themselves zig-zagging through traffic is ever wrong.

And then the writer goes on:

If you are in the right lane and the lights of the car behind you are flashing
it means the driver wants to overtake or you are blocking the overtaking lane.

I love how they encourage impatience and general road rage, and place the responsibility for reckless drivers squarely on the shoulders of the rest of us who are simply trying not to die. Here's the thing: maybe if someone is flashing her lights at you, you're a bit slow for the right lane and should try and adjust, either by accelerating or merging to the left if you can (for crap's sake please don't freak out and merge into a Bico truck because that will not end well.) Or maybe the light flasher is just an entitled piece of poop who wants to intimidate every other driver off the road so she can make it to the roundabout in 5 seconds instead of the usual 7. This article, far from keeping people safe, is encouraging the worst, most reckless drivers out there to continue being reckless, and worse, validating their crude, dangerous behaviour.

So I'm thinking surely this cannot have been written by the Police Force or the Ministry of Transport and Works because the tone is so personal and angry, and because there's only a passing reference to one of the real accident causers: improper usage and poor understanding of the newly-signed roundabouts. There's also no mention of other problem-causing novelties like the new give-ways and off-ramp acceleration lanes. And then I look at the bottom and realize that it was written by C.O Williams Construction Ltd. So the whole point of the article isn't as much to save lives as it is to sulk and yell because they built this great toy and we're using it wrong. So at this point I'm starting to expect a lot less of this writer, which is a good thing, considering what comes next:

This notice particularly refers to women, taxi and truck drivers as they are usually the main offenders when it comes to blocking the overtaking lane.

Seriously? Who wrote this thing?

Even if you are of the "damn women drivers" school of disgruntlement, which I'm not going to tackle because I know I'm not going to change your mind or expand your consciousness or any of that good stuff, what is the point of flagging those people you envision as the main offenders at the end of article? It's not as if you begin: "Hey! Women, taxi drivers and truck drivers: listen here!" Clearly, by the time you've already explained all your rules, the only point of pointing out that women are the chief offenders is to say "I know you women are reading this thinking it's not you. But it's you. You are the reason we're writing this thing. So just stop it right now." And to those women out there reading this entry and snickering smugly to yourself thinking "But you know..he's right. Those other women can't drive," don't even bother, because he means you too.

If you're going to write about how to use the roads, just write about how to use the roads. Yes it's insulting to single out women (as opposed to taxi and truck drivers who are a small percentage of male drivers. You're basically saying "women can't drive. Men can drive in general, except for these special categories of male drivers), although given the overall angry, entitled attitude of the piece it makes sense and was probably written by he of the light-flashing and zig-zagging. But more than insulting, it's unprofessional and unnecessary. Does this writer envision that a woman reading this will be persuaded by the "you may think it's not you but it really is. You're a woman, see" argument?

The article is just another light-flashing, left-lane-overtaking attempt at intimidation of certain drivers, namely women. And coming from a private citizen it would be unsurprising, but from a corporate entity, it's disappointing, especially since it's presented with authority.

But you know, take this with a grain of salt because after all, I'm only a woman.

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I've attempted to write this post so many times, and so far have not made it past the first sentence. Finally, last week, I saw an old friend - a Bajan reggae artiste - and although I intended only to do the hugs and catch-up thing, I ended up holding forth on this particular disappointment, while he, ever gracious and probably slightly afraid, nodded and smiled and looked around for an exit. So lest I alarm any more innocent passersby, here I go.

A few days ago, I went with some friends to see one of our local reggae bands perform. Their set was mostly covers of Sanchez covers, Beres Hammond and other usual suspects. Women were screaming in the front (I suppose Sanchez has that effect under the right circumstances and with the proper amount of alcohol), guys were vibing in the back, the place was nice. Then I heard a familiar riff and thought "No. They're not going to sing that. This must be something else." But sure enough, out came the lyrics to the infamous Boom Bye Bye.

Now, even as Buju sits in jail in Miami on cocaine trafficking charges, news coverage of the arrest invariably ends up in a discussion of the various ways in which this song was not the best idea for an artiste who wants to maintain a career outside of Jamaica. Yet, a Barbadian band, which let's face it could very well get by performing for a local audience without inciting hate and murder, opts to cover this song. I've been out before, recently actually, where DJs played songs with homophobic themes, and even while I yelled at my friends "What are you doing?! Don't dance to this!" (I know. I'm lovely), it was a sight easier to ignore than a live band inches away from my nose making gun signs and with a smile, encouraging me to kill gays and lesbians. The song got some forward, as we say: people cheered during the opening bars more, I would desperately like to think, out of nostalgia for younger days than because they endorse its message. But ultimately, it doesn't matter. Given that as responsible citizens we have to interrogate our own prejudices and privilege, it's no longer enough to say "but I just like the beat." And even though there were those who cheered the first few notes, even they quickly realized how uncomfortable it is to actually sing the lyrics of that song out loud, assuming you're not in fact a murderer of gay people. The song is very slow, the hate is unmistakable, and though we sadly know all the words because this is the music with which we grew up, most of the room still found themselves by the first chorus mumbling uncomfortably into their beverages as tourists drifted toward the exits. I'm not sure the band picked up on that, because they sang verse after chorus after verse for what felt like a thousand minutes, until finally the torture was over.

But that wasn't the only part of the performance that soured the night. As they went on, there were increasingly more and cruder references to women's genitalia, and even a charming joke in which one of the lead singers equated beating cancer to "beating nookie", the latter of which he thinks should earn him equal congratulations with someone who has done the former. He reminded me of this charming fellow, and also made it clear that I was not his target demographic. In fact, I, along with several other people there that night, was invisible. Because in all his homophobic ranting and simple-minded drooling about how much nookie he violently assaults, he's assuming a heterosexual, cisgendered male with criminal tendencies as his default listener. And the rest of us simply aren't there or don't matter. Or worse, and since he did acknowledge the women present in the first part of his set by repeating "this one's for the ladies" a bajillion times and then launching into syrupy sweet lover's rock tunes because clearly all women want is to be romanced by tired lyrics, he's expecting us all to be a party to our own invalidation. Yes, you're here, I see you. But you like it when I refer to you as your genitalia, right? No? Welp. Sorry. Them's the rules.

And what bothers me about this band is that clearly they have no philosophy. There's nothing they stand for. The fact that they could never engage in this mess at a national show, and they don't, means they acknowledge that this kind of performance is not for popular consumption. So they're clearly dialling up the stupid for an audience they perceive as base and rabid, which not only insults the people there, but even assuming this was the nature of their audience, also misses an opportunity to help people move beyond. These parts of the show, though highly distasteful, were small. Their set could have worked without them. So this image of the weed-smoking, gay-killing, nookie-plundering, one-love-promoting (ha) Rastaman that they're trying to perpetrate on an audience they assume is aspiring to nothing more is a fraud and is unnecessary.

So here begins my solitary boycott. I shall not return.
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It's Independence Day in Barbados - 43 years since we told England "thanks for the slavery and that but we can take it from here." I hadn't spent an Independence Day in Barbados for some time, before now, but it's one of my favourite weekends of the year, in part because of the conkies, which might possibly be the best food in the Western Hemisphere (next to steamed pudding and sweet bread). This morning, reading the news, I saw that when asked about Kate Moss's statement that "nothing tastes as good as skinny feels", Rihanna responded "I love food because I'm from Barbados." And I thought: what a simple and beautiful truth lies in that statement. The 'because' is the real poetry there. Simple cause and effect: since I am from Barbados, I love food. My love for food is based on my geographical provenance. No need for further examination. It's science.

And it's pretty accurate. Holidays and food go hand in hand in lots of places. But for many of us here, eating is an event. I've been planning activities with friends and colleagues, and after we've planned the menu and assigned responsibility for preparing the various items, the conversation has been known to go like this:

Me: So we have all the food and drinks sorted. What else will we do?
Friend 1: And the cups and ice? And the Banks? (Because apparently Banks beer is crucial enough not to count as a drink, and to merit a separate discussion point.)
Me: And the cups and ice and Banks. What else will we do?
Friend 2: How you mean?
Me: Well we can't eat all day.
Friend 1: *blink*
Friend 2: I don't understand.
Me: Well, we'll get there, we'll spread the blankets, unpack the food, eat it...
Friend 1: People will drink, talk, fall asleep, wake up, eat again, finish the drinks, eat the leftovers on the way to the cars and go home. Seriously...how long have you been away?

And of course it has changed a bit over the years. My generation and subsequent ones are pretty active. We'll set up some stumps for cricket and play paddle ball and volleyball at the beach, but whenever I'm at a daytime holiday event with people of all ages, the food is definitely the star. And it's a challenge if you have certain food preferences.

Say my plate has some rice, a flying fish and fried plantain:

Guy I've seen twice in my entire life: Why aren't you eating?
1st Stranger: You trying to reduce?
2nd stranger, wandering in: She trying to reduce?! Reduce where? Girl you big as a mosquito. (Note, I'm considerably larger than a mosquito.) Eat some food.
Me: I'm not trying to lose weight. This is enough food for me right now.
Twice-seen guy: Oh you sick?
Me: No. This is what I want now. I'll have more later.
Stares from all 3
3rd stranger, wandering over: That is all the food you want?
Twice-seen guy: She trying to reduce.
Pitiful glances from all.

Or, say my plate has a variety of foods but no meat:

Neighbour: Why aren't you eating? (You'll notice there's a very clear definition of eating that is more than just 'ingesting a food item and swallowing')
Me: I have food. All that's left is meat and I don't eat that so...
Neighbour: Oh you don't eat pork! There's lamb and chicken.
Me: No I mean meat. And poultry. And shellfish.
By 'shellfish', I'm mumbling and ashamed.
Neighbour, confused: Oh. There's a lasagna there. That has vegetables.
Me, trying to disappear: Right. That's beef. I'm alright, though. This is enough. Thanks.
Neighbour, calling in reinforcements: She says she doesn't eat meat. No meat in that soup, right?
Stranger: No. Only some pigtail.
Me: Right. That's um...from a pig. But you know, I'm good here. I have plenty.
Both look at my plate disapprovingly.
Stranger, calling in more reinforcements: Straw! What here doesn't have in meat?
Straw, also a stranger, walking over: Ahm. I ain sure. Eat some chicken!
I think he believes that if he says it with enthusiasm, I'll be spontaneously convinced to eat chicken.
Me: No, thanks.
Straw: Eat li'l piece. It can't kill you.
Straw is not even in the vicinity of the point.
Me, backing away lest I be force-fed some lamb stew: I have plenty, though. Seriously. Thanks.
Pitiful glances from all.

Of course, we're a modern society, for what that's worth, and we have our fitness competitions and fashion industry and a desire to be thin that is not pervasive, but exists. (We also, for the record, have a non-negligible vegetarian population, so I never understand why so many people act as if non meat eaters are of some kind of cult.) Fat people are still teased, as are thin people. But in general, the thin ideal is a lot less thin than it is in other places. It's more a kind of medium-sized ideal. Still, this type of food philosophy, though seeming quite food- and body-positive in some ways, is quite intolerant in others. It assumes that it cannot create disordered eating, and so does not really allow for its existence in the way food is discussed and treated among groups of people. That assumption is of course incorrect, and I think we're on our way to realizing that.

But there's a certain level of comfort that we have with food, and a pride in creating it that historically comes from doing interesting, innovative things with very little, laboriously-, locally-grown food. That pride is deliciously experienced around Independence Day, and in honour of this day, I give you the afore-mentioned greatest food of the Western Hemisphere. The Conkie.

Ingredients:
2 cups corn flour
1/2 cup flour
3/4 lb finely grated pumpkin
6 oz margarine/shortening melted
1/2 lb sweet potato
3 cups grated coconut
1 tsp salt
4 oz raisins (optional)
3/4 lb brown sugar
1 cup whole milk
1 tsp spice
1 tsp freshly grated nutmeg
1 tsp almond essence
Banana, Plantain or Fig leaves (singed over fire)*

*They'll say you can use wax or foil paper if you have no banana leaves, but They lie. No, you can. But you shouldn't. They simply won't taste the same.

Banana leaves are used to wrap the conkie mixture, so you need leaves that aren't shredded. Strip leaves from stalk with a sharp knife. Leaves are very delicate and tear easily. To use them in your recipe, you must make them pliable by briefly singeing them over an open flame. If your leaves start to curl up, that means they've been on the flame too long. If your leaves spontaneously combust, that means you're using old, dried up leaves. So, you know, don't do that. Use green leaves.

Tear singed leaves into individual squares for wrapping your conkies. The standard size square is 8" x 8", but they can be bigger depending on how big you want your conkies to be. Cut the leaves into desired pieces.


• Combine grated coconut, sweet potato & pumpkin.
• Mix in sugar, spices, flour, corn flour, salt and raisins.
• Add milk, margarine and almond essence.
• Mix ingredients well. Mixture should be thick and drop slowly from a spoon.







• Place 2 to 3 heaping tablespoons in the centre of each banana leaf square.
• Fold the banana leaf neatly around the mixture. Be careful not to tear the leaf, or the mixture will leak.




•Steam conkies over rack of boiling water in a large saucepan or steamer until firm to the touch.









And vIola! Here's your unwrapped conkie goodness:













These lovelies freeze very well. My mother once made them on Independence weekend and froze me a batch until I came home in May the following year. I don't think I did any grocery shopping that entire first week I was back.

Happy Independence Day.

Recipe and photos adapted from www.justbajan.com
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I've just returned from a panel discussion on The Role and Responsibility of the Writer in Shaping the Identity of a Developing Society. And it was hilarious for a lot of reasons, not least among which was the refusal of one of the panellists to engage blogging as a legitimate medium of writing. He was outraged - or rather feigning outrage because one senses that he often uses the theatrical to make his point - that here we were meant to be discussing writers, the greats of literature, and we were wasting our time mentioning blogging and other such new-fangled nonsense. He kept saying 'blogging' with much disdain, like one might say 'phlegm', and I started to wonder if he even knew that blogging was actually writing, or if he thought it was some completely unrelated and tiresome young people's pastime - like skateboarding. I began to invent all kinds of things that blogging might actually refer to in his mind. Maybe he thought it was derived from "breadfruit logging"? The wanton cutting down of breadfruit trees? Or "blue fogging": driving around vehicles that send huge puffs of blue smoke into homes and communities, which sounds ridiculous but would surely be at least as effective as regular fogging in killing mosquitoes (i.e., not at all), and would be much prettier and hilariously random.

But assuming he does realize that blogging is writing, then I have to wonder what he's so upset about. Could it be that we're so used to the elitism of traditional literary/news/opinion media that it sticks in our craws that we have no control over who gets a voice these days? That we aren't ready to release the privilege traditionally required to publish and achieve literary greatness (or at least some kind of audience) and its associated power? That we want it to be hard, goddammit, because then anyone would have access and then what would be the point of our privilege and overpriced, overinflated educations and egos? No. That probably wasn't it.

We talked too about the importance of fair, unbiased reporting, which we seemed to be saying was the current standard of print journalism. We neatly separated this accounting of fact from 'creative writing', as if some of the writing we see in our newspapers isn't the most intentionally scandalous, subjective, created (as apart from creative) thing you've ever seen. The entire discourse reminded me of fourth form English class, where we were taught the definitions of fact and opinion, and then took sentences and assessed them for their content of each. It was disingenuous in its kind of Journalism 101 vibe, and when it came time for audience questions, I wanted to take the mic and say "I'm sorry. Are you people at all serious?" Are we really saying that a newspaper that often runs quotes like "A HOMOSEXUAL TRYST that turned into robbery and ended in death went before the No. 2 Supreme Court yesterday", describes the fact that a man didn't kill his cheating wife sooner as "restraint in the face of adversity" and spends entire paragraphs on stories covering wrongful death/police misconduct cases on whether the alleged victim was gay and promiscuous is committed to some apparently invisible ideal of non-sensationalism and impartiality? No, we can't have been saying that.

In the end, I didn't say anything at all. I've not really outed myself as a writer in this community, at least not in that way where people gather around cheap wine and bemoan the fact that we haven't produced another George Lamming. (As if anyone wants another George Lamming in 2009, or ever. Or another Derek Walcott or Austin Clarke. I don't want another of any of those. We already have them.) And I don't know that I will, because all that bellowing messes with my process and keeps me in my own head, which can't be good for writing. But also because writers talking about writing is potentially some of the most tiresome navel-gazing you could imagine. The people behind the event seem to have great intentions, and I'd like to see them keep going, with perhaps a little more focus next time. But I'm not driven to charge to the fore of this particular movement. I'm not sure I get where it's moving.
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Last weekend, when I grabbed the newspaper from the little old man who is so gingerly perched on the island in the middle of traffic that I'm nervous to move too quickly lest everything topple over and throw him to his demise in front of a sugar cane tractor, I was alarmed. Not by the newspaper man - he's safe - but by the enormous front page photo and the story that accompanied it. And so I became caught up in a frenzied clack-clacking on my computer, filled with outrage and wonder, which I then had to suspend because of other work. And alas, the outrage has not returned in sufficient measure to pick up exactly where I left off. But here's the photo in question, with my own description excerpted below, as I began to write it last weekend.



(The front page picture of a senior teacher at a local secondary boys' school who made the decision to wait at the school gates and publicly flog any student who arrived late. Do you need to re-read that? I'll give you a minute. The photographer went one better than that, though. He included in the shot not just the teacher with his cane or stick or whatever it was, but him actually taking hold of a student and beating him. Another minute? Take your time.

The above shot was taken from the online version of the story, and was not the one used on the front page of the paper version. In this one, the child is taller than the teacher, and is glancing disdainfully at the man as if to say "dude, do you know how long it took me to fix my pants like this? You're really harshing my look here." So it's an offensive image, but not as immediately jarring as the front page photo of the smaller child who looks about 11 and taken quite by surprise.)

Since that story was published, the debate has opened up quite a bit about the legitimacy of flogging in schools. And you know what? I don't understand it. I don't understand how we get into heated arguments around whether it is an effective disciplinary measure to engage in the state-sanctioned beating of other human beings when we've already answered that question in the negative. Remember? We used to have this monstrosity called the cat o' nine tails with which we beat convicted criminals? And this and all other forms of judicial corporal punishment were formally declared inhumane and consequently unconstitutional by the Barbados Supreme Court?

Yet, in 2009, pastors and educators and Matthew Farleys abound, writing articles and giving interviews contrasting crime and social statistics and all manner of 'moral indicators' - whatever those are - in countries where flogging is banned with those where it is still practiced, and arguing on this basis that beating the crap out of children represents the yellow brick road to Utopia. And I used to get all caught up in those arguments myself. I used to yell from my side of the aisle about how Caribbean societies seemed so well-behaved because 1) children who are systematically beaten often don't manifest learned, violent behaviours until they are much older, making it harder (also because of high numbers of migration) to draw a straight line from a beaten child to his criminal behaviour; 2) becoming an offender within the judicial system is not the only manifestation of being generally screwed up; and 3) there are plenty other factors at work keeping our 'moral indicators' as the moral majority would like than corporal punishment - just give a glance to the 'crimes' still on the law books, like homosexuality and dressing like a woman, as opposed to those not on the law books, like marital rape. And on I would go blah-blahing within the parameters of reasoned insanity.

I once even got my bristle board and Sharpie out and picketed the headmaster's office at my school, because he was about to flog (behind closed doors and with no one else present) a teenaged girl who had filled condoms with water and distributed them to her friends to have a laugh.


That's what my sign said. I was 15 years old, and traumatized by the notion that a grown man was going to splay a 16-year-old girl across his desk and beat her, and we were saying that was alright because she happened to be on a school compound between the hours of 9 and 3 and he happened to be called Headmaster.

But these days, I hardly get that far into debates about whether flogging works as a disciplinary action, because I find it absurd that it is even an option. Sure it works in the short term to rule and silence a population with fear, violence and intimidation. We have countless examples of that throughout history, and even today; and we condemn them all. What changes when the population in question is below the age of 18? I would think we'd be more indignant and less willing to do harm to those we're meant to protect.

And how can we draw so neat a line between child abuse - with which this region is struggling more and more every year - and flogging in schools? I hear all kinds of silly little differentiators: "Flogging should not be done in anger, and only by principals and senior teachers." Because that's not at all inhumane. Let's pencil the offending student in for a 2:00 p.m. flogging, yet expect her to be academically productive in the meantime, and then march her off to headteachers' chambers at the appointed hour for a detached, methodical beating. Yeah, that's much better. Then there's the old "I was flogged as a child, and it didn't do me any harm. I turned out great!" Yeah, you turned out great alright. You turned out to be an adult who thinks it's ok to hit children. Well done, you.

I was flogged as a child, and it did me harm. It did me harm to realize that the people I trusted not to hurt me could not be trusted after all, and that their kindness and care were conditional upon certain behaviours that I was still learning. That horrified me. It did me harm to watch my neighbour and primary school classmate walking up the street from school, limping, and when we, concerned, pulled back her skirt, to see her fair skin black-and-blue and purple, bruised, swollen and tender from a teacher's bamboo rod. I cried for her that evening, and had trouble sleeping for days after. It did me harm to have to stand up for myself as an 11-yr old, to tell the principal I would not, in fact, allow him to hit me because I had gotten one problem out of 100 wrong (one strike per wrong answer), and then to feel the victory seep away from me after I sat down again and realized that no one was going to defend the students who had gotten 10 wrong, or 20, or 30. It did me harm to watch my sisters awakened in the middle of the night and struck for some newly-discovered transgression, like reading the wrong type of book, or saying hello to the wrong type of neighbour. I love my parents, and had some great teachers, but the fact that I'm not currently incarcerated for murder doesn't mean none of that did me harm.

Human beings have short memories. So sure, we feel fine now. But children's worlds are small, and the adults who occupy them very, very big. It's time for us to stop finding ways to justify organized, state-sanctioned abuse, get off our lazy asses and parent our children.
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