Bajan Bombshell June 10
There is more activity than usual along the seawall. Needle-nosed trumpet fish scatter at my approach. The snapper skimming the surface is at least four inches long but seems in shock over the near miss. Something tried to swallow it a few seconds ago, something big enough to cause a great splash. If I were a fish-whisperer, I would swear this snapper is trying to get out of the sea altogether. I notice bodily fluid trailing from the tail fin.
The end comes the next instant when a giant head, at maybe a foot across, ascends from the darkness and swallows its victim whole. The other two witnesses believe the predator was a tarpon, but I am not so sure. I saw no scales, only smooth skin—like a shark. However, they appear to know better, so I resist the temptation of sharks.
The two are curious about my school experiences here and particularly what I think of Port of Spain. “The people here do not want to work,“ complains the gentleman from Barbados. He and his wife are retired and visiting friends in a city they know well, and they lament its industrial demise. Both bear a strikingly handsome pose at the steel rail above the marina, each wearing African-style pool robes. The Bajan is a towering man with a devouring handshake, which undoubtedly must serve to enforce his will over just about anyone, except perhaps these Trini shirkers.
“You can pay every man and every woman fifteen dollars per hour—like your Bernie Sanders wants—you can pay everyone even more than they are worth, and they still will not be happy to work for you.“ Whether he is hinting at post-colonial resentments or he is referring to my ongoing gripe with unhelpful Massy clerks, I am most impressed by his reference to Bernie from Vermont.
I become convinced these West Indians are some kind of government power couple. She beams adoringly as he waxes eloquent and I wane submissive, although her smooth brow creases when I impertinently ask if he knew of Peter Clavelle, my old uncle and former Sanders economic aide, who once worked in the West Indies, way back when my family was visiting Tobago.
“No,“ he says peremptorily, but adds that he may have. He has met so very many luminaries in what must be a long and storied career. His wife nods throughout the lecture, only occasionally fixing her hair, then his as well, as if this life of leisure is but a temporary condition.
“If everyone can earn a living wage then maybe—“ I start to say, but he cuts me off with a wide sweep, grazing me with a wave of air.
“The wage won’t change the attitude,“ he insists. “Nothing will change it.“ He speaks of laziness with a clipped British accent, taut and surgical, faintly warmed with an island lilt. “They abide by an ideology where all riches are to be found outside the workplace. Outside of it, you see?“ He points toward the sea, then the hills, as if I am unfamiliar with the outdoors. Yet his point is taken, that is, a popular belief that financial wealth flows in only one direction—off the island. “There is nothing inside for them.“ He brings his clutched hands together like breast armor. “And with this, ambition dies. Industry dies.“
Ladysmith Macbeth folds her arms and declares, “Exactly! So why would they want to work?“
“What about the future?“
“Hmm? Where is that place? There is no future here. Haven’t you heard that yet, Mister Teacher?“
Ladysmith, let me count the ways.