Murder on Morne Coco January 28
It is an overcast Saturday morning in Petit Valley, the lush hillsides obscured by cotton balls of low clouds. Hovering black-headed Corbeau circle above the lime quarry—white earth gouged from jungle flanks as if by mythic talons. The narrow main street, named Morne Coco, an old French term for chocolate mound, bends through the little village, passing stands of fruit, greens, coconut waters, and spicy doubles. Collarless dogs nap beneath metal awnings. A wooden cricket champion from a rosier age poses with his splintered bat beside a light pole. The dry creek is littered with plastic and paper. Scorpion orchids and chadon-beni cilantro grow wild outside Saint Anthony’s Church. Across the street, behind the locked gate, the Valley Harp Panyard buzzes with activity, as young students assemble to practice math, reading, and twister.
Denzil thinks the children should be reading more, especially history, and be twisting less. He worries about the new generation. “It’s not safe here. Dey’s not’ing for t’em.“ He does his best to lift the children (Never call them “kids”!), teaching to special-needs in Woodbrook private school; but he fears it is not enough, and he has seen the effects of social disintegration even here at home. His son Aaron is a good boy, but he has some sketchy friends, and one of them was killed here last year. “He right over t’here,“ says Denzil, pointing to a cable-spool-table, “playin’ cards right t’here.“ A drive-by shooting on Morne Coco Road seems unimaginable on this dewy morning, but Denzil’s eyes gleam with anguish to recall. “At night, you know, blood look like syr’p.“
The Morne Coco Road is the original plantation trail, barely a wagon wide in places, passing through Diego Martin and Petit Valley townships, before climbing the steep slopes to its terminus at the Saddle Road. It suffered serious damage during the October floods, and recovery has been slow. Patchwork repairs of stones and red silt keep it passable, but it does close occasionally, from landslides and backhoe failure. Carnival fetes will certainly close the road yet again, with tsunamis of humanity. Last year, it took a week to remove a small mountain of litter on the Road, which kept locals from reaching the Saddle to Maracas Beach. One abandoned car in the way was pushed over the edge of a ravine by angry motorists.
Polio panic cancelled Mas altogether in 1973, with a rash of cases traced straight to Morne Coco. Carnival was consequently moved from March to May, well after Lent, and all were cursed for it. Hot rains poured for most of the time. Kaiso Lord Kitchener headlined that year, and he later wrote a Calypso topical song about the event, called Rain-o-Rama, in D:
Mama, when they hear they go get the carnival
All masqueraders on heat
When they didn't hear if it was official,
But they started turning beast on the street
And they start to jump around, yaay,
And they start to tumble down, yaay
And they fall down on the ground, yaay,
If you see how they gay, yaay,
But what was so comical,
In the midst of bacchanal
Rain come and wash out mas in May.
Some ah them even say is 'cause they from Morne Coco
So they wouldn't let we play
And dey blaming polio,
Who they think they could fool
All we know they better do fast, polio or no polio,
Man we want we mas.
When the news hit the town,
The band leaders rail up then
Well they can't slow we down,
'cause a lot of money spent
And they know very well everybody have their minds bent
So they have to try and save us this embarrassment.
One or two big shots say that it is impertinent
To suggest they should play carnival after the Lent
Well the crowd start to bawl, they eh know what they talking 'bout
Why the so and so hypocrites doh shut up dey mouths.
The Panyard is full of oil drums, painted and hammered to post-industrial harmony, some hanging by chains from scaffolds, others arranged symphonically on the concrete slab. Tonight the pan players will pick up their rubber-ball mallets and practice the new songs for this year’s competition. A Kaiso winner will be chosen here next month, in the medium-size category, that is, 30-60 steel pans. Valley Harp Orchestra has a proud tradition of winning crowns on the Queen’s Park Savannah.
“Ten minute decide our destiny, God-willin’,“ says Denzil. Putting aside for a moment his worries for his son and for the new generation, he would prefer worrying today about the music. Carnival trumps reality, as the nighttime card-players might say—blood and chocolate become indistinguishable.
The next morning, Sunday, shots ring out after some van pulls off the Morne Coco Road, directly across from the Valley Harp yard. Two hours later, an adult male body is mostly covered with a white plastic sheet on the tarmac. Dark blood trickles from the area around his head. A dozen police line the perimeter, perhaps waiting for someone to show up who is able to properly gather evidence. I will return to Petit Valley next Saturday to do homework with the children, where I expect Denzil will have a new story to tell.