Tramways in Barbados

For a historical view of Barbados' tram past click below:

sent by Grafton Rouse and Dawne Pollard

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On being Bajan

“Let your servant return, that I may die in my own town

near the tomb of my father and mother.” (2Samuel 19:37. KJV).

“Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,

Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.” (John Howard Payne, Home, Sweet Home.)

I distinctly remember standing at a bus stop, transferring buses one day in New York in the middle of a freezing winter. I was struck by a suddenly all-consuming wave of home sickness as tears came flooding into my eyes because I could intensely smell the aroma of Cou-cou and steamed Flying Fish wafting into my nostrils. It was mere illusion, and I was brought to abject weeping. There is truly no place like home. And home for me began in Black Rock, in the early fifties of the last century. Wow! That sounds like eons ago; and yet it was just yesterday. I remember it well. Black rock is to St. Michael, Barbados as St, James or Woodbrook is to Port of Spain, Trinidad. They both have changed only demographically over the years.

In Black Rock I had cousins living four houses away beyond the entrance to Seclusion Road (Simply ‘Seclusion’ to us), and another set of cousins next door to them; and across the street near Deacons Road, more cousins from a large family of cousins in Washington Avenue, up the street. My great grandmother lived within walking distance on Deacons Road with a daughter across the street from her. Another son of hers lived a few houses away from what is now Carlton & A1 with yet more cousins and we were always in each others’ houses. My grandmother lived with us. That was the inner family of my Black Rock family. But to grow up in Black Rock in the fifties was to know the ‘characters’ who lent colour and drama to living within a stone’s throw of a mental institution. They, of course, had absolutely nothing to do with ‘Jenkins’ or “The Green Gates” which has now ascended to the lofty, and deservedly so, position of being our lone Psychiatric Hospital. After all, “duh got mo mad people out dan in, y’know!”

“Rat Bakes” was regarded as the ugliest man in Black Rock but that may not actually have been. He was scary enough though, as to have enabled my lovely wife, when she was still a child at the Northern end of Black Rock, to catapult herself from Black Rock Main Road, not just over the front wall of her home; but also through a fortunately open window in the verandah, and onto her living room floor. Such was the reputation that preceded ‘Bakes’.

Her Skin was like a darkly polished hardwood from the banks of the Mozambique channel, her cheek bones prominent with a sharply pointed nose and a full, yet composed mouth even darker than her skin. The whites of her eyes carried an orange tinge. Slightly overweight and wearing what ladies call a wrap nowadays, and that ragged and soiled; she carried what must have been her 9 or 10 year old son on her back – wherever she went. That was “Seola”. What some man had done to her to have plunged her into the abyss of her particular state of dementia was beyond my comprehension then and still is. “Bambury the Cross” was a foul mouthed, intense woman who would become highly incensed when you made the sign of the cross with two fingers for her to see. You could pick de oats outa de horse dung wid dat one for y’self. She scared me more than the others, even if only with the vituperation spewed from her lips.

As if these were not enough for one district, there was the celebrated “Press de dead” or “Pressie” for short. Rumour had it that this hardworking assistant in a funeral home and its resident mortician, were, together, confounded by the perplexing problem of fitting a very tall cadaver into a normal-sized coffin. Pressie’s solution was terse and to the point: “Boss, brek a han’, brek a leg, an’ press de dead!” Matter fixed!

I can only imagine how “Cold Oat Flakes run down My Back” got the sobriquet; and that with much effort too. But I would not attempt to touch an explanation for that of “Pull Back Elcock”, even with the proverbial ten foot pole. The infamous man about town, “Capescalers” moved into Seclusion as a large burly early teenager with the mental capacity of an eight year old just when I was learning to ride under a bicycle bar (remember that?) He and his totally introverted mother lived alone midway up the avenue, near the well; and rumours of incestuous molestation abounded. He graduated to being a Bridgetown character and has been immortalized by one Smokey Burke, local bard, erstwhile letter writer, and ubiquitous kaiso man. “Hopalong Cassidy”, or more affectionately, “Hoppa” was a one-legged lady of accidental misfortune as was “Cuttards”, whom I knew well and liked a lot. He loved to gamble (nick dice) under the light at the corner of Deacons Road; and because he could not gather his single crutch soon enough to run at the approach of the police; developed the ploy of lying down and feigning sickness as he hid the “pool” under his body. He was also sighted in only one eye.

Then there was “Booley”, from a family of boys with a penchant for cricketing skills. One of his brothers was “Vally Bloomerts”. “Booley” was what would be now called a ‘special child’ (slow learner) who could not close his mouth and drooled a bit. But he could bowl a devilish leg break, even with a ‘knit ball’. He died a few years ago, still a fixture at Deacon’s corner. “Simpoo” and his very proper wife were two of the last poor whites left in the area, as were the well respected Lewises and Huntes. On ‘Guy Fawkes Night’, the fifth of November, which was an annual free-for-all pyrotechnic-filled, marauding holiday back then; we would burn balata or an old tyre outside his house to see if his ‘goadies’ (herniated testicles) would really roll. Hmm! His prim and proper wife suffered a terrible fate at the hands of Lampitt, a local fisherman, whose flatulence he loudly attributed to her on a bustling Bridgetown-bound bus one work morning. Her exit was immediate. “Cully” was not really a character in these genres, but his mule cart served as a grass filled joyride for us boys as he made his way home. But you’d better watch out for a sudden flick of his whip as he neared his old chattel house. I can still recall his full-blooded laughter today at some hapless boy’s badluckyness.

Space does not allow me to go into detail about “Pa Bo”, the surly bus driver who took us to school, or “De Angel”, the ambient drunk of whom I have written previously or even “Fadders” who would have been known from St. Lucy to Bridgetown, his daily trek, as he flowed itinerantly and animatedly in conversation with anyone who listened but mainly with himself; or even “Spree Boy” who had fingers like bamboo ash. But I could not go without mentioning our local seer, three houses away from mine, Madame S. She was not the local obeah woman but read palms, and had no lack of patrons from all sectors of society. On occasion they never made it through the side door without being recognised. But it was all in good fun to us back then.

Well, the only one left to date is “B boy”, not pronounced like B the boy, but more like: boy, the son of B, or B’s boy. But then he only came on weekends from St. Lucy too, when his mother, B, sent him up to his aunt to get a little respite, perhaps. Fortunately living to inherit the property nearest to my place of birth, he is more commonly known as “Mr. Mings” today. But, believe me! “Mr. Mings”, on a good day, can hold his own with any of the lot of them. “For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only son that whosoever…”

Next week: Back to a little more gravitas, as I seek ‘A word with you please’ along the lines of “Cleaner feet, humbler hearts”. Until then, blessings like peas, yuh!

(Mark Maynard is an internationally awarded visual artist and designer who was saved out of substance addiction, and may be contacted at marmay@caribsurf.com).

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