Barbados by Maxine Jones
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I landed in Barbados, stepping from the plane into convector-heated air on the first day of its month-long independence celebrations. The lights were to be switched on that night in Bridgetown's National Heroes Square, renamed earlier this year from Trafalgar Square. Nelson's statue remains, but that soon will come down. The statue aside, there is little resentment against the English, who arrived here to an empty island in 1627. Indeed, many Bajans deplore Nelson's imminent departure, considering him an integral part of their history. The taxi driver, who has several drops at hotels on the West Coast before taking me to the South Coast, is one such. He extols the English for their extensive use of roundabouts, which Barbados has adopted. Today, the roundabouts are festooned with decorations and blue and yellow lights. When independence celebrations end on November 30th they will be immediately replaced with Christmas lights. Each roundabout island sports advertisements from its sponsor and is named in honour of prominent citizens. Sir Garfield Sobers, the cricket hero, has a particularly nice roundabout.
Night falls quickly after a spectacular sunset, and the taxi-driver and I are heading south when the skies open. The rain bounces from the roads and the gutters gush with muddy water which Jimmy, hunched over the wheel and suddenly grumpy, tells me comes from the central highlands. The rush-hour traffic slows and stands still. The cool air conditioning and redoubled rain put me in mind of an Irish winter. Jimmy takes a side road and perks up until he hits another traffic jam. The 20-minute journey to my hotel takes nearly three hours. The rain becomes an event. Women leave their houses to officiate, wading thigh-deep in water, shower hats perched on their heads. Children, silhouetted like steps, stand on front porches, the tv flickering forgotten in the corner. Teenagers freewheel on cycles, their feet in the air. Advice is given and there is much backing up and tight manoeuvring until the traffic ends up in another narrow street where another car has broken down causing another jam. There is no hooting, no impatience, just resignation from the drivers and huge good-humoured grins, somehow encompassing the full gamut of life's ironies, from each new audience of residents. The rain stops as suddenly as it started but the streets still swirl with water. Inching along head-lamp deep, the traffic moves again, speeding up when we reach the dry roads of the South Coast. A bewildered hotel receptionist cannot believe the journey from Saint James took so long as they, in the neighbouring parish of Saint Michael, haven't had a drop of a rain.
The balmy night air reminds me that even the rain here is warm. With year-round temperatures of 80 degrees and pleasant sea breezes, Barbados, despite the odd hurricane, has one of the best climates on the planet. My ears are assaulted by what sounds like an infants class learning the pan-pipes. I am told these are whistling frogs, tiny creatures which sing out of the bushes all night long. I never saw one throughout my stay, though I searched long and hard, unable to believe that something so vocal could be so invisible.
The next morning the frogs have fallen silent and Liberty FM pipes up with calypso, reggae and parish notices. Saint Mary's primary school pupils are told to stay at home because of flood damage. News and gossip are a strange mix of local and international in a country of 260,000 where half the island knows the other half and which is also visited by 500,000 foreigners a year. On top of this, most Bajans will have a relative in Canada, England or the United States. The racism they would no doubt encounter there is refreshingly absent from the island itself. From the 1640s when 'Red Legs' (indentured English, Scottish and Irish servants) mixed with African slaves (brought here by the Dutch) the races have fused, with a strange hybrid version of English developing. 'Give us a shout,' I heard one refined Barbados woman say to another, an expression I had only previously heard in Ireland. Food has also been influenced. After the marathon journey from Dublin I was offered Irish Stew and Colcannon (an Irish Hallowe'en speciality). The Irish laid-back attitude finds echoes in Barbados. Lounging in front of the rum shop near the hotel on my last evening, I found the urgency of getting to the airport hard to fathom. The island has around 1500 rum shops, tiny bars which are really just someone's house with a few chairs outside. You knock on the window when you want to pay. Even wedged between resort hotels they retain their local appeal.
You won't find any rum shops in Port St Charles, an exclusive new marina complex further up the West Coast where Matthew Sobers (the cricketer's son) is development manager. He told me that most of the purchasers of the $3 million units with off-beach mooring are British, though the investors are Barbadian. Irish investors, including the financier Dermot Desmond, have upped the ante at the world-famous, star-frequented Sandy Lane hotel by knocking it down completely to start anew. Locals are stunned by the profligacy as deadlines are passed and the budget overruns by millions of dollars. A rumour is broadcast on the radio that the incomplete building has been sold, only to be denied the next day. Meanwhile, a tunnel is being excavated so that guests won't have to bother themselves crossing the main road to get to the golf course.
Crossing the road is indeed a hazard in Barbados owing to the ZRs or route taxis, private minibuses whose kamikaze drivers work on a commission basis. From around 3.30pm, when neatly uniformed children crowd the bus stops, to the end of the rushhour they speed up and down the highways honking their horns and stopping whenever they see a likely punter. Swaying along to a thumping reggae beat, passengers piled to the roof, they make any roller coaster ride seem tame. I abandoned a journey in one after three successive near-death experiences. The official blue and yellow buses are more sedate. Conversations span the length of the bus and seated passengers offer to hold the bags of standing passengers.
In bustling Bridgetown on a Saturday morning it's easy to imagine yourself in the 19th century. Sand covers Swan Street and the wooden shopfronts are overhung by balconies. Yams and platanes are sold by fat, straw-hatted women sitting on overturned boxes at street corners. Next to them boys dole out fruit punch from carts. Drapery stores abound, where housewives in deep discussion stroke rolls of brightly patterned material. I develop a particularly Barbadian way of walking, a slow, straight-backed stroll with swaying arms, perfect for conserving energy. A long-limbed young man lopes past me, wearing sunglasses and carrying an umbrella for shade. His other hand clasps a tiny baby girl against his shoulder. I read the back of his t-shirt: 'Is there a ghetto in heaven?'
The Ministry for Social Transformation aims to eradicate poverty in Barbados in four years. Areas nicknamed 'Vietnam' and 'the Barracks' have been targeted. Drugs, a previously unacknowledged problem, are now an issue. The popular prime minister, Owen Seymour Arthur, himself from a poor area, has had new houses and schools built. The taxi driver taking me across the rugged centre of the island pointed out a run-down shop where a white-haired old man sat at the counter. 'The prime minister's father,' he announced. Nearby is Scotland District where only the palm trees and pockets of lush rainforest give the game away. On the rough Atlantic coast you could imagine yourself in Kerry, were in not for the temperature. Here there are few hotels and the sea, in contrast with the still Caribbean on the west coast, is braved only by seasoned surfers.
Despite the recent spate of private development, all the beaches in Barbados are public. After work whole families take a 'sea-bath'. While the best international cuisine is available at expensive restaurants, you can eat local produce in self-service restaurants and fare well. McDonald's did not make it here, though it is rumoured they will try again. You don’t have to be rich to enjoy Barbados, though within their rich confines they certainly do. Where the national costume is a T-shirt, social class loses its edge. If heaven has a ghetto, maybe this is it.