Gangs and the Piss’n Tail Taxi
(Extracted from web blog, The Vicissitudes)From time to time, I take Jamaican public transportation. Usually, the journey is long and switches have to be made around 3 times. So, I'm not usually excited about the draining task. However, each time I see something that makes me shake my head.
I live in the first capital of Jamaica - Spanish Town. (The present capital is Kingston.) Spanish Town these days has a bad rep. When I meet persons for the first time and I say I live in Spanish Town, they usually ask me to show them my gun.
Part of the reason for the bad rep is because of the presence of gangs in the old capital. There are two gangs really that make the news regularly. One is Clans Man. The other is One Order. Back when I was doing my Literature degree, I lived on campus and would hear from my parents about the violence/clashes/bloodshed between the two groups. I believe politics is linked to the feuding as well as the two gangs are linked to the two dominant political parties, respectively. They (the gangs) coordinate a lot of the daily illegal activities in Spanish Town and (most alarmingly) have started branching out into the countryside.
So, as I was saying, I wanted to get to school early one morning and decided to take the bus. I then decided to take a route taxi from Spanish Town to Half-Way- Tree. Half-Way-Tree is a vibrant, busy, central section of the parish, Kingston and St. Andrew. I didn't do so well in Geography but I believe it is the capital of St. Andrew. St. Andrew is the unofficial capital of Jamaica. If you are from St. Andrew, I suppose you are considered cosmopolitan by the country folk. A substantial number of Jamaicans work towards owning a nice house in the distinguished, affluent parts of St. Andrew where the elite class lives. Kingston is basically the capital of Jamaica because it is (or actually used to be) the Central Business District. St. Andrew is virtually the capital for not only business, but everything else. Everything else includes residential areas, public facilities, recreation...urban living.....................
....Right. So, I walked to the taxi stand and noticed that everyone stood, sticking out their necks looking for approaching taxis. I anticipated the present future to be like the past - I expected to fight for a seat in a jam-packed taxi and figured I'd be outrun as I'd been many a time.
Somehow though, this quiet group reminded me of cows at a trough, drinking water, dreading an upcoming milking. Or maybe, Gideon (was that his name?) and the soldiers who drank the water at the river cautiously, looking out for imminent danger. It was indeed a tense quiet.
After waiting for perhaps 10 minutes, I heard a hesitant voice say "Awffichee" (Half-Way Tree). I bolted, expecting Usain Bolt's cousins to leave their shoe marks in my back.....What do you know? One or two persons walked calmly to the taxi, which had driven up on the back section of the stand. I still believed that at any moment a race would start so I hurried in. Outside a woman whom Jamaicans would call a sketel (skeh-tell) which basically means a vulgar or fallen woman, drawled "OOO? Mi nah guh inna dah piss'n tail taxi deh." (Who? I am not going into that piss'n tail taxi...I am not certain what exactly piss'n tail means, but I know it has to do with piss which in some contexts denotes inferiority.)
I asked the cab driver around three times if he was going to Half-Way-Tree and he gave me a subdued nod each time. So, I sat at the back of the taxi, all alone wondering what exactly was up with the gloom and calm around me. A large woman was the only other occupant; she was in the front seat.
Next, something else interesting happened. The driver, I saw, noticed a light skinned, scowling man who magically appeared at the taxi's side. He held out an open and cupped palm. The driver ignored him and tried unsuccessfully to drive to the other side of the taxi stand to exit. The scowler wore rings on his left hand and with this bejeweled hand, he slammed it into the side of the car's exterior. I cringed. The taxi man ignored him and amazingly tried to ram his front end into an oncoming vehicle in an attempt to leave. Blam/Scrape/Scratch again. Then, finally, the way was clear and the driver got to the other side.
On the other side (where I had earlier stood, waiting), quietly and reluctantly, my co passengers filed into the car. I almost pinched myself. Four of us were at the back, thankfully none of us was significantly large, so I didn't feel squeezed. At the front, the large woman got out and allowed a smaller woman to go into the front seat first, resting adjacent to the emergency/hand brake. The large woman then went back in beside her on the front seat. We were all set.
And so was the scowling ring wearer. As the taxi took off towards the exit, we noticed that the entry barrier/security gate was locked. And of course, the beautiful gold rings glittered in the sun again as the cupped palm was extended. This time, the driver wound down his window and gave the scowler around 500 Jamaican dollars and requested his change. He claimed that the scowler had some money for him from the other day. I am not quite sure if the scowler gave him any money or if he had to utter an expletive quietly and drive away without getting his change.
This scowler was none other than an extortionist from one of the gangs. I am not sure which one. My gardener had told me about the extortion that the taxi drivers had begun to endure. This must be the reason why everyone seemed so wary. Criminals were right there in your face, taking a fee for work they did not and would never do.
You never know why a man bad drives you (drives aggressively and illegally) on the road. Maybe, you surmise, that he wasn't brought up right, or that maybe he burns too much weed (smokes marijuana) or doesn't know any better.
I have a pretty good idea why this quiet, sad taxi driver took every risk on the road, endangered mine and my co passengers' lives and broke every rule in the Road Code that morning.
I got to school early.
I live in the first capital of Jamaica - Spanish Town. (The present capital is Kingston.) Spanish Town these days has a bad rep. When I meet persons for the first time and I say I live in Spanish Town, they usually ask me to show them my gun.
Part of the reason for the bad rep is because of the presence of gangs in the old capital. There are two gangs really that make the news regularly. One is Clans Man. The other is One Order. Back when I was doing my Literature degree, I lived on campus and would hear from my parents about the violence/clashes/bloodshed between the two groups. I believe politics is linked to the feuding as well as the two gangs are linked to the two dominant political parties, respectively. They (the gangs) coordinate a lot of the daily illegal activities in Spanish Town and (most alarmingly) have started branching out into the countryside.
So, as I was saying, I wanted to get to school early one morning and decided to take the bus. I then decided to take a route taxi from Spanish Town to Half-Way- Tree. Half-Way-Tree is a vibrant, busy, central section of the parish, Kingston and St. Andrew. I didn't do so well in Geography but I believe it is the capital of St. Andrew. St. Andrew is the unofficial capital of Jamaica. If you are from St. Andrew, I suppose you are considered cosmopolitan by the country folk. A substantial number of Jamaicans work towards owning a nice house in the distinguished, affluent parts of St. Andrew where the elite class lives. Kingston is basically the capital of Jamaica because it is (or actually used to be) the Central Business District. St. Andrew is virtually the capital for not only business, but everything else. Everything else includes residential areas, public facilities, recreation...urban living.....................
....Right. So, I walked to the taxi stand and noticed that everyone stood, sticking out their necks looking for approaching taxis. I anticipated the present future to be like the past - I expected to fight for a seat in a jam-packed taxi and figured I'd be outrun as I'd been many a time.
After waiting for perhaps 10 minutes, I heard a hesitant voice say "Awffichee" (Half-Way Tree). I bolted, expecting Usain Bolt's cousins to leave their shoe marks in my back.....What do you know? One or two persons walked calmly to the taxi, which had driven up on the back section of the stand. I still believed that at any moment a race would start so I hurried in. Outside a woman whom Jamaicans would call a sketel (skeh-tell) which basically means a vulgar or fallen woman, drawled "OOO? Mi nah guh inna dah piss'n tail taxi deh." (Who? I am not going into that piss'n tail taxi...I am not certain what exactly piss'n tail means, but I know it has to do with piss which in some contexts denotes inferiority.)
I asked the cab driver around three times if he was going to Half-Way-Tree and he gave me a subdued nod each time. So, I sat at the back of the taxi, all alone wondering what exactly was up with the gloom and calm around me. A large woman was the only other occupant; she was in the front seat.
Next, something else interesting happened. The driver, I saw, noticed a light skinned, scowling man who magically appeared at the taxi's side. He held out an open and cupped palm. The driver ignored him and tried unsuccessfully to drive to the other side of the taxi stand to exit. The scowler wore rings on his left hand and with this bejeweled hand, he slammed it into the side of the car's exterior. I cringed. The taxi man ignored him and amazingly tried to ram his front end into an oncoming vehicle in an attempt to leave. Blam/Scrape/Scratch again. Then, finally, the way was clear and the driver got to the other side.
On the other side (where I had earlier stood, waiting), quietly and reluctantly, my co passengers filed into the car. I almost pinched myself. Four of us were at the back, thankfully none of us was significantly large, so I didn't feel squeezed. At the front, the large woman got out and allowed a smaller woman to go into the front seat first, resting adjacent to the emergency/hand brake. The large woman then went back in beside her on the front seat. We were all set.
And so was the scowling ring wearer. As the taxi took off towards the exit, we noticed that the entry barrier/security gate was locked. And of course, the beautiful gold rings glittered in the sun again as the cupped palm was extended. This time, the driver wound down his window and gave the scowler around 500 Jamaican dollars and requested his change. He claimed that the scowler had some money for him from the other day. I am not quite sure if the scowler gave him any money or if he had to utter an expletive quietly and drive away without getting his change.
This scowler was none other than an extortionist from one of the gangs. I am not sure which one. My gardener had told me about the extortion that the taxi drivers had begun to endure. This must be the reason why everyone seemed so wary. Criminals were right there in your face, taking a fee for work they did not and would never do.
You never know why a man bad drives you (drives aggressively and illegally) on the road. Maybe, you surmise, that he wasn't brought up right, or that maybe he burns too much weed (smokes marijuana) or doesn't know any better.
I have a pretty good idea why this quiet, sad taxi driver took every risk on the road, endangered mine and my co passengers' lives and broke every rule in the Road Code that morning.
I got to school early.
A Word on the Work:
To contextualize the Caribbean, many a time, involves incorporating a reminiscence/implanted incantation/confusion/ambivalence/ blood tears/ nonchalance/pride/anger/a love/ a hatred of Africa. As the peoples of the Americas, “the dark continent” is one we cannot separate from our history and present day realities. It is very easy for me to see and feel the relevance and impact of Africa on so many aspects of Caribbean culture.
I wrote this piece on Nelson Mandela because he is the most important living legend to me. I treasure and honor him. I specifically felt like writing it because my Grandma was a passionate reader and follower of current affairs. She loved Mandela’s story; cried as she read his autobiography. Whatever I write these days is inspired by my awareness of what a marvelous, beautiful, magnanimous spirit she was and is. I miss her terribly.
Finally, I wrote it because I feel a powerful love inside.
Mandela’s Tomato Garden: A Reflection
I bought my Grandma Long Walk to Freedom a few Christmases ago. She read it, in rapture, and upon completion, wrote on the blank last page at the back of the book - "Well done". She felt a connection with him I suppose, and it was her way of congratulating him on the life he led up to the time of his autobiography.
I read the book not long after she’d finished and I similarly, was caught up in the wonderment of Mandela. I was doing my first year of Law school and my classmates found it bizarre that I would get up early in the morning, pile the law texts beside me on the bed, and completely
ignore them so that I could finish reading the almost 700 pages of the book. It was exam time, I should've been hitting the books...reading about the foundations of the British legal system, mens rea, actus reus and all the elegant/cumbersome specialist language that distinguishes a young legal mind from "those of other disciplines".
Law was foreign to me though. My soft heart was used to warm words and throaty passionate sentiments all there for me to pluck from their leaves and analyze and ultimately possess. But law was not about warmth and plucking. So, I latched on to my Mandela autobiography and took comfort in the beauty of his words and the strength of his resilience.
With my favourite writers, no matter how few times I have read one of their works, if there is something special that speaks to me, it never leaves me. So with Channer, in Waiting in Vain, I remember very clearly the love story between the characters Fire and Sylvia. With Hemingway, in Farewell to Arms, I still feel a pinch within my chest when I think about the painful end that came to the main character and his beautiful one. In Long Walk to Freedom, I constantly think about Mandela's description of his tomato garden and what became of it.
You see, he watered, tilled, tended to this garden - his release, his hope, his motivation, his symbol of love for his wife, Winnie. He did not know when he would see her again, touch her again, breathe into her neck and smell her musk. He was in prison...for life. So, he planted a seed and watched it grow to remember her. He cared for the plant as a mother cares for her child. It showed its appreciation by blooming and bearing some of the most beautiful tomatoes he was ever to see or taste. He would write Winnie about his plant all the time, very excited, hopeful, steadfast....
The tomato plant began to wither. He couldn't sustain it, bring it back to life. Fertilizer didn't work, abundant sunshine, weeding, weeping....nothing worked. Mandela told Winnie all these things in his letters to her. When the plant finally dried up, he was devastated.
Nelson, the freedom fighter, soldier, patriot, man on the run, revolutionary - devastated over a tomato plant withering and dying. It happens. After the world saw and fell in love with the story of the husband and wife, fighting to get back to each other for almost 30 years, for this tree which bore beautiful fruit in captivity to go dead at the root - a fact like this is hard to accept.
In My Girl, the movie, at a creative writing class, one poetry enthusiast wrote about planting grass for a girl he loved, painting her a picture and all dese t’ings. The girl however, did not sit on his grass or look at the picture.
This thing called love is tricky. We get euphoric satisfaction by making things for the ones we love so they can know how we feel. We forge ties with the dinners we make - we do them out of love; the sweaters we knit - as we drape the wool over your shoulders, we imagine ourselves draping our limbs over you; the statues or carvings we create - we feel so proud of how we have almost captured a part of your beauty that will always remain. It is a heady feeling - being brave enough to show someone how much you really love them.
Sometimes though, the dinners are either too spicy, too milky or perhaps not flavorful enough. The sweaters are too itchy and hot for the tropics. The pottery, just a tad too abstract for your beloved to appreciate. The root of the plant dies. Or, maybe, it was planted in sand or rocks and not loam.
Mandela cried, I am sure, for his plant. I cried three years ago for a beautiful lamp that was meant for someone else, someone more valuable. Women cry all the time for the work their bodies do for the sake of love, only for them to be scrutinized and passed off as has beens.
But after the crying, what remains? Pain will always be around in this life. But intertwined with the love rattan cane is the green ivy that symbolizes growth and regrowth. We can grow again, even if we have been completely shattered. Use a machete and get the rattan off your ivy. Carry home your plant to safe shelter. Immerse it in water and let it drink and drink until it can breathe without wanting to gasp for air. Next, examine your shelter; is it full of breathing room? Can a damaged and frail vine cling to its walls and become beautiful again? If the house is shaky and cannot withstand a vine blossoming on its surface there's only one thing to do. Find a home that can meet your ivy at its full potential. Because your love that you have to give is like a vine - it grows and grows with a caring and nurturing environment; it makes only the right type of home look cozy without strangling the space. You have to find the right home for your ivy.
Nelson’s love bloomed and died in captivity. Once free, I would think that his heart soared again. It is possible. I think I could do it again. Could you?
I read the book not long after she’d finished and I similarly, was caught up in the wonderment of Mandela. I was doing my first year of Law school and my classmates found it bizarre that I would get up early in the morning, pile the law texts beside me on the bed, and completely
Law was foreign to me though. My soft heart was used to warm words and throaty passionate sentiments all there for me to pluck from their leaves and analyze and ultimately possess. But law was not about warmth and plucking. So, I latched on to my Mandela autobiography and took comfort in the beauty of his words and the strength of his resilience.
With my favourite writers, no matter how few times I have read one of their works, if there is something special that speaks to me, it never leaves me. So with Channer, in Waiting in Vain, I remember very clearly the love story between the characters Fire and Sylvia. With Hemingway, in Farewell to Arms, I still feel a pinch within my chest when I think about the painful end that came to the main character and his beautiful one. In Long Walk to Freedom, I constantly think about Mandela's description of his tomato garden and what became of it.
You see, he watered, tilled, tended to this garden - his release, his hope, his motivation, his symbol of love for his wife, Winnie. He did not know when he would see her again, touch her again, breathe into her neck and smell her musk. He was in prison...for life. So, he planted a seed and watched it grow to remember her. He cared for the plant as a mother cares for her child. It showed its appreciation by blooming and bearing some of the most beautiful tomatoes he was ever to see or taste. He would write Winnie about his plant all the time, very excited, hopeful, steadfast....
The tomato plant began to wither. He couldn't sustain it, bring it back to life. Fertilizer didn't work, abundant sunshine, weeding, weeping....nothing worked. Mandela told Winnie all these things in his letters to her. When the plant finally dried up, he was devastated.
Nelson, the freedom fighter, soldier, patriot, man on the run, revolutionary - devastated over a tomato plant withering and dying. It happens. After the world saw and fell in love with the story of the husband and wife, fighting to get back to each other for almost 30 years, for this tree which bore beautiful fruit in captivity to go dead at the root - a fact like this is hard to accept.
In My Girl, the movie, at a creative writing class, one poetry enthusiast wrote about planting grass for a girl he loved, painting her a picture and all dese t’ings. The girl however, did not sit on his grass or look at the picture.
This thing called love is tricky. We get euphoric satisfaction by making things for the ones we love so they can know how we feel. We forge ties with the dinners we make - we do them out of love; the sweaters we knit - as we drape the wool over your shoulders, we imagine ourselves draping our limbs over you; the statues or carvings we create - we feel so proud of how we have almost captured a part of your beauty that will always remain. It is a heady feeling - being brave enough to show someone how much you really love them.
Sometimes though, the dinners are either too spicy, too milky or perhaps not flavorful enough. The sweaters are too itchy and hot for the tropics. The pottery, just a tad too abstract for your beloved to appreciate. The root of the plant dies. Or, maybe, it was planted in sand or rocks and not loam.
Mandela cried, I am sure, for his plant. I cried three years ago for a beautiful lamp that was meant for someone else, someone more valuable. Women cry all the time for the work their bodies do for the sake of love, only for them to be scrutinized and passed off as has beens.
But after the crying, what remains? Pain will always be around in this life. But intertwined with the love rattan cane is the green ivy that symbolizes growth and regrowth. We can grow again, even if we have been completely shattered. Use a machete and get the rattan off your ivy. Carry home your plant to safe shelter. Immerse it in water and let it drink and drink until it can breathe without wanting to gasp for air. Next, examine your shelter; is it full of breathing room? Can a damaged and frail vine cling to its walls and become beautiful again? If the house is shaky and cannot withstand a vine blossoming on its surface there's only one thing to do. Find a home that can meet your ivy at its full potential. Because your love that you have to give is like a vine - it grows and grows with a caring and nurturing environment; it makes only the right type of home look cozy without strangling the space. You have to find the right home for your ivy.
Nelson’s love bloomed and died in captivity. Once free, I would think that his heart soared again. It is possible. I think I could do it again. Could you?
A Word on the Work:
As I drove off to work one morning in May this year, I was amazed to see a host of yellow-green butterflies (that had not been there before) in the empty lot across from my home. It was strange to me… they were there, just like that. I needed to see them that morning, gaze at their lovely happy color, and feel happy myself. My gran had passed only a little over a month before and every day had tasted like cotton. The butterflies were everywhere – even after I drove off, they followed the car, even their friends down the road said hello. They really cheered me up. It was then, that I delighted in the thought that my Gran had something to do with this great, soul satisfying, serendipitous event.
In the Caribbean and perhaps in Latin America, we sometimes hear tales and myths about spirits entering creatures and using them to be near to their loved ones still alive. I clutch these notions tightly so that I can be near my Gran, in my mind. Two days before she went to sleep, a great army of ants invaded my bathroom. They stayed there for around two months. I didn’t have the heart to use bug spray. I wanted to believe.
Breathing Grandma
We promised each other things.
On the phone in tears I vowed,
I'll finish school first.
And once, amused by your solemnity -
I won't cut off my hair again.
You only promised me one thing my whole life.
"When is your time, is your time."
It feels like my time, my Mama.
This morning, chartreuse butterflies swarmed the empty lot,
led me along the country road, past the slum gully,
onto the main, then shrank back.
The morning eased on, I drove ever so slowly,
wanting to see them for the rest of the day.
Reaching my palm out the window, my skin sidled
up to breathe your mist.
It is my time Grandma.
My heart still bleeds, but with this morning's blessing,
it will beat to the sound of our drum,
as we make our home with brightly coloured wings
signalling our presence to each other.
On the phone in tears I vowed,
I'll finish school first.
And once, amused by your solemnity -
I won't cut off my hair again.
You only promised me one thing my whole life.
"When is your time, is your time."
It feels like my time, my Mama.
This morning, chartreuse butterflies swarmed the empty lot,
led me along the country road, past the slum gully,
onto the main, then shrank back.
The morning eased on, I drove ever so slowly,
wanting to see them for the rest of the day.
Reaching my palm out the window, my skin sidled
up to breathe your mist.
It is my time Grandma.
My heart still bleeds, but with this morning's blessing,
it will beat to the sound of our drum,
as we make our home with brightly coloured wings
signalling our presence to each other.
