Dear Editor,
We met by accident, literally – his motorcycle crashing into my car just at the junction of North Road and Shiv Chanderpaul Drive (at the GCC corner). Despite the expressed anger of the pedestrian bystanders, the Rastaman immediately marked himself as a gentleman and calmly negotiated with me a settlement.
Nearly a year has gone since then, which saw the growth of a relationship of mutual respect. Perhaps it began as one of convenience: he resident in Sophia, and I in Prashad Nagar, nearby. But having soon learnt that he was a man for (if not of) all trades, I increasingly utilised his services, including house painter, gardener who would weed with one of those buzzing machines. In between he also drove a draycart to move small to large loads.
It was amazing how this diminutive body of a man could lift and fetch the loads he sometimes did. But then one realised that his name – Hector – was not without meaning. His lengthy jet black locks were almost as sinewy as the muscled frame continually exposed to the vagaries of the weather, through the use of only sleeveless wear. At first sight his countenance would appear almost forbidding as the granite-like surface from which his narrow features – thin lips and a narrow nose – were carved (remindful of Ethiopians I have met in my time), and with prominent upper jaw matching his cheekbones.
He spoke carefully, reflectively, and, if only in my presence, with an effort to express himself in formal English.
Almost always punctual to the arranged time he would arrive, and despite my discouragement, insisted on shedding his (apparently) over-sized boots before entering my place. There were times we would just talk, between the occasional bottle of Guinness, about work, or lack of employment, his church, his eldest son who was a devout Christian and taking CXC exams; about his going into the bakery business in partnership with his eldest daughter, who had already migrated from home; of his supportive wife of somewhat fragile health, with two younger children still to care for. They lived in their own home, in their own yard in Sophia.
He confirmed that he was not a dedicated ital eater, that he liked his chicken and fish; that he did not ‘use weed’; nor did he indulge in any of the practices that people superficially attach to being a Rasta.
Early in the week of April 15, 2012 we two had discussed a work schedule including cleaning (machine weeding) the parapets bordering the premises, as well as the overgrown bush in my yard, which I like to pretend is a garden, since there were simply not enough flower plants to excite and exhilarate. I called him on the Thursday afternoon to confirm our arrangements, only to hear his plaintive voice on the cell phone apologising for not being able to speak at the time, as he was under stress. Message finished.
Next day, Friday, April 20, he came by. Contrary to my usual laid-back style, I found myself anxiously inquisitive about the stressful situation Hector had mentioned the day before.
This is his story:
Rasta Hector had worked his draycart that day. When he returned home earlier than usual he asked his eldest son to bring out his motorcycle and park it outside the bridge of their yard, just opposite the shop where he was “having a Guinness with the boys.“ His son did as he was told, rested the bike on its stand, then settled on the machine’s seat to converse with one of the ‘boys’.
Time idled by. Behold two busy policemen arrived and promptly asked the son for “papers for the bike.“ The son was befuddled, protesting that it was not his bike, but in any case he was only sitting on it. The lawmen insisted that once the key was in the bike he could be charged for riding without his licence and insurance papers, then moved to arrest him accordingly.
At that stage father Rasta Hector intervened from across the road, shouting “He ain’t going no way.” Needless to say it was an unfortunate formulation, as the uniformed men (deliberately or otherwise) interpreted the statement to mean that he was not going to allow them to take his son to the station, which they were about to do. He swore to me, however, that what he meant was that he was the one who was going to use the bike!
But no way man. “Yuh obstructing justice. We carrying both alyuh to the station.” Eventually one ‘blackclothes’ rode the motorcycle to the station, parked it with key inside, and drove off with his mobile partner, leaving the station crew to deal with the pronounced culprits. After several repetitions of the explanation of the circumstances which brought father and son to the station, the officers’ only response was, “Well, what yuh tink we should do?“ (It must have been during these moments of stress that I had intervened).
“Give us a chance“ reasoned Rasta Hector, sensing (as he admitted to me afterwards) the insinuation in their question. Fortunately his wife turned up with a sum of money which she happened to have merely because the two lunch-kits she had gone to purchase downtown that day for her two young daughters cost more than anticipated, so she didn’t buy any. Then Hector’s mobile daughter arrived in time to make a contribution. In all they raised $7,000, which was handed over. Hector philosophically reflected: “Considering that that it was the freedom of the whole family involved, it was a pretty cheap price; but not for the stress involved.“
He wasn’t finished however. It mattered not that I didn’t have a Guinness to offer him. He had already got some of the stress off his chest anyhow.
He next told me of an occasion when he was proceeding north along the bridge in Stone Avenue, across Dennis Street going past the Catholic Church on the west. On the east is a fire station from which a private car emerged. The driver, in civilian clothes, recognising how dilapidated the bridge was on his side, promptly moved over to the other side, thus confronting Hector the motorcyclist. The latter refused to yield. Both stopped. The motorist (not in black clothes) insisted that he had time to spare, and was not about to move. Rasta Hector declared the same position. When enough time had elapsed, however, the motorist finally announced that he was a policeman and therefore had the right of way (even though on the wrong side of the road). Eventually he gave way, with the explicit promise to Hector: “Don’t ever let me ketch yuh again. Ah gun luk out fuh yuh!” Rasta Hector took note and proceeded his legitimate way.
When he had retrieved his composure, Hector turned to me, and with a softness of speech that belied, or perhaps reflected, his anger, recalled the day he was riding his motorbike home, already in Sophia, and as he approached his home, the police vehicle, proceeding in the opposite direction, stopped screechingly in front of his gate, forcing him to park his motorcycle just where he stopped. He proceeded across the road to his property and residence, when he was promptly accosted by a pair of ‘blacklothes‘ men who demanded to know why he had stopped. His sense of humour stayed with him for a while, as he explained that there was where his wife and family lived. Obviously unconvinced the lawmen dislodged from his back the haversack (with which he, like so many male travel) and began to extract the portions of food it contained. It was not until these law-abiding men were about to scatter the edibles on the bare wooden bridge that he protested – forcefully enough for them to retreat, albeit with the parting threat of later retaliation.
Then in a climactic gasp, he exclaimed “Yuh know a friend of mine had to pay $20,000 because his teenage son was caught backing his car from his yard onto his bridge not the road – the bridge!” ending in a shout.
I tried my best to offer words of consolation and to appeal to his spirituality. He appeared to listen, without looking in my direction. Sighing noticeably, he lifted his normal virile body as if it were a heavy weight. As he walked toward the door he called back: “You know, the other morning I was late for church. They had a special play on, and I didn’t want to miss any of it. So I was speeding when again ‘blackclothes’ stop me. I showed my anger even while explaining to him the reason for speeding. Immediately he said he would charge me for unruly behaviour. I just stared at him. “Since when going to church is breaking the law?” ‘Blackclothes’ was silent for a while, then he said: “Go long, but don’t leh me ketch yuh again.”
Rasta Hector exited, saying: “I won’t mind if you can tell this story of hostility.”
Yours faithfully,
Earl John
