To Barbados...And Beyond!!

So, I just got back from a brief sojourn in Barbados, to look for my Sonny-Wonny. As his stint in Bim will soon be over, I have decided to insert brief visits between each term, which would make our separation seem shorter until he returns for the term holidays. Sigh. My baby is due to sit the Common Entrance exams in May, and he graduates in July. I can’t believe that the time has gone by so fast.

The boy is a joy. He is such a character. I am continually fascinated by the gradual transition of my baby boy to a little man. Or conversations are more adult, and I have learned not to shudder each time that he asks me an open question. For this trip, he gladly regaled me with the tale of his classmate bringing a pack of condoms to school. When I asked if he knew what they were for, he promptly responded, “…to prevent HIV/AIDS.” The discussion to follow was quite entertaining and amusing, but the long and short of it is, his head is on the right track.

I guess that I can no longer fear the so-called corruption of my youth, because I have realized that outside forces being what they are, I cannot insulate the child at all. The most that I can attempt as a parent, is the continuation of an open line of dialogue, in order to assess and cultivate his decision making process. Things seem to be looking good so far (fingers crossed), because I can honestly say that not only do I love my Sonny, but I genuinely LIKE him. I like his personality, his irreverent sense of humour, his penchant to be somewhat facetious and sarcastic, and the fact that he is a free thinker. He accepts nothing at face value.

Barbados was wonderful as always. When not hanging out with Sonny, I caught up with old friends, and fell in love with the Island all over again. I have always found Barbados to be the perfect compromise: Not too fast and not too slow. The Island is now set to host the finals of the ICC Cricket World Cup, and lawd, after a pass through the refurbished Kensington Oval, I was astonished! It is fabulous!!! (Of course, after the passage of the finals, it begs one to wonder what they are going to do to recoup the costs associated with the stadium. They are ready for the world, but what happens when the world leaves?) Nevertheless, it is fabulous! The beautification projects are well underway, and they are all geared up to aptly display Barbados on the world stage. I just hope that the customer service improves, because between Bim and Jamaica, I have met some of the sourest customer facing people ever! Lawd, the people dem miserable. The norm and not the exception. Would it kill to mumble a simple ‘hello’ when a customer walks into a store??? I do apologise for disturbing your newspaper reading in my attempt to provide you with some added REVENUE!!!

Anyway, that’s a rant for another day. Then, I may get into customer service and race issues in the Caribbean, and the difference that an accent can make when they realise that you are not from their native island.

On that note, I shall now exit.

'Ta

'Fro

Born To Hang...Can't Drown...

So, mi Mudda in her infinite wisdom (we will make no mention of her miserableness and contrary personality here), always seh: “If you born fi hang, yu cyaan drown.” Turns out this could apply to the poor Filipino security guard who was shot during the robbery of the Cayman National Bank last year.

The poor fellow, now apparently fully recovered from those wounds, was on duty at the Cayman Islands Port Authority, when some kind of container or crane (facts dependant on who you talk to) fell on the poor fellow and killed him dead. The rumour mill has the poor man split into two halves; decapitated and / or squashed but the only consistency that I can obtain from the stories, is that a shovel was somehow employed in cleaning up the mess. Of course, this could also mean that a shovel was nearby and somehow fell to the ground. But, who knows.

I was amazed at the power of the Caymanian rumour mill today, as I received three different telephone calls and seven emails about the demise of the poor fellow. By the time the Caymanian Compass is published tomorrow, the news will be stale. I must say, one of my first inclinations was to let out a morbid little giggle, as the entire thing immediately reminded me of the Final Destination series.

The man obviously never had good legal representation after the shooting, or maybe his employer had air tight indemnities built into his work contract, for I cannot begin to imagine why he was back at work and not sitting back at the Ritz Carlton sipping martinis and waiting for a big fat settlement, or claiming some kind of disability. Is this where I say "only in the USA"? I must ask my good pal RI if he ain’t been doing some ambulance chasing to drum up some business, cause I am sure that the prospective fees from the Filipino man’s lawsuit would have been a wonderful addition to his coffers.

Caymanian security guards or policemen are not allowed to carry guns, so they must have expect the poor man fi’ fling he baton or walkie talkie at the robbers, when he did see dem coming. It is a royal fool who will get shot or killed when guarding other people's property for a mere pittance per hour. I know if I were he and I saw the robbers coming, I would’a help them to collect and stuff the money from the Tellers in their get away bags should they become tired and need an extra hand. Those guns are very heavy after all, and I would hate for them to lighten the load by releasing bullets. The bank's gots lots more moneys. I only have one life. A coward man without a gun lives to flee another day.

Makes me wonder about the poor man’s last words when he did see the something falling on him. If I were he, I know that I would have some extra bargaining and begging to do with St. Peter when trying to negotiate my way though the Pearly Gates, cause “Oh Fuck…!!!” more than likely would be my final words.

On that note, I shall now exit.

'Ta.

Hair Today...Gone Tomorrow

So, the odda night, DV and I dress up in we finery and went out to celebrate the birthday of a mutual acquaintance. After a few Apple Martini’s (hic...hic) and a nice little buzz, we finished the night at a local pseudo-seedy hotspot. We did hol’ we self up in a little dark corner next to the dance floor, and while commencing some discrete bubbling and wukking up (on my part, cuz DV seh bad man doh dance), a heavy set, voluptuous Sistren wearing a little itty-bitty piece’ a some'ting decide she goin’ dominate the dance floor.

Now, from the way my Gal was gyrating and flinging she self ‘bout de place, it did cause me a moment of concern for she overall health and well-being but the I and I figure seh she mus’a know wha’ she was doin’. Foresight, intuition and common sense told me some’ting was goin’ to go bust (pun intended) at some point, ’cause the bikini top that she was sporting was under severe pressure from she Double-D’s, and there was no way that the laws of physics could allow for the itty-bitty piece’a cloth to restrain the busting bazoongas that could possibly hurt innocent by-standers when and if they did decide to blow. When I did see the pending explosion, I turn roun’ to mek a little side bet with DV as to the timing and nature of the explosion, but he nevah tek me on. Chicken.

Anyway, I digress.

So, my Sistren continue wid de gallivanting, and she drop to the groun’ on all fours, and start to rotate she head roun’ and roun’ like the woman from the Exorcist, or like she was in the midst of some kinda epileptic fit. All she needed was a spoon in she mout’ to mek sure seh she nevah bite off she tongue. I jus’ know seh I was quite worried about the state of the Sistren’s health, cuz I could envision the headline:

“Dutty Dancer Dominating Dance floor Dead! Spectator Traumatised By the Spectacle”

There would be far reaching consequences to her ill fated demise, as I am sure that I would be called in to testify and to provide witness accounts to the police. All because I was minding my own business, and the wench come an complicate my life by popping she neck and dropping dead at my feet. Yes suh. I considered all of this in a drunken stupor, as she writhed and contorted a few feet away from me.

Once again, I digress.

So, Missy there wukking she self into a frenzy, and I know seh drama comin’. This appealed to my morbid inner demon. But, alas, the entertainment did not take the form that I had predicted. In the throes of the Sistren’s seizure (lawd…mi gut…) she wig fly off she head and slide ‘cross the dance floor . Now, shame for she (and holding mi gut wid the laffter), I turn roun’ and hide mi face in DV’s chest. Being practical (and a coward), mi navah know if she wudda want to retaliate against those who should laff at her expense. Containin’ my mirth, I glance at she to see how she handle the shame, but…Alas! Ms. Ma’am still goin’ wild! She nah shame! After the departure of de wig from she head, she now bus’ the splits and gyrating same way! Some enterprising and helpful individual den pick the wig up (yuck!), beat she crotch wid it two times (I guess to tek out the dust) and fling it at she as she continued with her display, and she jus’ shift it outta she way, and continue wid de show!

What confidence! The show must go on!

Then, jus’ when I thought that it could not get any better, one stick man wid a big Afro (mus’ be her suitor) appeared and jump the Sistren, flinging she on she back on the dance floor, and spring himself between she legs, and start one piece’ a thrustin’ and grinding, wid she legs cock (no pun intended) straight up in de air! Before I could even tek it all in, DV cover my eyes, and said that I was too young to tek in such a display, and by the time I move he hand, I know for sure that I mussa miss something, like if de man did pull out a condom, and continue the safe sex demonstration. Choops!

Alas…it is not to end there!! When the sexcapade was finished, the Sistren pick she self up from the floor dus’ off she clothes, and THEN realized seh one saggy boob did pop out! Did she furtively tuck and attend to said boob? Did she discretely crouch, simper and blush whilst attending to her wardrobe malfunction? Hell No! My gal cup the boob in one hand and the wig in the odda hand, and strut off’ a the dance floor, head held high, nary to be seen again. She came (or did she?). She saw. She conquered.

We can all learn a lesson from this confident and stalwart young lady. When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade.

On that note, I shall now exit.

'Ta