lower his outstretched arms, then his prayerful face, and, to another tumultuous outpouring from the crowd, he walked slowly over to the microphone awaiting him on deck.
The rally was underway.
From where I stood on the roadway it was almost impossible to follow the man’s speech, given the roar of approval that punctuated almost every word he uttered. I nonetheless caught references to the many bills he was fighting to get passed in Parliament, bills that would improve the lot of his supporters. He repeatedly assured them that he never stopped putting pressure on
“the damn planters” to do better by them, the country people, the hardworking people, his people. They and they alone, their welfare, was the reason he’d been called to politics. He also complained at great length about the obstructionism he faced every day in the House, even citing the names of his many enemies there. Each night he had to pray for God’s help to prevail against them. Once again he assumed the crucifixion pose, arms wide, agonized face raised to Heaven. He also repeatedly reminded them of the upcoming general election. As always, he was depending on their votes. “Mark you’ ‘X’ for Eric, oui! Mark you’ ‘X’ for Eric!” The crowd immediately turned it into a chant that didn’t seem to end. Another of his impassioned themes was full independence. “Finish with this so-called home rule! We want we own government, we own flag, we own anthem! And no more chief minister, but the Honorable Eric Matthew Gairy, Prime Minister, if you please!”
The roar of approval from the carenage was enough to uproot Parliament from its hill above the pretty town and send it crashing into the sea.
“Always a big show and a lotta big talk! Always fooling up the poor, ignorant country people. He ought be shame, oui! ”
An angry outburst suddenly from a woman standing near me on the roadway. From her hawker’s apron and headscarf I could tell she was an ordinary market woman. With a loud suck-teeth to underscore her disgust, she abruptly turned and walked away.
Several others there joined her.
I also left shortly afterward. Again, instead of waiting for the bus, I started back home on foot, even though it was almost dusk by now. I needed to walk, needed to put as much distance as possible, and as quickly as possible, between myself and the combination showman-demagogue still holding forth on the carenage .
The bus came along in due course. Then, two hours or more after it deposited me at the house, the convoy of lorries followed, headed back upcountry. I had remained out on the veranda waiting for them. Again the horns were going full blast, desecrating the night silence that had fallen. This time, though, there was scarcely any
talk and not a shred of laughter to be heard from the crowded truck beds. Something about their silence struck me with an appalling question: Had they eaten for the day? I at least had had the sandwich I’d brought along. But had they had anything to eat? Had the chief minister made any provision to feed his ardent supporters during the day-long rally? I had seen no evidence of such, not so much as a single “blugga” served, “blugga” being the local name for a particularly heavy, starchy variety of banana that was a staple upcountry. It couldn’t be eaten raw—it was too tough—but once boiled until it was edible, it was known to stave off hunger for the better part of a day.
There should have been at least several large vats of boiled bluggas down on the carenage to feed the crowd. Along with free bottles of the sweet drink Fanta or Juice-C, or just plain water to slake their thirst.
Bread and circuses. This had been a circus all right, but without so much as a breadcrumb.
“He ought be shame, oui. ”
The market woman’s voice in my ear again.
In time, Eric Matthew Gairy’s ever-faithful supporters gave him his wish. He eventually became prime minister of an independent Grenada. Although this
The rally was underway.
From where I stood on the roadway it was almost impossible to follow the man’s speech, given the roar of approval that punctuated almost every word he uttered. I nonetheless caught references to the many bills he was fighting to get passed in Parliament, bills that would improve the lot of his supporters. He repeatedly assured them that he never stopped putting pressure on
“the damn planters” to do better by them, the country people, the hardworking people, his people. They and they alone, their welfare, was the reason he’d been called to politics. He also complained at great length about the obstructionism he faced every day in the House, even citing the names of his many enemies there. Each night he had to pray for God’s help to prevail against them. Once again he assumed the crucifixion pose, arms wide, agonized face raised to Heaven. He also repeatedly reminded them of the upcoming general election. As always, he was depending on their votes. “Mark you’ ‘X’ for Eric, oui! Mark you’ ‘X’ for Eric!” The crowd immediately turned it into a chant that didn’t seem to end. Another of his impassioned themes was full independence. “Finish with this so-called home rule! We want we own government, we own flag, we own anthem! And no more chief minister, but the Honorable Eric Matthew Gairy, Prime Minister, if you please!”
The roar of approval from the carenage was enough to uproot Parliament from its hill above the pretty town and send it crashing into the sea.
“Always a big show and a lotta big talk! Always fooling up the poor, ignorant country people. He ought be shame, oui! ”
An angry outburst suddenly from a woman standing near me on the roadway. From her hawker’s apron and headscarf I could tell she was an ordinary market woman. With a loud suck-teeth to underscore her disgust, she abruptly turned and walked away.
Several others there joined her.
I also left shortly afterward. Again, instead of waiting for the bus, I started back home on foot, even though it was almost dusk by now. I needed to walk, needed to put as much distance as possible, and as quickly as possible, between myself and the combination showman-demagogue still holding forth on the carenage .
The bus came along in due course. Then, two hours or more after it deposited me at the house, the convoy of lorries followed, headed back upcountry. I had remained out on the veranda waiting for them. Again the horns were going full blast, desecrating the night silence that had fallen. This time, though, there was scarcely any
talk and not a shred of laughter to be heard from the crowded truck beds. Something about their silence struck me with an appalling question: Had they eaten for the day? I at least had had the sandwich I’d brought along. But had they had anything to eat? Had the chief minister made any provision to feed his ardent supporters during the day-long rally? I had seen no evidence of such, not so much as a single “blugga” served, “blugga” being the local name for a particularly heavy, starchy variety of banana that was a staple upcountry. It couldn’t be eaten raw—it was too tough—but once boiled until it was edible, it was known to stave off hunger for the better part of a day.
There should have been at least several large vats of boiled bluggas down on the carenage to feed the crowd. Along with free bottles of the sweet drink Fanta or Juice-C, or just plain water to slake their thirst.
Bread and circuses. This had been a circus all right, but without so much as a breadcrumb.
“He ought be shame, oui. ”
The market woman’s voice in my ear again.
In time, Eric Matthew Gairy’s ever-faithful supporters gave him his wish. He eventually became prime minister of an independent Grenada. Although this
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