Are we there yet?

Today was meant to be that day when, on this page, we were all to embark on a long maxi taxi ride to an undetermined destination. It was going to be one of those bigger minibuses packed to capacity with a rowdy bunch all wishing to choose radio stations or take turns at the wheel – including those without driving permits or knowledge of how stick shift works.

There are some who, upon recognising they are probably on the wrong bus, and with a bell that does not work, end up shouting at the top of their voice: “Bus stop, Drive!!!”

The first time, about half mile away from the desired destination, the instruction is followed by a hiss and a cranking and a screeching before the bus stops, the back door opens “clatacks” and two or three passengers disembark in the middle of nowhere.

The second time it happens, a now more keyed-in driver hits the brakes hard and those at the back are transferred like missiles to the front of the bus, and two front seat passengers suffer chipped teeth and busted lips on the windscreen.

One guy, in khaki shorts, sandals and socks, threatens to sue. The lady with the broad straw hat and North American accent is on her phone: “Come and get me now! And, no, I don’t know ‘exactly’ where I am!”

“And, by the way, where am I???!!!”

The guy who wants to sue, eventually pulls the driver away from the wheel and takes control. There is loud applause. But the hard right the new driver takes leads to inappropriate contact involving a fat guy and a young lady in short shorts across the aisle with eyes fixed for hours on her phone. “Sorry. Sorry,” the man lies. The fight does not last long.

On more than one occasion, when we stop, we have to reverse as some poor soul has merely come off to pee before rejoining the cacophonous rhythm section at the back of the bus. Then, when he returns, the arguments resume about who needs the windows open and who prefers them closed with air conditioning.

About two hours into the trip, while the maxi is at full pelt, a child sticks her head outside and a bug flies in her eye. One guy (who everybody knew got on without paying) encourages the mother to bend the child’s head backward, keep the eyelid open between index finger and thumb … and blow hard. Then comes a loud yelp, followed by the screams of a child with a bug stuck, away from non-surgical human access, beneath her eyelid. “Pour water! Pour water!” comes smug front seat advice.

Then, during one rare moment of relative silence: “Mister, Mister,” a tiny child across the aisle turns tearily to me, “are we there yet?”

There is no truthful answer to the question. The maxi taxi, now on driver number six, is hurtling, brakeless, through a crowded market street. “Bus stop, Drive! Oh Lord! Bus stop!!!”

Yes, today, was the day to write about that fateful maxi taxi trip to nowhere in particular. Perhaps it was the occasion when we finally answer the little boy’s question, or at least have our bearings right and know where, on the journey, we have reached.

I wrestled sleeplessly with the metaphors. The storyline. How would it all end? Whose turn was it at the steering wheel. All of that.

But then, on Sunday, came the news that Desmond Tutu had died. For sure, on the imagined maxi taxi, I had more than once flicked to the “Library” folder on my Kindle to find The Book of Joy – author Douglas Abrams’ reflections on a weeklong joint conversation with the Dalai Lama and Archbishop Tutu. It’s not my regular kind of reading, but there it is between Baldwin and Neruda.

“He is much more cerebral,” Abrams remembers Tutu saying of the Dalai Lama. “I am more instinctual.”

“I guess,” Abrams surmises, “even great spiritual leaders get nervous when they are journeying into the unknown.”

Hmm. “Journeying into the unknown.” There’s our maxi taxi!

In the book, the Dalai Lama speaks of the “destination(s) of life.” Tutu notes: “Nothing beautiful in the end comes without a measure of some pain, some frustration, some suffering. This is the nature of things. This is how our universe has been made up.”

In a sense, lesser mortals on the maxi taxi reflect the same tensions. Are we there yet? Maybe that’s not the question. Maybe the real question has to do with destination. Not here, in the middle of nowhere.

Boofs and licks like peas

There used to be a photograph making the rounds on social media of a woman in full-fledged delivery of a non-verbal boof/bouf/bouffe to a child in the midst of a church service.

It reminded me of my mother because my mother was a boss at this. She would tilt her head downward then look up and sideways at you with her eyes open wide … unblinking. Her lips stuck to each other, the sides curved upward and wrinkled as with a fake smile.

It was the kind of lip position that catered for a through-the-lip steups if required. If she shook her head just once, fully expect prompt delivery of charge, verdict, and punishment back home.

There were occasions, not in public, she would reach for her slippers and learn the sprint of children. Sometimes it would be a quick open palmed slap across the shoulder.

As an 11 or 12-year-old child of people who had children young, you also realise sooner rather than later that your father – who played competitive sport and claimed to have hit the QRC tower with a six, five years before he got married - can still outrun you. I remember that one time the chase involved a leather belt.

The preferred punishment was Mom’s boofs or an assignment from Dad to count cars as they passed along the Eastern Main Road in St Augustine. If the sentence involved more than one child, the car tally had to be individually ratified or you were sent back to the gallery. Sometimes, a traitorous sister would refuse to cooperate, and the numbers would not square.

The point here is that the boof was what counted most in the Gibbings household. Now, if the sub-editor touches my use of “boof” I will not be happy. Even the experts agree that a final form remains unfinished business.

Lise Winer’s ‘Dictionary of the English/Creole of Trinidad & Tobago’, for example, offers four versions – buff, boof, bouf and bouffe. Its etymology is vast. I however prefer the use of “boof” which carries greatest onomatopoeic value and evades the threat of linguistic gentrification.

Use “bouf” or “bouffe” and the pronunciation would tend to be more reminiscent of the “Côte de Boeuf” at a fancy restaurant than the “boof” delivered by Aunt Harriet at the party.

In relatively well-adjusted families, boofs come before the licks, (if licks are at all to be administered). In some households, there are prompt, stinging, open-palm, fingertip slaps on the arm or shoulder or a “tap” at the back of the head.

There are others who prefer different chronologies. There would be the initial verbal admonition or guidance (“do NOT touch that”), the beg (“don’t do that nuh”), a boof (“what I tell you”), a withdrawal of benefits, an offer of reward, more boofs, and then licks like peas … in that order. Mind you, my son (who at 26 is a model citizen and ethical to a fault) was never subjected to corporal punishment at home.

Proposed speedier transitions usually come from those who consider themselves to be out of the line of fire (such as a big brother or sister) and who believe “bouffs/bouffes” are a soft sell before an audience of lesser mortals. “Lash dey (not my) tail!”

“I (whap) told (whap) you (whap) to (whaddap) take (whoop) the (whap) vaccine!!!”

If you think about it, this is the authoritarian SOE approach. This is despite early counsel that “an SOE cannot get you to wash your hands” – an admonition dismissed by “PR” hustlers and people clueless about some basic elements of behaviour change.

In fact, there has since been much boofing about the boofing. “You (boof) are (boof) NOT (boof) to boof!”

It is in the manner of paternalistic authoritarian cultures to skip the queue of moral suasion, and non-verbal and verbal “boofing” to head straight for the guava tree. (“Dey too harden. Cut dey tail”).

This is not to suggest that, eventually, licks are always an implausible option, but that a good example, appeals to reason, and boofs properly come first. Between the SOE (“you not getting to go to the party”) and the mandate (“messy room = no party”) there is likely to be much more begging and many boofs to come.

Stuck at 46% (my initial uneducated guess was 40%), the gap between suasion, begging, boofing, and outright licks is narrowing.

Some say the time has come. They might be right. The room is messy alright while, and yes, some feel we need to party.