I see things

So, most of us have made it to 2024. Happy New Year! Last week I threatened to convert the Caribbean public affairs focus of this column into a space to which you turned for advice on love, jobs, the weather, pet care, the best curry mango, and fireworks.

We had had thick Sahara Dust last week, you see, and the neighbourhood animals were psyching themselves up for the usual assault from humans who consider loud noises capable of delivering some form of sadistic/masochistic happiness.

I spoke then of this ghostly, floating, human form I took for a late friend and colleague and literary gem who did not make the crossing beyond 311223. BC routinely imitated former Miami Herald columnist Robert Steinbeck’s annual predictions column.

The great bald one had even included some amazingly accurate predictions of his own (with some moderate adjustments including the names of people, places, and times for greater accuracy). For example, he would predict things like: Today, a man in north Trinidad will enter a pharmacy before noon with a prescription to address a lingering hangover from Sunday night’s revelry.

Then, when recording such a remarkably accurate prediction, he would insert the name of a friend he had taken to the pharmacy. Sometimes, he would also count on people forgetting what he had predicted and post-facto report on the success of what he recalled was a wild guess.

All fun and games until you notice that the last Play Whe mark of 2023 was “spider” (33). I would have lost at least $5 on that draw, since I only play “12” whenever I remember that I can get rich off these games of chance.

By the way, my number did not play on Boxing Day (even though it signifies “king” and there is no Play Whe on a Sunday or “holy” day because gambling is a sin unless the government says otherwise). Late prime minister Patrick Manning once announced to collective horror that he planned on outlawing all forms of gambling. Three years later, his party spectacularly lost a prematurely declared election. Just saying …

But, back to “spider.”

If you did physics at school you must know that either real or imagined spiders (including those that find your sleeping face in the night) can mean both good and bad things. Trinis typically believe that if you see a spider in your house (a brown one … not a pink or blue one) it means that you will win the Lotto and have enough money to light up the entire country in fireworks next festive event.

In some cultures, though, spiders bring only poor luck, especially if they rest on your face at night. This basically ensures that you’re not going to make it to the Lotto ticket booth. The South-East Asians, and others, minimise such a risk by roasting and serving them lightly salted and peppery at street markets. Tip: Avoid roasted tarantula butt at all costs.

So, “spider” played on 301223, and this means that we can expect a mix of good and bad. I hope you took pictures of the fruit punch bowl, because all of it would have been right there before your very eyes. As a longstanding teetotaller (nope not even rummy black cake), I keep my eyes wide open when confronted with a fruit punch bowl. I am aware that genuine psychics also use cards left hanging around after games of All Fours – by looking at the Jack cross-eyed and for long enough. Everything appears magically.

Last year, for instance, I predicted that a stubborn pothole along Abercromby Street in St Joseph some of us had given a name because of our intimate familiarity with it (I called it “Rohan”) would have been patched with a loose amalgam of oil sand and pitch and fought back with all its might to return within weeks to claim more rims and front ends.

For 2024 – because I looked cross-eyed into a rain puddle that had accumulated in a pothole along Gordon Street in St Augustine – I saw water leaks undermining roadways and WASA-like interventions that temporarily stem the waterflows but leave undercarriage crushing humps and sharp tyre-busting gravel.

I also saw traffic jams and confusion on main roads and highways. A puddle in Arima told me this. Then, elections. I saw elections coming in 2024 when the sun reflected off a poster on a San Fernando rumshop wall at an angle that made me squint and see shadowy things.

In fact, Bunglee Bungler comes up against Thomas Crook for the presidency of the Hapless Suckers Sports and Cultural Club. On 311224, I will tell you who I saw as the winner. I promise.

The advice columnist

 

Last Sunday, I was reading the newspapers (I get hard copies on weekends because I am old-fashioned and they’re seriously handy with the mosquitoes) in my patio. My cat, Oreo, was fighting me for space on my footrest (I keep my feet up while reading the newspapers in case I see a deal I missed at the supermarket and feel like kicking myself), when I started feeling the effects of the weatherman’s Red Sahara Dust Alert.

Oreo, who was born black and white, and is a girl with a boy’s name (I explain to people that having been spayed, she/it can be called “Michael” if anyone wanted to) started looking grey and brown. I blinked and blinked, but there she/it was – grey and brown Oreo - nonchalantly licking her/its nether parts while I tried to blink away emerging illusions.

But the dust won’t go away. Then I saw before me a rising mist above the brown and purple cherry tree, and an emerging figure – short, baldheaded, earrings, and with calves the size of pregnant cows. “BC dat is you?” I asked. No response. Only this ghostly figure hovering and backdropped by a bunch of struggling dou doux mangoes.

I had just read one of the most absurd newspaper columns about Xmas and had refreshed my Blue Mountain coffee. I gulped it all in one go. Then I heard this voice: “You! Yes, you … not the cat!”

“Me?” I heard steupsing. “Yes, you.”

Now, coffee can be a rather powerful drug. Following a talk by “ministry of education officials” on the evils of illicit drugs at QRC 50 years ago, some of us dried ti-marie bush for days before cutting, wrapping, and smoking it. But there was this one guy who tried sniffing the fumes from roasted coffee beans. He ended up with one GCE pass. One. Think about that.

But this was not the coffee. I actually heard a raspy voice from above the cherry tree. Oreo paid no attention - one leg in the air (as if she didn’t care) and her/its tongue diligently committing the grossly unspeakable.

“You,” went the voice, “like too much bacchanal! Effective immediately, your column shall be used to help people address everyday needs.”

“But Master (I couldn’t think of another title … though “Bro” might have worked), aren’t there important matters of wider public concern to be addressed? Ethnic cleansing? The murder of babies and children? Geo-political intrigue? Ineffective governance? Climate change? Religious hypocrisy?”

“Shut up!” Oreo paused mid lick. I heard the chicken go “cluck cluck” before running away (I have a chicken, it appeared out of nowhere a few months ago with a youngster who has since mysteriously gone missing).

“Effective immediately, an advice column shall be published every week in this space.”

“But, but.”

“Shut up!”

“For instance, here’s someone who needs real help. There’s this guy who thinks that a ban on using fireworks and busting bamboo in his neighbourhood at this time of year is in violation of his human rights. Advise him!”

Oh, that’s easy. “Dynamite. Inside the guy’s house. Clear out the women and children first. Then wait for the blast. Let the neighbourhood kids with their puny sparklers take that!”

“Umm. I don’t think so. Let’s try another one. A thief has just cleared out a family’s fridge (ham, turkey, pastelles gone!) and run away … belching and laughing loudly. They suspect he is hiding in their annoying neighbours’ house. These people play loud music late at night and the sickening smell of cooking oil hangs in the air for days.”

“Simple. Dynamite. Two sticks. That should smoke him out!”

“But what about the neighbours?”

“Kill two birds with one stone. It’s probably not their property anyway. Get rid of the thief and the unwanted neighbours in one go. I like this. Give me another problem to solve.”

“Wes, I don’t think this is working out. Maybe we should stick to less complicated matters. Love, perhaps?”

“Yeah. The fireworks of love. What a blast. I can do this. When do I start? Next week?”

“I have an idea. Why don’t you kick off the New Year next week with something on why Caricom remains the only viable regional solution to the full range of developmental challenges in the region?”

“But I thought you said …”

“Hush, my friend. Hush.” At that stage, the dust cloud rose to meet the gloomy clouds. Oreo wanted to use the litter box. I got up and reached for a half-eaten pastelle and a fresh cup of coffee.