Brief Lives
Gardening in the Tropics, you never know
what you'll turn up. Quite often, bones.
In some places they say when volcanoes
erupt, they spew out dense and monumental
as stones the skulls of desparecidos
– the disappeared ones. Mine is only
a kitchen garden so I unearth just
occasional skeletons. The latest
was of a young man from the country who
lost his way and crossed the invisible
boundary into rival political territory.
I buried him again so he can carry on
growing. Our cemeteries are thriving too.
The newest addition was the drug baron
wiped out in territorial competition
who had this stunning funeral
complete with twenty-one-gun salute
and attended by everyone, especially
the young girls famed for the vivacity
of their dress, their short skirts and
even briefer lives.
The Tree of Life
Gardening in the Tropics was easiest
before the Flood. We had just one tree
to care for – the firstborn, the Tree
of Life. When (after the Great Fire)
the earth was bare and we were starving,
The Mighty One took pity and planted
deep in the interior a tree so
ubiquitous it bore on its branches
food of every different kind. Mapuri
the wild pig discovered it but kept it
hidden, sneaking off behind our backs
to eat his fill. But we suspected
something so we sent our most
skilled detectives to make him spill it.
First, Woodpecker, but he couldn't help
stopping to tap at every charred stump
– which alerted Mapuri to our plan;
others tried, but it was Rat
who succeeded. Of course, Rat being
rat, he tried to keep it hidden too,
but crumbs on his whiskers betrayed him.
We had threatened to kill him before he
took us there. In front of this
unimaginable tree we fell down and
praised Him – and then we ate our fill.
After that, we merely had to reach
overhead to pluck a nice juicy starapple,
then perhaps a naseberry or two
before gathering for cooking fresh ears
of corn, hot peppers and tomatoes
for seasoning, cassava to make bread
and drink for celebrating.
So imagine our dismay when out of
the blue His voice came out one day and said:
Cut the Tree Down! We trembled, but obeyed,
chopping away for generations
until it swayed and fell (water already
starting to trickle from the hole left
by its root – but that is the start of
another tale). He ordered us to take from
the branches slips and cuttings and plant
them everywhere. And that is how we
acquired crops for cultivating. From
that time, I've been a convert of
mixed farming though, of late, I've
noticed the agricultural officers
(those long-sleeved white-shirt boys)
have been coming around to try and
persuade us to chop everything down
and plant only one crop. They say we can
get more money that way – from exporting.
But it's only the young ones they fool.
It's true they're all driving fancy cars
now, they have tractors, big houses,
are sending children to school. But let
them wait till drought or blight
comes round. What will they eat?
You see me here? I'm sticking to the plan
of having all my food, my seasonings and
medicines mixed up in one ground. For if
He wanted us to plant just one thing
in the garden, why did He make us chop
The Tree of Life down?
AMAZON WOMEN
Gardening in the Tropics, sometimes
you come across these strong Amazon
women striding across our lands –
like Toeyza who founded the Wori-
shiana nation of female warriors
in the mountains of Parima – of whom
the missionary Brett and Sir Walter
Raleigh wrote. Though nobody believed
them, I myself could tell a tale or two
(though nothing as exotic as the story
of Toeyza and her lover Walyarima who
swam the river disguised as a black
jaguar whenever he visited her). Now
we've got that out of the way let me
hasten to say I'm not into sensationalism,
I merely wished to set the record
straight by averring that the story
of Amazon women might have begun
because when the warriors went away
– to war or voyages – it was the
women who kept the gardens going
and sometimes if the men were not
heard from again (as occasionally
happened) they banded together and
took up arms to defend the territory.
So somebody – like Cristobal Colón
or Sir Walter Raleigh – could have
come along and heard these (marvellous)
tales of (fabulous) lands full of
(pure) gold and fierce (untamed,
exotic) women (you know how men stay!).
And the rest (as they say) is history.
Mark you, the part about Toeyza's
husband sending her and the other
women to gather cassava for a feast
while he ambushed and killed her lover
is true (at least, my auntie says so
and her husband's uncle's grandfather
told him as a fact – and he got it
from someone who knew). I don't know
about you but the part I find
disgusting is that while they were
away, the husband (the chief at that)
skinned and hung the lover up
in the women's hut as a lesson
to faithless wives. (Though if men
go around in jaguar disguise, what
can they expect?) If you ask me,
that husband got what was coming
(poisoned by bitter cassava juice
mixed in with the beer) though
I can't see what the rest of the men
did to deserve equal treatment.
But that Toeyza (with liberated words)
led all the wives in flight and they
managed (despite pursuit) to fight
their way across the jungle to the
heights and freedom in their own
nation which ever since has been
justly celebrated as the Land of
the Amazon. The best part (I hear)
is that they allow men to visit them
once a year. Boy children they send
back to the land of their fathers,
girls they keep to rear (though
I'm not sure I would want my girl
raised by a band of women outlaws
keeping company with jaguars). But
you see my trial! I'm here gossiping
about things I never meant to air
for nobody could say I'm into
scandal. I wanted to tell of noble women
like Nanny the Maroon queen mother
or the fair Anacaona, Taino
chieftainess who was brutally
slain by the colonists, or of
the Carib women whom the said Colón
relied on for navigation
through the islands. I hadn't meant
to tell tall tale or repeat exotic
story for that's not my style.
But we all have to make a living
and there's no gain in telling stories
about ordinary men and women.
Then again, when gardening
in the Tropics, every time you lift
your eyes from the ground
you see sights that strain your
credulity – like those strong
Amazon Women striding daily across
our lands carrying bundles of wood
on their heads and babies strapped
to their breasts and calabashes of
water in both hands.
TROPIC LOVE
You don't bring me flowers anymore
– or anything for the children.
My heart has turned to stone
but I cannot put that in the pot.
Love me and my family or leave me
to sit by the roadside to sell,
by the riverside taking in washing,
by milady's fire cooking for my living.
I'm a woman with heavy responsibilities.
With my lot I'm prepared to be contented.
With your sweet words, Lover, tempt me
not, if you've come empty-handed.
THE IMMOVABLE TENANT
Gardening in the Tropics, sometimes
you come across the most unreasonable
people. Like some tenants (who are
in exactly the same position as me,
it's just that some of us don't
quibble; we accept our lot and cope).
Next door, there's this lady, old as
Methuselah. You'd think she'd yearn
for peace and quiet now since
in her lifetime she's experienced
nothing but upheaval and a succession
of husbands, each one claiming
to be lord of the manor, each
fading from the scene leaving her
as lonesome queen or bereft first lady.
That's because, although they all
liked to pretend they were of enormous
net worth, having title to prove it,
everyone in this area is mortgaged
to the limit to landlords up north
– or bankers across the sea.
And, as my old daddy used to say,
he who pays the piper calls the tune,
or, he who wields the big stick
gives the lick. In my neighbour's
case it's a former husband's uncle
who's as cantankerous as they come
– and as rich as Croesus – and as dumb.
Well, perhaps not quite, for he
managed to acquire all that property.
Now he has to go out of his way
to defend it, feeling it gives him
a right to interfere in the business
of all his neighbours to ensure
that none falls prey to other
foreigners and sells out for nothing
(as the old lady's husbands did
– to him). It's no joke, for once
or twice when a few of us in the area
started talking to potential investors
about new types of development for
our holdings, the man turned nasty,
introduced strong-arm tactics, and,
worse, threatened to cut off our access.
That's serious, for while we were
composing calypsos, dancing sambas,
and generally fooling around, he was
out there buying up not just all our
ground, but the very air we breathe;
he's rented our air spaces, taken
control of our seas and beaches;
underground he's taken mining leases
and overhead he's set up satellite dishes.
We all live in dread that we can't
mash ants without his knowing. On top
of it all, he's acquired rights (from
God knows where) to dump (if he wishes)
his garbage on our shores. You see me
here? I'm not lying: when I was younger,
I joined in some protests, gave him
a little scare. I'm not boasting but
maybe a bomb or two had my signature on it,
as did petitions. But that was before
I came to hold him dear. If you play
ball, he'll treat you fair, throw things
your way, include you in the game.
I tell my people now to cool it. For
I've been paid to see the wisdom of
supping with the enemy especially if
he has the longest spoon, the biggest stick,
the deepest pocket. Seeing as how
we're such good buddies now, he's
asked me as a favour to talk to my
neighbour for she's messing up his plans
for that property. He's spent a lot
of money fixing up the place. He wants
to attract tourists, investors and
extractors, for the garden is full of
trees ripe for felling and the house
of treasure priced for selling and there
are minerals to be mined. Everything
is on time, all the necessaries (with
my help) have been dealt with, the right
palms greased, contracts signed.
It's just this miserable old lady living
(on borrowed time) in the basement now
– though he's fixed it up fine. She's
constantly undermining him, screaming
at his tenants and everyone within
hearing (even over his airwaves): “Beware!”
Then she wraps her head in red, puts on
her mourning garments and stalks the
streets disguised as the dread Warner
Woman calling out “Fire! Blood! Repent!”
It's making the tourists and investors
jittery and since it might cause them
to move to a more inviting continent,
she's spoiling it for all of us here,
for people up north (except for Uncle)
can't distinguish one place from an-
other in this hemisphere. What annoys me
is, that old woman is not as mad
as she pretends. My advice would be
to evict her forcibly (precedents
having been set with her husbands
and other malcontents). I'm sure
most of the neighbours would assist
for Uncle has been generous with arms
for self-defence. Though a few
(down the road on the left-hand side)
can be counted on to encourage
her rebellious pride, in the final analysis,
we shall overcome, for we have might
– and right – on our side. It's just that
something about the old woman (which
I can't put my finger on) disturbs me.
When last I met with her, I left her
ranting (as usual) about Uncle tearing
down the old places and rebuilding with
(she says) unseasoned lumber and other
inferior material. She cites this as
another example of environmental
betrayal (for, despite her age, she's up
on whatever topic is the rage). She
claims that her father, after cutting
timber, waited centuries for it to render
all that stored up water before using it
for building. That way, the occupants
might have come and gone but
the structure lived on. She says these
hurry-come-up schemers build on sand.
She's watching them fill their pockets
but she knows once the going gets rough,
the digging too tough, they'll leave,
abandon her house and land, jettison
their efforts to the jungle. As soon as
they spy next door the fabulous new
virgin territory – they'll move on.
To add to my discomfiture, each time
I'm leaving, that crazy lady croons:
Strangers might occupy my house and land
from time to time, but from this redoubt,
I always repossess it, inch by inch.
With the help of the steadfast tropical
sun, wind, and rain, with the help of the
termites, the ants, the wood lice, and
the worms, I always reclaim. I can wait,
unforgiving. Unlike the rest of you
who slaughter time, I've learnt the art
of eking out my living.
Olive Senior
