The Parish of St. Elizabeth is country. It’s far away from the hustle and bustle of Montego Bay or Kingston. It’s a place for fishermen and farmers. Calabash Bay in the Parish of St.Elizabeth is even more country but also hosts the annual Calabash International Literary Festi
val.
As usual, I never plan too far ahead. So when a friend said, “Calabash Bay”, I booked a ticket. That was a Wednesday. When he said, “George Lamming”, I bought a T shirt. That was Thursday. Friday I landed in Montego Bay. The trip from Mobay to St. Elizabeth included many stops through Maroon country. In Middle Quarters that beautiful girl in the shop introduced me to a new drink: Hennessey and Nutrament. It’s the worst drink in the world. It still never digest. Distracted, I mistakenly paid her with a Trinidad and Tobago $20 bill. “How much this worth?” She said. “About three US” I replied. She smiled and I knew I was not getting it back. I left and went to Black River to buy a sim card. I. arrived in Treasure Beach/Calabash Bay in the early evening, Friday. It was quiet. The conference producers were milling around. Unfamiliar writers milled around too. But I felt something big was about to happen. It was that quiet. “George Lamming from Barbados was the main reason for my presence”, I told myself. “I am going to ambush him”. He was slated to attend. I
wanted to ask him a few questions for my documentary on his friend Walter Rodney. Going to Barbados these days is a problem. Lamming never showed but some heavyweights showed still: Junot Diaz, Pulitzer winner; Edward Seaga, ex Prime Minister; Winkler, Philp and many more. Oh that woman, what’s her name, Carolyn Cooper from UWI now an icon of Jamaican culture. When she deh bout you know you deh bout. The open-mike was something too. Stacey Ann Chin, that gyal is talking too many truths for her own good. Good. Taurus Riley up close and personal on Friday night/Saturday morning. Jesus Christ.
But the real star was the place, Calabash Bay. Without a reservation and none to be
had, I settled for a little apartment on the beach. It was round, like a benab, with a kitchen to one side and bathroom to the other. Red, silky, cheap curtains flew like flags out the window with the strong sea breeze. Red sheets and covers told the full story. It was built and used for that. “That wah gwaan”, my friend would later intone. “A fuck house that”. Even with the breeze, without air conditioning, it felt a humid 90. I slept alone, nude, doors open, curtains flying, in the sheer idyllic idleness..
Outside little crabs ran across the stairs and fought each other for holes in the sand or maybe it was the mood. The people acted like they knew me, maybe because I looked like them, something the white man had a hand in. I asked why they never came to see Taurus Riley. “We lost a boat last night, but we find them this morning, everybody safe.” The thick round, dougla gyal that managed the place and the shop out front said, “Just call if you need anything” then twisted her way across the sand to the store. The night I was leaving she told me to, "bring your family next time; I have a house for ya’ll to stay, take my number”.
Oh yes, the literary festival was great: readings, meeting people, bonfire, a good time, a DJ battle between Mutabaruka and Colin Channer. When Muta start a lick them oldies, and the crowd rocked, he raised the mic and said, “wah yuh feel, Rasta man nah fall in love too”. “Yeh”, I said to myself, “meh family coming next time and, that one, George Lamming“
val.As usual, I never plan too far ahead. So when a friend said, “Calabash Bay”, I booked a ticket. That was a Wednesday. When he said, “George Lamming”, I bought a T shirt. That was Thursday. Friday I landed in Montego Bay. The trip from Mobay to St. Elizabeth included many stops through Maroon country. In Middle Quarters that beautiful girl in the shop introduced me to a new drink: Hennessey and Nutrament. It’s the worst drink in the world. It still never digest. Distracted, I mistakenly paid her with a Trinidad and Tobago $20 bill. “How much this worth?” She said. “About three US” I replied. She smiled and I knew I was not getting it back. I left and went to Black River to buy a sim card. I. arrived in Treasure Beach/Calabash Bay in the early evening, Friday. It was quiet. The conference producers were milling around. Unfamiliar writers milled around too. But I felt something big was about to happen. It was that quiet. “George Lamming from Barbados was the main reason for my presence”, I told myself. “I am going to ambush him”. He was slated to attend. I
wanted to ask him a few questions for my documentary on his friend Walter Rodney. Going to Barbados these days is a problem. Lamming never showed but some heavyweights showed still: Junot Diaz, Pulitzer winner; Edward Seaga, ex Prime Minister; Winkler, Philp and many more. Oh that woman, what’s her name, Carolyn Cooper from UWI now an icon of Jamaican culture. When she deh bout you know you deh bout. The open-mike was something too. Stacey Ann Chin, that gyal is talking too many truths for her own good. Good. Taurus Riley up close and personal on Friday night/Saturday morning. Jesus Christ.But the real star was the place, Calabash Bay. Without a reservation and none to be
had, I settled for a little apartment on the beach. It was round, like a benab, with a kitchen to one side and bathroom to the other. Red, silky, cheap curtains flew like flags out the window with the strong sea breeze. Red sheets and covers told the full story. It was built and used for that. “That wah gwaan”, my friend would later intone. “A fuck house that”. Even with the breeze, without air conditioning, it felt a humid 90. I slept alone, nude, doors open, curtains flying, in the sheer idyllic idleness..Outside little crabs ran across the stairs and fought each other for holes in the sand or maybe it was the mood. The people acted like they knew me, maybe because I looked like them, something the white man had a hand in. I asked why they never came to see Taurus Riley. “We lost a boat last night, but we find them this morning, everybody safe.” The thick round, dougla gyal that managed the place and the shop out front said, “Just call if you need anything” then twisted her way across the sand to the store. The night I was leaving she told me to, "bring your family next time; I have a house for ya’ll to stay, take my number”.
Oh yes, the literary festival was great: readings, meeting people, bonfire, a good time, a DJ battle between Mutabaruka and Colin Channer. When Muta start a lick them oldies, and the crowd rocked, he raised the mic and said, “wah yuh feel, Rasta man nah fall in love too”. “Yeh”, I said to myself, “meh family coming next time and, that one, George Lamming“
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Thanks Bro!