The Street

The people live in the village. They cheer, encourage and celebrate with the children. The intensity and excitement are palpable. The finish line is only a few steps away and with each step the voice of the crowd increases by another decibel. Some bystanders are caught up in the moment and begin running with the children who are about to cross the finish line. This is one of those moments when the people in the village are one; everyone has the same focus; like-minds. It’s Sports Week and this is a happy occasion.

At first glance, this is just a street; one of thousands on the island. It stands tall and straight, sloping down into the village where people lime. This is where people unwind, talk about their day, commiserate about their problems and drink a Piton. This street has witnessed happy, sad and mundane days.

They come from the fields; the farms in the interior portion of the island. Cutlass in hand and dirty from a days work, their pick-up trucks are filled with “green gold”. Banana farmers are rich in soil and that allows them to reap the bounty of their harvest. Truck after truck cruises down the hill headed to the nearest collection point where the farmer will trade in the harvest for cash. It’s just a normal day in the village. At least it was normal until the export laws changed.

It was a familiar sight, but not familiar at all. They are waiting to see the old pick-up truck that they have seen rolling down this street so many times before. The street is lined with people, not a standing space left. It is quiet. There is little to say. Each is grieving in their own way, going over small memories in these private moments. And then, it appears. It is small in the distance, but as it moves closer the reality becomes unbearable. A sob is heard and then a cry. The people begin to scream and some collapse in the street. The little pick-up truck holds the casket of their fallen leader. Sir John Compton had done so much for this village.

The village was bustling, especially on a Saturday. Neighboring villagers would come to do their weekly grocery shopping, buy a new pair of shoes or buy schoolbooks for the children. It was difficult to move around the island in those days, but the street in this village was well-travelled with buses transporting shoppers who left handfuls of money in retailers ringing cash registers. When the main road was built, shoppers changed their path in pursuit of a more diverse shopping experience in Vieux Fort. The cash registers that once left ringing in our ears, now stand silent for the most part.

This street has witnessed change in the village, the era of green gold, a hero, Sir John Compton and buses filled with shoppers. These are just a few memories that make this street a historical timeline of the village culture. But new memories are made; the cheers for children, running as fast as their feet will take them, replace the sweat of the farmers, the ringing cash registers and the tears for their leader.