Bertha and Me

Bertha called earlier this week. There’s a faculty meeting in Castries on Sunday. “Are you going?” she said. I told her I was and we made arrangements to meet at the bus stop to ride in together. She is a professor I met at Monroe College; she lives in the same village as I do. Her husband is the Pentecostal Preacher. I hope you can stand yet another bus story. I love bus rides because they give me time to meet people, reflect on being here and let's face it - being from California, bus rides aren't something I am used to doing!

Bertha called and said, “Where are you?” I told her I was just leaving my house for the five minute walk. She was worried about getting there on time and I realized my tardiness was contributing to her anxiety so I quickly locked my door and ran down the stairs. Elizabeth shouted to me just as I reached the street. I went back and talked to her for a couple of minutes. She wants to go into my house and look at the light bulbs. They are going to change them to energy saving bulbs; it’s something that some people in the village are focusing on and together they will get a better deal on the expensive bulbs. This is a little surprising to me as people are not aware of environmental issues here. Thinking about it, they are more than likely focusing on the expensive electric bills we are faced with each month. I tell her she is welcome to use her key as I run down the road.

I turn the corner and there is a young man carrying some bags. He recognizes me, but I can’t place him. I greet him with the usual “are you ok?”. In Saint Lucia that means “How are you?” It’s just a greeting not intended for an honest answer. He stops and says yes, he’s ok, but it is a challenging day for him. We agree that life is full of challenges and it’s those challenges that allow us to grow. The conversation is turning a bit deep when a jeep drives up. Bertha sticks her head out the window and says, “Get in; my friend will take us to the bus stop.” I say farewell to my friend and promise myself that I’ll figure out who he is and discover his name. I get into the back seat for the two minute ride up the road. Saint Lucians, by their own admission, don’t like to walk.

We waited at the bus stop under the shade and shelter of the bus stop for only fifteen minutes; somewhat of a miracle on a Sunday morning. Maybe this has something to do with Bertha, a Pentecostal Preacher’s wife. We got in the bus and were on our way. A man is waiting for a bus at the next village and the driver stops. I look at the window and the man is literally running while taking large leaping jumps into the air while crossing the street and heading for the bus. I’m surprised when he does not leap onto the hood and declare himself King of the Passengers. He has hair wrapped in a white cloth indicating he has long Rasta braids. He is wearing a long sleeved dress white shirt and a pair of jeans. He is happy. I hear Bertha sign and say “ah oh”. For lack of a better name, I will call him Rasta Man.

Rasta Man sits in the empty seat in front of us and the bus driver pulls out and continues up the two lane highway. Rasta Man tries to make conversation, but clearly, those on the bus are uncomfortable. I see many of them glance at me and I’m wondering if I am a contributor to their discomfort. Do they think I would judge Rasta Man? Are they embarrassed because I’m an outsider? Do they think I feel uncomfortable? Unsafe?

We stop for another passenger, a well dressed young woman. She takes a seat next to me and I make some casual conversation. She is very friendly. Rasta Man is becoming irritated that no one is having fun with him. He is becoming agitated. The bus is quiet, except for the continuing diatribe of Rasta Man. Then I suddenly hear him say “Stopping Driver”. The driver stops and Rasta Man jumps out of the bus and leaps to the other side of the street. I declare, “I just love interesting bus rides”. Everyone on the bus is now laughing and they begin an animated conversation. I feel like I’ve known these passengers my whole life. After all, we just had an experience together.

Nobel Laureates Week

I can’t seem to move away from it; nope can’t do it. No matter how much I try, it’s there. I did it before I retired; I incorporated it into my marketing classes; I built it into my Teaming and Leadership Course. I’m doing it here. I travelled how many thousand miles . . . and here I am, currently involved in planning another event. While I’m busy helping the Village Librarian, Egbert, plan for Independence Day celebrations, I’m doing the clean-up work from our Nobel Laureate Day two weeks ago. Yes, event planning follows me wherever I go.

Saint Lucia has two Laureates which for a small island is an amazing accomplishment in recognition. Saint Lucians have a tremendous amount of pride for their Laureates. The community college was renamed Sir Arthur Lewis Community College and they dedicated a piece of land in Castries as “Derek Walcott Square”.

Each year the Laureates celebration is planned during the week of January 23, because they were born on the same day – January 23. The best part of these events is that it includes research. The Nobel Laureate Event had lots of research connected with it. The hardest part was to make it a learning event for children.

Sir Arthur Lewis won the Prize in Economics in 1979. He was the first Saint Lucian to win the prize, as well as the first black man to win the prize in other than Peace.

Lewis began developing Dual Economic Theory in the 1950s which led to the prize two decades later. His theory creates a circular pattern; a capitalist sector reinvests drawing upon over-populated subsistence sectors. Cheap labor enables low prices. Over-populated countries need jobs and will settle for low wages. Over-populated sectors become dependent. It’s supply and demand. Lewis legacy suggests the people interrupt the cycle by returning to agriculture. The government and people need to make rural life more attractive to ensure agriculture is nurtured.

Since children are Saint Lucia’s economic future, we decided to teach them a simple model of what Lewis was trying to teach and then ask them to draw a picture of what they want to be when the grow up. There were a variety of answers, some predictable, some entertaining, and others . . . well, odd. They wanted to be lawyers, pilots, teachers, farmers and fishermen, husbands and wives, kings and queens, singers and dancers and rock starts, monkeys and cats.

Walcott is a playwright and poet. He won the prize in 1992 for his lifetime work. We played a video of Walcott reciting his well-known poem, Sea Grapes.

Walcott was moved recently when he saw Barack Obama carrying a book of his poems. In honor of the first black U.S. President, Walcott wrote a new poem “Forty Acres”. It is one of my favorites. The poem is below, and if you want to hear Walcott recite it, you will find it at http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/us_and_americas/us_elections/article5088429.ece Comparing and contrasting these two poems created a learning opportunity for the older children.

Forty Acres, by Derek Walcott

Out of the turmoil emerges one emblem, an engraving

a young Negro at dawn in straw hat and overalls,

an emblem of impossible prophecy, a crowd

dividing like the furrow which a mule has ploughed,

parting for their president: a field of snow-flecked cotton

forty acres wide, of crows with predictable omens

that the young ploughman ignores for his unforgotten

cotton-haired ancestors, while lined on one branch, is a tense

court of bespectacled owls and, on the field's receding rim —

a gesticulating scarecrow stamping with rage at him.

The small plough continues on this lined page

beyond the moaning ground, the lynching tree, the tornado's black vengeance,

and the young ploughman feels the change in his veins, heart, muscles, tendons,

till the land lies open like a flag as dawn's sure

light streaks the field and furrows wait for the sower.

The children easily related to the poem he wrote for Barack Obama. Many children came back later in the afternoon with friends and family specifically to see this part of the exhibit. There were about 500 children who came with their teachers to see the exhibit. Neema is working toward her teaching certificate at Sir Arthur Lewis Community College and is currently doing her teaching internship. I was happy to see her come with her class and mentor. It was a lot of fun…but all those children! I was tired at the end of the day, but it was worth it. Aren't they adorable?.

The Gas Station

A foreign non-profit organization has come to Saint Lucia looking for opportunities to help local village economy. They have selected two villages and mine is one of them. The Village Development Foundation will participate in identifying local influential people and businesses; interview them and invite them to an action planning workshop.

It’s Monday and I’m waiting at Esther’s Restaurant, the gathering place for the teams to meet before going out to talk to the people. It’s a good opportunity for me to meet people. There are three teams and each team arrives in a separate car. The second car that arrives with the team I will join today.

The first person we meet is a retired principal. We are invited into his home; we take our shoes off and enter the living room taking a seat on the sofa. His home is comfortable. Opposite the sofa is a coffee table and beyond that are shelves that house his television, pictures, books and a certificate from Monroe College. He’s a pleasant man with good insight into the community. The interview is concluded and I hand him a letter inviting him to Friday’s Action Planning Workshop. Almost everything is done with formal letters, a process that I’m not accustomed to. In the United States, we pick up the phone, here they sometimes call people, but always follow up with a formal letter.

Our next interview, the owner of a gas station, catches me by surprise. We pull up to the gas station on the highway and pass by a man who looks like a mechanic. He’s talking on his cell phone and I wonder if this is our contact. The woman inside the mini-mart confirms he is the owner. He concludes his conversation and enters the mini-mart. He leads us into a small office, continually apologizing to us for the small quarters. He explains his operation is just a small business. It takes several minutes, but eventually we all have a chair and we sit down and the questions begin.

This interview highlights what I already know about people in Saint Lucia: I never know who people are until I talk with them. In the United States, many times the first thing we ask people is, “What do you do?” meaning what kind of work do you do. Then we put them in our mental boxes. Their dress and how they speak help us box them. We might look at what they are driving or where they live to ensure they are boxed appropriately. Saint Lucians are more interested in social systems; the music they listen to, the activities they engage in and their family structure; who is related to who . . . and they are all related in one fashion or another. They live, rich and poor, in the same area community. I don’t hear them speak about money or their next promotion.

He is a humble man with no formal education. We didn't ask him about his education; he volunteered it. Behind his unassuming character is a man who is proud of his accomplishment. As a young child he worked in fields with his father. They had a roadside stand. He attributes his upbringing to his understanding the business world.

As we talk, we discover that not only does he own this gas station, but he owns the restaurant and min-mart as well and upstairs are offices used for other businesses. He is the owner of several businesses around the island. He owns a heavy equipment business, a waste sanitation business, and numerous other businesses. He helped one of his sons establish a thriving business. His wife helps with the business and is responsible for automating those businesses. His sons all have college educations from major United States and England universities; they are lawyers and engineers. He is well connected and knows how to use the system which gives him a competitive advantage as a businessman. He has a passion for business and is still looking for opportunities to develop new businesses. He has the ability to see the business system and know what people want.

When a bank said they would loan him money to build a bed and breakfast, he told them he wasn't interested. He knows at present, there is no market for it. Then he said, "Maybe a nightclub would be better. The people of this village would come."

During a recent ride to the capitol, Angelina and I spoke about him. She described him as very generous. She spoke about an employee who stole from him. Someone asked him “Why don’t you fire this employee? He stole from you.” His reply was, “Then who would be the donkey?” He kept this employee who became loyal and eventually re-gained his trust.

My impression of the man I passed when I entered the gas station and the man I knew when I left was quite different. I wish I could bottle his intuitive business sense and sprinkle it around my classroom.

Formal Letters

I volunteer at Monroe College in Castries, teaching Business Policy and Strategy. Teaching is a secondary assignment. It is an American institution and the textbooks are the same used in the United States. A chapter in the text I’m using describes generational differences, noting the values of Baby Boomers and Gen X. It points out how these differences intersect with the business environment. This is a typical undergrad business issue that generates lively discussion. However, we are not in the United States and it is difficult for the students to understand. When I asked them about it, they said, “Oh, we are Gen X”, but they had no depth or real understanding of the meaning. To my knowledge, there is no similar research for the generations in Saint Lucia.

In another capacity, I am working with the Village Development Foundation; this is my primary assignment as a volunteer. One thing that surprised me is that formal letters are sent for every request. Recently, I was asked to phone twenty-five people in the community and invite them to a meeting. Each of them agreed to come to the meeting, but the telephone conversation would not be recognized as “official” until they received a formal letter confirming our conversation. There was no time to mail the letters so they had to be hand-carried. Even if there was time to mail them, there are no house numbers and consequently, they would all just end up at the post office waiting for them to pick them up. One never knows how long that will take so hand-delivering them is really the only method. OK, now the circular motion of this concept is complete and I’m sure you understand. Don’t you?

I have questioned Darnley, the Foundation Chair, about the need for formal letters on more than one occasion. I explain to him that the invention of computers, technical gadgetry and in the interest of speed there are better and more efficient ways to communicate. I explain to him that the wording in the letters causes misunderstanding which leads to written sparring. I’ve said many times, “Can’t we just walk across the street and talk?” The response is always the same. “That is a good idea, but we will have to follow it up with a formal letter.”

It’s an inside joke between Darnley and me. Whenever anyone mentions a formal letter he always looks at me and smiles. He knows what I am thinking. I nod knowing what the response will be if I voice my opinion. So I don’t; I keep quiet now. But Darnley, is walking across the street to talk to people more frequently. We are both moving toward the center of the discussion. I like that.

Last week I showed my students the timeline I created of Saint Lucia History. It is the beginning stages of creating generational differences for Saint Lucia. This is a gift I want to leave behind. I’m not sure how I will introduce it, but I know I will find the right moment.

I gave my students an assignment. They were to talk with people of different generations. I asked them to uncover values, heroes and differences through hearing the stories heard in their interviews. The end result is for them to understand differences and why these differences should be considered in planning corporate strategy.

They came to class well prepared today. I got them into group discussion; each group taking one generation to explore. The conversation was rich, well researched and fun. What began as “just another homework assignment” for them turned into an exciting learning experience. And, as more than one of them pointed out, I learned with them.

Prior to 1950, life was exceptionally difficult on the island. Many left in search of an easier life. I learned that Saint Lucia didn’t have telephones until late 1959. They dialed the operator and asked for a three digit number. Rural priests, mostly white, traveled on horse and when they passed people would make the sign of the cross and bow to pay reverence.

A couple of months ago, I went to an exhibit of artifacts shown during Jounen Kweyol, translated: Creole Day. The things displayed were used prior to the 1950s. The stories I heard today gave real meaning to the things I saw two months ago. Most people in Saint Lucia did not have indoor plumbing. Families would use a bidet at night. Each morning a vehicle was dispatched through villages to pick up the “night soil”. Most did not have indoor cooking facilities and so they cooked outside on coal pots. These stories were interesting, but it was this next story that stopped me cold. It gets to the purpose of this post.

Years ago, when a man decided to propose to a woman he was required to ask her father for her hand in marriage. He had to follow a formal process. The man would write a formal letter and send it to the woman’s father to request a meeting. Now that puts a big grin on my face. I can’t wait to tell Darnley about this!

The Fisherman

My neighbor who lives across the street is a fisherman. He has a boat and he employs people to help him. They are mostly relatives. The boats are small and the fishermen usually don’t wear life vests. The sea on the eastern side of the island (Atlantic Ocean) is very rough; waves break far from the shore. I am amazed at the work they do. I run out to my balcony at the end of the day when I hear them blow conch shells to announce the catch of the day. The loud sound coming from the shells is heard throughout the village and is one of my favorite things about my new home. I think they are very brave men. Today, when I came home one of the men was repairing a lobster trap. He worked on this trap all day. He will put it in his boat and take it out to sea. He will place bait inside to lure the ocean spiders into the traps. The fishermen return later to retrieve the red pinching crustaceans. And no, I don't buy them from the fishermen. If you remember the post "Here's Looking at You" which was written on November 22, you will know the reason.

The Wedding

Elizabeth came up to my apartment today. She said, “We need to be at the Pentecostal Church at 3:00 so we can get a good seat. Can you be ready by then?” Of course I said yes. Elizabeth is my landlady. She looks out for me. She makes sure I know people in the village and she shows me where to buy bread, groceries, and which restaurant is the best. When she hasn’t seen me for a day or two she comes up to make sure I’m alright. Earlier when I didn’t have enough to do, she invited me to teach a computer class at the Infant School where she was the principal until retiring in December. Her husband, John, was in a car accident twenty-five years ago and now he walks with a cane. They don’t own a car and so getting around the village is difficult. Walking the quarter mile to the Pentecostal Church is too much for him.

I got dressed in the best thing I had. How I wish I brought a formal dress. There have been three occasions when I could have worn it. This will be an item I will bring back when I visit home this summer. I walked down the stairs and met Elizabeth. She was dressed in a shear red dress with fancy black two inch heeled shoes. We arrived at the church and were given a corsage. Corsages are common at formal events. They aren’t real flowers – they are fabric leaves decorated with a ribbon and pinned onto each man, woman and child who enters. Most formal events include a corsage. I will add this one to the growing collection I have in the top drawer of my dresser.

The church was filled with folding chairs and decorated with flowers and ribbons. PowerPoint slides are shown from the balcony and projected on the screen below. I followed Elizabeth and she picked two seats. The church filled to capacity. Everything was ready but the bride and groom. The wedding was scheduled to start at 3:30, but it turned out the start time was an hour later…and worth the wait. People were dressed to the “nines”. Children were in their Sunday best. Some were obviously wearing clothes handed down from brothers and sisters and there were lots of patent leather shoes. All of the girls had perfectly combed hair with colorful ribbons and barrettes. I had seen many of the children in my computer classes and heard them whispering to parents, “She is our computer teacher”.

The adults were wearing gold lame, chiffon dresses, and silk scarves. There was so much material sparkling with sequins and crystals. I’ve never seen so many gold shoes in one place. Those that weren’t wearing gold were wearing silver which had their own version of sparkles and flowing materials. They all had jewelry – on every finger and around their necks as well. But then there were those that were wearing formal wear that passed, but didn’t impress. There were those with no sparkle and no jewelry. They were the contrast, but it didn’t matter – and I am impressed that it doesn’t matter.

The pastor gets up and announces the wedding must get started. He is becoming impatient. The music starts and the wedding procession begins. The groomsmen line up in the front of the church. The first person in the processing is an old man, well into his seventies, if not eighties. He’s a short man, maybe five feet tall who probably weighs 100 pounds soaking wet. He is wearing an oversized white suit. He looks like a man dressed in an uncomfortable suit in an uncomfortable situation. He makes the best of it and dances to the music as he moves down the isle. Everyone is laughing and having a great time. He is the groom.

Each bridesmaid walks slowly down the isle while a cadre of photographers and videographers capture the moment. When the bridesmaid reaches her groomsman, he takes her hand and twirls her. She pins a corsage onto his lapel and he presents her with a bouquet of flowers and twirls her into place. The ring bearer with a ring and a huge grin precedes the flower girls who were dressed in pink dresses with flower and ribbon crowns on their heads. And, now finally the bride enters. We stand and there she is in a beautiful white gown with a long wedding train. She is walking slowly down the isle while her daughter is holding her up. She is at least a foot taller than her groom and maybe seventy-five pounds heavier. She and her groom have been married for fifty-four years and they are about to renew their vows.

They didn’t have the money for a big wedding fifty-four years ago and probably still don’t. Their nine children paid for it. They were the bridesmaids and groomsmen. Their grandchildren were the ring-bearer and flower girls. They sat in chairs during the ceremony, unable to stand for too long. When asked who gives this woman to this man the entire procession yelled, “We all do!” When asked if they would still “honor and cherish one another until death do they part”, she answered “Hallelujah and Amen”; he answered “Praise the Lord, I do!”

The reception was at the multi-purpose center right next to the church. But, after the ceremony, they all piled into two old limousines - each limo was at least twenty-five years old. It is tradition to ride around the village with horns honking before coming back to the reception. So this is what they did. Limo’s sputtering and coughing, but still capable to make plenty of noise with their horns, the couple was escorted around the village for everyone to see.