Wednesday's sunset over the Caribbean Sea, viewed from a hill in Tobago, was the most glorious I've seen in half-a-century. It started as early as 5 pm, when the clouds began to assemble in unusual shapes and forms, mixing cumulus and stratified almost randomly, like Boogsie Sharpe alone in Phase II's panyard, throwing notes on a tenor pan, so many coming so fast, so conflicting, so obviously unable to hold together, yet being twisted-by the artist's skill and will-into a whole that sent shivers up the spine.Wednesday's sunset was another of those natural occurrences-like mangrove, like the barracuda, like samaan trees, like storks, like crabs and the flying dinosaurs-that look like God had secretly contracted out the job of design to Peter Minshall.
It was a standout, however measured-by cloud formation, colour (range, contrast, changing/sustained hues), duration (it didn't end until after 7.30)-but, more than anything, by the way it kept you hooked, like the best conversation, music or literature, like a great love, like West Indies v South Africa in the first post-apartheid Test match we won in an empty Kensington Oval. Long after I should have returned to my desk, I stood, transfixed, letting mosquitoes bite me happily, a small price to pay to witness something so grand.It stopped the four adult and six child/adolescent inhabitants of our vacation house in our tracks, and stilled even the most fidgety of the small boys. One-a 12-year-old who, to look at him, you'd think would never even notice the sun had gone down, except he couldn't see his football any more-breathed out, "This is the best sunset I've ever seen in my whole life."
In the five or six seconds it took me to consider whether his statement held true for me, too, the sunset went overboard. Oranges flashed iridescent, glowing reds burst into flame, streaks of cobalt blue shimmered into notice, rendering greys around them silver, bronze, gold. This made my big screen TV look small, rendered insignificant the BMW five series, turned Blu-Ray discs into drink coasters and the Kindle into a little wedge of plastic. If he didn't also make genital warts and cancer, I would have believed in God on Wednesday evening, so glorious was that sunset. The 12-year-old at my side tugged my arm. "Uncle," he said, "I want to remember the day of this sunset for my whole life. What's today's date?"And so I remembered it was July 27.It was 22 years ago, last Wednesday, measured by calendar date, 22 years ago today, measured from Friday to Friday, that the good imam began his service to his god.
I was in the Hall of Justice myself, at the last Law Association end-of-the-law-term wine-and-cheese party I ever attended, when I was still just enough of a lawyer for some old lawyer friends to insist I go. The festivities of the attorneys were interrupted by those of the Muslimeen. When we went to look, from the porch of the library on the top floor, to see if Police Headquarters was really burning, a Muslimeen "soldier" took time away from storming the Red House to let off a few rounds at us; you could still see the bullet holes the last time I checked."I will never, ever forget this day," said the small boy to my left."I've only just remembered it myself," I thought.The national strike for which labour "leaders" have been calling may be underway already, by the time you read this; over the last couple of days since that glorious sunset, it's certainly looked unavoidable.
(What's a poor labour leader to do? Their arsenal is almost as empty as their heads, which lack originality, too, just like their counterparts in the Chamber of Commerce. In Trini-dad there are only a handful of protest actions: turn on your car headlights during the day; wear a particular colour shirt; hush or shout at a particular moment; sit down; stand up; march; riot; burn everything to firetruck down. It's no comfort to know that, from the business side, the "thinking" is equally vacuous: accept what we offer and hush; accept what we offer and grumble; work longer hours for less pay; take VSEP; take a side; catch your tail.)
More than two decades ago, today (or Wednesday, depending how you count it), the former police constable and 114 others, ranging in age from 13 to 65, like their IQs, played a mas called "Coup" but couldn't win even the People's Choice; today, the same costumes are being cut from the same cloth, and the same attitudes being bought to bear on problems that will remain intractable because they remain unperceived. These aren't "labour" or "business" or "government" or "opposition" or "PNM, UNC, PP or COP" problems. These are our problems. No Messiah will solve them for us, whether he rides in on a white charger or appears in a cloud of black smoke.
Twice, watching the sunset, I'd considered a soundtrack (but couldn't take my eyes away from it long enough to rotate my iPod to the first movement of Beethoven's Symphony No 2, Pastoral, or Part I of Keith Jarrett's solo piano Koln Concert, or Jimi Hendrix's Third Stone from the Sun, or Pink Floyd's Shine on You Crazy Diamond.
After I'd remembered the date, in the near-dark of the post-sunset, but still with some of its fading glory glowing hopefully in the night sky, I plugged in my earphones and twirled my thumb until it came up, then clicked on it, the soundtrack to all of Trini-dad's miseries. In my ears, tassa drums rolled; and then, sounding as though he were singing over my shoulder, David Rudder's voice came up. "Wear something red/ Was the popular cry."
BC Pires wants to know who say Hosay and whether Hosaycould be Hosannah. Read moreof his writing at www.BCraw.com