The More They Remain The Same

Come and go as you please; and turn as much as you can ... one thing is certain: you can’t get away from the fact that, in this “Sweet St. Lucia” of ours, the more things change, the more they remain the same. Specifically, I’m referring - as I find myself doing so often - to the superstitutions and the obeah mentality which is such a deep-rooted, integral part of our “culture”
To illustrate, I have a couple of short stories to tell.
They both, in addition to having a strong superstitious thread running through them, deal with another aspect of our culture which seems to weather time and is as enduring as the Pitons, in our everyday carryings-on: marital infidelity. They also both relate stuff which is supposed to have happened years and years ago.
Here’s the first.
My grandfather and grandmother on my mother’s side married and lived in the village of Canaries (this is late nineteenth-century stuff, when “men were men and a woman’s place was in the home”). On one fateful Saturday night, my grandfather (his name was Lionel) put on his finest going-out garments, pants neatly pressed - by my grandmother, Cleophane (come on, we’re not doing any better with names these days, you know: Caffina, Carelda, to name just a couple of modern names I know which begin with the letter “C”, as hers did), and set out for the neighbouring settlement of Belvedere to go kick up his heels at a dance.
“Why didn’t she go along,” you ask? Hey, keep bearing in mind that those were the nineties - eighteen-nineties - and her placce was...well, we won’t go back there, O.K.? Anyway, Lio set off, promising to be good - and promising to be back before one o’clock in the morning.
I won’t stretch out the story with the unnecessary details about the great time he had at the dance; I’ll cut to the quick and give you the conclusion: he arrived home at approximately six-thirty the next morning, hair dishevelled, shirt wrinkled, looking like he really needed some sleep.
“Where in God’s name have you been?” inquired a just-as-sleepless Fafane (Cleophane’s “home name”). “You’d better have a decent, foolproof explanation (never mind the “men-were-men” propaganda: throughout history, when a woman got her back up and the fire of fury in her eye, the strongest men tremble and start looking for a bomb shelter where they might have a chance of averting the oncoming catastrophe. Ask Samson: ask Wayne Bobbit: ask anybody). I’ve been waiting up all night, and it had better be worth it.”
And that’s when the story, which has become a legend in my family...as a matter of fact, in the annals of the great stories coming out of Canaries...was born.
It was this white horse...” began Lio, not quite meeting her accusing eye.
“White horse? What white horse?”
The Marquis’ have always had nerve.”I left the dance at midnight,” Lio explained without batting an eye, “and I had gotten close to the village when I heard hoofbeats following me, so I began to run. As I fled,. I could see, over my shoulder, that I was being pursued by a huge, white horse. I turned a corner and managed to conceal myself-behind a pile of lumber which was stacked near the river wall, just in time. The horse came on, along the wall and passed me where I hid, continuing in the direction of the village.
“I remained hidden all night, afraid to come out and risk discovery. At six o’clock, just before sunrise, I once more heard hoofbeats and the horse appeared, running back along the wall, this time away from the village and into the wild, no doubt very frustrated that he had not managed to get a hold of me. That’s when I decided I could emerge from my hiding place and come home.
“So you see, you’re lucky I’m still alive. No telling what evil treatment would have been meted out to me, if I hadn’t remained hidden.”
You can imagine the rest. “Oh, you poor dear, come here let me take care of you, etc, etc., “from Fafane...and another weird, wondrous tale, to tell to trembling, wide-eyed, openmouthed children at night, was born.

Now, here’s the second story, also out of Canaries. This one I was “witness” to, for it took place while I was a teenager, visiting the village.
Anthony worked at the sugar factory in Roseau and along with his co-workers, would come home from the late shift, by canoe, to Canaries. Invariably, the guys would take home a bottle of molasses, or strong rum, or a few stalks of cane, something...every night. The wives (of those who were married - and Anthony was one of those) had come to expect it.
One night however, when Anthony was wending his way from the waterfront at approximately one-thirty, he met with Sylvia, a local girl who was known to have morals as loose as the flip-flops she often wore. She plied her charms on him and convinced him to part with the bottle of molasses he was carrying, in payment for her favours.
Anthony subsequently arrived home, at about two-fifteen, empty-handed. He realized however, that Mona, his wife, would discover from his co-workers - or their wives - that he had left work carrying a bottle of malasses.
“How come your hands are empty?” a sleepy Mona enquired.
“Girl,” said the quick-witted Anthony, “I had this bottle of molasses for you, up until I opened the gate and began to come along the long alleyway to this house. All of a sudden, a turkey (in those days, no one in Canaries raised turkeys - not one turkey existed in the village) as large as a donkey appeared in my path and declared that it would break my neck if I did not hand over what I was carrying.
“What would you do? I threw the bottle at it and ran for my life. I ran through the deserted streets of the village and waited awhile. By the time I had summoned up the courage to come back, there was no sign, either of the turkey or the bottle, in the yard.”
I know, I know ... Anthony could have been my grandfather’s brother. He also, added a bit of colour to the folklore of the Canaries area, and his tale is passed down from generation to generation.
Now, throughout the telling, we have been bearing in mind that those events took place years ago, when there were few schools in the island, when folk were illiterate and gullible, when we were in the dark ages. Couldn’t happen today, we say.
Remember at the outset, when I said that something came up this week which compelled me to write this stuff?
Well, I have this young, newlywed cousin who had to work late Friday night, attending a meeting in connection with a project which his firm was undertaking. He arrived home in the wee hours of Saturday morning. His wife was irate.
But this boy had a sound knowledge of family history, and old Lio’s genes were in his blood
“My cellphone was off, I had a flat tire, which I only discovered when everyone had left, and I had no spare”, he began; “I finally decided to walk home, in order to spare you any anxiety.
“I was passing through this dark, deserted area, when... would you believe it? It was incredible and I’m still shaking all over...I heard hoofbeats behind me and saw this huge, white horse coming full speed in my direction...”
She bought it.
As I said, the more things change...