by Grace Cameron
Get a grip. Lifestyle Editor Grace Cameron stoops to conquer.
THE OTHERS might not have noticed but I was walking with a swagger going into that cane field.
I'd been eyeing the endless rows of green bushes resembling giant scallion on steroids rather than sugar cane and thinking, "I can take those suckers down". With two years of weight training at Spartan Health Club (though I've slacked off lately) pumping through my muscles, I was ready to let her rip. Yes Siree, I was ready to let my cutlass sing. I was going to show those scrawny pieces of weed who was boss.
So by the time I jumped out of the front seat of the pick up, deep into the cane piece I was primed. OK, so things got off to a less than auspicious start when I called the little piece of iron used to sharpen the cutlass a sharpener. The others snickered.
"It's called a file," they chimed.
"City girl," sniffed Barbara Ellington.
Hey, I chuckled too. "I'll show 'em," I thought.
Things didn't get much better when I almost impaled myself on said sharpener/file by putting it in the front pocket of my jeans. Several women who had gathered to watch us city slickers chop cane called out, telling me to put it in my back pocket instead with the sharp end pointing up. That way when you bend over it won't run into your belly, they explained. I spotted a mix of sympathy and amusement in their eyes but brushed it aside. I was on a mission.
We were to work in pairs and I teamed up with Nashauna Drummond. Alfred Williams, head of extension department of the All Island Cane Farmers Association, had arranged three lines of cane for each of us. After demonstrating how to cut and heap we were on our own.
CHOPPED AND HACKED
The line of greenery went on and on and on. I felt the first sign of nerves as my muscles twitched. Still, the first swing of the cutlass felt good. It didn't neatly slice the cane from its root the way I had pictured it in my mind, but after a couple of hacks I was on my way.
I chopped and hacked sometimes I got it with one swing, other times I had to go at it several times. The pile was slowly growing and I thought I was doing well until Drummond looked over at me 'cleaning up' a piece of the cane with the machete.
"My girl," she called out, "you don't have to make it all nice and neat, you know. Just cut it, chop off what you need to chop off and fling it on the pile."
"Yeah," chimed in Racquel Henry, who only the day before had started selling box juices to the cutters. "Just cut it off and fling it in."
Henry, who had been watching us with a friendly, but a definite they-must-be-crazy-look added, "Just chop off di leaf dem." She squeezed out an encouraging smile.
Easy for her to say, she had never 'worked' a cane piece in her life. She wasn't interested she had told us earlier.
They were right, what was I doing trying to make the pieces look nice and clean? Well, no more Miss Nice Gal. I bent my back with purpose and sliced into the next few pieces. I chopped with a vengeance, at times I could taste the ashes (they burn the field before the cutters come in). I wish I had brought a pair of goggles and a mouth guard. Of course none of that would've helped the fact that the cane refused to stand up and be cut. I figured it must have been some kind of peaceful resistance (Williams' explanation points to the passage of Hurricane Ivan) because they were sprawled out on their sides, making it harder to drape them up and whack.
I was not amused.
At the 40-minute mark Williams took pity on me and got one of the male cutters to sharpen my cutlass. I went back swinging - or tried to. I felt like I was moving in slow motion, my arms moving slower and slower.
"Let's see if we can make it to an hour," I called out to Drummond.
The minutes dragged as we struggled to hang in. At the 60 minute mark we threw in the towel.
I'D NEVER WANT TO DO IT
Truth is, it's a dirty,
backbreaking job. I'd never
want to do it. But on the drive back to the main building I thought about all those women who do it to feed and clothe
their children. I thought about the generations before us who were forced to labour in fields like these and I started counting my blessings.
Back home, as I lumbered to my door, dragging my aching legs, back and shoulders hurting, and arms feeling like they were about to fall off, I realised I'd lost my swagger.
I felt humbled.
