Rosemary Parkinson, Freelance Writer
Floyd's Pelican Bar
Off Parottee somewhere, St. Elizabeth
Phone: (876) 354-4218
Open Daily
I JOINED the throngs at Calabash. Oh, yes I did, even 'though I had promised myself not to go this year - too much work, too much stress, blah blah, blah?
I am more enlightened because of my decision to go. An experience of a lifetime must always be honoured and I want to do just that. Congratulations. Well done. You have done Jamaica proud. Respect.
The Calabash International Literary Festival, founded by novelist Colin Channer, poet Kwame Dawes and producer Justine Henzell in 2001, has come into its own and, hopefully, the climb upwards will never stop. In the Caribbean, we have the unfortunate tendency of reaching a peak and then spiralling downwards like a bird with clipped wings. So ah beg from the bottom of my heart (festivals like these that uplift the mind and water the soul could be the answer to our troubled waters) please, please continue to touch the skies.
A LITTLE PEEK INTO CALABASH
Saturday's presentations had to be more than top class - just writing about it gives me the hibbie-jibbies. Manthia Diawara from Mali, reading from his memoirs started my Saturday morning in awe. The Great Non-American Novel featured Andrea Levy who brought the house down with words from her book Small Island - now added to my little Caribbean library. I even met a cousin for the first time from The Bahamas/USA who read under the Trinidad banner from whence his ancestors came. Sweet. Robert Antoni 'twas indeed a pleasure and your book Carnival has also joined my stash. Staceyann Chin's performance was indeed electrifying. I was riveted to her words of pain.
Roger Bonair-Agard from Trinidad outdid himself and local poet Mutabaruka had my undivided attention with The Next Poems, The First Poems.
Sunday's Craft of Jimmy Cliff - a musical tribute - brought back memories and waata to mi eye. And hello, before I forget, if you only know how good my boss read. Oliver Clarke (Gleaner Chairman and Managing Director) outdid himself.
One comment: How about getting the food right next year? It's time to bring the cuisine to the level of the performances. Even us literary 'hoitie-toitees' need a little diversity in food fi di mind. How you like dat bananas eeh? Mi ah hoitie-toitee now. Two Calabash and me join de ranks (giggle, giggle).
THE ELIZABETHANS AND THE PELICANS
Now you know me, I only have to hear about a special something spot and mi dey. And so it would come to pass that Peck, a young man from St. Elizabeth (hello, tell me something, if you are from St. Elizabeth can I call you Elizabethan? Sounds good eeh? Literary so to speak, so why not use it eeh?)...
Let's start over again. And so it would come to pass that a young Elizabethan by the name of Peck would board Chef Norma Shirley; Karen Whitt; Nick Gillard of Macmillan publishers in London; and me into his speedy faster-than-lightning boat. He drove us over 14 miles of crystal clear waters, with Jamaican pelicans as our air guides, across Starve Gut Bay to just off Parottee (St. Elizabeth) where the bamboo huts that comprise Floyd's Pelican Bar rise high out of the water like something out of the movie Mad Max.
Peck ensured that our land-lubber bodies get up the bamboo staircase leading into Floyd's Bar without an embarrassing plunge inna di waters. Eef you see how Miss Norma and me pretend we do this all the time. We were sweet you see?
Once firmly on the wooden floor, we ordered a round of drinks from the bar and settled into chatting with Floyd who was busy in the 'kitchen'. Floyd tells of a life of wandering - moving from home to home with no special place of abode. Fishing and hunting were all he knew. Life moved slowly for Floyd in the village of Parottee, St. Elizabeth. One morning this young man woke from a dream with a vision he claimed changed his life. According to his vision he was to come out to the seashore and build a bar. He was to make a career of this until his name reached far and wide. Well mi dears, wish I could have dreams come true like Floyd's - all now so I would ah win Lotto and 'ave mi own bar on the tippie-tip of the Blue Mountain Peak. True.
Serious thing now. Anyone ever see those Digicel billboards and advertisement pon TV? Anyone ask at Jake's Hotel (or any other hotel in St. Elizabeth) if dem hear of Floyd's Pelican Bar? Anyone know how di tourises dem love Floyd's Bar? Anyone realise wey Floyd's name is now?
What a vision. What an innovative idea. What a spot. Miss Norma now seh she gwine build restaurant inna di middle of Bath spring waters in St. Thomas wid branch in Ram Goat Cave over in Trelawny. She seh if Floyd coulda build hut in watah, she can build hut anyweh. Imagine, to think that a little guy from Parottee could ah do all dis is simply too wonderful.
FLOYD CAN COOK
Floyd can cook too, believe you me. Our seafood platter was more than scrumptious. Prepared over an open fire and in a dutch pot, the aroma of smoked wood permeated each chunk of seafood that had been marinated in garlic, escallion, pimento, scotch bonnet and other seasonings.
Served on nothing but white rice it was, to say the least, simple and simply delicious. A Heineken to wash it all down and a game of slapping dominoes onto the one little table in di place and we were fit (we thought) to face the sea. By then the water had become quite high, creating a thrilling ride for our trip back to shore. Miss Norma and the publisher turned rock stone - she covering her head wid towel as if that could save her.
Well, ah gorn before I get sillier. Walk good.
If I was a tap-natch poet, like Tchikaya U'tamsi, Nicholas Guillen ar Lorna Goodison, I woodah write a poem, soh beautiful dat it simple, like a plain girl, wid good brains, an nice ways, wid a sexy dispozishan, an plenty compahshan, wid a sweet smile, and a suttle style?
Jamaican Linton Kwesi Johnson, Mi Revolutionary Fren:
Selected Poem
