Reasons to be cheerful: A Rastafarian Wake
As a person of a certain age, I’ve decided to change my behaviour. No more negativity. Life is too short and is definitely what you make it. (Ask my daughters!)
More than anything, age has taught me, it’s a privilege to be alive, especially as one witnesses the demise of one’s peers. Not just the passing of the older generation as that is nature’s way, but people you went to school with, played with, and shared your whole life’s story with.
That said, I’ve introduced complete positivity into my life. So, I’ve decided to say “yes!” to everything. If I’m asked to go out, try new food, ‘Morris-dancing,’ or get dressed up for Carnival with full-slap, in ‘Budgie smugglers,’ from now on my answer shall always be “yes!”
St. Lucia Carnival 2018.
To this end recently, after an uninspiring meal, with an even more uninspiring date, I arrived home at 10:00pm thankful that I didn’t eat too much of the gruel served up in what I loosely call a restaurant, or had to listen to any more monotonous conversation about failed relationships, incompatibility between men and women, and fad diets!
Later that evening while searching for the indigestion tablets, my cousin telephoned, as is his wont at that time of night. He said to me. “I’m coming up north to a Rastafarian wake. Come with me man?”
In the past my reaction would’ve been – A bit of notice would be nice. Oh no it’s raining. It’s too late. It’s a long drive. You can’t park anywhere! Excuse, excuse, excuses!
Photographer and location unknown.
“A Rastafarian wake?” I enquired.
“Yes! Me Bredrin Nine-Night!” My cousin replied. He continued “My Bredrin pass, so we must celebrate his life, and prepare his soul and spirit for his journey.” He immediately got my attention! How could I say no to such a noble enterprise? So, in the affirmative I said. “I’ll see you there.” I changed my shirt and got into the car.
I won’t bore you with the details of the terrible journey in the pouring rain, dodging potholes, and drunken pedestrians in cowboy hats, (after all it was Saturday night in Castries!) and the convoluted route finding the place. Let’s just say I believe I drove past Neverland and saw some Mad-Hatters having tea.
Top Tip: To the St. Lucian Government. The occasional road sign, and road maintenance, would be a fabulous addition to the quality of life in St. Lucia.
St. Lucia pot-hole
Fortuitously, I arrived at the place approaching midnight, as my cousin was pulling up in his jeep. I resisted lambasting him for his terrible directions, we hugged and went into the venue – “venue” being a generous description. It was a back yard behind a roadside bar, which seemed to be cut out of a large family home.
Photographer & Location unknown.
Thankfully the rain stopped and the warm Caribbean night was blessed with a fabulous cool breeze. As we approached the open veranda, my chest and solar plexus were assaulted by the rhythmic harmonic bass tones from giant home-made speakers positioned along the terrace. The ground was vibrating as were my teeth, music so loud, one not just heard it, but experienced it. I called to mind that old Caribbean phrase, “Those that can’t hear, must feel!” Not one for the teenagers or the politically correct!
Photographer and location unknown.
We politely nodded at the guys ‘Liming’ on the veranda, as we were saluted with friendly “Good nights!” from all. The older of the two women working the bar said as if knowing we weren’t locals, “You come for Akeem ‘Ting’?” Just then this huge man appeared from a side doorway surrounded in a plume of smoke of a familiar unmistakable aroma.
Photographer and location unknown.
He was a High Priest, a very charismatic man with a powerful visible aura, with welcoming arms, and a charming gravitas. His body held the practised ease of someone who knows the destabilising effect his presence can have on regular people, and even in the dark his eyes were life-affirming, bright, alive with joy, wisdom and hope.
He takes no time in greeting my cousin and I, putting out a large welcoming fist-pump before embracing us both simultaneously in a dual bear hug (which my ribs are still smarting from) and my demure cousin may seek the assistance of a chiropractor.
Photographer and location unknown.
He puts us both at our ease, making us feel incredibly welcome, like we’ve come home. “Welcome Levi.” He calls to my cousin, and “brother,” he breaths and nods in my direction. Touching his breast, he introduces himself to me. “I’m Meshach, this is my home and you are welcome my brothers. Welcome, welcome, come and sit, you must take some food, open and share your soul with the brothers.” I am the oldest child in my mother’s brood, but I immediately felt like the baby of the bunch. I introduced myself, stammering, almost star-struck, such was the physical presence of this huge, charismatic, graceful man. I was mesmerised.
Photograph from Latille Garden Waterfall & Fish Spa St. Lucia.
The thundering bass tones from the wardrobe-size speakers, was causing a harmonic ring in my ears and chest as we navigated across the yard through the smoke, Mechach found us some space across from the men who were sitting astride drums of various sizes.
Photographer and location unknown.
Meshach looked at me and said “I have lived here for over 60 years; I bought this piece of land from the first money I made on my first job. Working on the dock-yard. Back in the day’ It was pure bush! Now I have homes on this piece of land where all my family can live in peace and unity with the birds and the trees, take a view of the sea and give thanks ‘ya-nah,’ in harmony, unity and love.”
I was completely dumbfounded as Meshach didn’t look a day-over sixty! Later, I found out he’s well over 80 years old. His great-grand children were present, taking part in adult activities! Visible Proof that a lifestyle of natural living can work wonders.
Photographer and location unknown.
Introduced to the cabal, we sat amongst people who were partaking in the sacrament of the holy herb. (Which I’m told induces a meditative state and brings individuals closer to the divine.) I watched as men were sucking and blowing on what looked like a broom handle, with a bucket on fire at the end. One of the men was partaking of his herb via a large hollowed-out carrot.
Photographer and location unknown.
The Ital food was amazing, homemade, simply beautiful and deliciously hearty; chickpea & sweet potato curry, Red-beans and rice, kidney bean stew, the most delicious Rice ‘n’ peas, callaloo, and vegetable Roti.
Photographer and location unknown.
The thundering bass music stopped, giving way to syncopated rhythmical drumming, by the men and women gathered around, as individuals gave affirmations to the spirits, nature and ancestors.
Photographer and location unknown.
Then one of the senior Rastas unfolded his body. Standing up like a mighty Oak Tree. Holding his chalice in his right hand, and a white staff in the other, he took a deep breath almost as if searching within himself, breathed out, expelling a Sirocco, and from memory recited Daniel 3:16-28 Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.
Photographer and location unknown.
Russian icon depicting Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego in the Fiery Furnace
With a voice somewhere between Barack Obama and Laurence Olivier, this ‘Mighty-Dread’ owned the space. Spellbound we held on to his every word and breath, his oratory so deeply moving and commanding – leaving us all mesmerised and awestruck. We were captivated and hypnotized, almost being sent into an ethereal dimension. Grown men and women were visibly moved, entranced and captivated by this awesome man. We all watched and listened in absolute reverence. In between sentences the sound of pins could be heard dropping in the distance.
I am not a spiritual person by any stretch of the imagination, but days later the power of this man’s oratory is still reverberating in my ears and sending shivers up and down my spine leaving my senses heightened, and the memory of the night resonating in my mind. It was as if the air was sucked out of the atmosphere by the sheer dynamism of his oratory. The sound of leaves falling off the trees as they floated to the ground became audible, such was the intimate intensity of the moment created by this astounding man.
Photograph from Latille Garden Waterfall & Fish Spa
Writing this particular blog brings me back to the subject of friendship, and my best friend Tim Forde. The kindest guy I ever knew. He encouraged me to write this blog.
He would’ve loved the Rasta wake, the people, the occasion and the joint sense of reverence and fun. We would’ve joked about this at every birthday, every Christmas, every time we met embellishing the story, making it funnier as the years go by.
Friendship is a severely underrated virtue. In the past we would exchange letters with our friends, go to their children’s weddings, First Holy Communion’s, have Saturday night parties, and plentiful Sunday afternoon dinners, powered only by friendship, and a Blue-Spot radiogram.
I thank you all for being friends for reading ‘reasons to be cheerful. I thank my cousin for being a good friend, and I thank all that is beautiful for Tim.
In memory of Tim Forde 1962 – 2024. Loved and gone far to soon.
NOTE: None of the photographs above are from the night in question. Out of respect to my host no photographs of the evening were taken.
Acknowledgments:
- Kwéyòl Dictionary Ministry of Education
- Tony Nayager for corrective guidance. (He knows what I mean!)
- Marilyn St Rose for keeping me right.
End of Reasons to be Cheerful Part Thirteen
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