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<TABLE cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=1 width="100%" border=0><TBODY><TR><TD><SPAN class=TopStory>A spoonful of salt</SPAN>
<SPAN class=Subheadline></SPAN></TD></TR><TR><TD>Mark Wignall
Thursday, February 08, 2007
</TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE>
<TABLE cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=5 width=86 align=left border=0><TBODY><TR><TD>
</TD></TR><TR><TD><SPAN class=Description>Mark Wignall</SPAN></TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE><P class=StoryText align=justify>I was at the Harbour View roundabout many years ago when visiting monarch Queen Elizabeth passed by in a motorcade from the airport en route to King's House. From a personal standpoint, the little white lady in the stately car was of no importance to me although the history of her forbears had shaped our island home, our people and the region.<P class=StoryText align=justify>As I stood, arms folded across the chest in my mock act of defiance and silently gloated over my right to un-acknowledge her presence, the contrast with the crowd's response placed us 180 degrees apart. The blackest faces in the crowd - and crowd it was - seemed to be losing their minds over the little lady.<P class=StoryText align=justify>"Miss Queen! Miss Queen!" said one middle-aged, black-complexioned woman. "Her Majesty, long live the Queen," said another who appeared to be her companion. All around me were these "salt of the earth" Jamaicans, black as the African mothers who were stolen by the fathers of British monarchy and European usurpers of liberty, waving on, greeting, hailing, genuflecting before the "enemy".<P class=StoryText align=justify>That was in the early 1980s, I believe, and at that time the queen had not done too much for us. Well, she did do something. We patched all the potholes along the roadway that would be traversed by her motorcade. And of course we hatched up some cheap paint to spread along the verges all along the way from the airport to King's House.<P class=StoryText align=justify>In another month, Jamaica will be hosting the premier event in world cricket. Imagine, if you may, a European tourist travelling from Kingston to Trelawny. If he should have the need to urinate, the only "rest stop" for him is at one of the many bars along the way. Many of these bars have practical, very undressed urinals suited mostly for drunks. If the bar is not considered an option, Mr Tourist will have to do what most of our men opt for. Do it against the roadside.<P class=StoryText align=justify>For much too long we have demanded too much of the wrong things from government and too little of the right things. If I am a farmer, I want the government to give me free seedlings, pesticides and fertiliser. If the politician wants my vote, he will have to give me free zinc to fix my roof. If I am a delegate of the party and my vote is needed in a crucial contest, the politician will have to give me $15,000 for that vote. "Eat a food" today, suck salt tomorrow.<P class=StoryText align=justify>Most of our menfolk at street level have never demanded "decency" as a must-have on the main menu. We don't expect our politicians to be decent, civil and restricted in the exposure of their domestic failings. As a follow-up to that, we expect to see not much in terms of physical signs of decency, like urinals along the roadway.<P class=StoryText align=justify>Our politicians study the culture and out of this they observe that our men demand little and are quite content to exit the car and urinate against the base of a light pole in broad daylight. Because of misdirected hunger, we demand curry goat and rum, but end up sucking salt at the end while staring down at the puddle at the base of a JPS pole.
Take a trip into any inner-city community. Close to its entrance, or near to what is considered the community centre is usually placed something called the "community notice board". In almost every instance, these boards are ove
<SPAN class=Subheadline></SPAN></TD></TR><TR><TD>Mark Wignall
Thursday, February 08, 2007
</TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE>
<TABLE cellSpacing=0 cellPadding=5 width=86 align=left border=0><TBODY><TR><TD>
</TD></TR><TR><TD><SPAN class=Description>Mark Wignall</SPAN></TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE><P class=StoryText align=justify>I was at the Harbour View roundabout many years ago when visiting monarch Queen Elizabeth passed by in a motorcade from the airport en route to King's House. From a personal standpoint, the little white lady in the stately car was of no importance to me although the history of her forbears had shaped our island home, our people and the region.<P class=StoryText align=justify>As I stood, arms folded across the chest in my mock act of defiance and silently gloated over my right to un-acknowledge her presence, the contrast with the crowd's response placed us 180 degrees apart. The blackest faces in the crowd - and crowd it was - seemed to be losing their minds over the little lady.<P class=StoryText align=justify>"Miss Queen! Miss Queen!" said one middle-aged, black-complexioned woman. "Her Majesty, long live the Queen," said another who appeared to be her companion. All around me were these "salt of the earth" Jamaicans, black as the African mothers who were stolen by the fathers of British monarchy and European usurpers of liberty, waving on, greeting, hailing, genuflecting before the "enemy".<P class=StoryText align=justify>That was in the early 1980s, I believe, and at that time the queen had not done too much for us. Well, she did do something. We patched all the potholes along the roadway that would be traversed by her motorcade. And of course we hatched up some cheap paint to spread along the verges all along the way from the airport to King's House.<P class=StoryText align=justify>In another month, Jamaica will be hosting the premier event in world cricket. Imagine, if you may, a European tourist travelling from Kingston to Trelawny. If he should have the need to urinate, the only "rest stop" for him is at one of the many bars along the way. Many of these bars have practical, very undressed urinals suited mostly for drunks. If the bar is not considered an option, Mr Tourist will have to do what most of our men opt for. Do it against the roadside.<P class=StoryText align=justify>For much too long we have demanded too much of the wrong things from government and too little of the right things. If I am a farmer, I want the government to give me free seedlings, pesticides and fertiliser. If the politician wants my vote, he will have to give me free zinc to fix my roof. If I am a delegate of the party and my vote is needed in a crucial contest, the politician will have to give me $15,000 for that vote. "Eat a food" today, suck salt tomorrow.<P class=StoryText align=justify>Most of our menfolk at street level have never demanded "decency" as a must-have on the main menu. We don't expect our politicians to be decent, civil and restricted in the exposure of their domestic failings. As a follow-up to that, we expect to see not much in terms of physical signs of decency, like urinals along the roadway.<P class=StoryText align=justify>Our politicians study the culture and out of this they observe that our men demand little and are quite content to exit the car and urinate against the base of a light pole in broad daylight. Because of misdirected hunger, we demand curry goat and rum, but end up sucking salt at the end while staring down at the puddle at the base of a JPS pole.Take a trip into any inner-city community. Close to its entrance, or near to what is considered the community centre is usually placed something called the "community notice board". In almost every instance, these boards are ove