Tower Of Babel

AN OCHO RIOS MORNING

The slightly melancholy smell of the polished wooden floors mixed with the tangy ocean breezes is the first thing that I sense as my eyes pop open.

Then I hear it “Feesh……grouper, snapper, paarrat feesh! Fresh feesh for sale!” It is the sound of the fisherman as he walks down the lane calling to the cooks in the villas to come and see his catch.

I quickly rub my eyes and jump excitedly out of bed, throwing my thin legs into my yellow shorts and slipping my feet into the flip-flops conveniently placed beside the bed the night before. My shorty nightie will do for a blouse.

I meet my sister at the top of the stairs and we jostle and push our way down to the kitchen, vying for first place as we dismally fail to be quiet for the rest of the family is still asleep.

Princess is in the kitchen and wipes her hands slowly on her apron. She turns to greet us with a smile and taking our hands, she leaves her breakfast preparations half done as she leads us through the door and out to meet the fisherman.

The morning is bright and fresh. The road still quiet as the neighbouring households are just beginning to stir. In the air the smell of fruit, sea and breakfasts cooking co-mingle with the chirping of the crickets, the singing of the birds and the distant sound of the traffic on the main street a few lanes away.

Ants scurry across the rutted road, searching for any edible tidbits while staying out of the way of the lizards that sit on the walls and hide in the trees, eyes ever watchful; yellow and orange tongues flickering out to attract small insects for their morning meals.

The catch is good this morning. There are many fish strung together in the man’s tight grasp. With a big smile he bids us good morning and allows us to touch the fish, chuckling in response to our shrieks of mock horror at the feel of the cold scales.

His bare feet are planted wide as he stands and chats with Princess, bargaining and cajoling over the price of the fish. My sister and I examine his catch, they swing slowly on the string, their iridescent blues, greens and silvers swirl and catch the sunlight and we are fascinated.

Finally the deal is made and the fisherman continues on his way down the lane repeating his chant. Princess allows us to carry one fish each and herds us back into the house, shushing us gently she tells us to go and play while she returns to her work in the kitchen.

My sister and I head for the lounge chair in the big living room, which is dwarfed by the seemingly bigger picture window that takes up an entire wall and overlooks the beach.

Momentarily we are soothed by the lapping water and the sheer beauty our young minds are only just beginning to comprehend.

As we watch the sun glisten on the waves and listen to the rhythmic sound of the waves hitting the sandy beach, we hear fading into the background the chant of the fisherman’s call “Feesh – fresh feesh for sale!”

Ciya
March 2, 2006

This entry was posted on Saturday, March 11th, 2006 at 5:12 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.