 My black angel, Jonathan |  Home-made ice-lolly soup |  Angus and friends in All Nations Bar |
Most cruise-ship passengers took guided tours to find their idea of tropical paradise. But St Lucia is no Saint Island. Police patrol in pairs and bulletproof vests. I’ll seek the big man who tried to rob me last month I thought.
‘Can I help you?’ a big man asked. Long black and grey dreadlocks on head and chin... A deeply fissured face showed he has trod both dark and light sides of life. ‘I’m Jonathan. I’ll be your angel,’ he said. ‘I’ll protect you.’
He probably wants to earn, but seems earnest. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for a big man who tried to rob me last month. So I can tell police.’
‘Robbers are devils for our island. I’ll help,’ he said eagerly. ‘I’m 6 feet 2.’
‘The robber is 6 feet 7.’
‘No-one can harm you when I’m by your side. I’m your angel protector.’
We could not find the robber, but found the All Nations Bar, where last month I’d drank and played dominoes with black guys who protected me from anti-whites. Angus and others greeted me with broad smiles, and rounds of pure homemade rum. ‘200 per cent proof,’ Angus grinned. A black man came in, and screamed at me like a devil for being white. My angel Jonathan screamed back, ‘he’s not a white man, he’s a hu – man!’ so forcefully the man backed out of the door.
‘My mother died recently,’ said Jonathan. ‘In her Will she left me half a mountain. It has its own waterfall. But I’m alone. If I had money to build a road for tourists to visit, I’d be made for life.’
Maybe this is true, maybe not. Maybe it’s his way to earn from me. Maybe I’ll offer funds to part-own a waterfall, and help my black angel Jonathan and St Lucia’s economy. ‘Let’s swap email addresses,’ I said.
Jonathan smiled. ‘It’s good to know I’m not alone anymore. Come, I’ll show you my home.’
We visited a ‘shop’ with a few jars of sweets, in the front room of an old toothless lady, who stirred Carnation Milk into a large pot on her sofa as she watched TV. ‘I’m making ice-lollies to sell,’ she said. Across the road, Jonathan’s home was a tiny space with a single bed, lots of clutter, and a toilet in an open-view yard. Rumpled sheets covered the little floor. ‘This is where I bring women. Or destitute or homeless people I meet. They sleep on the floor until they feel better. I used to live rough myself.’ The sheet on the floor stirred, and a sleepy head poked out. ‘This is Robert. I found him on the streets four days ago. He’s 23. I’m teaching him about angels and love.’ Jonathan treads a difficult human path to share angelic love. I’ll check his waterfall credentials, and try to help him.
-------
Walking back to the ship alone, I felt a pull to a hut selling ice creams. A black lady about 50 sat there serenely. I haven’t come for ice cream. ‘Do you know what you are?’ I asked the serene lady.
‘Who am I? My name’s Cerena, meaning serene. But you asked what am I? OK, I’m an angel,’ she said matter-of-factly, ‘I try to make everyone happy.’
I simply agreed. A few words will touch her soul. ‘Yes,’ I said. She cried, and hid in the corner until tears stopped flowing.
I bought a quintruple chocolate ice cream, with chocolate sauce poured on top, dipped into chocolate chips and two chocolate flakes sticking out the top, to give her space to thnk of why she cried. Before we could speak again, a tall Rasta man entered. ‘My name’s Black Prince’ he said proudly. ‘I’m not proud. I teach spirituality across the road.’ He doesn’t seem enlightened. ‘I’m so enlightened,’ he said. ‘I can disappear in front of people.’
‘Go on then,’ I urged. ‘Disappear.’
‘I don’t disappear when people ask.’
‘That’s because you can’t?’ I suggested.
After more spiritual banter, he left.
‘You see the difference between his words and mine?’ I asked Cerena. ‘His words had no energy for you. You cried at my simple words, because my words were your truth.’
She cried again. ‘People have seen my wings,’ she sobbed. ‘I saved hard to get this shop, so I can share love with customers. I know my soul must share love in even bigger ways, and I’m afraid.’
She has a bible on the counter. I picked it up, and opened it at random. It fell to Isaiah chapter 11. ‘Jesse is you,’ I said. ‘As with Jesse, your shoots are coming up from stumps that will bear you fruits of wisdom, understanding, counsel, and power. What is your dream way for your shoots to fruit, in other words for you to share your love?’
She hesitated, almost afraid to answer. ‘I’d gather groups of people who don’t know love, and help them find it. And other groups who do know love and help them share it.’
‘I can help you,’ I said. ‘Here’s my email address.’ She seems happy.
‘I feel happier now,’ she said. ‘It’s good to know I’m not alone anymore.’
‘Can I help you?’ a big man asked. Long black and grey dreadlocks on head and chin... A deeply fissured face showed he has trod both dark and light sides of life. ‘I’m Jonathan. I’ll be your angel,’ he said. ‘I’ll protect you.’
He probably wants to earn, but seems earnest. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for a big man who tried to rob me last month. So I can tell police.’
‘Robbers are devils for our island. I’ll help,’ he said eagerly. ‘I’m 6 feet 2.’
‘The robber is 6 feet 7.’
‘No-one can harm you when I’m by your side. I’m your angel protector.’
We could not find the robber, but found the All Nations Bar, where last month I’d drank and played dominoes with black guys who protected me from anti-whites. Angus and others greeted me with broad smiles, and rounds of pure homemade rum. ‘200 per cent proof,’ Angus grinned. A black man came in, and screamed at me like a devil for being white. My angel Jonathan screamed back, ‘he’s not a white man, he’s a hu – man!’ so forcefully the man backed out of the door.
‘My mother died recently,’ said Jonathan. ‘In her Will she left me half a mountain. It has its own waterfall. But I’m alone. If I had money to build a road for tourists to visit, I’d be made for life.’
Maybe this is true, maybe not. Maybe it’s his way to earn from me. Maybe I’ll offer funds to part-own a waterfall, and help my black angel Jonathan and St Lucia’s economy. ‘Let’s swap email addresses,’ I said.
Jonathan smiled. ‘It’s good to know I’m not alone anymore. Come, I’ll show you my home.’
We visited a ‘shop’ with a few jars of sweets, in the front room of an old toothless lady, who stirred Carnation Milk into a large pot on her sofa as she watched TV. ‘I’m making ice-lollies to sell,’ she said. Across the road, Jonathan’s home was a tiny space with a single bed, lots of clutter, and a toilet in an open-view yard. Rumpled sheets covered the little floor. ‘This is where I bring women. Or destitute or homeless people I meet. They sleep on the floor until they feel better. I used to live rough myself.’ The sheet on the floor stirred, and a sleepy head poked out. ‘This is Robert. I found him on the streets four days ago. He’s 23. I’m teaching him about angels and love.’ Jonathan treads a difficult human path to share angelic love. I’ll check his waterfall credentials, and try to help him.
-------
Walking back to the ship alone, I felt a pull to a hut selling ice creams. A black lady about 50 sat there serenely. I haven’t come for ice cream. ‘Do you know what you are?’ I asked the serene lady.
‘Who am I? My name’s Cerena, meaning serene. But you asked what am I? OK, I’m an angel,’ she said matter-of-factly, ‘I try to make everyone happy.’
I simply agreed. A few words will touch her soul. ‘Yes,’ I said. She cried, and hid in the corner until tears stopped flowing.
I bought a quintruple chocolate ice cream, with chocolate sauce poured on top, dipped into chocolate chips and two chocolate flakes sticking out the top, to give her space to thnk of why she cried. Before we could speak again, a tall Rasta man entered. ‘My name’s Black Prince’ he said proudly. ‘I’m not proud. I teach spirituality across the road.’ He doesn’t seem enlightened. ‘I’m so enlightened,’ he said. ‘I can disappear in front of people.’
‘Go on then,’ I urged. ‘Disappear.’
‘I don’t disappear when people ask.’
‘That’s because you can’t?’ I suggested.
After more spiritual banter, he left.
‘You see the difference between his words and mine?’ I asked Cerena. ‘His words had no energy for you. You cried at my simple words, because my words were your truth.’
She cried again. ‘People have seen my wings,’ she sobbed. ‘I saved hard to get this shop, so I can share love with customers. I know my soul must share love in even bigger ways, and I’m afraid.’
She has a bible on the counter. I picked it up, and opened it at random. It fell to Isaiah chapter 11. ‘Jesse is you,’ I said. ‘As with Jesse, your shoots are coming up from stumps that will bear you fruits of wisdom, understanding, counsel, and power. What is your dream way for your shoots to fruit, in other words for you to share your love?’
She hesitated, almost afraid to answer. ‘I’d gather groups of people who don’t know love, and help them find it. And other groups who do know love and help them share it.’
‘I can help you,’ I said. ‘Here’s my email address.’ She seems happy.
‘I feel happier now,’ she said. ‘It’s good to know I’m not alone anymore.’
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