A FEELING OF ISLAND PROVENANCE
(at Club Med, Fort-de-France, Martinique)
In one transcending moment, all stopsalong this sandy beach. The parasailers hang
motionless. The jet skiers throttle down roar.
The servers at outdoor drink stands freeze,
motionless like mannequins caught among
the silence as steel drum vibratos
of Carib goombay bands fade to whispers
beside almost naked light-skinned tourists,
looking as if they were sides of beef
roasting in an oven while sweat sizzles.
Everyone trying to ignore poverty
and the ever present women beyond
the chain link fence. Large dark women wearing
djebas and print dresses, once as colorful
as plumes of strutting peacocks,
now grayed and worn from daily travail.
Women, whose descendants were once fastened
to merchant ships which sold, leased,
bartered flesh to sons and daughters
of wealthy French planters enabling
sugar plantations to prosper—
these dark women beg money from female tourists.
Trying to do anything to earn dollars for food.
Braiding hair with cornrows of beads.
Deftly working with their hands,
quick and forceful like ka drum beats
keeping rhythm. Weaving, combing,
always with forced smiles. Imitating looks
of the interested entrepreneur, an ability
learned from blue-green European eyes,
eager for a larger tip. Agreeing with customers
by nodding heads and genuflecting to rich whim.
Supposedly bestowing island authenticity
with chignons arranged by natives
who now suddenly halt pulling, twisting,
bobbing and coifing. Leaving cheap beads
and feathers in their bags. Pink tongues poking
from beyond lips as if they could taste the air
beyond cycles of segregation. Heads in unison
gaze westward straining to see beyond
volcano horizons of mid-sentence reality.
They pause to sniff afternoon's heavy air
like cats, stretching necks in constant hunger.
Winds carrying gifts of rain along with chants
from tribes of Yoruba, Sonqhay, and countless others.
A flash of lightning followed by rolling thunder.
Kikuyu gods making their presence felt as
vacationers scamper to gather belongings
running to safety in carpeted hotel lobbies.
A momentary triumph over an island of multitudinous wealth.
Beyond modern chain fences, dark women once—valued
only for their children and ability to breed—
lift their arms to ancient deities,
consecrated by gentle drops as each moment clouds
with breezes spiced from the coast of l’Afrique.
z y s k a n d a r a . j a i m o t
m a r t i n i q u e , l a t - 2 3 . 5 n
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