Last Updated on 6 months ago by Joel Samuel McQueen
Preamble
In and around 1492, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella sat confidently enthroned in their castle in Castille, Spain. The royal couple, having successfully routed the African Moors n their final stronghold in Granada, were thrusted into the political and social spotlight of Europe. Undoubtedly, their victory was no small matter; the defeat of the Moors represented the final exorcism of the African domination of the people of southern and central Europe including Portugal, Spain, Italy and even parts of France. That black Muslims had ruled Europe for eight hundred years ( 710-1492) was surely a surreal embarrassment to white supremacy, which in its collective conscious must have longed for the day when retribution would be delivered unto the backs of its former black rulers.
In some sense then the arrival of Christopher Colombus– who pitched his plan of conquest of heathen lands to the monarchies of Portugal and Spain– was the right man at the right time. As all new ideas having being planted must be watered and given the light of the sun, so did Colombus cultivate for several years the minds and hearts of King Ferdinan and Queen Isabella. In a series of meetings with the Christian crown, the forty year old Colombus, prosecuted his case that the earth was not flat but round, such that a sailor traveling West could in due coast reach the far East and India.
Like all of Europe at that time, both Christian and Pagan, the scientific fact that the world was round was hardly accepted even among royalty. Thus Colombus, an alleged Jew, was as much a salesman as he was a sailor. On a grand, old oak table, he poured over a series of intricate maps with lines and numbers drawn unto its surface, which was surely meant to mesmerize his inexperienced hosts.
And so the winds of hope began to blow in Columbus’s favor, even against the stiff admonition of the court’s learned advisors. They knew better and had called into question Colombus’s gross misjudgment of the distance that a ship would have to circumnavigate via a Westerly route with the intention of landing in the Far East. Nevertheless, Colombus won the day, and with no time to waste, he set sail across the Atlantic ocean with a crew of ninety men and three ships—the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria. After sixty days, land was sighted off the coast of Bahamas in the Caribbean sea, which Colombus, being lost and confused, remained stubbornly convinced until the end of his days that he had reached India. And so named the string of islands in the Caribbean sea West India or better known as the West Indies.
Part1
In primary school, Colombus was portrayed as a hero. Our history text books-imported from mother England—had found it best to scrub the unscrupulous details of Colombus’s crimes against humanity, leaving our impressionable young minds with a benign portrait of a towering and paternal figure. His incompetence, theft, plunder, rape and slaughter of the Arawaks and Caribs, the indigenous people of the Caribbean, were all redacted. On one island in particular, Hispaniola, the population of Taino numbering one million souls before the arrival of the European was decimated, until less than thirty thousand people remained, the victims of European slavery and disease.
I, of course, being blissfully ignorant of all such social and political events learned to love and admire Colombus. Like the American cowboys and Indians I enjoyed watching on Saturday morning Westerns, I assumed that anywhere white people turned up was for the ultimate good of all. Bringing with them civilization and Christianity. On the other hand, the war like natives I grew to hate for the crime of self-defense against a foreigner invader.
The series of colored illustrations that accompanied the text only served to reinforce my misguided beliefs of world history. In one image that I vividly recalled, Columbus appears on the scorching hot Caribbean beach uncomfortably dressed in a costume of tights, a bodice, boots, heavy red cloak with a fur collar and finally a feathered hat. To complete the picture, a half dozen or so half naked natives stand to the right and left in complete deference to the European. On their faces the collective look of fear and awe for what have must being quite a sight— men in tights.
In the soiled pages of rewritten history we were feed in school, it was quiet unthinkable that Colombus and his crew might be the ones in need of civilization. And so for many years I remained grateful to Colombus and other European explores, even if their early exploits would lead to a second wave of genocide and exploitation two centuries later, namely the Trans-Atlantic Slave trade.
Politics aside, I often wondered about the island natives that might have once hunted and foraged these very mountains where our village now rested. Were they Arawaks or Caribs? Had they erected temples to their gods and ancient palaces to their kings and queens in these mountains? Perhaps the very spot our house stood might have been the a site of a lost and forgotten treasure belonging to a fat rich king. Or even graveyard for fallen warriors in internecine wars.
Part 2
One of my favorite stories growing up was Jack and the Bean Stalk. In the tale, Jack throws through an open window a few magic beans, thinking they were worthless. The next morning, Jack awoke, looked out his window and to his surprise found that a beanstalk had growing beyond the clouds to a kingdom in the sky. Inevitably, Jack climbed the beanstalk and met a big nosed, barefooted giant that would have him for dinner, with Jack being the main course. Like Jack, my desire to climb the mountain of my youth was for no other reason than it being there; I hoped never encounter a giant but knew there was something waiting for me at the top.
The mountains, as I learned in Sunday school was sacred. Moses received the ten commandants from the LORD, Himself in Mount Sinai. Likewise Christ, upon his baptisim proceeded straight up into the mountain, where for forty days and forty nights he prayed and fasted. Then was tempted by the devil.
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Sometimes during the dry season when school was out we would go bird hunting in the mountain’s lower leg. A world within a world, we observed our island’s dazzling fecundity including: the trilling hummingbirds, braggadocious robins, throaty mountain frogs, the mutable iguana, verdant vine snakes, the scavenging agouti, the agile manicous and the mongoose, the meandering battalions of red and black army ants, the squadrons of bees and wasps, the nocturnal ocelots and caciques and fruit eating bats, the solitary owls and far above in the tree tops the majestic white hawk with its black bill and yellow legs.
We might have continued planning our hike for the rest of our youth but for the sudden death of our friend Lazarus earlier that year. Like a warm blanket being pulled from as sleeping child, so was our childhood innocence removed, revealing the cold harsh truth of life and death.
Early one Saturday morning– before the clanging symphony of heavy pot spoons against iron pots rang out throughout the village -we would set out.
Tar boy, the eldest, was first to arrive and had taken up a superior position with his back against the bamboo patch. In his hand he carried a sling shot made of rubber bands bought from the shop that came in a pack of one hundred for a dollar.
He had a habit of stretching, pulling and inspecting his crude weapon, even in the middle of a conversation , which is how I met him as I approached.
“Morning,” I said, eagerly.
“Where the Goose,” asked Tar boy absentmindedly, as he aimed at a lonesome bird that had landed on the electric cable overhead.
“He mother clip he wings,” I said.
Holding his breath, Tar boy a released an impossible shot that missed the bird on the wire but instead arched cross the sky unto the neighbor’s roof.
“Shit,” he cried. “That boy go be late for he own wedding.”
‘Don’t make joke,” I said.
I couldn’t imagine someone like the Goose getting married. Not to a girl anyway. For as long as I had known him, the Goose was unlike the other fellas on the hill. He walked and talked different and when he sat he had a habit of crossing his legs, the way I had seen women in church do. Some people on the hill blamed the Goose’s mother for his ways. But in truth, her hands were full with seven other girl children. And to make matters worst, the Goose’s father spent more time with his favorite rum than his own son, leaving the poor Goose’s completely in the hand of his wife., who turned their son into a half daughter.
Earlier that morning, I had called to the Goose from the dirt road when he appeared excited to join us but was abruptly stopped by his mother’s shrill voice calling to him from the house. The mirth on his young face melted like an ice cream in the hot sun.
“Yes Mammy, “ cried the Goose, turning to face his accuser.
“Don’t play the ass here today with me, this early morning. “The fowl coop need cleaning , the yard need sweeping and wears need washing before…”
This I told to Tar boy, who chuckled and was prepared to sweeten the pot with a few of his own pieces of old talk concerning the Goose’s ways and habits when a bird like no other came sprinting up the road.
The closer and closer it came, the clearer and clearer it was that the bird was a flamboyant boy.
“Morning,” said the Goose, “let we make haste to go and come before that hot sun burn up meh skin.”
At this, our captain, Tar boy, retired his position against the tree trunk and stood to look at the Goose, who dressed in all white, seem prepared for a day sea bathing than climbing a mountain.
“It go be hell to pay,” muttered Tar boy in reference to the Goose’s outfit.
The dust had barely settled and we were preparing to leave when Tar boy noticed for the first time a black object the Goose had attempted to hide in his knapsack. For which, the normal calm Tar boy exploded.
“Is what the ass is this I seeing here.” “Goose, you taking an umbrella up the hill.”
“I need it,” replied the Goose.
“Don’t make joke,” “an umbrella up that mountain is as much use as a pot spoon to a ditchdigger ,” said Tar boy.
“ I go handle that when the time come ,” said the Goose.
“Aright bossman; I see you like trouble,” said Tar boy.
“ I don’t like trouble, trouble like me, “said the Gosse, with a look defiance.
Not unlike Colombus’s first voyage, we took off with great excitement up the hill, reaching our first waypoint in one thousands steps—Mrs. Beauty’s ominous wood house. It was far less dreadful and imposing than I feared, which was always the case between one’s imagination and reality. It was our captain’s hope that we could slip by unnoticed, but before long a keen trio of ravenous mutts emerged from their dusty lair beneath the house and charged towards us with blind malevolence. Paralyzed by fear, we watched as the hounds closed in. Then a great hidden chain suddenly revealed itself, choking their ravenous advances. The leader, a mature bitch, spewed a vile discharge from her snarly jaws that contaminated the air. Her frustration causing her to bellow a high pitch alarm which roused their queen.
Like a preoccupied prison guard, Mrs. Beauty appeared at the window to investigate her dusty surroundings and was eager to return inside when, as luck would have it, someone moved in the bush where we lay hidden. A profound silence gripped the air as we held our breathing. Satisfied it was nothing, Mrs. Beauty spat in the wind. And upon closing the window with a hard slam she screamed: “Hush all you kissmeass.”
Part3
Like frightened goats running from the slaughter so we ran from our previous encounter into the serene and pristine mountain forest. Above us a canopy of tall trees blocked the sun and its heat which in turn made the forest dark and cool.. The buzzing of one million billion creatures harmonized a live symphony of sound that we tuned into like some prehistoric radio station. It occurred to me that we were being watched but not so much as by a person. Rather the forest itself was aware of our presence. Somehow, the signal was sent that intruders had arrived and before long a battalion of army ants attacked on our stagnant position causing us to flee.. At one point I turned to mark the spot we had entered but to my surprise it vanished.
“Where to now,” I asked Tar boy.
“Up and up,” he said.
We hadn’t gotten far when our rubber slippers came apart like bicycle tires, forcing us to walk bare feet, which wasn’t a problem for me as much as the Goose, who complained about his tender feet.
After walking for some time, we became hungry and the decision was made that we should stop and eat. Just ahead, a white boulder rose from the forest like an island in the untamed sea of bush and vines. We scampered onto it like desperate castaways, with each boy for himself. Tar boy and the Goose were well prepared with knapsacks stuffed with fat sandwiches and sweet drinks. Due to an incident that occurred earlier that morning , I, would settle for the last few bites of a small fry bake I had saved up in my pants pocket.
I was up earlier than usual the day of the trip, and upon entering into the kitchen, found my mother kneading flour over at the kitchen table for our usual Saturday morning breakfast of fired bakes and saltfish. She looked at me with surprise and asked where I was going. .
“I am going to tend the goats,” I said, which was a lie.
“Boy, put something hot in your belly , ” she cried.” “Out there cold.”
Before I could refuse, she had placed the kettle to boil, flattened two clumps of dough into bakes then dropped them into the hot cooking oil.
The hot tea felt good running down my cold pipes, releasing an operatic series of belches and a squeaky fart.
“I gone,” I said, placing the empty enamel tea cup on the counter before dashing through the kitchen door in the wrong direction from where the goats slept.
“Oye, Joel,” she cried.
I returned to the edge of the yard where my mother stood by the plum tree holding a small bag. A rickety fence made of chicken wire and wood separated us. Thinking she had found me out, I confessed my wish to reach the top of the mountain was the real reason I was up so early and not to see about the goats. My mother, who had her own mountain of concerns in feeding and clothing her eight other children, was quick to dismiss my dream with two fried bakes which she handed me across the fence.
“Take your time and walk fast,” she said, as I turned once more and walked away.
Part 4
After we had eaten, we laid on our backs like sleepy cats , cracking jokes and trading riddles. It was Tar boy’s turn and he delivered the one about the lion, the cow and the bail of hay
Here it is:
A man had a lion , a goat and bail of grass and must cross a river by boat. The boat can carry only the man and one item at a time across the river. . In completing the task the man must make sure that the goat be not left alone with the lion, less the lion eat the goat. Nor can he leave the goat alone with the grass, less the goat eat the grass. How then can they cross the river without anything being eaten?
The Goose and I chewed the riddle like two cows chewing the cud.
“This is real shit,” said the Goose. “If I take the bail of grass across the river first and leave the lion with goat, the lion eat he. And when I take the lion across and leave the goat with the grass, the greedy goat eat the grass. So if it was up to me I done leave all them and go my way, “said the Goose.
“ It so it go,” I said, agreeing with the Goose.
“Fellas all I go say is there is more than one way to skin a cat.”
“ How so,” I asked?
“The answer to any problem is in the problem itself,” Tar Boy chuckled.” “The top of mountain is only the bottom in reverse.”
Considering that Tar boy was one that hated school, I was curious as to where he had dug up this piece of wisdom about the top and bottom of the mountain being the same, when we were attacked by a second wave of ants seeking the crumbs of our breakfasts. We thus fled the rock.
Our upwards trajectory, however, was diverted to the West in and effort after to avoid flagging stones. And so led by the hand of serendipity, we entered the heart of the forest. Leading the way, a butterfly with wings as large as man’s hand flopped lazy through the narrow path with an array of dragonflies and wasp buzzing at our heels. Closer still , we heard the soft trickle of water against mossy rocks, which as it fell perfumed the air with a blend of woodsy earthiness. Then to the spring so peaceful and serene that the very dream of it could not be any sweeter.
Standing at the water’s edge, the urge to disturb the water’s tranquility by diving in seemed like a sin to me. Meanwhile, the Goose, being unburdened by no such moral dilemma, was quick to toss into the pool the aluminum wrapper from a stick of gum.
“Pick it up,” I demanded.
“For what,” said the Goose, “ nobody is looking.”
Shocked by his response, I attempted to explain to the Goose that doing the right thing was its own reward.
“ Don’t make joke,” he snorted. “In this life it is everyman for he self.”
“True talk,” added Tar boy. Look how my bother Lazarus went dead in the pit. He was doing more right than wrong.” “How that make sense?”
Having no good answer for Tar boy’s questions, I instead knelt for a drink of water at the pool’s s edge, followed by the urge to dunk my head.
“How the water,” asked the Goose?
“Like nothing I ever tasted.”
Tar boy and the Goose found their place by my side as we continued dunking like mad cowboys.
From the trees high above, a robin whistled with glee. Seeing it, Tar boy calmly prepared his sling shot with a stone from his pouch but on second thought retired his weapon around his neck.
Like the head of a balding man, the thick blanket of trees tops slowly thinned, turning the ground dry and hard as we reached the top. We walked gingerly in our new landscape like the first men on the moon. On a boulder a previous explorer had written in all caps: KING OF THE WORLD. And below it, the first verse of Psalm One.
We looked down unto our dominion. To my surprise the actual contours of the island matched the crude maps we had traced many times in social studies. The familiar capital infrastructure–the wharf and its giant cranes , the power plant’s smoke stacks, the oil rigs and the tanker ships – all resembling child’s Lego pieces from a distance.
Closer to home, the Goose eagerly followed with his index finger the circuitous silver river to the East as it flowed downhill behind Mr. Lewis house, whose wife had died suddenly leaving him to raise four boy alone, and the house of Nico the bachelor, who took daily naked baths in his back yard, across the river from which stood the Goose’s window.
“ I could make out that house from the moon,” said the Goose, smiling to himself.
On the other hand, Tar boy’s house was obstructed by its position so far on the edge of our village as to be behind God’s back.
As for me, I searched and found the blotch of bright yellow—the lemon tree that grew lemons as big as apples from a condemned latrine behind our house.
Satisfied, I left Tar Boy and the Goose to argue over possible landmarks as I explored the mountain’s backside. Before long, I was ensnared by a thick blanket of bush and vines that heeded my progress. It was clear no human had walk here for a long time. I imagined, though, the village below was just like ours. And that one day a group of fellas ju would climb their side of the mountain to see about us.
It was twelve o clock when we headed home. Bitter sweet.
“We go fly down that hill in time for lunch,” said the Goose with confidence.
“ Don’t talk so fast,” Tar boy said.
‘How you mean”?
“You could dead faster going down than coming up,” said Tar Boy.
Tar boy was telling the truth. The journey home was just as demanding, for I knew that “wickedness… was great in the earth, and that every imagination and thoughts of man’s heart was only evil continually.”
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