A humbling moment beneath the Trinidadian sun
I rose just as the sun was rising and pushed my hair out of my eyes before rising from my bed and washing my face. The face that looked back at me in the mirror was different to the one that I’d been used to looking at for the majority of my life. Darkened by the Caribbean sun and made lean by a vegan diet, it was truly a product of my surroundings.
I put on my contact lenses and took a customary look out the window. Before me stretched a vast expanse of jungle with the sea also visible on the horizon. The sun was slowly rising in the sky so as to leave a warm and idyllic haze as it did so. It was the picture of peace and tranquillity and one of those moments that make one glad to be alive.
But today would be anything but peaceful. We had a job on our hands and it was time to prepare. My two housemates rose and we turned on the music — roots reggae, naturally — and prepared our morning coffee. There was something to the coffee that was absolutely unique. It wasn’t the quality of it but the way our bodies appreciated it. That’s what working beneath the Trinidadian sun and eating only Rastafarian cuisine does to you.
As soon as we’d drank our coffees we ambled down to the bottom of the hill to meet up with the rest of our colleagues. Joseph was the man in charge of the operation; in his mid-60s, sinewy and dreadlocked, he was the strongest of our troupe thanks to his healthy lifestyle in accordance with his Rastafarian beliefs. He was wise and remarkably calm but commanded the undisputed respect of his family and friends. An impressive operator.
Our mission for the day was to harvest as much yam as possible. I loved eating yam; it was dense and nutritious and very filling, exactly the kind of meal one needed after a long day in the fields beneath an intense sun. We all hopped into an ancient pickup truck and headed out for the most bountiful spot. There were ten of us in total; seven Trinidadians, one American, one Israeli and one Irishman. By the time we arrived the sun was high.
But we soon escaped it, heading deep into the forest to find our yam. It was difficult terrain to navigate, uneven and loose, and each of us took a fair few falls on our way to the prized patch of land that would yield the most yam. Joseph, however, arrived absolutely spotless. Once we got there we got to work actually extracting the yam; to do so you have to dig around the root to loosen its grip in the earth before pulling hard to yank it free. Not easy.
Once extracted, we placed each root into large bags that we had brought and tied them up when they filled. The whole process took close to two hours and it was really physical work. By the time we had extracted all that we could from the ground I was dripping in sweat. My shirt had long come off and I was covered in scratches that came as a result of trying to manoeuvre my way through such dense forest. The only water we had brought was closer to hot than cold thanks to the tropical humidity.
And the hardest part was yet to begin. Once we’d collected all that we could we hauled a bag each over our shoulders and they were far from light. Had I been full of beans I would have struggled quite seriously with it but being exhausted and dehydrated it was torture. We had to carry the bags back through the forest to get to the road where our truck was parked in order to transport it back to Joseph’s house, which is where all the saleable merchandise from the farm was stored. It was going to take at least 30 minutes.
And what a 30 minutes they were. If navigating the forest without carrying anything was difficult this was absolutely impossible. It was incredibly challenging to try and maintain your balance with such a heavy bag over your shoulder and the most simple of movements were laboured and painful. Pretty soon the three non-Trinidadians had fallen behind the rest of the pack and were each growing increasingly frustrated with their efforts.
Then it happened. I slipped as we were navigating a crevice just above a small stream to land right into the water heavily indeed to the extent that I would wake up with a badly bruised right side the next morning. Furious with myself and life in general, I cursed aloud and kicked out at the wretched bag of yam that I had been saddled with. I was fed up.
That’s when Joseph reappeared. He had doubled back to check up on his group’s three stragglers to discover myself lying in a pool of self-pity. He offered me his hand and pulled me to my feet before slapping me on the back. “My brethren,” he said. “Don’t stress. Life down here is far from easy. To make it on this island you need to be made of stern stuff. But strength is in the mind and not in the body. If you want to do it you can. Think of the meal we’ll soon have back at the yard and the steel and brass that will warm your bones. Centre yourself and when you’re ready yourself you push on.”
And that was it. He returned on the path toward the road singing to himself and left me to sort myself out. I realised that if a man in his sixties could do it then a 21-year-old had no excuse so I did as he said and hoisted the bag back over my shoulder. Amazingly, I made it back to the truck with an ease that I hadn’t managed on the way into the forest without the bag. It was a moment that made me realise strength really was in the mind.
And so I climbed into the back of the truck with the rest of my colleagues, exhausted by the morning’s labour but relieved that it was finally over. We sat back in the truck and let the sun wash over our bones before one of the Trinidadian boys said the golden words: “Put on the music, man.” Our driver switched on the radio and we listened to blaring soca, energetic and full of life, to make it back to Joseph’s place in order to enjoy a slap-up meal and more than a few steel and brasses, a cocktail that mixed Stag beer with Puncheon rum. Bob Marley, Peter Tosh and Bunny Wailer blared on a sound system as we watched the sun gradually set before welcoming the Caribbean night. Life was pretty good.
