Back-a-Yard

by Alex Hinds (Singapore)

Making a local connection Barbados

Taxi wheels were spinning to the rhythm of mid afternoon arrivals. Vibrant carnival outfits glowed in the tropical sunshine. Swaying to the music of a Tuk band. This was Grantley Adams airport. This was Barbados - the gateway to the Caribbean. My dad, brother and I turned to the pressing task at hand - track down our hire car and start making our way. We dismissed the presence of an older man emerging into the frame. “No we don’t need a Cab", I groaned inside my head. My dad, perhaps not remised to the idea of bumping into a familiar face, quickly realised who was standing in front of us. "Uncle!" He extended his hand for a typical masculine greeting - formal and strong with a gentle hand placed on the shoulder. I greeted Uncle Winston in a similar fashion, conscious of the foot placed in my mouth for the sheer thought of ushering him aside. It had been a lifetime since I’d last seen Uncle Winston. He was in his late-seventies now, standing over six feet tall with a cap pressed over his small, dark eyes. He had travelled by bus, on a recovering knee injury, to greet us at the airport and we were grateful to see a familiar face. We pulled away from the airport and were soon laughing and sharing stories of our families on either side of the Atlantic. A mosaic of brightly coloured chattel houses unfolded on the horizon as we drove by goats, cows, chickens - small, open plan farms and the legacies of sugar cane fields. It was rural and quaint - caught in a time warp somewhere between an English countryside and an African village with rustic charm that leaves the eyes darting in all directions. We entered the driveway and stepped into the soft humming sounds of crickets. The weight of the car door slammed behind us, the turning of gravel underfoot gave way to a jangling of keys. Taking our seats on the porch of Uncle Winston’s front garden, memories of conversations with my Grandparents echoed in my mind. It was, after all, their stories and untimely passing last summer which had guided us here. Stories of Barbados before the economic crisis which had left many looking for work overseas in hope of providing a better life for their families. Uncle emerged from the Kitchen with four exotic looking drinks carefully balanced on a tray. Mauby, as it would turn out, is like marmite, you either love it or loathe it. There's little in-between. Made from tree bark, sugar cane juice, cinnamon and nutmeg, it’s a rolling experience of contrasting bitter and sweet nodes that come straight from the Earth. Even the water is filtered through the island’s natural coral underbelly. It’s a drink which truly encapsulates the Bajan spirit of ingenuity and harmony with nature. As we quenched our thirst, the warmth of the sea breeze gave way to a warmth in my heart. I felt a calmness wash over me. To many, the island of Barbados conjures up vivid images of long, pristine beaches, dizzying rum punches and the sounds of Calypso music. Yet, as we sat there in the midst of silence I felt a different side of life here - a moment of being simply joyful with the joyfully simple. Perhaps it was the reunion with family I never really knew. A place where the light and darkness of humanity’s past meet with a smile and a laugh. Whatever it was, I knew it was a place I could now call home. Or as they say in Barbados “Back-a-Yard”. And what a yard it was.