BARBADIAN ROMANTICS hark back daily on talk radio and from church pulpits for the return of something or other. “We’ve got to get back to this; we’ve got to get back to that . . . ” and all that reverie. The simple fact is that you don’t get back to anything.
Life is a passing parade. Shakespeare saw it as “a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more . . .”.
As I continue this reflection on transport, my recall of a more orderly time in the hurly-burly of Barbadian mobility, the names of Golborne Cyrus and Lennox Perry come to mind. Those two gentlemen – the first a ubiquitous policeman on a motorcycle; the second a no-nonsense magistrate – earned the respect of all road users, but they’re not coming back.
It is difficult to understand how the driver of a minibus or ZR van can pile up over 100 traffic offences and be allowed to drive any vehicle other than a box-cart. But it happens in laid-back Barbados of 2011. The leadership sets the tone.
Bus fares these days are 5 000 per cent higher than they were when I was a schoolboy.
A ride to school from Carrington’s Village to the Ivy would set me back all of four cents.
A drive from Bridgetown to Payne’s Bay or Top Rock was a rewarding indulgence on Christmas morning. To many, those points were the farthest in the island except when the churches’ annual excursions came around; then, they got to see “far-off” places like Bathsheba, Bath, Ragged Point and River Bay.
The “standing-up seat” appeared when the first coaches arrived. Lincoln was first to employ such enclosed vehicles. This trend eventually replaced all “board-and-shingle” buses. When all seats were occupied, passengers had to avail themselves of “standing-up seats” in the aisle.
I recall bus stands at the Lower Green; Probyn Street, on the site of today’s Barbados Fire Service; and in the now bustling betting pool district on Marhill Street and Palmetto Square, occupied by the St George and Blades Hill companies.
Another terminus was situated alongside the Fountain Gardens in Trafalgar Square.
Since the last column, I was reminded of the ninth company plying the St Michael area, the Federal Bus Company.
Outlying districts accommodated concessionaires who ran services like Leeward, for example, along Highway 1 into the northernmost parish St Lucy, via St James and St Peter. Rocklyn ruled the roost through the parishes of St Thomas and St Andrew, in close proximity to the Boston and later the Elite services.
Blades Hill Bus Company plied routes through Haggatt Hall, Bulkeley, St Luke’s and deep into the largest parish, St Philip.
Both cash register and bell were activated by a cord that ran the length of the bus.
Many passengers inadvertently pulled the wrong cord, throwing the conductor’s accounts into discrepancy.
Conductors collected fares on the running boards. Those daredevils had to span the rear wheels to reach the last two rows of seats at the back – sometimes while the buses were in motion.
They had their own language of communication with drivers: “As you were” or “Who stop you?”
Others shouted: “Go ahead, driver!”
Heavy tarpaulins were released when rain fell.
Housewives sent “icy-hots” of steaming cou-cou and salt fish to their working husbands in Bridgetown and in turn collected packages delivered by chauffeurs and conductors.
The St George Bus Company was the one I remember most fondly for it was in Rock Hall that my brother Roger and I spent the long “summer” holidays admiring Bedfords, Austins, Chevrolets and one Ford – G90.
Tattooed in my memory is the sound of a stretched Bedford – J277 – singing its way up Rectory Hill, Taitt Hill and Gun Hill, on to St John.
A popular lady from Carrington’s Village carried the nickname G60!
Those were the days and the roads travelled. They’re not coming back.
Carl Moore was the first Editor of THE NATION and is a social commentator. Email [email protected].
