There is a careless, loose indecency which has taken root in what they call the social fabric. And it is spreading.
The seawall tells the story.
An older man hustling cane politely enquires of a group of boisterous young men whether they are interested in his stock.
The loudest of the lot takes umbrage.
“Cain kill he brudda Abel, I ain’t know wha he go do to fockin me! Me ain’t want no fockin cane. Mek yuh ites!”
The hapless cane vendor, head bowed, shoulders drooped, ambles away. His disappointment reeks, not of not having made a sale.
A well oiled group of young people. Two car loads of them. The men accessorize their cars, the women their bodies. They gather and gyaff and laugh. They drink just short of two dozen well chilled beers brought in a medium sized cooler carried by two of the abler gents. They nibble at this and that before deciding to make their way to some other spot. They walk away from the clutter of bottles and half empty packets of gas station bought imported chips, past the empty garbage bin, into their cars and they’re off.
A small group of young ladies walk past. One has borrowed a phone from another and is on a call. She walked ahead to speak in private and is eating away at what must be limited credit.
“Curlesa! Gyurl bring meh fockin phone!”
Curlesa ignores the demand.
“Dis fockin gyurl tek she fockin eyes an pass me!”
There is no consideration for the many folks within ear shot. There is no inclination towards discretion.
A tall body builder type guy arrives quietly and joins two young ladies, one of whom he is freshly courting. The body language between them is awkward. He does not yet know her preferences so he must enquire before he buys a drink from the leaking cool down cart on the grass bank in front of us.
He, not unexpectedly settles for a Guinness, two Smirnoff Ices, one each for his target and her blackcaking friend.
After an hour they leave. His bottle is empty. Her’s is just past half. Blackcaker sucked hers dry. The bottles join their cousins nearby, sitting on the wall, making a chorus of low howls every time the wind picks up and jars against their uncovered tops.
The cussing and the littering are not isolated misdeeds in the grander scheme of things. They speak to the degradation of that social fabric, the rotting of the society, from the head.
Those who have limed at Oistin’s, Maracas Bay, Gros Islet, Emancipation Park in Brown Kingston and in various public gathering spots of the ‘other’ Kingston would not have been witness to such thoughtless littering nor would they have had their ears assaulted by unsociable language.
But there, there is thought, consideration and care by authorities. In those societies, not devoid of ills, there is still a genuine respect for culture, there is an unrelenting emphasis on the value of education and the virtues of a decent life.
Amidst their difficulties and sometimes turmoil they have not gone adrift from respect for their fellow man at the most basic level.
The Sunday Seawall Lime is a well established cultural tradition yet the authorities do not see it fit to have roving cleaners or litter wardens to maintain cleanliness. Neither have they seen it fit to position portable toilets for the evening, so men and women piss everywhere where there is limited lighting. Some care not, low lighting or not.
In an unaccountable society where the ones at the top are flagrant in gorging unchecked the lesson for the man at the bottom is do wha de fock yuh want. Nobody kay and nobody ain’t kay about any body. Decency is close to death.
A dog eat dog world is more real here than most other places. Too many find it easy to snarl, snap and abuse each other, the seawall, the environment. It is the lesson they learn from their leaders.
They let indecency loose at, and litter the seawalls. Their leaders do it in Parliament Buildings, at ministries and on New Garden Street while brandishing shiny guns from SUVs.
The war should not have been on bad manners. There is need for a war on bankrupt, self-serving, careless leadership. Until that war is fought and won the scrawny dogs, the empty bottles and food boxes and the filthy language will rule on the seawalls and most other places in our beautiful Guyana.
