Dream of the silent Ciboney girl

The dawn came… finally… she suddenly became aware. She was awake before; but not aware… of the water source that gurgled a few yards away from their crudely renovated cave… a pristine rivulet that bathed and polished the deck of volcanic rocks that lay asleep on its bed. Aware… of the base-like grunting of the toads that resided in the marshy river banks, the rustle of dew-robed green-grass as lizards, agoutis and tautous scuttled around busily.{{more}} Aware… of the distant bleating of the wild goats that her brothers hunted for food. Aware… of the music of the air: the croaks and grunts of the glossy ibis, the clear Kee-wee-oo of the fulvous whistling duck, the alarming cock-aroo- crowing of the roosters and of course the decisive spink-speenk-speenk-spink-spink-spink of the very respected Black Hawk. Aware… of all of these distinct voices that nature artfully fine-tuned and co-ordinated to the crash of the ocean cymbal below.

She was aware and she knew that if she was to rise from her dirt-packed bed and race to the mountain edge she would be overwhelmed by this orchestra; rendered breathless by the rush of distilled sea breeze. She would gaze with longing at the undulation of green-carpeted, rich, fertile land to the left of her and know that she could never explore it.

She was a girl… soon to be a woman and as her mother had drummed into her head, her role was to prepare the food the hunters brought, to look after the young ones and soon… soon to be one with the Chief’s son.

She got up and walked into the miracle of the dawn… wondering if this is all she would ever be… a little Ciboney girl who lived in St.Vincent before the Arawaks and Caribs. A little girl who would be devoured by the sands of time, lost, somewhere in the endless halls of history.

We don’t know her name or what she looked like, what she wore, what she felt and exactly what she saw. Still… strangely, this silent Ciboney girl speaks to me. She shows me how her people used the land – nature’s gifts and nothing else – to survive. She reveals that with a co-ordinated community effort, our island is self-sufficient. She tells me that our land is rich with resources and if only we can nudge and stretch the boundaries of our vision we can find the answer to the question of our survival.

A clear vision to see that, maybe, we can take a bite of the thriving breakfast cereal market by creating a new brand of healthy, tasty Caribbean cereal made with farine and dehydrated Vincentian fruits; or take advantage of the growing market for eco-friendly products that range from furniture to art – in which the idea of paper made from banana leaf is becoming more popular; or maybe we can extract our sea salt and put an exotic twist to it, marketing it for cooking as a ‘taste of the Caribbean’ and as luxury bath salt for a relaxing tropical experience.

These are just a few ideas, compliments of my husband and uncle. I believe if each of us were to extend our vision to see the vast array of plant life that colour our land, the 174 species of birds that occupy our air and the many animals that have made our shores their home; if we could see, be inspired with new ideas and receive some sort of organisational support, we can possibly find a range of new, viable economic dependables. Perhaps only then can we claim to be true descendants of the silent Ciboney girl.