Dear Editor,
This is in response to a GC note to my letter on noise nuisance published on November 9, 2008. The same letter had appeared in the SN the day before, under the caption ‘Lament for Campbel-lville.’
At the outset, I must declare that I’m a bit rattled, waiting a few days ‘foh ketch mih level.’
I drifted off into a fitful sleep about 4:00 hours (fo’day mornin) Sunday after 12 hours of bombardment from the fish shop in Drury Lane; that was the time the last (beer) bottle was broken and the ‘laas’ cuss word was flung in the air… then silence. It is difficult to describe properly what transpired during the night because I am emotionally strung out. Only a video recording would properly capture this awful degradation of the spirit (the electronic media ought to warm to this blight/plague in this community and the larger society).
At 6:30 hours, I awoke with a start, which is becoming a regular pattern now since the uncontrolled noise started, sunlight darting into my head, ‘oh, mih hed ah hut… an ole people seh nah leh sun ketch yuh abed.’
It was time to detoxify. Jumping on my bicycle, I headed for the seawall, riding along from Kitty to Kingston. The cleanness of the seashore was refreshing as was the north-east breeze.
It was calm with the water way, way out, and very pleasing to the spirit was the horizon – what delicate artwork!
Later, I witnessed the Remembrance Day ceremony at the war memorial/cenotaph. Here the word, ‘sacrifice,’ kept dangling before me − couldn’t explain why, but it was there nagging like an omen.
It was past time to head home but I was not fully detoxified – the soul was crying out for something else. I found that something else in the Promenade Gardens among the symmetry of flower beds, the various aromas, the living colours, the bird song, the peace and quietude. I found that something else in the statue of Mahatma Gandhi; I found inspiration in the work of Gandhi – that inspiration was a call to sacrifice.
My detoxification complete, I started to work out how to (help) form an organisation to fight various forms of noise nuisance especially those that entertain at others’ expense; why must I be forced to pay for your entertainment! I have no problem with your right to play/listen to music but don’t interfere, day after day, month after month, year after year, with my right to play/listen to my music; don’t interfere with my right to peace and quite and the right to a proper night’s rest.
The unremitting noise from the fish shop in Drury Lane is pushing me over the edge; it is pushing to cry out like R. Dobru (poet of Suriname who became popular during Carifesta ’72 in Guyana for his poem) ‘I want to hate somebody today’ – Lord, forgive me but you know how I feel – “I just want to hate somebody today/I can feel it in my bones”; fie the thought but oh, that noise and the noise-makers, I got to get it out, ‘I want to hate somebody today/I can feel it in my bones.’
That’s what the fish shop in Drury Lane is doing to people in the area, some living here for many generations. That’s what this fish shop is doing – sucking the joy out of living.
Back to Saturday night: they outdid themselves; they were so spent that they failed to open on Sunday. Praise de Lawd.
For the first time in three years – one night of peace and it was oh so beautiful, serving to emphasise the imprisonment by the fish shop noise to the exclusion of the glory of nature. I was able to sit on my veranda with my wife and enjoy the moonlight; it was a tender moment – imagine the fish shop noise interfering with such quality time. I was able to enjoy the sky, the wind, the fullness of the earth.
Forgive the inadequacy of my use of the English language to describe it all; I have to invoke another poet, this time the national poet of Cuba, Nicolas Guillen.
Provocatively he asked as he walked the streets of Georgetown, “Can you sell me air” when “no one owns it, no one.” Yes, the fish shop operators ‘is badda dan de devil; dem teef de air we breathe.’
I want to hate somebody today because they are robbing me of the air that they do not own by filling it with nauseating cooking residues, with murder music, sounds that grate against the spirit, a vexation of the spirit; they have commandeered the air in Campbellville as if it belongs to them only – “is there five pesos worth of wind… that you could sell me?/Perhaps there’s some clean air that I could buy?… No one owns it, no one.”
This fish shop has confused the six o’clock beetle which is announcing the six o’clock hour now at five-thirty and five-forty, but never on time.
This fish shop has chased away the parrots that visit the area morning and evening, and other bird life. “Can you sell me sky?/that portion of sky/You think you bought with the trees of your orchard/as one buys the roof of his house?… No one owns it, no one.” “I want to hate somebody today/I can feel it in my bones.”
That’s what the fish shop has done to me.
Back to Saturday night: de dj of black widow band was stingingly insulting, rubbing salt into the wound when he said, “we playin music for everybody − don’t vex-up,” putting on what he perceived to be Indian music. Apparently word circulated that a petition addressed to the relevant authorities was being signed by residents at that particular time. ‘Spies deh bout’ but I want to help organise a pressure group against noise nuisance.
To tell how packed the place was on Saturday night the dj kept calling vehicle numbers blocking other vehicles – this went on all night. (City council/government could mek a good dollar for the parking lot and something on the ‘permanent’ tents erected on the reserve.)
The fish shop on Drury Lane has stolen the sky from us, the air from us, the earth from us.
The fish shop has stolen our joy of life and living, the right to peace and quiet and the right to a proper night’s sleep.
And what value is the fish shop teaching the youths pumping the song over and over like a mantra: ‘Pickney nah hold yuh dung’ – parents/guardians leff de pickney an come out an sport aal night, buy beers an to hell wid school books, buy mo devil brew an to hell wid de house rent.
Wah goh happen to we chil’ren, de future of de country, de nex leader?… The fish shop has stolen our joy of life and living, the right to peace and quiet and the right to a proper night’s sleep
What else is there to live for? We are the living dead – malfunctioning in every endeavour − at school, at work and at recreation. We are a disservice to this country because the fish shop has made us into zombies.
Dear Editor, this is only a part of the degradation, a brief description; there are many others with their horror story to tell – the sick, the elderly, the scholars, the youths, the artists, the writers, the saints in our midst (there are five houses of worship nearby), the nurses, the security guards… And there are the untold stories of the dogs, the flora and fauna, the china rattling on the shelves…
Where do we go from here?
Yours faithfully,
Petamber Persaud
