It was a very Caribbean experience if we may say so.  A lot of pomp and ceremony, sound and fury, women of quality in their finest dresses and hair dos, a lot of fashionable naturals as well, all the proper invitations, even by e-mail, thank you very much.  It was being held in the new performing arts centre at the College of the Bahamas, which if the truth be told must be a never finishing secret.  Anyway, we got to get inside.

Nice but not exceptional.  And, as the intelligentsia - or what passes for it - gathered, with ‘A’ students from the English class gathered at the back of the hall, the mucks at the front, including Sir Orville Turnquest, Janyne Hodder, the President; the ex college President, Dr. Keva Bethel; the Permanent Secretary, the anxious looking College VP Rhonda Chipman Johnson; the pleased looking Ian Strachan, the Chairman, Tim Donaldson dapper and debonair.  This was a night for culture; the politicians were there, low-level ones but there just the same.  One minister of the government.

Then the Venerable Mr. Walcott, the Nobel Laureate, the man from St. Lucia, who taught at Boston University, who, according to Ian Strachan, went to UWI instead of doing like V.S. Naipaul, going to England.  To his credit, Mr. Walcott defended the much-reviled Mr. Naipaul, who is by any account, a fine writer.  Mr. Walcott read from his work heaving and coughing, apologizing, but we went along.  It was an honour just to be in the presence of a great mind, a fantastic wit.

This seemed like a man suffering us gladly.  You could not quite tell whether he was contemptuous as many Caribbean intellectuals are.  What was he doing in The Bahamas?  Was he on vacation, or just doing it as a kind of throw away, not concentrating on anything heavy; after all this was The Bahamas.  And then the national anthem, young men and women dressed in tuxes and long dresses to sing it.  Followed by a song from Zambia, very cultural and very appropriate for the evening.  Where was Patty Glinton Meicholas when we needed her?

Mr. Walcott looked bemused, studied, disinterested or simply doting, maybe tired.  He sat back for the interview, first with Dr. Ian Strachan, our Bahamian rebel writer; smart chap, smartly, preppily dressed, never seen him quite so respectful and all.  He seemed a bit overwhelmed, the questions too long, too studied, too researched, too intelligent.

Then, before we finished, there was the obligatory attack on politicians who are responsible for all the faults in the region and the people who elect them seem to have no responsibility at all, especially these writers, these artists who seem to live in a world of their own.  One of them said that the artists owe the highest loyalty to the imagination instead of to the nation.  Mr. Walcott was asked to comment.  He did not hear the question, said he was deaf in addition to having a cough.  Then he did not answer the question, talked about something else.  He seemed to be confused by it.

The kids at COB were armed with their English class questions.  Yes, they had read the book.  Mr. Walcott engaged them with answers that were not engaging, almost dismissive but courteous.  Then the presentation of the award for the winner of the essay competition.  The student who won now posed with Mr. Walcott and then the vote of thanks and the gift.  No benediction, mercifully.  Lots of railing against the great tourism ogre and yet that is why we were able to afford the evening to rail.

A night with Derek Walcott, the Nobel Laureate at the College of The Bahamas.  Too much chaos that night but then after all this is the Caribbean; a fine time was had by all.  Mr. Walcott finished his week with a contribution to a seminar at the College of The Bahamas.  Thanks to him and the organizers of the event.  What is particularly great is that the young Bahamian students who were there got to see an icon in the flesh and learn that poetry does not have to be fancy language but in the language that we speak and express ordinary things.
Photos / Peter Ramsay