Happiness Is We Kolcha!

Serial drunk drivers are more likely to be concerned about the deadly consequences of their selfishness following fatal road accidents—not before. No surprise, then, the public reaction to recently published pictures of presumed hung-over young citizens scattered like so much debris at Pigeon Point the morning after the most recent beach fest.  

While we bask in our convenient delusions that yesterday’s kids—that is to say, today’s parents—were far better behaved, dressed modestly, did not imbibe, remained virgins throughout their teens, there is this inescapable sobering statistic: A recent World Health Organization survey ranks Saint Lucia ninth for its highest per capita consumption of alcohol. 

Booze has for a long time been the hi-octane of almost every local social activity, consequences be damned, including cirrhosis of the liver and diabetes. Try to imagine, if you dare, carnival—our main cultural showcase—sans booze. But then, “people must learn to take responsibility for their own actions!” groans the voice of hypocrisy. The undeniable truth is that prescribing self-control to booze addicts is as useful (to paraphrase Thomas Paine) as administering medicine to the dead! 

But let me not mislead you. My purpose this time around is to invite you, dear reader, to take a closer look at the man in your mirror—not to poke alcohol lovers with hot iron prods. As earlier stated, there is hardly a social event in this country that does not invite one and all to come and enjoy a rain of booze. Consider the ubiquitous irresistible promotions that nearly always promise “lots to eat and drink.” Bet your last blunt the proffered drink is neither bottled water nor fresh-squeezed fruit juices.  

To return to the Pigeon Point music bash. Reportedly our largely bored and frustrated ostensible leaders of tomorrow turned out in their usual thousands on the occasion, for the sole purpose of letting off steam. A long time ago the majority had given up on the idea of getting off on just the energy of youth, mainly for lack of opportunity. The only highs they know come from street raves and all-night parties fueled by alcohol and other sleep chasers. They arrive at the hotspots dressed for quick undressing. Pointless wearing encumbering street clothes to a poorly lit, poorly monitored beach rocking to the amplified vibes of Vybz Kartel, Buju Banton, Sizzla, Movado, not forgetting our own celebrated Dennery Segment—especially when most of the other lubricious party angels are competing for unrestricted special attention, whether or not from total strangers.  

The Saint Lucia experience is hardly unique. So it has been since Woodstock (which celebrates its 50th anniversary this weekend). So it is annually at Glastonbury, Coachella and Lollapalooza. So it is at Mercury Beach in Martinique.  I should say at this point that the aftermath is always the same: drunk and disheveled vomiting young gentlemen, many wearing only their muddy underwear, with no clue which planet they’re on; females who arrived as ladies then changed forever after a night of sybaritic excesses; everywhere garbage of all varieties. 

By all accounts few arrests are ever made at the cited overseas festivals, maybe because of a wall-to-wall uniformed-police presence and a battalion of private security. Before patrons are allowed through the several entrances to the concert grounds, they must endure a variety of metal detectors and be later tested for sobriety as they head for their parked cars. IDs are required always to be on open display; drinking laws are strictly policed. And dependent on age, ticket-holders must be accompanied by an adult. Meanwhile ambulances and medical emergency personnel are readily accessible.

Saint Lucia, too, has its related laws, mostly ignored by patrons and their guests. The many times outnumbered police personnel hired to keep a sharp watch for the first signs of possible trouble too often appear more interested in the entertainment than in carrying out their duties. They know their presence is overestimated anyway. Bar patrons are like bar patrons everywhere else on the island. First come first served, no questions asked. Sex, consensual and otherwise, is as much on tap as are Heineken and tequila. People come and go unchecked for weapons or anything else. 

There’s no way of knowing whether rival gangs are in attendance—in effect scant security is the order of the night. According to police reports, there were dozens of road accidents involving people who attended the Pigeon Point saturnalia, a few non-fatal stabbings, one or two sexual assaults . . . nothing unusual, just another day in paradise. 

Who knows about the next time? Who cares!