Glynn Burridge treats us to a little Easter time reminiscing
Nigh-on half a century has passed since my arrival on the islands and all that water under the bridge has telescoped into a long tube, at the far end of which lies the Seychelles I knew back then and, at the near end, the Seychelles of today.
When people ask me how it used to be, they invariably find me daydreaming of a time when the population was almost half of what it is now; when there was not even a quarter of the number of cars, and when what can only be described as the concrete tsunami of recent buildings, high-rises, and residential complexes did not cover these islands as it has now.
As I squint down that time tunnel, I recall a time when Seychelles possessed a strong sense of community and identity, the necessary components of a culture. I found this to be especially the case on the Outer Islands where small groups of Seychellois came to eke out a living on the far-flung outposts of the archipelago.
Among these were a die-hard group of men and women who had a preference for the natural way of life on the islands, toiling hard on the plantations and then fishing along and domino contests for recreation,
Tellingly, in the absence of TV and social media, they talked amongst one another, exchanging stories and oral traditions. Then there were Sunday football or volleyball games and generally enjoyinga more laid-back, natural, island-style existence than back on the mainland.
Many of these old-school band of workers lived out much of their adult lives on the Outer Islands, benefiting not only financially but also physically and mentally from what was a more wholesome way of living, in stark contrast to much of what we are witnessing throughout the islands today.
I have seen these same men and women come together in times of tragedy as you can only do if you were hundreds of kilometres adrift of the main islands, with no one to rely on or turn to but yourselves.
Equally, I have witnessed their moutyas - real moutyas (not Zulus dancing for tourists)- stomping the sand around blazing fires to the throbbing pulse of goatskin drums, all the time,in their refrains, poking seditious fun at the powers that be and disclosing the latest juicy items of island gossip.
I recall, specifically, a great sense of harmony and balance that, unfortunately, has not accompanied us down the tunnel of time.
Perhaps these attributes have become diluted on account of the swelling population of Seychelles and the fact that a large part of our workforce is now foreign.
Or perhaps by the fact that, today, our society and, in particular, the structure of the family is under pressure as never before thanks to the raft of modern disorders and social ills to which we have become exposed.
Our modern diet, once organic and wholesome, has wreaked havoc on the metabolisms of young and old alike. Generations of discarding the staples of Grandma’s Manze Kreol in favour of junk food and fattening imports has brought with it a decline in standards of public health that will haunt us for decades to come.
I find myself asking how much longer will many of the dishes of delicious Creole cuisine continue to grace our tables. And, when they have gone, what other aspects of our culture will remain?
At the risk of sounding idealistic and pie-in-the-sky, wouldn’t it be wonderful (not to mention sustainable) if we could take these unique islands with their surreal beauty, breath-taking seascapes,and unique ecosystems and develop them according to a well-thought-through vision for their future?
Perhaps we could kick off with ‘lighter’ methods of construction (and transportation?) with a low carbon footprint such as ‘tent/fabric hotels’ which are at once highly efficient yet temporary in nature and so much more in keeping with the ephemeral nature and spirit of the islands (they may not even be here in 50 years!) than the irreversible waves of concrete being unleashed upon them in the name of ‘development.’
After all, what kind of development is it that consigns our islands, great or small, to the very same bleak concrete future as a random building plot on say, Manhattan? Is there no difference between us that deserves to be sanctified by the building methods we employ to differentiate ourselves?
One may argue that much of the above is taking place worldwide and yet, here on the islands, because of their relative smallness, one has a chance to see it for what it is and bemoan its cumulative effects on our way of life.
One can also reason that it is the price we pay for ‘progress’ and yet, one must ask oneself, what price are we paying exactly?
Mon zis poz li la!
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