Koudmen
It’s hardly dawn and you forget the English at home.
Blue jeans, white shirt, an expectant stomach, you leave:
today is koudmen. The day opens with cocoa tea and
rock-hard bakes. The men regale each other with stories of
cock-fights, snakes from Anse La Raye, brushes with death
and by nine, the pawol turns sour - every soul sits in purgatory.
By noon, blocks have been laid and your ears grow used to the
rhythmic beating of cement and the concreting of rural lives.
The women prepare a salted broth (of sorts); itchy fish, pork -
Chicken - by back or neck - whatever! There are no religions at
koudmen, no persuasions, no “I not eating that”. The soup is ripe
with leaves, peppers, and salt - almost killing - hotel food have nothing
on that.
The bossman is old-school, so hands are never idle. You swallow
niggeritis, post-meal fatigue and labour till sundown. You close
the day with hot rum, shirtlessness, dirtiness and a humility for
a hot Sunday sun.