TERRENCE HONORE

SAVING THE Queen's Park Savannah is not just about protection from present-day "predators," but preservation of the poignant memories of the past. Like good "policemen" of our heritage, we are all called to protect and preserve. We must honour the past by not just what we say, but what we do to save the savannah memories.

But amid the medley of memories there are some very sad and loathsome chords. Sounds of the plaintive songs sang in the days when the Savannah was a place of slavery. When felicity was scarce, and few festive times were "stolen" to celebrate Freedom Day and the Canboulay.

But I could see by the signs that we still maintain the royal name, even with all the hullabaloo about doing away with old colonial things. And given the fact that we don’t have any royalty of our own, except for the usual tinsel crowns of the kings and queens of Carnival. But the old British queen is now no more, so what are we waiting for? Maybe we should rename it Eric Williams Savannah.

Then I heard a voice in my head say, "Leave the people Savannah nah, you from south." Well, I put my hand on my mouth, but my mind wouldn’t stop racing like the horses that once ran around in circles on the Savannah track for people to see, making men giddy for pocket money.

It had me thinking of how things used to be, and just like that I had a reverie.

I was back in time, to the early 1800s when the sport of kings ruled the savannah grass. Racing horses went on to run around for more than a 100 years, the last race ending sometime in the 1990s. But from my youthful days, I could still hear the horses’ hooves pounding a tattoo around the bend, shaking the earth beneath my feet, beating like a set of African drums at the end of a hard day of labour in the sugar cane fields.

Then I heard the loud hurrahs echoing across the Savannah, reaching all the way down to the Port of Spain harbour. My mind got mixed up in time with the sounds of the woeful wailing of fresh slaves hustled off the boats and being led like cattle down the narrow streets. All the way to the sugar cane plantations, like the 232-acres estate owned by the Peschier family back in 1783. The place which became known as Paradise Estate, then the Queen’s Park Savannah.

Yes, it was other men’s memories, but it came to me…the colonial days, when people were not as free, and one per cent of the country ran the economy. And the grand buildings that rose, all seven and more, were to make sure that the status quo didn’t change until the massa say so.

In my mind’s eye I could see "hoity toity" people walking with scissor-tailed coats and black top hats, proudly strutting their stuff, like ole-time masquerades now do on the Savannah stage. There they were, strolling on a quiet Sunday afternoon, pausing to share a word or two, or proudly riding around in their horse and buggy along the savannah lane.

I could see the occasional empty sugar cane carts driven by grinning youths, drawn by stubborn mules, braying their protests that things were not equal in th