Some years ago, during a particularly gossipy newsroom interlude, one senior media executive was unkindly quoted as describing another very senior media boss as being in perpetual pursuit of VIP status. “His lifelong ambition,” the so-far unverified story went, “is to be described as and treated like a VIP.” Sure enough, their respective days finally arrived.
As a primary school pupil at Caroni Presbyterian, many years before that, I often bore witness to the visits of besuited men and well-dressed women the teachers described as “important” or “famous” people.
“Listen, somebody important is coming to the school today,” would come the sombre announcement, followed by frantic attempts to balance messy inkwells and remove roti-stained brown paper bags from under our desks. If we knew beforehand, some usually barefoot students would wear curiously oversized shoes and even socks to school. We described the adults who eventually showed up as “famous” and, in most instances, more “important” than people we met every day.
They would line us up in the roasting, hot sun near the lice inspection area and, invariably, some girl would faint and there would be general panic as arrival time drew near. “Disinfeck” would be poured in generous quantities down the latrine hatch and sometimes we would be given small national flags stapled to brittle sticks we later used to dig holes for games of marbles.
Tiny hands like butterfly wings waving little paper flags under cloudless skies. If the VIP was accompanied by police cars, there would be silence all around—not a peep even from daring Nehru, named for the famous Indian leader, who taught me all the cuss words.
We all reckoned the lives of the famous were privileged but more difficult than ours, surviving under thick, dark jackets in the heat of the day.
Then came the QRC years and the fact that so many “important” people had graced the halls of the famous school. VIPs also passed regularly nearby. Some of us claimed to have seen the prime minister “live” and I myself once saw the Governor General and his wife seated at the back of a big, black shiny car talking to each other about important matters.
Important people also usually have a band of the less important trailing behind with briefcases, umbrellas, notebooks and, these days, mobile phones. The ladies read the books that describe how to hang their bags from their shoulders and the men learn how to tie special knots around their necks.
During one QRC class, the GP teacher spoke of the time masquerading French creoles would dance and jiggle safely behind a rope held by paid hands to ward off the riff-raff—usually young, mischievous black chaps kept out by a loose perimeter marking the difference between important and unimportant people.
Today, the unimportant of yesterday dance and prance behind the rope to avoid the current band of riff-raff, and to maintain the visage of a “nice” crowd. The rope has returned silently and without a fuss.
It’s not just us. In Saint Lucia, the boys at Marchand are called the “malaway” and at a patty shop in Jamaica, I once saw a rope to keep the “butu” away. A simple rope, just like the ones at Carnival time in Trinidad. A small surcharge to keep the lumpen at bay and to allow important people to eat in peace.
The Piarco carpark has more than 50 “VIP” spots protected by loose ropes and fading paint on the ground. Perhaps it is we have more “important” and/or “famous” people here in need of free, premier parking space per capita than anywhere else in the world. The unruly butu and malaway park their modest cars everywhere else.
Not unlike the Caroni years, perhaps it is that VIP parking spots rotate according to the seasons of change. I have walked the Piarco parking lot masochistically noting the numbers, looking for stickers, posters, booklets—evidence left carelessly on seats behind the tinted windows. Who, in heaven’s name, are these people?
Are they the people who pay more for VIP and VVIP tickets at mindlessly-noisy concerts and fetes? Do they dress like us? Do their children go to the same school as ours? Perhaps I see them strutting by to special seats with signs at the front of the auditorium. At every show, the mostly-empty seats for the “Reserved.” Perhaps they are also the ones perpetually at the top of the queue at the passport and license offices.
Are they the ones we promptly see in the papers offering toasts after taking up state posts meant to serve the rest of us? Even as the ink on their letters of appointment lie drying, they quickly appear on the centrespread, bow ties and heavy suits, guttural, self-important laughter behind the rope. Bright blue lights flashing outside to signal the all-exclusivity.
Medical protocol in the United States diagnoses a sociological condition known as the VIP Syndrome—just as bad for celebrity beneficiaries of special treatment as for “the others.” Principle number one when caring for VIPS, according to the Cleveland Clinic Journal of Medicine is: “Don’t Bend the Rules.”
It is an admonition worthy of consideration in the treatment of our strain of this particular pathology, especially since we know the ropes won’t disappear soon or forever.
