~LAURENCE LIEBERMAN~
ODE
TO RADIO ANTILLES
(Plymouth,
Montserrat)
1.
Thomas struts through the entryway
of the Central Power Station whistling a pop tune
(as usual, I'm tagalong,
full six steps back),
unnoticed
by the cadre of uniformed staffers,
all five bent forward, converging
in a neat pentagonal
formation around
the low gaming table. One man
suddenly looms up tall,
projects one arm over his head and brings his fist
down hard on the gameboard
unloosing
a small tablet, ah dominoes!÷
but now, he's caught our approach
with a side glance, whereupon he fast interrupts
bets and heated contest
extending a warm handshake
of greeting,
first to his chum Thomas,
then to me· So few words spoken
find us dashing through
hallways
and corridor into the power
house magical interior
led by Peter÷the midday shift foreman÷whose instant
defection from the game in
progress
prompts scowls and jeers
from his fellows. Peter, oblivious
to their chagrin, is never so happy as conducting
the guided walkabout
of this labyrinthine power
complex.
Presently, I find myself staring
at the multidialed control panels
in a long succession of
radio transformers,
stacked in varied tiers
with bulky dimensions
on a grand scale I've never beheld or conjured up
apart from the inner
sanctums of
1950's horror movie science labs....
Peter waits me out a tad, while I
recover my wits from the garrison of huge tin boxes
piled one upon another.
So few inches divide the
standing
machines, stretching from wall
to wall, before and behind, often
nearing the far ceiling
above÷a cursory
glance could trick
the hasty viewer's eye
into supposing them merged in a single continuous
matrix. A few meters
start
blinking, their luminous dials
swinging back and forth, rarely
at a stillstand, until those flashing yellow lights
and ratchety buzzers
warn the mostly-absent
technicians
to forestall any meter limits
that may be wildly transgressed.
Three rotating squads,
Peter explains,
are on duty at all times:
24 hours a day, 7 days
a week, no holidays excepted. Since Montserrat's
debut, years back, as the
East Caribbean's
central communications
artery, the meters and circuits
must be monitored at all times, crises often coming
when least expected.
Our Peter enjoys local
fame as
a Trouble Shooter, boasts Thomas,
second to none in the Lesser
Antilles island
chain, while
Peter scoffs at such high praise.
By subtle turns, the talk
swerves to frequency systems and state-of-the-art
power relay
equipment÷prompted by
my niggling questions
about the seven outdoor antennae:
two tallest near the seashore, five others ranked,
equidistantly, in a row
near this powerhouse, two
of the
latter five half again higher
than three· Pete's eyes brighten.
He feels a zest for the
important
numbers, for so many countries
whose diverse languages
are relayed across great tracts of land and sea
by their unique radio
programming
hookups. Just inland from shore,
that pair of towering antennae
are cued to strictly English language programs.
The five smaller aerials,
all circuited for
short-wave programming,
carry the multifarious
foreign language networks. Of these
the highest, which
gives out a modest
fifty kilowatts, transmits
programs in Portuguese,
Spanish & German that are heard, alternately, on radios
throughout the
night. All
such European and South American
stations are relayed to Montserrat
directly from Berlin's Radio Deutsche Welle: at various
times until late morning,
wave frequencies are
switched to
accommodate each tongue, in turn,
by a skilled crew of German engineers
who, scurrying about as we
talk,
make the rounds like long-distance
runners circling an indoors
track. They move with great celerity and bounce.
Chins up, toes lifted high
(nearly
goose-stepping), their body tempos
are revved up to such a febrile pitch
they must seem to be a different species of mammal
from their local cohorts.
Peter and his staff glide
hither
and yon, afloat like fawns at ease
in the forest÷ghostly their slow,
lingering gait.
The Germans,
so few in total, less than a third
of the Montserratian crew,
seem to outnumber us all÷many times over. Who can keep
count of their comings and
goings,
entries and exits, zipping
down aisles, circuiting the four walls,
as if checking out evry floor crack or ceiling blemish?
And Peter tacitly defers
to each passing
technician, felt
to be less a bow to superior officer
than the man's natural bent to soften
rough edges and make no
waves÷he'd
keep any strained relations between
the two adjunct camps
under wraps, though any visitor may instantly pick up
the hostile vibes. A
fluent
and sparky talker, effusive Peter keeps
the sheer bulk of data from growing
tedious, my ears enchanted as much by ardent delivery
as by the multi-lingual
programming stats.
Thanks
to the BBC's recent gift, a hefty stipend,
he'd gotten Montserrat's radio complex
back on its feet, from
near-bankruptcy
to happy solvency. The range
of programs in English
has never been so elaborate as today's menu, and his crew
are kept busy switching
channels
all day long. For late-night
writers like yourself, he says (winking
at me), we offer four hours of Voice of America & Radio
Canada news run-downs.
The daylight hours are
packed with
a medley of local Antilles shows:
Rock, Soul & Bob Marley Reggae music,
I can tell you, are de
big ting
wit' young folks these days and they
be callin' de shots
more and more· Says he heard me read some
cool lines
from my poems this morning
(winks
again), sandwiched between longer
takes by leading female vocalists.
It's O.K., I say. Poetry always has to take
a backseat
to more popular arts
at home, too.
Lucky to
have a patch of floor for standing room only.
So forget about any poet's chair·
2.
As if absently,
Peter reaches overhead
during our chat & pulls down a lever
on the highest switchboard÷then
a few lights grow dim on the panels & one meter
flashes
a yellow
signal,
which he seems to ignore
or overlook·
We
continue our
relaxed talk, while faint yelps
issue from a rear room. The voice
may be outside, it sounds
so distant we hardly take notice. The far-off
squeals grow near,
rising in pitch to grunts.
Hans bursts into the hall of transmitters,
so angry and red-faced
he can hardly control himself. Hans' scolding phrases,
blurted
between
wheezy gasps,
fly past our guide and
mentor, prompting
Hans
to
chasten him
by name. Peter, now truly startled,
averts his glance to the portly
Chief Engineer blocking
the doorway (his wide round face all one scowl)÷
Vy d'yu pool zee
svidge, eez dangerous, yu
could blow out zee main transformer· Pete,
gabby as ever, slides
from denial to apology, while Hans barrels forward,
nonstop, in his
chastisings.
Pliz, I begs yu, read
again paydge
tventy-
seeks in zee
savedy manyule· When he cools down,
the local man, phlegmatic, tries
to mollify him with glib
promises. But Hans, resuming our tour himself,
leads us outdoors
to the yard. Alas, today's
no usual afternoon, he'd have us believe:
there's been no end of troubles
in the past week with the cable-and-wireless lines,
now's
the worst
crisis yet,
so the whole telegraph
system had
to be shut
down an
hour
ago; but luckily, the new antenna's
to be installed on Chance's Peak
in a few days. Meanvile,
vee do crisis maintenance, kadge as kadge can,
patchup vork· Hans
shows us two freshly-dug holes
in the yard, soil-rich heaps piled up high
on both sides: exposed pipes
and cables left in disarray, dangled loose ends agape,
here
and there. Zee repairmen
are on eek-sten-ded
lunge break
(his voice sinks,
wearied, he sighs), who
can stummuck zeyre alleybyes
for endless timeouts from vork?·
Most kind to us, he makes
a visible effort to find simple layman's words
to convey his pain
over foulup of the snarly
webwork of tubes & lines in the pit below,
perhaps two full meters
beneath our feet poised upon the rim. Oy, don't stand
too
close,
he warns. Today,
vee half to realign zot
ground
net· Constant
MAYDAY
crisis
calls, those SOS's, do indeed prevail
here, as we can see. It's the normal
everyday tactic to shut
down any key segment of the electric power
system, and freely
improvise new ways to make
one part of the total hookup pinch-hit
for another, each carrying
some extra load, time and again. So the engineers
must
know the
exact limits
prior to overload and
blowout, shrewd
&
savvy in
their crisis bets. Now Hans, himself,
Chief Engineer, is a veteran
of twenty years service
back home in Dusseldorf, but never had to tackle
so many freakish
breakdowns so often. Oh yes,
he's happy to undertake fresh challenges,
but the frequent clashes
with laid-back native foremen & their gamy lax crews
drive
him and
his cronies
up zee vall!·
Volatile
Prussian mood swings,
high-pitched
croaky voices, even when cooled out:
you sense their helpless push-and-pull
tempi in the rigid
fierce body moves, no leeway, no give, they must
be racing about!
Pure frenzy, plastered over
with orderliness.... Our tour ended, hearty
thanks & handshakes with Hans÷
we file back through the office, Pete's crew still swept
up in
the Dominoes
Tourney:
players locked in a dead
heat of
last moves
to the
finish,
fistfuls of money waved overhead
(big bucks riding on this one, we'd
guess)· They barely notice
our fleet sandals trotting past the table. Victory
outburst. Winners
teasing losers. Quips overheard
behind the shut door as we depart. Whoever
loses be de skunks. Don' be cryin',
boy, you gets another crack at de title next week!
© by Laurence
Lieberman
