By Johnny Coomansingh
In Trinidad, there is something known as a ‘bull-pistle.’ I take it that everybody knows what is a bull-pistle. Nevertheless, please allow me to explain. A bull-pistle is the cured dry penis of a bull. If someone is given a lash, the cartilaginous whip causes extreme pain to the receiver. Bull-pistle jokes are quite prevalent in Trinidad. It seems that a bull-pistle has its own science in the field of thermodynamics.
The talk is that ah sagaboy was harassing or interfering with Mr. Badjohn gyul in ah fete. With a flick of his wrist, Mr. Badjohn cut ah good bull-pistle across the sagaboy back. Immediately on receipt, the sagaboy hustled to the woman who was selling snowball or “press” in a corner of the hall. In the heat and discomfort of the moment, with trembling tones, he cried out to the woman, “Gimme ah snowball!” She replied, “I eh have no ice…the ice just done.” He answered, “Gimme jus so!” Snowball without ice? This joke brings to mind the importance of ice in the lives of many of us, especially mine.
It’s so nostalgic to think about having a cent or a big penny to buy ice-block from Mrs. Baksh parlour adjacent to the school I attended. In those days, a cent or a penny was plenty money for me.
One cent could have bought a red iceblock, a dollop of peanut butter, or a fat, yellow mataburro fig (banana). This was always a difficult choice for me, but on most times, I went for the iceblock, especially on a hot and sticky day. On the other hand, a penny could purchase the coconut-flavored milk iceblock. Spending a whole big penny was a reckless act for me, so I always kept back a cent. Sometimes I would give in and treat myself to the milk block. A penny could also get me a plate of food at the Sangre Grande Breakfast shed.
Iceblock was a good treat but nothing could have beaten a good guava syrup “press” or snowball. I remember the ‘Mook from Brasso,’ the man who sold ‘press’ right around the corner on Andre Street in Sangre Grande. This 6-foot tall, lanky man dressed in a washout Farmer Brown coveralls actually possessed the look of a ‘mook,’ howsoever a mook should look. His gaunt face with his head covered with a weather-beaten straw hat captured the nuance of a scarecrow.
As he shaved the ice, his long boney fingers draped over the ice shaver while he mumbled: “Try mih. Ah does give over-change. I am the Mook from Brasso.” He would then ram the shaved ice into a tall aluminium cup to form the press. With a quick flick, he would remove the pressed ice and immediately dip it in red syrup then he would flip it to immerse the next half in the yellow syrup. It was a work of art done by the press master himself.
A few paces from the Saint Francis RC Primary School is where we also purchased good press. Julien, the press lady, on Ramdass Street, operated a little parlour where she sold sugarcake, curry mango and hops bread sandwiches, and other goodies like pommecy there (June plums) soaked in peppered salty water. We went for press and we left. Julien did not make joke. She greeted us and that was that! The thing with her was that she knew all our parents, and in those days, hmmm, no bad reports should come from anyone in the neighbourhood about our behaviour.
So where is all this icy talk coming from? As far as I could recall, there were two sellers of ice in Sangre Grande, ‘Mister Iceman,’ and Mister Razac. Mister Iceman was indeed an interesting character in Grande. Dressed every day in his dingy khaki clothes, a grimy, beaten felt hat, and a well-worn, lack-lustre, black leather boots, Mister Iceman always looked sweaty as he slumped there behind his icebox, sometimes sleeping on himself.
His place was located on the Eastern Main Road adjacent to the Singer Sewing Machine store. This was a good spot for him. Rumor has it that he would be quite awake at around 3:00 pm when the little school girls would be passing by. His preoccupation, according to my godmother, was to ogle the little girls as they hurried home. In a kind of “foo-foo nose” expression, he would also tell them “Come nah gyul. Gih mih ah lil smell nah…ah go gih yuh ten dollars.” In those days, ten dollars was quite much money. I don’t know if this is fact, but I remembered the words of my godmother as though it were like yesterday. Mister Iceman passed, and so was his jute bag covered icebox; forever gone!
Mister Razac was no competitor with Mister Iceman. His huge icebox sat over the drain on George Street adjacent to Capil’s furniture and appliance store on the western side of Sangre Grande. Mister Iceman was on the eastern end of Sangre Grande just after the police station. Mister Razac had his customers, and it seemed that everyone loved to patronize him. It was also convenient for drivers who wanted ice to pull up right next to his icebox on George Street. He was loving and kind, always greeting you with a smile and “How yuh going boi?”
Unlike mister Iceman, Mister Razac was a conversationalist. He entertained you while he ripped through the large blocks of hard ice with a powerful icepick. One thing’s for sure, we could always get a chip of ice from him on a hot day. As children, we used to go to him and ask, “Mister Razac yuh could gih mih ah lil piece ah ice please?” He never refused or chased us away. He loved us all! A few years ago, even while Mister Razac was still operational, TRI-Fish Ice owned by mister Bashir, came into being on Paul Street. ‘Bashir’ as everyone calls the place, sells good fish and ice. TRI-Fish now makes ice to supply a host of fish entrepreneurs and people who need plenty of ice. Ice and ice business in Grande was not all I have to relate.
My experiences with ice were helter-skelter in Trinidad. Nevertheless, in the United States where I resided since 1996, I found myself in very icy locales. I started off in Kansas (KS) where at one-time snow almost covered our house, then I sojourned in Missouri (MO) where there’s more ice than snow. The immaculate beauty of icicles on the trees in MO is a sight to behold. I wore special shoes to prevent slippage on the icy sidewalks. My stay there was short-lived. Moving up to North Dakota (ND) was a crazy idea. In that place, four degrees above freezing was regarded as summer. Sitting on the deck of my friend’s house in Minot, ND we withdrew properly chilled bottles of wine from the snow right below us.
My camping trips with my mentor, Professor Ronald A. Royer and his family who invited me to camp with them at Metigoshe, ND were always full of excitement and icy challenges. Most important was the sauna. Sometimes we stayed in the sauna until it rose to 185 degrees F and then we would jump in the 40-degree Pelican Lake to ‘cool’ off. What an experience! After a while, I got used to the weather. In such places, I was made to understand that ‘The way we see the problem is the problem.’
As a geographer, I began to appreciate the weather pattern of the North. I even pitched my one-man tent on frozen ground at a campsite in the Bighorn Mountains. Wrapped in my comfy sleeping bag, I had natural air conditioning. It was nice to wake up and look at the trout swimming idly in the snow-lined brook right next to my tent.
Travelling through Colorado on a hot and sticky day, I came to a campsite in a place called Rifle Gap. The snow in the higher region of the site was just thawing and the cold water gushed down the river. I couldn’t resist a bath. I stripped down to my shorts and jumped in the river. Faster than Usain Bolt or Ato Boldon, in ten seconds flat, I exited the icy water. Not having any feelings in my feet I scrambled to the top of the campsite table and sunned myself. “Ahhh, that was good!” I said to myself.
Ice Fishing in Minnesota (MN) was yet another great opportunity to experience something unusual for a Trinidadian. The cabin, sitting on the frozen lake, was a toasty 70 degrees F inside; outside was 30 degrees below freezing. But on occasion, I had to go outside to urinate and that activity was quite uncomfortable. There would be some snowfall where I now live in Delaware, but as the song goes, “The Sun will come out tomorrow…” and the snow will be all gone. I could write all day and all night about my freezing cold stories, but I must stop here to attach a snippet of Fitzroy Alexander’s (calypsonian-‘Lord Melody’) song:
“It’s nice to remember.
“Mile-a-Minute” round the savannah.
In he short pants and watchie kong.
Shouting salt nuts all day long
And sweet and salt paimee
And poisson, poisson, poisson,
Fresh fish (Time tuh get yuh nice fresh fish)
Ah doh care what nobody say
Iceman have the best lavway
Ice! Ice! Cold ice! Hard ice! All kind ah ice!
“Ice in yuh ice, ice in yuh ice, ice in yuh ice.”
