LAST WEEK, driving through Central Trinidad, I saw someone in what seemed to be a Moke and I immediately got homesick for Barbados. It was, as they say, déjà vu all over again.
Many people in Trinidad and Jamaica have no idea who or what a Moke is. The dictionary is not much help, defining a Moke as "a donkey" or "a stupid fellow" or what the Australians call "an inferior horse" or "nag." Essentially Mokes are very small cars built for the tourist industry. Some do away altogether with such unnecessary claptrap as doors, trunks and suchlike. Some seem to be built entirely of fibreglass. Most are convertible, sporting what are called "Bimini" tops that can be let down to flood the car with sunshine but which, many times, cannot be reconverted so that the car also floods with rain.
In Barbados and elsewhere in the Caribbean, people deal with their stresses and strains, trials, travails and tribulations, the agonies and ecstasies of daily life in their own particular, and often, peculiar ways. Some run a mile. Some run amok. I ran a Moke a mini moke.
In Barbados, however, no self-respecting Bajan runs a Moke. They might run from them, particularly given the way American tourists drive, but they never run them. Bajans do not consider Mokes to be cars. The automobile companies advertise "cars" and "mokes" as two distinct and separate species, one domestic and the other foreign. A worker at my office was dumbfounded to see me climb into my little red Moke. She said, "You know I saw that car in the driveway and I wondered what a tourist doing here."
No Bajan youth aspires to the ownership of a Moke as a rite of passage towards a Maserati, Mercedes or even the humble Hyundai. Self-respecting Bajans invariably refuse rides in Mokes claiming that, "It all right, I not going far." Some even pretend not to see you. Those who, out of sheer desperation, finally succumb find something with which to hide their faces as they perch precariously on the seat, scared and embarrassed, hoping that their friends would not see them.
One youth who could not afford a real car, hid his Moke around the corner from his girlfriend's house and went to meet her on foot fearing what her father would do were he to see the Moke. As it was, the young man explained that he left the car home and they were taking a mini-bus or "ZR" to go to a dance because "people thiefing cars too bad these days." He thought he had got away with the lie until the girl saw the Moke and refused to get in.
I had no such problem, girls and public opinion notwithstanding. My Moke was cost-efficient and used gas by the thimblefuls, a distinct advantage in Barbados. I poured scorn on the luxury sedans by remarking disdainfully that they could pass everything on the road except a gas station. My Moke was essentially air-conditioned and when the rain fell, came with its own rooftop pool as I didn't dare to let down the top. It was environmentally friendly and had not used up scarce mineral resources in its manufacture or maintenance. My only problem was that for most Bajans a moke is a joke.
One lady jokingly offered to take me out, smilingly suggesting that I could leave the Moke in her car trunk. One day I took my Moke to the mechanic to change the oil. He looked at the car and said disparagingly, "Change the car and keep the oil." I eventually sold the Moke not because of the jokes but because of this recurring nightmare I had of being attacked while driving it through the streets of Barbados. Unlike Trinidad or Jamaica, there was no risk of some uninvited guest jumping in and demanding my money or more. I feared neither bandits nor burglars. What I feared most was arriving at a hospital with savage cuts, scratches and bruises and telling the nurse that I had been bitten by a dog.
I could see it all. She says, "Where did this happen sir?" I say, "In my car." She then asks soothingly and sympathetically, "You mean your own dog bite you?" I say, "No. I was driving and this dog jumped in and bit me." Not understand she asks in astonishment, "But how this happen? It jump through the window?" I say, "No. It just jump in and bite me." "But how that could happen?" she asks in total bewilderment. It is at this point that I explain shamefacedly that I drive a Moke. She then asserts, "I thought you said you were driving a car. A Moke is not a car."
I could see myself trying to report the incident to the police station. The Constable says, "Now let me see if I get this right. You say a dog attack you in your car?" and I would have to go over the whole story again. That is when I would feel like a Moke myself and sell the thing.
Tony Deyal was last seen explaining why he sold the Moke. The insurance cost more than the value of the car so he sold the car to pay the insurance.
