By Raffique Shah
September 25, 2024

Once upon a time not so very long ago, Trinidad and Tobago had a handful of older citizens, alive, if not kicking. Many were reclusive, perhaps eccentric. So it seemed, anyway. Mostly they would stay by themselves, hardly mix even with others of similar age. And, since it seemed difficult to get a word out of them, far less the mangoes from the trees in their yards, one would just steer clear of them.

Village lore would tell us they were the mythical soucouyant and loup-garou (lagahoo) or, worse, they ate children. Except for, in a few instances, where there had been long relationships between the elders and the younger people, we never knew how these people managed their lives.

In Bokaro, we had Mr Magawan, more likely McGowan, silver hair on a balding pate, always in a suit. Unlike the lagahoo of local lore who prowled at night, chain in hand, McGowan came out mid-morning, nattily dressed. He emerged from the wreck of his home, looking neither left nor right nor, for that matter ahead.

He aimed for the St Mary’s junction, remaining focused on the road’s asphalt, drawing the looks of curious villagers as he passed by. Nobody ventured a good morning. It was that serious. Not even the genial Miss Bunting, the only other person living within his immediate surroundings, had the temerity to enquire about McGowan.

Obliquely opposite my childhood home was a lot of land that was overrun by bushes so tall that it was impossible to see the dwelling ensconced within. Somewhere in that mess of foliage lived an old man, maybe 60, maybe 80, whose mode of communication was barking at some child who dared step in his path.

He would clumsily make his way to my mother’s parlour, taking a seat at the bench provided for patrons, while we children would take cover under the nearest counter or darkest corner lest we incur Funch’s (the name I gave him after he mispronounced fun “funch”) wrath.

He was harmless, though, and most likely the victim of a stroke which was why he pronounced his words oddly.

There were several other similar characters in the wider community as I’m sure many other villagers had their fair share. There was Norman McLeod, inheritor of the Friendship Hall Estate, Freeport.

His favourite watering hole was Siew Ramadhar’s shop where he proclaimed to the village that the dilapidated 99-window (so villagers said, anyway) estate mansion was to be bequeathed to a 16 year old “Freeportian” girl. She was, he said, the reincarnation of his long deceased mother.

There were others who could be classified as being weird. Yet others were downright crazy.

In today’s Trinidad and Tobago, where mental health afflictions are classified and named by health authorities at a global level, we are told that their numbers are rising. Everyone knows of someone or some older person afflicted by one of a score or more of these conditions. Diseases like Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, dementia, ALS, just to name a few.

We are told the numbers of people globally who live with these afflictions is increasing daily and, sadly, younger people are not immune to them. If anything, they are genetically predisposed to them. That is alarming. Potentially patients suffering with one or more of these ailments can distress their households, starting with their need for 24-hour monitoring. That costs. And, the worst is yet to come of this.

Those we used to call “mad people” now live either with their families or, in extreme cases of violent behaviour, in geriatric homes or the proverbial “mad houses”. Finance Minister Colm Imbert, who is often referred to as being mad every time he reads a budget or contributes in the Parliament, would do well to look at this growing threat to the health sector, one which its victims more often than not have zero control over. No diet eh fixing dat!

I am a Parkinson’s patient. I have cramps, permanent instability, “the shakes” and sundry other bodily defects which most Parkinson’s patients have. Dementia and Alzheimer’s patients have had their hard-drives wiped so clean that they look in the mirror and have no idea who the person is staring back at them.

It is only when you are in it, then you can understand the torture that their loved ones bear.

I suggest that Mr Imbert look in this direction not to get a laugh out of the sufferers, but to see how Government can intervene to make medications, subsidised healthcare, lower utility bill rates, trained and deployed competent caregivers, just to name a few small changes, that can alleviate the situation for these people, many of whom have served their country well until retirement age.