Remembering the old city

Belmont was once the Woodbrook of Port-of-Spain, only much more geographically beautiful. When I frequented it, the place was elegant and also quaint. Its tiny alleys, narrow roadways, its cobbled streets and steep city steps that take you up to the heights of Laventille still define it. Well-kept, low-rise dwellings nestled closely, marching uphill beside the paved pathways, mainly used by cyclists and pedestrians. If a rare car approached you would have to press your body against the houses or front wall as there were no pavements.

It is several decades since I have been into the deepest heart of Belmont so I can only assume that not much has changed, except that the buildings are not so well cared for, in general, or that if they have been that much of the original style has been lost, but I may be wrong.

Belmont was salubrious but also exciting and very multiracial with a vibrant creative buzz. Aged ten, I did not know the word “bohemian” but that is what it was. I remember the thrill of the pretty girls on roller skates coasting along behind a young man’s bicycle, wishing it were me. And there was a sense of community: Tall Boy, the Chinese parlour owner, would check on my counting ability when I stopped in there for some sweet treat en route to school, having lunched at a relative’s house or with my grandparents who once lived there.

My great aunt’s charming Hermitage Road house had a wide wrap-around fretwork balcony, furnished with large, cushioned wicker chairs that were always in the shade of a collection of tall trees and majestic royal palms. Maybe I imagined the tall glasses of cool lemonade or the cups of tea and cakes but I can still smell her baking.

Most people remember Belmont fondly, its artists and mavericks. I still take any opportunity to motor through it, to spot the gingerbread houses and admire the churches and grander, older buildings that the young arts fraternity is reclaiming.

I see that the Roman Catholic archdiocese, the Government and the Maryland Belmont Community Development Foundation are now collaborating to construct a skills and education-focused community complex on the church’s land, high up in the Belmont Valley. It is to be known as the Anthony Pantin Institute and it is aimed principally at developing the area’s young people.

This sort of two and three-way collaboration is exactly what’s needed to effect change in many neglected areas. Politicians have proven unequal to the task of making the lives of the constituents in inner city areas better and the church has a duty in this respect but seems to lack the diverse resources to make a tangible difference on a grand scale.

The challenge, once the centre is completed, is that of getting the programmes right. Too often, delivering on a meaningful project is stymied by the distraction of having a building, and weighed down by capital expenditure and overheads, leaving little money for the real work.

Having a building is in some ways the easiest part, managing the projects and making them relevant to the community and business is what the focus should be on. Getting buy-in from Port-of-Spain employers, who could offer internships or on-the-job experience to the young participants, would add considerable value to the enterprise.

I noticed, too, that in another encouraging collaboration, the fourteen 135-year old carved limestone Stations of the Cross on Calvary Hill are to be restored, after decades of neglect, by Citizens for Conservation working with the East Port-of-Spain Development Company. This much-needed restoration that includes improvement of the immediate environment is part of a heritage development project that might encourage some of us who have been too scared to return in recent years to do just that.

Every Lenten season, as schoolchildren, my cousins and I made the annual pilgrimage with many other good Catholics, up the hill, where we would not usually go. I didn’t know where Belmont, Port-of-Spain, and Laventille all ended or began. But, I do remember that it was a treat as good as when, as an adult, I find and walk the well-used steps and urban hillsides of old cities anywhere, tourist attractions that always remind me of Calvary and Belmont.

The adventure of the long Calvary Hill trek started on Piccadilly Street behind the now All Stars panyard. One year, a child living on the hill pelted us with a damp mango seed plucked from his mouth. He missed an eye by millimetres. There was blood and stitches, the scar, and the promise never to return.