Long after the last life affirming rays of the sun have been soaked up by the cloak of darkness, things begin to stir in the shadows of Hamilton, Bermuda. You can watch the transformation if you just seat yourself quietly on a street corner with a pack of cigarettes, lots of patience and a coat to keep you warm. Couples walk hurriedly home through the night; arm in arm with their feet chiming to the echo of high heels on paving stones. Puddles of rain, that have coagulated after the drizzle, reflect the hazy neon glow from night clubs and sleep deprived taxi drivers scour the streets looking for punters. The silence is occasionally shattered by the shrieks of rowdy revellers; who suddenly disgorge from the clubs onto the street outside; their minds heady on a cocktail of alcohol, nicotine, endorphins a la sexual frustration and other substances.
And then, after midnight, as the clock strikes a new day; like magic 'they' start crawling out of the woodwork; like lice that have lain dormant during the day, they come out to feed and perhaps even to breed. For the night is theirs. 'they' are of course those that society has shunned. The ignored - The embarassments - The homeless - 'The filth' - 'The scum' - 'The nobodies'...These are of course not my descriptions but those that society has bestowed upon them...They are the homeless people of Bermuda...
...He shuffles through night as if it is his own. Trudging along, he scrapes the soles of his feet as he walks. A weary and unhealthy gait, odd posture, unshaven greasy face, and the strong smell of alcohol betrays his status. He is a tramp (homeless person). And he knows it. He seats himself next to me on the bench and places a smart looking and rather trendy leather case on his lap. A case that seems to belie his status as a tramp. Then, in very showy and exaggerated movements; that are almost comical, he unzips his case slowly (which he is undoubtedly proud of) and theatrically takes out a Bible, a few tattered and badly worn newspaper clippings on 'Haile Selassie' (the Ethiopian lion of Judea) and a dog-eared calendar from the House of God. He is a Rastafarian. He begins to speak. I expect a rambling and discordant guttural exchange; to my stupendous surprise and relief he is very lucid and coherent. He has a low calming voice, and the words roll out of his tongue in very mellow and agreeable tones; like honey on butterflakes. He is chilled out beyond belief. I fear that he has been smoking Marijuana...
Initially I am overcome by an inability to reconcile the eloquent, cool voice with the poor physical specimen sitting before me. I sense that he is well read and certainly educated to a high level. He is Bermudian. Has never met his father (who left when he was born) and has a British Passport. Yet, here he is. A homeless Bermudian. This should make for an interesting story. So we begin to chat about life, the universe and everything - me and this highly chilled tramp from Bermuda...
