ON GIVING UP MY OFFICE as high commissioner in Ottawa, I raised my family, worked part-time at Air Canada and completed an undergraduate degree in political science from Ottawa University, then a master’s degree in political science (international relations) from Carleton University in 1992. My master’s thesis, on the effect of the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA), between Canada, the United States and Mexico, on Commonwealth countries in the Caribbean, was published in book form, which is how my friends in Grenada found it. My goal in all this effort was a worthwhile and stable career with the government of Canada, and particularly its international development agency (CIDA).
Before I could apply for work in international development, I was persuaded by another branch of the Canadian government to manage an anti-racism campaign, which I did for three years in the early 1990s. I then turned my attention to the field in which I was trained, joining CIDA and working on environmental projects in several developing countries, including Eritrea, Ethiopia, India and Thailand. While there, I was approached by Caricom (short for Caribbean Community) consultants who were formulating options for dealing with NAFTA’s impact on the islands. There was anxiety among English-speaking Caribbean nations that they would be left out in the cold as North America consolidated its trade. My thesis had argued that the appropriate response for the Caribbean region was to integrate its own trade. Otherwise, it would always be waiting for handouts from so-called developed countries. The issue was right up my alley.
The Caricom consultants offered me a short-term contract based in St. Lucia, and it came at a good time. My husband, David, had just been declared redundant at the company where he had worked for twenty years. He was feeling rather sorry for himself and encouraged me to accept the assignment saying, “We need the money.” The plan was for us to relocate to St. Lucia, headquarters of the Organization of Eastern Caribbean States (OECS), for at least a year.
The offer was a good one. I would be a technical adviser on trade to the OECS, and CIDA agreed to my taking a leave of absence for a year. I accepted. In spite of his encouraging me to take the assignment, David told me just a few weeks before I was due to leave that he would not be joining me. He was going to start a small company in the computer service field and could not get away. We would instead work out a schedule of rotating visits. This did not sit well with me, but I was not in a position to change direction after all the arrangements had been made and confirmed.
With the help of friends in St. Lucia, I found an apartment in the Cap area, which I fitted out with everything I needed to function as a consultant: laptop computer, printer, telephone, fax machine and lots of shelving for documents and books. I also had a desk at the OECS, where I worked alongside junior and senior officers. It wasn’t long before I was confronted with the realities of working on the islands: I may have had a desk, but it would take a month for my computer to arrive. The Caribbean pace of work is laid back. It also took me a while to develop trust and camaraderie with my colleagues. I may have seen myself as an islander, but they saw me as an outsider—and I had to prove myself to them. Eventually, however, we did get along wonderfully, and I was impressed by their skill and dedication to the cause of Caribbean unity.
The OECS was only several years old when I arrived in St. Lucia. Comprising the smaller English-speaking countries of the Caribbean, it was once thought to have the best chance of forming a regional political unit, but that hope more or less evaporated after a number of wasted opportunities. My assignment was to help the OECS chart its own course through the fast-changing world of international trade as new trade agreements in Europe and North and Latin America came on stream and the World Trade Organization continued to evolve. I was the lead consultant on these strategic considerations, and I also worked with Caricom’s team of negotiators, who attended various free-trade negotiations throughout the Americas.
Not much would be accomplished during my year in St. Lucia, largely because of the presence of a small group I often referred to as the Caribbean Elite. Sir Shridath Ramphal of Guyana and Sir Alister McIntyre, who was born in Grenada, had long histories in Caribbean affairs and controlled the so-called Regional Negotiating Machinery (RNM). They had their own ideas about how to develop the Caribbean economy, and although their ideas had been tested and found wanting in previous decades, they stood in the way of other ideas, and nothing got done. Ramphal and McIntyre horded information and failed to lead or communicate with the rest of us. We all felt alienated from the process. When our team of consultants finalized its study, we got no substantive feedback and no direction on next steps.
The Caribbean Elite was its own little club, pursuing its own narrow objectives, regardless of whether or not they were in the best interests of the Caribbean people. For example, the Regional Negotiating Machinery (RNM), an offshoot of Caricom, was originally headquartered at the Caricom base in Georgetown, Guyana. When Ramphal and McIntyre got involved, their first priority was to argue that Caricom was not competent to run RNM (or, to put it another way, that they, as leaders of RNM, should not be answerable to Caricom). They masterminded a move to separate the headquarters of RNM from Caricom, moving it to Barbados and London, conveniently at Ramphal’s home office.
I attended the 1998 meeting at which the move was decided. It was a hugely important gathering involving the heads of government of at least seven countries. I was shocked by what I saw. In the middle of the meeting, there was a sudden roar of voices, and many of the men in the room were throwing their arms in the air. I asked the person next to me what the furor was about. I was told they were all listening to a cricket test match between India and the West Indies over portable radios, using earpieces. The West Indies had just taken a wicket. The meeting immediately adjourned for a half hour amid loud laughter and banter about who had scored and how. To my surprise—I suppose I had been in Canada too long—this disruption of a serious meeting in the name of cricket was quite acceptable to most in the room.
Another surprise I encountered working in St. Lucia was the way women were addressed by men. Invariably, regardless of their age or status, we were called “darling” or “sweetheart.” On many occasions, I was tempted to challenge these patronizing terms. Instead, I bit my tongue, understanding that I alone could not buck a patriarchal system so deeply entrenched, especially if I wanted to be effective in my position. I was forced, it felt, to accept the status quo.
I felt wiser by the end of my year in St. Lucia. My eyes had been opened to the very real challenges facing the regional integration movement. I left believing that nothing would change in the region without an abandonment of self-interested leadership and an opening of the political system to new faces and new ideas. My own work, and that of my colleagues, had shown that the economic prospects for an insular, atomized Caribbean were severely limited. It needed to integrate and gain strength through numbers. No person is an island, even in the islands.
To this day, the Caribbean lives in a bubble, and one of these days, I fear, it will burst. Governments in the region need to prioritize and significantly improve education and health care services and offer tax incentives to encourage nationals to return home. I am not confident that existing leaders have the courage or determination to do what is necessary. Meanwhile, the Caribbean’s people, its most valuable resource, leave in hordes in search of opportunities and a higher standard of living in other parts of the world. Unless this trend is reversed, the islands will always be in the periphery of true development.
Unhappily for my family and me, my marriage to David Craig was on the rocks by year’s end. In hindsight, I should have seen this coming. Our children had grown up. Sophia was teaching environmental studies in Grenada, and Beau was teaching snowboarding at Whistler in British Columbia. David was at loose ends in his career and suffering something of a mid-life crisis. We had enjoyed a fairly good marriage for twenty-eight years, but now the nest was empty and it was clear, after lengthy counselling sessions and my best efforts to save the marriage, that it was over. I was thankful that both children, now fine, independent adults, were mature and fair-minded enough to take a supportive stand.
Returning to CIDA and the Ottawa area, I now needed somewhere to live. The house I chose belonged to Guyanese friends. I had visited it in the past and expressed my admiration for its warmth and character. They called me one day out of the blue, saying that they were moving back to Guyana and asked if I was interested in their property. It was located in a small village thirty minutes south of Ottawa and had 240 feet of frontage on the Rideau River, with a boathouse with an apartment above. It brought me cheer in the sad circumstances of my broken marriage. I decided to make it into a duplex, which would make the property more affordable for me. I obtained a mortgage from my bank and started renovating.