The Rum Shop Was the Caribbean's First Parliament

Before the region had think tanks it had rum shops, the corner counters where prices, politics and cricket are still argued out. They are closing, and something civic goes with them.

Every village in the English-speaking Caribbean has one: a small counter, a few bottles, a fridge, a domino table and a running commentary on everything from the price of flour to the failings of the government. The rum shop is where the region has always debated itself, without minutes and without moderation.

Barbados alone once counted its rum shops in the thousands, one for every few hundred people, and they functioned as informal news exchanges, credit unions and courts of public opinion long before any of those had formal addresses. The shopkeeper knew who was hiring, who was owed, and who was not to be trusted.

They are thinning now, squeezed by supermarkets, bars and the drift of young people to screens. Preservation efforts have started to treat the surviving shops as heritage. That is well meant, but a rum shop was never a museum. It was a place to be heard, and the region has fewer of those than it thinks.