World Englishes: Pidgins, Creoles, and Colonial Echoes

A: Let's start with the British in the Caribbean—their arrival was, oddly enough, accidental. In 1609, a shipwreck stranded the British on one of the islands. Within a few years, 1612, sixty settlers were sent, and not long after that, the English began clashing with the French for territory. This is the backdrop for why we discuss World Englishes in this region.

B: That's really quite accidental! But what about today? The Caribbean is so diverse—can you sketch a quick language map?

A: Absolutely. Today, the region is a mosaic: Spanish, French, English, Dutch, plus Creole languages like Haitian Creole and Papiamento—the latter blends Portuguese and Spanish influences. Each of these reflects complex colonial legacies.

B: So, what happened to the indigenous languages? And... with all the different groups, how did people communicate, especially after so many Africans were enslaved and brought over in the 1700s?

A: Most indigenous people perished, tragically. As for communication, enslaved Africans spoke many languages, so English was imposed on them. To bridge the gap, pidgins developed—these are contact languages, nobody’s native tongue, usually based on the language of whoever holds power—in this case, English. This happened across trade colonies worldwide from the 17th to 19th centuries.

B: Pidgins... like those used by slaves in the US, right? And Hawaiian Pidgin English too?

A: Exactly. There’s Fanagalo from South African mines—about 70% Zulu, 25% English, 5% Afrikaans. Unusual because it's rooted mostly in an indigenous language. But Fanagalo, like other pidgins, was seen as low prestige—used by colonisers to talk to servants or workers, not for status.

B: Why so little prestige? Just because it’s practical—or is there more to it?

A: Partly practicality, but also social stigma—associated with colonial domination, considered unsophisticated compared to 'standard' languages. Plus, pidgins are usually temporary—rarely passed down unless they evolve.

B: Is there, like, a typical life cycle for a pidgin? Do they always become creoles?

A: Great question. A pidgin starts as a makeshift communication tool: minimal grammar, basic vocabulary. If it stabilizes—often across generations—it can develop regular structures, even become a creole: the first language of a community. Features? Limited vowels, transformed ‘th’ sounds—so 'this thing' becomes 'dis ting'—fewer prepositions, lots of reduplication for emphasis—think 'big-big' for 'very big.' They're flexible, with changing word order and often miss out the verb ‘be.’

B: So, when does a creole stop being just a 'simplified' pidgin and turn into a full language?

A: A creole is defined, following Rodkin and colleagues, as a language that has evolved in contact situations and becomes the native tongue of a generation. As it stabilizes, its grammar and vocabulary expand—more inflections, richer pronoun systems, and compounds shrink: 'wara bilong skin' (water belonging to skin, sweat) just becomes 'skinwara.'

B: Are creoles always shaped by children learning them? Or can adults do it too?

A: That’s a point of debate. Some believe children, using innate linguistic ability, turn a pidgin into a creole. Others think adults—through imperfect second-language learning—drive the process. What’s clear is that creoles can be as structurally complex as any language—even though their roots are in simplicity and necessity.

B: I see. And those example sentences—like 'She a dreaming' or 'Him tell me dat yesterday'—they show how creoles can look a bit different from standard English. It’s fascinating to see these echoes of colonial history in everyday speech.