Sunday School April 10
Calvin was not sure if he would open his market today, which happens to be the only one in town. “I may go to church,“ he says, and I ask with a grin if he means Sunday School, but he shakes his head. “No, not t’at kinda church. Anglican fuh meh. Maybe I go, I don’ know.“ Whether he does or does not, he still has no bananas for me. On the tiny pier nearby, a Tobago man with nothing but a mask, snorkels, speedo, and a bucket of knives takes off in a small boat, either to pry conch off the sea floor or to dispose of a bucket of knives.
Sunday in Buccoo is like any other in daylight, but nighttime is altogether different. The morning and afternoon pass quietly—dogs and chickens outnumber people on main street. After dark the limers begin to gather for Sunday School, from all over the island, which begins with a homestyle dinner of barbecue chicken, macaroni casserole, green callaloo, pumpkin, peleau, and lentils. The meal is served on table cloths with nice plates along the roadside, and all are welcome for a modest price. A Dutch tourist complains that lobster was promised. The catch today was poor again.
Locals continue to bemoan how much the greater Scarborough-Crown Point townships have changed, and not for the better. Tourist demand affects the culture, as boomtown opportunism supplants community. Crime is rising, especially in sleepy Buccoo, and the area has assumed a more transient status, filling with city-dwellers from Trinidad and lots of money from everywhere else. Global sprawl has reached landfall on this end of the island. Rural character is increasingly limited to wandering livestock.
By midnight Buccoo is clogged with parked cars, and there is a long line for Sunday School dinner. A tenor steel pan provides voice for the small orchestra, as it takes listeners through a spirited medley of recent Soca favorites. At 2 am the crowd is still arriving, although it is an utterly different one from earlier in the night. These revelers come from all points, windward and lee. Lord George bumps and waves to his many lady friends. A reggae DJ spins virtual vinyl, while dancers co-mingle outside the goat-racing stadium. Doubles and Roti stands have popped open for brisk business. Hipster Tarik points across the street at the pick-up club for older people, where he suggests I may feel more comfortable. I wonder why Tarik would think that I would feel comfortable anywhere in this place.