Roti and Bussupshut October 27, 2018
All I wanted was a chicken-potato Roti, mini-sized, which is nevertheless a massive messy curried wrap. As an early dinner, $17 TT is a deal for such a delicious blob of goodness, but the price is now up to $500 TT, and perhaps more if I cannot find an insurance card in my glove box that is not expired. Sitting with my oozing brown bag in the backseat of my car, I am being towed to an impound lot—somewhere west of the industrial port—just in case this is my final correspondence.
I had parked very nicely across the street from the Hot Shoppe, home of the Roti and its even messier cousin, the Bussupshut, resembling a torn and “bust-up shirt,“ which requires a sink for dining. As best I can understand from the impounding cop, I parked too close to an intersection. I know so many people who have been towed for similar infractions that I am tempted to adopt John Adams’ opinion, “Sometimes the law is an ass.“ Of course, Adams could afford to get lippy and righteous with officials—he was living in his own country, whereas my proper position abroad is utterly prostrate.
At least I will not starve on the circuitous route to the car lot, although I may be asphyxiated. The policeman was thoughtful to offer me a ride in my own towed vehicle to pay the fine, but my windows are closed and I do not dare insert my key in the ignition in this elevated state. My captive plight draws attention from the curious. School kids in khaki uniforms point and laugh as I pass their cricket pitch; other drivers snap pictures of the Yankee idiot imprisoned in his fancy car. I feel completely ridiculous, which is the way I must look, except hotter.
Traffic on the skinny Mucurapo Road grinds to a standstill, and Ariapita Avenue is little better, which only makes the pedestrian taunting easier. One driver insists on inserting his dented van between me and my tow truck, giving me stink eyes because I will not let him in. Can you not see me sitting in the back seat of a car, suspended in thin air? At the point where I am about to be pulled into a collision, I take action, inserting the key in my ignition and triggering the car alarm, which finally gets the attention of the policeman in the truck. He shouts at the van driver to back up, and the van driver shouts back, until the officer pulls out his citation pad, and cooler heads prevail.
They are preparing to close for the day when we finally arrive at the impoundment bodega, within sight of the Gulf of Paria. All business here is conducted outside, at the dirt muster point beneath a squat Samaan Tree. While I await word of my vehicle’s fate, a half-dozen officials in uniform attend their fingernails, hair, a bucket of KFC, the latest gossip, and a bound ink ledger that looks like it fell off the Mayflower. They expect patient compliance from me, and I oblige, which proves pivotal when I present my lapsed insurance card and a Utah drivers license.
“Whe’ d’ya live?“
“Pardon?“
“Way Juh Live?“
Careful, Ken. A Trinidad residence requires a TT driver’s license, which I do not have, and a work visa, which I also do not have. If they do not take American debit cards, then I also do not have any money. The truth at this moment is likely to be a trap!
“I am visiting the International School of Port of Spain to learn how to teach the students of tomorrow. I wish to learn from the masters in this country. This car is not mine but leased to my school hosts. Yo No Se Nada Mas.“ The phony Spanish is overkill—I had them with “the masters“ and “tomorrow.“ I notice my inquisitor’s East-Indian look, so I shamelessly put my hands together and bow my head. My pretend earnestness is not working. She disappears into an air-conditioned mobile home with the bucket of chicken. If she does not return, it is $200 TT per night for me and the wheels to stay here beneath the Samaan Tree. In hindsight, I am thinking the regular-size Roti would have been a better choice.