Crime Beat Shag December 10
There was a brazen home invasion last week down the street—the family was home at the time, but that did not matter. Yesterday a mom pushing a stroller was robbed in front of the school, in the middle of the day. Witnesses claim the culprit is one of the windshield crew that works the main light into Westmoorings, selling limes and newspapers while captive drivers wait for green. These strident journeymen prefer their dignity to be respected, with a fist bump, happy to make themselves available for odd work opportunities at your place, or, as currently accused, make their own opportunities when all else fails.
There is notably little police presence in Westmoorings. They do show up occasionally, often with lights flashing, but no officer walks a beat. This is a job for private security, which can be seen everywhere. Indeed the brawny security team at our school is military trained. Meanwhile, my guard Naipaul, lanky and kind but a bit distractible, does not particularly inspire confidence—only moderate friendship, which can be a dangerous thing in a dangerous city.
As part of my informal crime beat, I follow persistent leads down to the Chaguaramas Boardwalk, which is experiencing a sharp rise in random assaults and armed robberies. Police sentries are posted at both ends of the boardwalk, but in between is where the action happens. At high tide, there is no beach at all, allowing the small waves of William’s Bay to lap against the concrete steps, and bulbous puffer fish to nibble at the seawall. The bathers dry off on the littered boardwalk or the bitter almond-shaded homeless camp beyond. This is one of the closest public beaches to the city proper, where urban grime meets the open sea, where both egrets and black pigeons assemble around the old man dispensing mysterious grains from his wheelchair. He is emphatic that his home island is blessed. “No hurricanes he-uh, now why dat?“ The man’s knee bounces to a canned Soca Christmas tune. He is feeling the blessedness even in his legs, even in his broke-down buggy. His fortune changed when the ground collapsed beneath him at work one day. Then his pension failed, and his wife left him, in that order. “T’rough dee eart’, buoy!“
Ann’s popular Corn Soup makes my nose run, but she did warn me, as she is prone. A highway of age-lines radiates from her watery expressive eyes and crosses her East Indian tan. “Ya be cay-ful,“ she says, when I reach for the red hot sauce on her folding table. She explains that this spice is key to distinguishing Trini and Tobagonian palates—the former cannot resist the stuff, while the latter does not let the sting anywhere near the cherished cob-and-dumpling chowder.
Ann had a gun held to her temple on Tuesday night on this very spot. It was 9 o’clock pm, and she had stray customers at the time. Her ramshackle roadside stand made for an easy getaway, even though the police post is within view. The young outlaw and his accomplice made off with her new gas cooker and best pot, but not before dumping the Corn Soup on the ground and threatening to ignite her propane tank. A few irate customers offered to intervene, but Ann begged them off. “T’ese are just t’ings. But I huv my life, God willin’.’“
I wipe my nose and wish the soup-lady happy Christmas. As I start to walk away with my styrofoam cup and Chinese soup spoon, she points toward the “Shag“ Boardwalk and the beautiful open sea, and she says it again: “Ya be cay-ful.“
I reply, by old habit, “Cuida te.“ She looks puzzled by the Spanish. I suppose I do too. Be careful? Why? It is 9 o’clock am, Sunday morning, on a popular boardwalk, with kids playing in the water under benevolent sunshine. How is it possible to take care if the permeating threat is everywhere, all the time, reduced to fear or wary resignation, and even the safety of numbers fails? I reconsider my solitary departure, and, instead, I stay for a while and chat with Ann about an old prayer for grace.