Miss De Eart’ So Much June 18
Every evening, at least when he is not busy being Minister of National Security, or Minister of Communication, Stuart Young power-walks around the Towers of Westmoorings. Round and round and round he goes, monitoring his heart rate, silencing the howlers from work. He has been the front-page face of Keit’ Rowley’s government for the past year—guns, crime, drugs, corruption, development, terrorist threats, border protection—all seemingly fall under the purview of the Minister. My Ecuadoran neighbors commend him on his decision to extend the registration period into the weekend. He must hear “Muchas Gracias“ a lot lately.
This is the last scheduled day of registration for the Venezuelan immigrants, although schedules are fluid here. Yesterday 900 people arrived at the Queen’s Park Oval, many of them camping overnight, without food, water, money. A few Trini entrepreneurs join them in line for the purpose of selling coveted spots to desperate ones with cash. Catholic charities are on hand, as well, as are helmeted men with big guns. Traffic is maddening. The TT Guardian reports that the 1-year amnesty has so far been granted to an estimated 15,000, out of perhaps 60,000, but nobody can really say. A couple thousand are expected to register today in Port of Spain. The numbers will certainly change. In Scarborough, there has been far more registrants than expected, causing security delays at the ferry terminal and airport.
The doors officially close at 5 pm. Hundreds are turned away, only to have the Minister of National Security intervene and extend the registration period another day. Those who do not register will be subject to immediate deportation, and future emigrants will now be required to first obtain a travel visa in Caracas, something which is virtually impossible in the chaotic capital. Many parents had planned to bring their kids across after registration, but now they are trapped, leaving homeless families separated by a dozen miles of salt water and a vast ocean of shite.
For the lucky thousands that do possess official documentation, they will be relatively free to seek legal employment, police protection, medical services, and perhaps education, but all these assurances are tenuous. In any case, all protections stand to end in twelve months. The hope is that conditions in Venezuela may change between now and then, but, like the grocery stores and medical clinics, hope is in very short supply.
I ask him, “What happens when the amnesty ends?“
“I wish I could tell you,“ he replies, as he speeds past.
Necesitamos Caminar.
The papers and website list Rocketman as playing an early show, but no one apparently informed Movietowne employees. “Not in t’e sys-TUM,“ says the absent ticket agent, as if there is ever such a thing as a “sys-TUM.“ I am only relieved I do not presently require some essential service.
Spying some activity at Hasely Crawford Stadium across the highway, I pick my way through six lanes of traffic and walk up a shabby alley in search of entry. A break in the wire mesh looks encouraging, but the baggy-pants guy standing guard says the cost is $20 TT. “Dey’s runnin’ races inside,“ he mumbles. Some kind of track and field tournament is happening in this sopping humidity. The crowd inside sounds small, and there are hardly any cars in the parking lot.
“So you have tickets for sale?“ I ask the fellow, but he has nothing to show me. Posted before this hole in the fence, he just wants the money. There is no one else in the vicinity, and this does not look like any kind of official entrance. In any case, I have no intention of taking out my wallet, not here on this lonely stretch of aged industrial space.
“Twenty dollars to pass,“ he insists. Final offer. I would ask him to go to hell, but I suspect he has already arrived.
When I make it back to my car, the Toyota beside mine is being towed away—no rest for the wreckers of Port of Spain. A long line is already forming for the evening presentation of Rocket Man, but I am skeptical a screening will happen anytime soon. No matter, I know the timeless song by heart.
“And all this science I can’t understand,
It’s just a job five days a week.“