America Departure Day July 2
I have eaten the last paw paw from my fridge. The bananas are not going to make it. My old clothes do not fit, and my new clothes are worn ragged. The recyclable wardrobe is too warm to wear, but Nigel in the parking lot will be able to sell them to the poor travelers heading north for opportunity. My apartment is filthy from neglect—the cleaning lady was more passionate than fastidious—but, despite the cracks, the place should withstand the next earthquake. Rona the postmistress has convinced me not to mail my box of stuff. “Too expensive and it may never arrive,“ say the TT Post, in damned Carenage, where grim news has hung in the briny air for 400 years.
And so farewell to Naipaul and Hazel. And to the turtle and macaw, the Japanese fisherman and Minister of Security, the Massy baggers and resident beggars, the crapaud and capuchin and corbeaux. And to the Petit Valley and Cumberland Hill, sunrise and sunset, to the changeless seasons on the timeless sea. Farewell to all these, but most especially to my warm friends at school. As summer vacation commences, it is time for me to fly back to the land of winter.
Stuart Young announced some good news for Departure Day: UK travel advisory graded TT and took the country off the "very likely terrorist attacks" list. US TSA, however, still considers Port of Spain a high-risk zone, thereby making it almost impossible for residents to obtain international e-passports. As a returning citizen, I expect nothing less than a full cavity search, where they will find all of my concealed doubles with mango.
We thirst for discovery in these far-reaches, but the mother of discovery is escape. Living away from America is disorienting for sure, reorienting never enough, breeding endless humiliations, misconceptions, mistranslations, and a pervading sense of inadequacy. These I have presented as the episodic adventures of an illiterate wanderer, a tinkering alchemist, a Vacilador, a minor piece of the immigrant diaspora, with Venezuela a short boat ride away.
Whether here in the city or out in the bush or along the beach, we look over shoulders in Trinidad, as muggings and assaults reach epidemic proportions. Indeed, five people were just shot on the Western Main Road, at the KFC, within view of my apartment. Personal safety ranks somewhere between Mexico City and Mogadishu. To many it is not if but when it will happen to you. All are advised to travel in groups, keep your money in your socks, and smile at no one. My students share traumatic stories--Charlotte with a gun in her face, Eric's kidnapped aunt, Jinan Al-Rawi’s harassment by police. Oui Foute! Oui Papa! What madness!
I ask Deon in the school guardhouse, “What should I tell Americans about this place?“
“Tell dem de trut’,“ he replies at once.
Have I not been doing this? Deon receives my reports, and he occasionally comments, with extensive corrections and clarifications. He is my source for Trini traditions and spiritual amalgams, Carnival fetes and Halloween Jumbies. He introduced me to panyards and street food and the Tobago hinterland. And the clubs. The first time I saw serious winin’ was at a Crown Point Soca club, where I thought Deon was having doggy sex with his wife next to the bar. On duty, he rescued me from an airport police arrest (I never did get a driver’s license) and other immigration disasters. The white-haired veteran of the security crew has been my protector, guide, and erstwhile critic. Now is his last chance to set me straight.
“Yuh huv to tell de trut’,“ he says, lifting stern eyes to meet mine, “so dey will be prepared when dey come. De Americans keep coming, and they get it wrung. Yuh cyar say it is dis way or dat way. It is all of it, de good and de bad. Yuh cyar just say what yuh want dem to know.“
I certainly have not been sugar-coating my descriptions and challenges, but his point is well taken that my tendency may be to sensationalize and make things seem worse or crazier than they really are, hopefully to tragic-comic relief. Deon is exceedingly decent—devoted family man, sturdy friend, respected community leader—-wise and serious. And yet his mythologies leave me mystified about which truths are worth knowing. His peace of mind despite the disorder is frankly beyond my comprehension. It may be beyond reason.
Nevertheless, the Americans will keep coming to this port-of-call, as Deon predicts, as long as there remain treasures to plunder. Here they will discover life both treacherous and beautiful, tangled crossroads rich with flavors from every continent, tainted by centuries of enslavement and emancipation’s afterbirth. The full truth is so awesome, and so awful, that it must only be revealed in masquerade. THE END :-)k