calm confusion

The day I got the car i laid flat on the floor and licked the concrete in happiness. Yet I could not help but feel a slight sense of nostalgia. For the PTSC bus, for the Sando-POS maxi taxi, for the H taxis- R.I.P Clearly, my mom did not realize what she was taking me away from by deciding to let me use her car to get to school. For at least 15 years of my life, I got up around 5 am. When I started going to Roytec, my mom would take me to bus station in San Fernando around 5 30 to beat the mad rush. At 5 30am every morning I stood in a line that wound itself out of the bus terminal and made it’s way lazily around to the San Fernando Wharf. With my backpack on my back and a cup of coffee in my hand, I would stare out over the water, watching the sun come up behind a wall of dust and smoke. Fishermen, still cloaked in sleepiness, yawned, stretched and grudgingly made their way along the harbour to their boats. The line moves forward slowly, one by one, buses pull up alongside us, and we ...

Part II Yellow Snow I fell into this trap once. I never understood it. It is like a sudden rush of must-escapeness comes over an 18-year old- “ I must escape my family, I must escape Trinidad, I must become part Trini, part moron” With absolutely no faith in the education system in Trinidad, many Indians find ways of escaping the island and rushing off to another placed filled with nearly the same amount of Indians- in case of a mass evacuation back to de mudda lan. Closest Indian approved destination- CANADA I was 20 when I was afflicted with must-escapeness. My mom was never one to subcumb to the disease, since she was always taking “we have no money” pills, to keep her grounded. But once her oldest chile decided she wanted to leave Trinidad and try studying in Canada, she consented to let her go. After careful preparations, plenty prayers and a few bush baths, the relocation plans went into effect. I was going to transfer to a university in Canada, in the illustrious hick infested...

Part I Ants I remember things like they happened an instant ago, as if I can still casually look over my shoulder and see them winding down behind me, flick a switch and watch them rewind and replay before me. I remember the smell of cologne, (mostly because colognes make me want to hurl up five day old doubles) I remember clothes people wear, I remember the tone of a voice. Some of the things I remember, people wish I would forget. But the thought of piling stacks and stacks of crazy stories in my mind, to one day topple over onto clean paper, assures that I never forget, a single moment, a single smile, a single word, a single memory, no matter how distant, no matter how many holes I must fill in with patched up exaggerations. The tale of the pee dong girl She came rushing into class 7 30 am on a Monday morning.. “Nadine!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You would not believe wha happen Friday evening girlllllll! " This was Sharlene my best friend, and though she is the calmest, more fluid person I...

"Well at least she didn't have any sufferment," sighed my 65 year old aunt as she stared into space reminiscing about her dead sister. My step father and I looked at each other trying desperately to hold in uncontrollable laughter. It seems every day we hear another innovative addition to the English of the Baksh Family. Granted they come from a generation of family members that are still convinced that dew will make a baby sick if she walks directly into it when it drops from de sky, or walking anti clock-wise around an almond tree in full moon will make u "brighter", or if your foot gets swept with a coconut broom you won't get married. Not to mention putting new born babies into iron basins and banging the basins with pot spoons so the baby won't get scared when she hears loud noises, or putting 10 cents in your shoes and black x's on your back to ward of evil spirits and maljeaux. You get the idea. Growing up in south Trinidad was like walking al...

I was walking along Independence Square the other day. Minding my own business like everybody else… scoping out the hot chick in the tight skirt, cursing her under my breath and smiling at her as she passes, trying to avoid tripping over my own feet in case the man in the taxi going alongside me catches a vaps and decides to laugh at me and draw attention to the fact that I walk like I was born bow legged, but trying desperately to hide it… when all of a sudden the blasted rain decide to fall. Well you know, when rain fall in Port of Spain, if a dead man hiding somewhere, he sure to end up in a drain. And every plastic bottle, piece of toilet paper and corn beef can, following him along. You don’t find it amazing how fast the drains fill up when rain fall for two minutes? People cars start floating away, vagrants jumping around looking for soap and professionals in suits and ties, trying to jump over a mile of water with perfect decorum. I myself have mastered this drain jumping techni...

It seemed like a dream come true. It must have been because the night before was filled with cold sweats, every half an hour urges to pee and nightmares full of walking around naked and forgetting to brush my teeth. It was the first day at my first real job. After carefully ironing my black power suit, laying it out next to my new pair of black leather shoes and black leather hand bag full of Gravol and Panadol, I went to bed to follow the routine carefully outlined above. Ever since my first copy of A House for Mr Biswas by VS Naipaul was given to me in Form 3, I have been in love. In love with fictional characters that mimic the characters in my life. I could find a little bit of everyone I know, in the book. For reasons only my sister would understand, the book became a mirror of everything we did. So when my first job turned out to be a journalist at the Trinidad Guardian, I took it as a sign. It was time to paddle my own canoe. Scared and not quite sure what to expect, I walked th...

At 6 am, Port of Spain is at its most romantic. The sky casts a grey haze over the city that mixes with dust filled air, giving an illusion of a dark and stormy London Fog. The night people crawl into the dark crevices between the buildings, making way for the day people to come out. I remember walking past the two old men in fedora hats sitting on Brian Lara Promenade, playing chess with the air of no care, with the silence of contentment and the calmness of age. As I walk by, they look up; nod a quick hello, gently touching the brim of their hats in unison, before turning back to the game at hand. Their unchanging, singular existence fascinates me. I pass them and move slowly across the street, taking in foggy air, now mixing with the scent of beef pies, potato pies and freshly parched Hong Wing Coffee beans. I make my way up Henry Street, both anxious and fearful of what I will see this morning. The pie man on the corner opens his basket, humming reggae under his breath. Somewhere u...